Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 2

  Shortly they arrived at Ricardo's Chantilly facility and the pilot made radio contact with the security team on the ground. The pilot hit his spotlight, illuminating the reflectorized markers in the parking lot that designated his landing zone. He efficiently dropped the aircraft and killed the engines.

  Dennis slid open the door and hopped to the ground. Despite being surrounded by his personal hand-picked security team, he never left things to chance. While his boss hopped down from the chopper, Dennis scanned the area for any signs of trouble.

  Once on the ground, Ricardo grabbed his gear and headed for the back entrance to the building, Dennis on his heels. Ricardo maintained an office in the D.C. Metro area because it put him close to the people who contracted for his services. His Chantilly office was the storefront for the private security firm he operated and for which people like Conor Maguire and Doc Marty were contractors.

  Like many of the other companies in the D.C. area that operated under the broad umbrella of "security," Ricardo's company had continued to operate through the collapse. A well-armed team monitored the perimeter, which was surrounded by leased, unclimbable fencing. Generators kept the lights on and his business kept operating, though many of the employees preferred to stay onsite instead of commuting. Not only was it safer, but they had regular meals provided for them. Ricardo provided a service that the government deemed "essential" so, like many other security companies, he received regular deliveries of fuel, food, and cases of water from government stockpiles.

  Not all of Ricardo's employees were gun-toting pipe-hitters or shady trigger-men working out of back-alleys or remote third-world hellholes. The Chantilly facility provided office space for Ricardo's intelligence staff, his hackers, his analysts, and the administrative staff who made sure everyone from contractors to bill collectors got paid. There were conference rooms and a few suites for those occasions when someone might need to spend the night at the office. There was a warehouse with a fleet of cars, vans, and motorcycles, some of them highly modified.

  Hundreds of pallets of supplies were stacked in the warehouse area, containing bottled water, food, medical supplies, and field gear such as tents and sleeping bags. Stacks of high-impact plastic cases contained ammunition, weapons, tactical gear, and body armor. The stored supplies were used by those staff camping out at the office but were also distributed to those of Ricardo's network of operatives still working in the field.

  Ricardo was one of several businessmen in America who ran private armies, though his operation was much leaner than some. His business model was based on the variety of skilled specialists he could bring to the table and not on the thousands of men sitting on his payroll at any given moment. His operation was about finesse and not sheer volume.

  His facility in Chantilly was his Pentagon, the location from which he planned, ran, and equipped the operations his contractors conducted around the world. He had various remote compounds and training facilities around the country, like the facility in West Virginia where he'd held meetings with Shani and Conor. Some his company-owned, while others they leased. Some of these compounds could be connected to him, while others were obscured by layer upon layer of dead-end corporate entities.

  Ricardo had learned long ago that a presence in the D.C. Metro area was essential. It was the place you built relationships over lunches, dinners, and drinks. It was where you had to be to make the big money. Washington was where the American government literally rained black budget dollars and where Ricardo raked it in with both hands.

  For the two days after returning from Oceana, it was business as usual. Ricardo met with his staff and received reports on various projects, operations, and proposals they were engaged in. He signed off on the disbursement of funds and made contact with various contractors around the world who were awaiting his call. It was the less glamorous part of his job, but Ricardo allowed nothing to slip beyond his control. He kept a tight rein on all aspects of his business. His company was his life and he loved it.

  Ricardo participated in two secure videoconferences with members of the Macallan Collective during this time. They discussed the operation Conor, Barb, and Doc Marty were conducting and the possible reactions that the opposing elements of government might have. The Macallan Collective expected that things might change rapidly after this wave of public assassinations Ricardo's people were conducting. This rapid change was what the Collective wanted and they made plans for the next phase of the operation, which was retaking the American government from the sell-outs.

  Despite his participation in this high-level meeting, Ricardo understood he wasn't a player in this group. He was the blue-collar element. The working man. He was the hammer-swinging carpenter meeting with the architect and homeowner. He was the grimy welder listening to the engineer in his white coat and the project manager in his necktie. That was fine with Ricardo. He understood this country wasn't just built by men with ideas. It was built by those willing to get dirty, to break a sweat, and to collapse into bed exhausted each night. Ricardo knew the value of his contribution to this effort. Those bigwigs in the Macallan Collective might be calling the shots, but it was Ricardo and his teams who made it happen.

  While participating in the secure videoconference, he kept his mouth shut and waited on his instructions. In general, he didn't need to hear all of the justifications and philosophy behind the actions they were taking, he just needed to know who to erase and how much he'd be paid for doing it. This case was different though. Ricardo understood the implications, what was at stake if this effort by the Macallan Collective failed.

  Failure meant the efforts of the globalists within the American government would prevail and the sovereignty of the nation would be sacrificed. Global and United Nations interests would become more important than American interests. To assure compliance and a smooth transition to this way of life, individual Americans would be disarmed. They'd be manipulated through their desire to have electrical power restored until they yielded to every request. It would be a far different America than anyone had ever known before. They'd go from citizens to subjects, an idea repugnant to many Americans.

  When the last of his virtual meetings was wrapped up, Ricardo paged Dennis to his office. Moments later there was a knock on the door. "Come in!"

  The door opened and Dennis strode in. "You rang?"

  "Have the pilot prepare the chopper. We're going to the West Virginia facility."

  "Will I be going with you?" Dennis asked.

  "Yes. Grab another of your team, also."

  "Yes, sir. How long should we pack for?"

  "Two weeks at the most."

  "Roger that, sir. Two weeks." Dennis hurried out of the room to carry out Ricardo's instructions.

  Ricardo went to his closet and packed a few items into an Osprey backpack, then stowed several of his trademark European suits in a garment bag. He didn't anticipate needing them, but he never knew when business might call him to some shadowy meeting in a remote corner of the world. Regardless of the locale, he preferred to not go in looking like a savage. He was just tucking the last of his suits into the garment bag when a satellite phone rang.

  He tried to determine which phone it was by the ring, but couldn't recall how he'd assigned them. He flipped open the foam-lined aluminum briefcase and studied the half-dozen Iridium phones resting in fitted compartments. Quickly sorting through them, Ricardo used the adhesive labels on the back to determine that the ringing phone was the one he'd given Conor.

  He frowned, then punched the button to accept the call. "Yes?"

  "It's Conor."

  Ricardo sagged heavily into his desk chair as Conor launched into an update of what had taken place on Cumberland Island. Doc Marty was dead, as was Terry McGuirk, an old acquaintance not currently under Ricardo's employ.

  "A man named Siman killed them. He must have been a mole. We're compromised but I don't have any way of knowing how bad the leak is."

  Ricardo knew Conor well enough to underst
and the undertone of his words. There was disgust and anger, but no fear. Ricardo had never seen Conor scared no matter how dire the circumstance. "Send me a picture of the bastard and I'll get people on it. We'll figure out who he is and see if we can get a handle on the level to which we're compromised. Do you want to abort?"

  "Hell no," Conor spat. "We don't give the bastards what they want. We take revenge."

  "Are you sure?"

  There was determination and grit in Conor’s voice when he responded. "Absolutely."

  "Is there anything I need to do, Conor? About Doc?"

  Conor hesitated a moment before replying, as if Ricardo's words made him confront something that he wasn't ready to deal with in the heat of an operation. "Can you pick up Doc's body and have it cremated for his daughter?"

  "Certainly."

  Conor gave Ricardo the coordinates of where to find the grave and described how they'd marked it. "I've got to go. We need to get moving."

  "Be safe, old friend."

  Ricardo sat there in his chair for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He leaned forward and picked up a radio from his desk. "Dennis?"

  "Go for Dennis."

  "Add a body bag to the chopper. Maybe a couple of e-tools or shovels. I'll explain when I see you."

  2

  Chantilly, Virginia

  "Why the body bag, boss?" Dennis asked as he fell in alongside Ricardo, the two of them walking briskly toward the chopper.

  Ricardo didn't slow down, didn't make eye contact. The words were hard for him to even force from his lips. It was an admission of the last thing he ever wanted to happen on an operation. "We lost an operator in Georgia."

  Dennis shook his head in disgust. It wasn't news anyone wanted to hear. "Anybody I know?"

  "Doc Marty. The Dentist of Dubai."

  "Ah, that sucks," Dennis grumbled. "He was a good guy."

  Ricardo nodded. Doc's good qualities were not something he wanted to dwell on at the moment. "I promised his team we'd retrieve the body. It's buried on Cumberland Island and I have coordinates."

  "Digging tools are on the chopper."

  As Ricardo reached the chopper, the pilots powered up the engines. "Who are you bringing along?"

  "I chose Klaus," Dennis replied. "He's solid. No family so no distractions. Plus he’s big as an ox, which will be a plus if we have to recover a body."

  Ricardo frowned at the idea of it but said nothing. He hadn’t hired Dennis for his tact or sensitivity, but for his skills and instincts as a personal protection professional. Dennis would never be a field operator, but he'd proven his worth multiple times in keeping Ricardo alive. His instincts as a bodyguard were second to none.

  Klaus appeared in the door of the open chopper. He leaned over and took Ricardo's garment bag, the aluminum briefcase, and his messenger bag, stowing them off to the side. Ricardo heaved himself into the chopper. Before he took a seat, he grabbed his messenger bag and the briefcase. The garment bag could hang from the rigging but the briefcase never left his side.

  Klaus settled into one of the seats, an old-school Steyr AUG hanging across the front of his body. Ricardo pegged it as the Austrian variant with the original integrated optic instead of a picatinny rail and red dot.

  "You like that old circle reticle?" Ricardo asked, gesturing at the optic.

  Klaus smiled, revealing perfect teeth. "They call it the donut of death."

  Dennis climbed in behind Ricardo, shut the door, and took a seat. He and Klaus had stored their gear earlier, along with the digging tools and the body bag.

  "West Virginia?" the pilot queried after Ricardo had his headset on.

  "Eh, we need to make a detour. Cumberland Island, Georgia. Body retrieval."

  "Confirmed," the pilot said. "Any coordinates or will this be a visual search?"

  Ricardo dug into the pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a folded piece of paper. He handed it over to the copilot, who entered the information into the navigation system. The only passengers, Ricardo, Dennis, and Klaus, strapped in as the chopper lifted from the parking lot and swung to the south.

  They were in the air for less than a minute when an alarm filled the cabin.

  "What's that?" Ricardo asked, concerned. He was in this chopper nearly every day and had never heard that sound.

  "Missile approach warning system," Dennis replied, beating the flight crew to the punch. "We installed it as a precaution the last time you worked in Central America. Some of those cartels have SAMs."

  Ricardo's face clouded. "Tell me this isn't real."

  "I think it's real," the pilot said urgently, scanning the skies around them. "The damn thing has never gone off before."

  "Ground attack or air?" Ricardo asked.

  "Not sure yet," the copilot replied. "We're still learning this particular system. It's newer than anything I ever used in combat."

  "Learn fast!" Ricardo shouted.

  "Hold on!" the pilot barked, banking the chopper hard.

  Ricardo looked from the pilots to his security chief. "Do we have countermeasures?"

  "Installed but not tested," Dennis replied.

  Ricardo shook his head. Who the hell would try to shoot them out of the air over Washington? Then immediately his thoughts went to Conor's compromised op. "Gentlemen, we might be screwed. This might be official."

  "Official?" Dennis asked.

  Before Ricardo could explain, the copilot barked, "I have a visual. There's an Apache on our ass."

  The pilot made some sound. Frustration? Panic?

  Ricardo looked around frantically. "We need to land! Now!"

  "I can't see anywhere to set down," the pilot responded. "Anyone see a spot?"

  The copilot shook his head desperately. "There's no time! Take evasive maneuvers!"

  "Where are we?" Dennis demanded.

  The copilot checked the GPS. "Over the Occoquan Reservoir."

  "Maybe I can set down at a boat ramp," the pilot offered.

  The co-pilot’s frustration was growing. "They'll shoot us out of the air when you slow down. You have to keep moving!"

  "Go low!" Dennis barked, unfastening his harness and rushing to the door.

  "What the hell are you doing?" the pilot demanded.

  Dennis ignored him, throwing open the door. Cold air filled the cockpit. The sounds of the rotors filled their ears and the buffeting air made their chests vibrate. Dennis rushed to Ricardo's side and unfastened his harness. "Be prepared to bolt when he sets down!"

  "Incoming missiles!" the pilot yelled, his voice distorted through the headphones.

  Ricardo heard someone shouting that countermeasures had failed just before the headset was yanked from his head. Dennis grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet. Ricardo had no idea what was going on for a moment. Had Dennis been compromised? Was he going to kill him?

  Ricardo dropped a hand and latched onto the aluminum briefcase just before Dennis tugged him to the door and slung him out of the chopper. Ricardo screamed as his body pin-wheeled, tumbling in the air. Immediately behind him, Dennis also leapt from the chopper.

  Less than a second later, a missile struck the fuselage and a powerful explosion shattered the aircraft. A wave of heat hit Ricardo as he fell through the bitterly cold air. That heat was immediately dissipated by his body striking the frigid waters of the Occoquan Reservoir. He hit at enough of an angle to plunge deeply into the water, dissipating some of the force of the impact, but it was still a hard hit, like falling from the roof of a house or being thrown from a horse.

  Ricardo had no time to dwell on the impact. The forty-degree water took his breath and he thought he'd die from the shock of it. Every muscle in his body flexed against the pain, the water so cold it almost burned his skin. On the surface, he could see the impact of falling debris showering down on the water. Some of it sizzled as hot metal met water.

  He hadn’t had time to suck in a deep breath, uncertain of what was even happening to him. Now he was deep beneath the su
rface of the water, understanding that he was most certainly going to die if he didn't reach the surface quickly. He clawed his way upward but his wool overcoat weighed him down and made it nearly impossible to swim. With numb fingers, he struggled to undo the single fastened button by feel alone. When it was done, he shrugged from the heavy coat then kicked powerfully, driving himself to the surface, his lungs burning, screaming for air. He emerged in a stinging slick of aviation fuel that burned his eyes and numbed his lips. Around him, pieces of debris floated in the cold water. There was no sign of Dennis, nor any other member of his team.

  A powerful shudder hit Ricardo and he realized he needed to swim before his muscles entirely seized up. Two dozen feet to the side, he saw the shiny aluminum briefcase bobbing on the current. He veered in that direction, latched onto the handle, then powerfully stroked toward the shore like a lifeguard towing a distressed swimmer.

  It was perhaps sixty feet to the shore and Ricardo's muscles were failing by the time his feet touched bottom. He staggered from the water, his damp suit clinging to his skin. A stiff breeze passed right through the wet garment, expediting his heat loss. Cramps wracked his body, making it difficult to even walk, and he understood that he had only minutes before he was dead of hypothermia.

  Looking around desperately, he stripped off his suit. He was at some kind of marina with trailered boats parked throughout the gravel lot. There was a dock and buildings. In seconds he'd shucked his clothes off and struggled to form a plan. His body fought to warm itself, though there was not enough blood reaching his brain. His thoughts were sluggish and ill-formed.