Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  A white eighty-something Chevy Impala three spaces down from the pickup did the trick. Ramage flattened out the hanger, fed it through the weatherstripping between the window and doorframe, and used the curved end to spring the lock. He inched open the door, eased the driver side bucket forward, and tossed in his pack and slipped into the back seat, the tip of the rifle catching the car’s headliner. Reaching through the seats, he tilted the rearview mirror down, and laid in the backseat, getting low, resting his head against the door, so he was comfortable and had an excellent view of room number six and the parking lot via the car’s rearview mirror.

  Ramage yawned, set his mental alarm clock for an hour and a half, with a backup on his phone, and promptly fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Rolly Pepper and his partner came an hour before dawn, as Ramage had figured, creeping in like a ragtag SWAT team, overconfident and reckless. He’d slept with one eye open, and as he rubbed the faint residue of sleep from the edges of his eyes the Metallica song came to mind and he wished he was back in Prairie Home with Anna, gripping his pillow tight. The song wrang in his head and he chuckled. It could’ve been the Sandman’s anthem, if he hadn’t been buried alive.

  Ramage had figured Rolly would come at him straight on, his over confidence making him careless, and that’s what happened, just not the way he thought.

  No headlights came up RT-6, and Ramage didn’t see Rolly until he appeared at the end of the motel, peeking around the corner of room eleven, the picnic tables illuminated by a single light on a wood pole behind him. Rolly’s slick Elvis-hair shimmered in the moonlight. The thug waved at the road, and Ramage shifted his gaze to the rearview.

  Darkness filled the spaces between vehicles, the parking lot lights creating puddles along the outer edge of the lot. Like with Rolly, Ramage didn’t see the second guy until he was twenty feet away. He materialized out of the gloom like a phantom, and Ramage thought maybe he’d underestimated these guys. Doubt crept through him as he second guessed his plan.

  The second guy examined the pickup three spaces down and discovered its bed empty and hopped over the tailgate.

  Ramage’s faith in the cosmic scheme of the universe was restored.

  The guy was big, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. The smoker. He probably had yellow teeth and dirty fingers. Ramage had smoked once-upon-a-time, but that was long ago, in another life, and now even the smell repulsed him.

  Blondie hid behind the truck’s cab, peering at room six.

  All Ramage had to do was sit up and fire. The guy didn’t have a chance.

  Thing was, despite the opinions of some, he wasn’t a murderer or a killer. He’d killed, yes… The incident was always there, the time he’d lost himself in the fog of rage, but he’d gotten beyond that, grown, and putting a bullet in the back of a man he’d never met seemed detrimental to his overall growth, at least that’s what Anna and WebMD would say, and they’d probably be right.

  Rolly stayed pinned where he was, using the hotel as cover. Ramage had locked the room’s back window and closed the bathroom door, so Rolly had seen what he had when he’d tried the same approach, nothing. Question was, what did Pepper plan to do now? He knew his people were inside, so opening up and blowing the room to hell wouldn’t work, unless Rolly didn’t care about Jackass and Shelly, which based on what Ramage had seen of the Sandman’s crew, seemed likely. Chic’s dead face incased in sand, cloudy eyes staring, filled Ramage’s mind.

  Ramage waited, his angst growing, worry tap dancing on his spine. With each tick of the clock he became more concerned. A gunfight would bring the sheriff, all kinds of trouble, not to mention potential collateral damage, and ultimately, Rex and his freedom.

  Fifteen minutes slipped away before the guy in the bed of the pickup stood up, braced his arms on the roof of the cab, and aimed his gun at room six.

  Rolly stepped out from behind the corner of the building, moving slow, keeping his back to the front of the motel as he eased around plastic chairs. When he reached room six he got low, putting his back to the wall next to a covered air conditioner that protruded from the wall. He leaned over and tapped on the door.

  Thirty seconds slipped away, the guy in the pickup bed shifting on his feet.

  If he didn’t act soon, it would be four against one. He gripped the Magnum and braced his feet in the footwell.

  Rolly surged up, spun, kicked open the door to room six, and fell back into position beside the open door. Ramage was impressed. Darkness spilled from the room, the muffled sounds of screaming audible over the push of the wind. Rolly waved his partner forward—leaders hadn’t fought on the front lines in a long time. The meat jumped from the pickup’s bed, gun trained on the open door as he worked his way forward.

  Ramage eased up between the car’s bucket seats, raising the Magnum. He fired, three fast shots that shattered the windshield.

  Rolly dove into room six, and his partner went down as bullets tore through his leg and shoulder.

  Ramage got out of the car and used the open door for cover. “What’s up, dipshits?”

  Lights were coming on in some of the rooms, and Ramage had no doubts the manager had already called the police, especially after the prior day’s events. The clock in his head started ticking. He figured he had five minutes, tops, before the motel became a churning mess of confusion and fear.

  Rolly’s partner hadn’t given up, despite his current state of health. He rolled onto his side, aiming his gun at nothing as he searched the darkness.

  “Do you guys want to die? You’re not giving me much choice here,” Ramage said. “What’s say we call a timeout and talk things through? Maybe I’ll let you assholes live. Maybe.”

  “Screw you.” Ramage thought the voice was Jackass’s. “Now its four against one.”

  “Three and a half,” Ramage said.

  The guy on the ground mumbled something unintelligible and fired into the darkness twice, the plunk of his shots ringing on metal.

  “Real smart. There are people in this motel. You know what? You dipshits are getting me angry. Thank you. Since you’ve read my paper, I know you understand motivation has always been one of my issues.”

  The door to room four opened and a man in his underwear, arms folded over his chest shielding him from the cold, stepped out into the night.

  “Get back in your room. This is police business,” Ramage yelled.

  Rolly and his goons said nothing, apparently content with the ceasefire as Ramage dealt with the civilians.

  Ramage yelled as loud as he could. “To everyone at the Whispering Pine Motel, this is officer… Queensbury. Stay in your rooms or you will be arrested.”

  The guy in room four went back inside and slammed the door.

  A shot rang out and a bullet plunked into the car door Ramage hid behind. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?” he yelled.

  The guy on the ground—Ramage nicknamed him Fabio because of his long blonde hair—was crawling toward room six’s open door.

  Ramage shot the guy in the leg and he stopped moving. “I can do this all day,” he said.

  “At least until the cops get here. Wonder what your handler will think when you get arrested for shooting up a motel?” Rolly yelled.

  The third-rate thug was bluffing. Ramage would see any approaching vehicle long before it arrived at the Whispering Pine, and he’d be gone before it got here. The losers from Prairie Home wouldn’t have as long a warning, though they’d probably be able to slip away. Despite what he might say, Rolly didn’t want to deal with the law. People on vendettas never did.

  It was time to move, and Ramage grabbed his pack and the rifle. He slipped the rifle strap and pack over a shoulder as he backed up, keeping the open car door in front of him. He eased behind the Chevy, and crawled past four cars, examining exhaust pipes, and stopped behind one of those British miniature things that was no bigger than a matchbox car. The skis set in the roof racks were longer than the thing.


  An explosion of gunshots tore through the night, and room six’s front window shattered as gunshots sprayed the parking lot, the twang and ding of bullets hitting and ricocheting off metal like rain hitting a tin roof.

  Jackass stepped out of room six, guns blazing in both hands. He knelt next to Fabio, laying cover fire as Fabio continued his crawl.

  Ramage stood, sighted the Magnum, and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, emptying the gun as the huge pistol jerked in his hand. Three shots hit home, the first ripping through Jackass’s leg, the second hitting the center of his chest, and the third grazing his head and taking off an ear. The guy went down like one of those old school gangsters, firing his weapon as his legs gave out and he fell face down onto Fabio, spraying the blonde with bullets as he fell.

  “Might want to rethink things, cause, otherwise I’m going to blow you all away. That what you want, Radish? I mean, Pepper,” Ramage yelled, then winced. That was the worst joke he’d made in a long time. Threatening people with vegetable taunts was dangerous business, so he changed to a staple. “It’s always extra special when someone shoots you with your own gun, isn’t it? Oh, what? Can’t answer Jackass?” The guy hadn’t moved and made no sounds.

  Five minutes had passed since the first gunshot, and given the hour, and how it was so close to shift change, the cops probably weren’t on their way yet, but the motel was starting to stir like a beehive that’s been smacked with a stick. Light leaked from all the rooms, and Ramage hoped there were no cowboys at the motel.

  A shriek cut through the stillness. “Is he dead?” Shelly discovering Jackass had some extra holes in him that he wasn’t supposed to have. Funny how the main hole on a person’s face can lead to other unnatural holes.

  Content to wait and let Rolly make a mistake, Ramage dropped his bag and swapped out the loaded snubby .38 for the empty Magnum. Then he eased under the car he hid behind, crawling toward the hotel. He peeked around the vehicle’s wheel, trying to get a better view inside room six, but the new position didn’t help.

  Ramage felt someone watching him, and he saw a little boy staring at him through window curtains. Ramage made eye contact with the kid and put a finger over his mouth. The kid smiled and waved, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away.

  With Jackass and Fabio bleeding out on the breezeway, Ramage lay on his side, resting his head on his arm, stomach growling.

  A siren sounded faintly in the distance.

  “Sounds like the fuzz are closer than I thought,” Ramage yelled. He inched back the way he’d come, the rifle catching on the car’s exhaust. It was time to blow this popsicle stand and live to fight another day.

  A chair flew through room six’s broken window, hitting the ground with a clang, and the pop and crack of gunfire filled the night. Shelly stood in the open window, blasting away.

  Rolly came out of the room low and went into a roll, diving between two cars before Ramage could get a bead on him. The gunfire continued, and when Shelly’s weapon clicked empty, she dropped below the window’s sill.

  Rolly ran for the end of the hotel, toward room eleven and the cover provided by the side of the building.

  Ramage stood up and aimed the snubby.

  The crack of a gunshot, the pop of gunpowder expanding, the zip of a bullet, and the whiz of a shot as it passed inches from Ramage’s ear. He dropped to the ground and flipped onto his back, firing at the broken window where he thought Shelly would be.

  The skinny blonde came through the door at a full run, firing, blood dripping down her face from her broken nose, shots peppering the parking lot.

  Ramage adjusted his angle and fired, his shots hitting the doorframe and throwing splinters.

  Shelly made a hard left and ran after Rolly.

  Ramage sighted Shelly’s back, but couldn’t pull the trigger.

  The sirens were moments away.

  Ramage considered checking Jackass and Fabio, but what could he do? He kept his eyes focused on the end of the motel, waiting for Rolly or Shelly to make an appearance, but they didn’t.

  Headlights blossomed on RT-6 in the east. Ramage grabbed his bag and ran west into the fading darkness.

  He smiled when he realized he hadn’t thrown up.

  Chapter Nine

  Time slipped by slowly as Ramage trudged across the desolate plain, threading in and out of patches of juniper and sagebrush, avoiding rocks and cliffs that appeared out of the shadowy dusk as if by magic. The land dropped, and Ramage entered a small canyon filled with tall aspens bent east, the sandstone walls streaked with earthy red lines, the sedimentary layers marking the passage of time. The first signs of daybreak crept over the rim of the world, orange light cutting through the vegetation like a gentle flame. It was cold, and he shivered and rubbed his gloved hands together. His stomach growled, and not a dainty “may we please have breakfast now?” It was a snarl, angry muscles spasming, pain knifing up his back.

  Ramage broke free of the valley’s tangle of underbrush and came upon a thin creek that meandered southwest through patches of pine and devil grass, everything covered in a thin coating of frost. He paused to go to the bathroom and forced out a narrow stream of urine. An owl hooted as he pushed through a tangle of scrub pine and stepped across the narrow stream, ice coating the creek’s edges like dandruff. On the opposite side of the creek a dirt road ran away to the west, and there were lights glowing faintly in the dusk on the western horizon. A truck trundled down RT-6 to the south, where the road looped northwest and headed toward Provo.

  He cut through a thicket of juniper and walked along the road, which was nothing more than two ruts with a mound of dirt down its center. Ramage figured the road had been there forever, beaten into the hardpan by years of use, so the next step in logic told him it would hit RT-6, so he walked on. He was able to make better time walking on the flat surface, no plants to trip him up, no unseen slithering wildlife looking to take a bite of him, though the cold weather kept many of the dangerous beasts in their dens and holes.

  A sharp incline loomed ahead, the road zigzagging as it wound over the hill, an old gas station with the skeletal remains of a town around it on the western horizon. Ramage thought of the big sand dune back in Prairie Home called K2, his thoughts drifting to Anna. As if she’d been reading his mind, as partners were oft to do, his phone started vibrating and trilling as messages came through. He pulled his phone. He had service because he was at the top of a rise, several hundred feet above the plain. Message bubbles labeled Rex and Anna blinked at him accusingly.

  “Oh, shit,” Ramage said as he sat on a stone, pulled out his water and drank the last of it. He dropped his bag, leaned the rifle against the rock, and swiped and tapped until he called Rex.

  He picked up on the third ring. “So, it’s Thursday, I believe I called on Wednesday. Could be wrong, I’m getting old, but I don’t think so,” Rex said.

  Ramage said nothing. He trusted Rex, but only to a point. If the agent knew what had happened at the Whispering Pine, he’d already be getting dressed down, but the FBI man sounded tired, like he always did, but not angry.

  “I hope Anna got what she deserved,” Rex said, urging him toward an explanation for his lack of communication. “I know long distance relationships can be stressful, and you miss your lady, which is why I’m wondering what you’re still doing on the road.”

  “Had a little trouble with Big Blue. Should be good to go tomorrow,” he said, and hoped that was true.

  Now Rex said nothing. The two men had a complicated relationship, and Ramage figured the FBI man was churning the situation through his bullshit filter, trying to trust Ramage, but knowing there was usually a shit storm trailing behind him.

  Static crackled over the line.

  “Where are you?” Rex said.

  Mice ran up Ramage’s spine, as they always did whenever he was asked for personal information, but he didn’t have time to think it through, and saw no immediate reason to lie.

  He was wro
ng.

  Ramage said, “Little hole gas station. Nothing here, really.” Ramage heard the tap and snap of a keyboard being worked hard.

  “Yeah, RT-6 southeast of Provo, I see you,” Rex said. “No hotel close.”

  “Just passing through.”

  More keyboard song.

  “There is a place up the road, and oh, look at that, two domestic disturbance calls at the Whispering Pine Motel in the last twenty-four hours. Authorities are still on the scene for the latest one. Reports of gunshots. You know the place?”

  Bile crept up Ramage’s throat, frustration clawing at his nerves. He didn’t understand how he still forgot that his freedom, like most Americans, was an illusion. Rex could track his cell phone, and when powered up his laptop. So as long as he carried those two items on his person, Rex knew where he was, and that made him no different than most people. It still gave him a sick feeling deep inside, like some basic human contract had been broken.

  “Stayed there last night,” Ramage said. He’d used cash, but that damn laptop and phone. “Didn’t hear anything. Husband and wife get drunk and fight?” He considered giving Rex more, then realized his story was already spinning out of control. What would he say when Rex ask—

  “How and why are you up the road twenty clicks?”

  He made up a lie and made it up quick. “Caught a ride with a trucker. Needed more than a stale muffin and instant coffee for breakfast, though my prospects don’t look much better here.”

  “Gunshots were reported at both domestic disturbances. Didn’t even wake you, huh?”

  “I got in late and left early,” Ramage lied. “Guess I was lucky this time, not at the wrong place at the right time and all that.”

  Rex said nothing, but there was no keyboard tapping, which was usually a sign the FBI man had bought whatever brand of bullshit stew Ramage was selling. Denial was a wonderful thing, and Rex was probably considering if he needed to give Ramage the ‘last chance’ speech.