Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Gritting his teeth, Phoenix stared at the young man. “Start talking some sense, kid.”

“Kid? I ain’t much younger than you. But, I guess, Phoenix, it’s the reason why you ain’t dead yet with a broken neck.”

“Rory?” cautioned Larry Reed.

“No, uncle. I see where this is going. Let Rory talk. He’s an ex-navy seal. Now I remember why I let this bastard live.”

“Why’s that, Phoenix?” asked Rory McDonnell, interested. He stared into the huge barrel of the .45 pointed in his direction. He seemed to have no care at all.

“Well, because you got more balls than brains.”

“Huh, how about that? People have said that before—”

“Start talkin’ before I shoot ya. For real . Especially now, because you’re drinking my Turkey.”

“It’s very tasty. Thank you.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Oh, sorry on that.”

“Start talkin’.”

“Sure thing.”

“Where’s the rest of the men that were with you?” asked Phoenix.

“Dead. Just where Paulson took ’em.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that piece of shit shoulda never had the privilege of managing men in combat.”

“Larry? Talk to me,” said Phoenix. He kept his focus on Rory.

“Tommy Paulson was a good man, Rory. A good tracker and leader. Watch it, Rory.”

“Yeah, maybe he was, Larry, like you say. When nothing was threatening to cut him down dead on the spot.” Slugging the last dregs of the Wild Turkey, Rory returned to the bottle and made himself a fresh new tumbler, ice and all. Clearly, he was daring Phoenix to shoot him.

“So tell us what the hell happened, Rory. You’re testing my limits, boy.”

“Like I said, so shoot me.”

Phoenix pointed the Judge at the glass in Rory’s hand and fired. The glass full of whiskey exploded and the bullet took a huge chunk of the hand attached to it. Surprised, Rory stared, in shock. Not hesitating, Phoenix slipped a step closer, aiming the Judge at Rory’s head, intent clear.

“Fuck you, Phoenix.”

“No, Rory. I’ve had just about enough of your games. Start talking real shit in three, two—”

“Okay, okay! We followed them to Youngstown! Near a steel mill. They looked like—”

Phoenix blew the entire back of Rory’s head off at point blank range before he completed his last sentence. Brain matter splattered onto the wall mirror behind, oozing down in a red, slurry cream. Calmly, Phoenix stepped across Rory’s body and stood at the bar to fix a fresh Jack over a few tinkling cubes of ice. Still standing near the door, Larry Reed waited.

“Uncle?”

“Yeah, Phoenix?”

“You and I are going to take my entire army after that man, that Connor MacMillen. We’re going after him. You understand? I want to be in Youngstown by tomorrow night!”

“Can’t be tomorrow,” said Reed, bracing for the outburst, “and it can’t be the entire army.”

“What?” Phoenix struggled to keep some semblance of calm, bracing his hands on the bar. He forced his trembling fury to subside. Larry struggled not to glance at the Judge sitting on the bar.

“You’ve spoken about the military weakness of overextending yourself. On several occasions, like in Erie, Phoenix—”

“Fuck Erie!”

“And, sending the entire army after that small team in Youngstown is overkill and just plain dangerous.”

“You’ll do it if I say.”

“Probably, but I’m hoping you see that frustration’s got a bite on your ass. Just take a minute to calm down.”

“Calm down my ass!”

“Besides, why not go after Starkes?”

“We don’t know where the Bitch took that ’copter except she was heading east!”

“Good point. We know she went east and that’s about it.”

“Both Starkes and that other team that screwed up our assault are heading east if Rory’s assessment is accurate.” Phoenix shifted into his thinking, calculating mode; Larry calmed somewhat, seeing the transition.

“Let’s ask Rory…” suggested Larry, “Oh, maybe not.” He pointed to the dead Rory resting on the floor.

“Don’t be a smartass. He was drinking my Turkey, like it was his birthright.”

“That much is true.”

“So, if both Starkes and that weasel Connor MacMillen are heading east, maybe we can end up killin’ two birds with one very big fuckin’ stone? Huh?”

“Well, thank you, I do hear a plan finally forming.”

“You know, that little team of men has seriously pissed me off and royally screwed up my plans! I know it was that Connor MacMillen they were waiting for, who else?”

“We’ll need to keep at least 120 men in reserve guarding Cleveland and maintaining order, Phoenix. I’ll have to activate them to full status and full pay.”

“I see…”

“Added to that, we’ll need at least forty-eight hours to establish the supply chain and have the men properly outfitted.”

“You’re right, dammit!” Phoenix slammed his hands onto the bar, shaking the floor beneath. Becoming more comfortable, Larry explained the required logistics.

“Okay nephew, now listen up, you hear? If we’re taking more than one or two Pride Brigades, we need to plan this right, like always. Any less time and we’ll have to play catch up—”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck! You got two days. You hear me?”

“I can work with that.”

“Two days. And we go find him. We find that Bitch of a president and the ’copter, too; we’re going to bring all of that back for Cleveland to see up close and personal, you understand? Heads on pikes. Broken bodies on display.”

“Sure… I do.”

“We burn him here, slowly, in front of everyone. This Connor MacMillen first… no, last.”

“Umm—”

“Go on. Make it happen now, uncle. Let’s move.”

Larry Reed wasted no time exiting the room.

“She’s not comin’, Mac. It’s been seven days. You said we’d wait five. Today’s eight.”

“I know, John.”

“So?”

“So… I’m tryin’ to wrap my mind around the fact that Amanda’s… truly gone,” said Connor.

“She saved the president; she paid the price,” suggested McLeod. His voice was gentle, probing.

“Yeah, I think she most likely did save her, didn’t she?”

McLeod stared east with the yellow sun rising on an uneventful stay at the Youngstown mill. He and Connor sat near the main camp atop the rusting steel billet in the shipping yard. Each to his own, they sipped a strange hot tea Rhonda had handed them a few minutes ago; liking the taste, McLeod detected a faint aroma of chamomile along with a hint of peppermint.

“I think… I think she’s gone, Mac… we have to face it.”

“Like hell.”

“No… they woulda come by now. Amanda and the president. She knew the plan.”

Connor sipped from the cup, before he splashed the remainder on the ground in anger. “Huh. You know, maybe she’s just outta commission from her injuries. Knocked her ass out, that’s one possibility. Don’t forget, Marty said she went down and they scooped her up.”

“Sure… not likely, Mac, but maybe. But seven days? Going on eight? C’mon, Mac. Even you have to admit things aren’t looking up.”

“I know. I know.”

McLeod caught movement in the main camp to his left, tracking toward BB and Marty. Early risers, they were gathering gear outside their tents with a plan to do some more fishing at the pond near the southeast entrance. Of course, all had heard about the catfish and turtles stealing most of their bait the past few days; both men were intent on some serious revenge. Glancing past the two men, McLeod observed Jason and Jude tending the horses, brushing their coats and occasionally slipping each of the five horses a few handheld treats. Fifty feet to the right of them, in a battered and patched brown tent, Roger was most likely still asleep as was Cody, each bundled in the plump sleeping bags they favored. Indeed, waking those two up early was always a challenge and Rhonda was fairly protective of their morning sleep time, even while she helped prepare the morning meal for the crew.