Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  Ramage dropped his knapsack and put the bag of food atop it. He looked around the parking lot, making sure nobody was watching as he fetched the magnetic key box affixed in the front passenger side wheel well. The spare key had saved him so many times—the incident in the Sandman’s warehouse the most recent example. He unlocked the truck and returned the key to its hiding place.

  He slipped into the comforting cocoon of the truck, the smell of the leather, stale onions and grease. All the cab curtains were drawn, and Ramage ate, enjoying the quiet as he powered up the laptop and read through the blood data sets again.

  There was something in the raw numbers, Rex was right, but he couldn’t see it. It was like staring at one of those pixelated drawings really hard before the image becomes clear, except this picture was getting fuzzier. He made a fast graph showing how perfect the data appeared and texted it to Rex with a confused face emoji. Next step was to break the data down, see if the perfection held in smaller sets, sorted different ways. He might have to ask for some computing power.

  When he finished Ramage crawled into his bunk in the rear of the semi’s cab, and though he was exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. He needed a drink. Maybe two. It had been that kind of day… week… and he’d feel better if he at least tried to locate Rolly before he passed out for the night.

  A generator churned to life close by, most likely one of the other overnight rigs charging batteries or watching TV. He changed his clothes and washed up with a wet cloth, and he felt like an old lady who’d gone to the beauty parlor. Wearing fresh jeans, a shirt that was chimp urine free, the snubby in his jacket pocket, and bundled up like an Eskimo, Ramage climbed out of Big Blue’s cab into the night cold in search of cheer… and Rolly Pepper.

  Ramage put his back to Big Blue’s cab, scanning the Red Rock Truck Stop, but Rolly and Shelly were nowhere to be seen. A nagging worry ate at him, and he went back into the truck and grabbed his pack and stuffed the laptop and some personals into it. Rolly knew where Big Blue was, and the idiot might think it was a good idea to toss Big Blue’s cab, and he couldn’t lose the laptop. He jumped to the pavement, locked Big Blue’s door, and threw the knapsack over a shoulder as he slipped into the shadows.

  The temperature dropped fifteen degrees with the sun, and frigid wind made it colder, but Ramage didn’t have to walk far before he saw the sign for The Wobbly Cactus. He’d driven by the place several times and taken note of the large green tilted cactus that adorned the front of the restaurant that boasted the best margaritas in Price. Might be the only margaritas in Price, but he could use a pitcher of margarita. Maybe not a pitcher. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the walkway behind him before he veered toward the entrance.

  The place was dimly lit with a bar running the length of one side, and a series of dining tables on the other. A waitress bustled about, taking care of the sixteen patrons spread over seven tables. Nobody sat at the bar, but the bartender was busy pouring beers and shots of tequila. When Ramage caught the guy’s attention, he said, “Can I help you?”

  “Looking for a margarita,” he said.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” the bartender said. “Eating tonight?”

  “Naw, already ate.”

  He waved expansively at the bar. “Then have a seat my friend. Name’s Sandy.”

  Sandy held out his hand and Ramage shook it. The guy was short, a bit overweight, and had dark hair and a black mustache. He did look of Mexican descent, but with the name Sandy, that might be a big assumption.

  Sandy slid a napkin with a leaning cactus on it across the bar and said, “Any particular kind of margarita?”

  “Kind?” Ramage said as he took a stool and took off his pack, placing it at his feet between the stool and the front of the bar.

  Sandy laughed, and the sound made Ramage smile. “I see the bar scene isn’t your thing. We’ve got mango, berry, banana, cool—”

  “You have a house regular?”

  “I’ll make it a double.” As Sandy poured tequila, he said, “What brings you to Price?”

  Ramage chuckled. There’s that sign on my head again.

  “We get locals and truckers in here, not much else, Mr.?”

  “Call me Ramage.”

  Sandy’s eyes went wide.

  Figuring Sandy was trying to remember where he’d stashed Rolly Pepper’s business card, Ramage said, “Have you seen a guy named Rolly Pepper? Looks like a reject from a mafia casting call?”

  Sandy nodded.

  “He told you I was a criminal.”

  Sandy nodded.

  “That he was in town to capture me?”

  Sandy nodded.

  “See, that’s backwards.”

  Sandy’s brow knitted, but he said nothing.

  “He’s the criminal, and I’m looking for him.”

  Sandy eyed him, his friendly smile gone, worry wrinkles creasing his face.

  Ramage slapped three twenties on the bar. “Keep them coming and if you don’t believe what I tell you, you can call the cops. Agreed?”

  Sandy stared at Ramage a long moment, then nodded.

  Ramage drank and told Sandy an abridged version of what had happened to him since Big Blue had broken down, leaving out any part that made him look bad, or created uncomfortable questions.

  “You know,” Sandy said as he washed a glass in the sink behind the bar, all suspicions gone. “I had a bad feeling about that guy, Pepper.”

  “And me?”

  Sandy laughed. “Different kind of bad feeling.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Karma woke refreshed, her guilt about the Skeeter’s demise gone. She checked on Big Blue, and the truck was in the exact same spot it had been in for the last four days. She clicked off and checked her messages. There was a goodnight call from her son that she’d missed, so she called Alandro and told him she’d be home soon.

  It was 5:12PM Friday night, the sun falling in the west, when she headed out to meet the pastor. Cold air blasted her face as she climbed into her rental and scanned its interior. All looked good, and she started the Chevy and wove through the backroads to RT-6, where she made a left. A quarter mile up the road she turned into a Gas ‘n Go and parked next to a van. She left the car to be picked up later and strode across the parking lot, but didn’t see the pastor. The Gas ‘n Go had a small deli-like convenience store that served hard bagels, eggs, and convenience items and snacks. The place was empty, and she ate some powdered donuts and drank coffee in silence, her eyes flicking to her watch every few moments.

  Pastor Robin was five minutes late, and Karma watched him pull into a parking space through the store’s front bay window, impatience spiking through her. She got up, dropped her trash in a pail, and went outside and stood next to the ice machine.

  The pastor got out of the car, a jittery shaking nervous mess, eyes locked on Karma. Like a boy approaching a girl at a junior high dance, hands in pockets, swaying back and forth on his feet, eyes averted, he said, “Karma?”

  She did her best to look disgusted, then waved at the pastor’s Nissan minivan. “Get back in the car.”

  Pastor Robin nodded vigorously and went back to his car.

  Karma made a show of looking around, then she walked around the Gas ‘n Go, stopping behind the building to kill a couple of minutes, thinking about how the pastor must be jumping out of his skin. When she got in the minivan, she gave him directions to the deserted oil derrick.

  “Has your stay be—”

  She held up a hand. “No talking.” She didn’t get to know most Skeeters, and she sure as hell didn’t tell her life story to every gringo she was forced to do business with. “Just drive until I tell you to turn.”

  More vigorous nodding that Karma thought might hurt the guy’s neck as Pastor Robin hunched over the wheel. Brush, devil grass, and thickets of juniper ran along both sides of the road, the minivan’s headlights cutting a tunnel through the blackness.

  Ten minutes later, Karma said, “Pull
over here and wait.” They were early, and she needed to give the supplier a bit more time. Twenty tense minutes past before Karma ordered the pastor back onto the road. In the darkness she was afraid she’d miss the turnoff, but she recognized the mound of red stone before the road dove into a depression.

  “Turn there,” Karma said as she pointed.

  In the distance a car sat silent next to an abandoned oil derrick, the outbuildings gone, the rusted pumps frozen and forlorn.

  “Kill the lights,” she said.

  “What? How do—”

  “Do it now! Do you want to get shot?” Karma yelled, restraining laughter.

  The pastor killed the lights and drove on, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cold air streaming into the car.

  “Stop here,” Karma said. She was to pay the man and accept the package. No drama.

  The car crunched to a stop on the dirt road, the old oil derrick casting a long shadow in the moonlight.

  “Give me the money,” she said.

  He reached into the backseat and grabbed the bag that was supposed to contain $100,000. More money than she’d gotten for Ramage’s contract. The Pastor handed it over and Karma did a fast check. Ten thick stacks. She zipped the bag, checked her pistol in its shoulder holster, and got out of the car. Before she slammed the door, she said, “Stay in the car. No matter what happens. If things go south, takeoff and call your contact at the church.”

  “South?” the pastor stammered. “What if—”

  Karma slammed the door and pulled her Berretta nine, holding it against her side.

  The supplier did exactly as he’d been instructed. He got out of the car holding the package—an Igloo cooler—with his right hand, left in the air. He took ten steps—not nine or eleven—she’d been very specific about that. She had no other details, so… The supplier put the cooler down on the hardpan and raised his free hand. He took five steps back and waited.

  Karma brought up the Berretta and tossed the bag of money at his feet. The guy didn’t move, he simply stared, waiting for the signal.

  Karma strode forward, lifted the cooler, and turned her back on the guy, striding back to Pastor Robin like she didn’t have a care in the world. She jumped in the passenger seat, and said, “Hit the road.”

  The pastor said, “That’s it?”

  “That’s it because of extensive planning and caution. Bring me back to the Gas ‘n Go.”

  Silence filled the car, wind pushing through the cracked open windows. Some planning, hand wringing, and forty-eight minutes of her time for $10,000, and she’d planned to come to the US because of the Skeeter anyway. A nice neat little package.

  The Paster dropped her at her car, and she went back to the hotel. She was feeling good, so she took a walk and strolled past the Red Rock Truck Stop. Things were quiet, a few cars parked before the diner—three pickups, a motorcycle, and a blue Honda Civic. Big Blue hadn’t moved, and there were two trucks in long term parking on this night.

  She stopped and grabbed a sixer of beer, intent on spending the night in her room, maybe make her plans to fly home.

  The room was as Karma left it, and she stripped off her clothes and took a shower, the Berretta on the washstand within reach. She dried off and dressed—she was always ready to run—and drank a few beers while she watched a rerun of Friends. The one where they make a long stick and poke the fat dude across the street to see if he was a live.

  She was restless, the thing with Ramage still eating at her. She should be celebrating. Two fees. She wanted to go out, see people, and with the stress of the job gone, she decided to head out for a drink. She combed her hair and put on a little makeup. She hadn’t been with a man in a long time.

  Karma wandered through the streets of Price, and a large green cactus caught her eye. The Wobbly Cactus. She’d been meaning to stop there because the name was just too good, and she was up for a bit of tequila… or maybe Jack Daniels. She crossed the street and pulled open the Wobbly Cactus’s door, stepped inside, and felt all the eyes in the place fall on her.

  She started, shock and pain and energy coursing through her.

  The Skeeter sat at the bar, drinking, and when their eyes met, Ramage smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Wobbly Cactus’s main door opened, and cold wind gusted through the restaurant. Everyone turned, and a petite young woman stood just inside the entrance, her big brown eyes wide as quarters. She scanned the room, and when she saw Ramage her lips shaped into an O.

  When Ramage smiled, she smiled back, shuffling forward like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay, but looking to embarrassed to turn around and walk out. She was beautiful, her olive skin like honey, her body hidden beneath a heavy jacket.

  “Eating this evening?” Sandy shouted. Silverware tinkled on plates, and the chatter of conversation resumed, the low hum of salsa music a steady undercurrent.

  “No,” she said. Her eyes shifted to the empty seats at the bar.

  Sandy’s bartender radar kicked in, and he said, “You can grab a seat at the bar if you want.”

  She nodded and slipped off her jacket. The woman picked a spot four down from Ramage, dumping her coat on the back of her chair and climbing onto her seat.

  Ramage watched her shadowy reflection in a Coors beer sign, and when he turned to look at her, he caught her eyeballing him.

  “What are you drinking?” Sandy said.

  “Jack Daniels, up, please,” she said.

  “Sure thing,” Sandy said as he flitted away.

  “A woman after my own heart,” Ramage said.

  The lady turned a worried gaze on him, and said, “Excuse me?” It sounded like Ramage had asked her if she’d farted.

  “The Jack. A favorite of mine as well,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, her gaze dropping to the bar.

  “Care to join me?” Ramage was surprised he’d asked, but there was something about this woman, an attraction—he was taken—but he felt a connection, a kinship he couldn’t explain.

  Worry lines creased the woman’s face, her brow knitting, but she nodded tightly. She gathered her jacket and slid down a few seats until she was sitting next to Ramage.

  Sandy placed a napkin and a tumbler of Jack neat before the newcomer.

  “Theo Ramage,” he said.

  She looked into his eyes, and it was like she was trying to read his mind. “Nice to meet you. My friends call me Karma.”

  “Karma,” Ramage said, and chuckled good-naturedly. “How’d you end up with that nickname? I mean, it is a nickname, right?”

  The woman stared at him like he’d asked her bra size.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, but—”

  “It’s short for Karmen,” Karma said. She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a long pull off her Jack.

  “Any particular reason?” Ramage said with a smile. “Are you a bringer of justice or something? Law enforcement?” He was so bad at making small talk he was sure he was making an ass out of himself. It was strange talking to a woman in a bar without the undercurrent—at least for him—of the male’s ultimate and never-ending goal of sex.

  “Not exactly,” she said. A thin smile stretched across her face. “What about you? Price isn’t exactly most folk’s idea of a vacation. Oil worker or ranch hand?”

  “None of the above,” he said.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. They drank, sat, stared at stuff, all the while Ramage trying to get a good read on the woman, but she was like a bashful clam. They were at that point where all the common ground had been explored, all the safe harbors visited.

  She took a sip of her drink and dipped her toe in. “What do you do then?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said. “But right now, I’m waiting to get my truck back from Manny so I can deliver parts to a drill site down in Texas.”

  “That where you’re from?” she asked.

  “These days,” he said.

  She nodded and turne
d her dark eyes forward.

  Ramage emptied his margarita as he watched her shadow in the Coors sign. In his peripheral vision he admired her shapely figure, full breasts, and amazing ass as she leaned forward. He felt himself getting aroused, and guilt washed through him, Anna’s angry face filling his mind.

  “What about you?” Ramage said. “You from around here?”

  Karma emptied her glass and held it up for Sandy to see. “I have this basic set of rules I follow, beliefs, really.”

  Ramage waited.

  “You know how there’s people you dislike before you even meet them? Like you were mortal enemies in a prior life?” she said.

  Ramage nodded.

  “Not rational, but there it is. You make all kinds of assumptions based on your gut. The reverse is also true about people you like right away.”

  “What category do I fall in?” Ramage asked.

  “The eighty percent in the middle that requires work and patience,” Karma said.

  “Fair enough,” Ramage said as he raised his newly filled glass.

  “Another?” Sandy asked Karma.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  “So you dodged my question,” Ramage said. “You from around here? Your family?”

  She shook her head. “No, my son and I aren’t from the United States. I’m here on business.”

  Ramage nodded to urge her on, but when she didn’t speak, he said, “Business?”

  “For the church,” she said.

  They locked eyes, the staring contest a tug of war between ideologies.

  Ramage said, “The Church of Ladder-day Saints?”

  She nodded.

  “So you’re name is Karma and you’re on a mission from God?” Ramage said.

  That got a full, genuine laugh. “Not from God,” she said. Her laughter died away, and it was like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes narrowed and she drew her lips into a thin line. “Back home in Nicaragua the church rules, but I do have other business,” Karma said.