Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  He pulled his phone and saw texts from Rex and Manny. He swiped Manny’s, and it said, “Everything arrived. Coming in early. Done at 10AM.” Ramage texted back a 10-4, and moved on to Rex. The FBI man’s text bubble showed one character, a question mark. The FBI man was concise. Had to give him that.

  Ramage was hungry again, so he went to the bathroom while Sandy had a burrito cooked for him. He settled up, grabbed his backpack, and snuck through the kitchen and out the restaurant’s back door, the cold air hitting him like a wall. The alcohol warmed him as he walked slowly down the alleyway, the brick walls and dumpsters bringing him back to Nicaragua, the scent of garbage, human waste, and desperation filling his nostrils.

  He stayed in the shadows, keeping his back to walls when possible, examining all windows and covered areas. It was impossible. If Karma wanted to pick him off like a duck in a carnival game, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  So he ran, like a drunk teenager looking to burn through his bed spins. Hitting a moving target in the dark would be hard for anyone. He was panting hard when he reached the Red Rock Truck Stop, and he stopped and stepped behind one of the red rock walls that rose from the hardpan and surrounded the depot.

  He peered around the wall. Two trucks, plus Big Blue in long term parking. The diner was dark, no trucks at the gas pumps, the only car parked out front Marie’s Honda Civic. Everything was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  He waited in the shadows for an hour, but nobody showed. If Karma or Rolly were watching, they were doing a good job hiding themselves. He reconsidered his plan to sleep in the truck. Yes, it was sturdier, had solid metal around it should bullets start flying, but that was where Rolly and Karma would expect him to be, and Ramage worried one of the pursuit teams had already messed with the Kenworth. Probably not, though, Ramage justified. They had to know the rig was out of commission. Would they mess with Big Blue before Manny dug into it?

  It didn’t really make a difference, because Rolly or Karma might’ve done the same thing to the car. Ramage rocked back with the thought that both vehicles might have been tampered with, one for each of the teams vying for the pelt that was Ramage’s head.

  The answer, while inconvenient, was he couldn’t sleep in either vehicle, not without taking a big chance, but where could he sleep? He could walk around town until the sun came up, search for Rolly? The idea that Karma was prowling the streets made the idea much less palpable, but he couldn’t just curl up under a tree. It was too damn cold.

  He walked around to the rear of the diner, keeping his back to the building, but there was no good place to hide. Manny’s was buttoned up, and the public bathrooms were locked. An exhaust fan pumped semi-warm air through a vent behind the diner’s kitchen. Ramage dropped his pack and sat, nestling up next to the building, letting the grease laden air roll over him as he hugged himself, putting his head between his arms, boosting his body heat.

  The dumpster to his left reeked, but with his back to the wall he was well protected. The spot reminded Ramage of the place where he’d woken up at the truck stop in Kansas, a pebble pushing into his cheek. He crossed his arms, cowering from the cold, the .38 in his hand. He didn’t set his mental alarm, and when he dozed off, he was back there, walking on the conveyor belt path, sliding into the abyss.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Karma pushed through the Wobbly Cactus’s front door, the blast of cold air stripping away the delicate buzz she’d built, her thoughts running in a million different directions. Had she just warned the Skeeter?

  She had.

  Karma beat herself up as she disappeared down a side street, steadily working her way back to her hotel, looking over her shoulder every few moments. Now she had to watch her back. Ramage wouldn’t just sit and wait. She’d threatened his family—well, not directly, but the guy wasn’t a moron. He’d understood the significance of her mentioning his mother, Prairie Home and Anna.

  Karma’s nerves eased as she walked. Ramage wasn’t going anywhere. The last thing he wanted was Karma showing up on his girlfriend’s doorstep. Nothing good could come of that, but her gut ached at the thought. This guy… what was it about him that made her warm inside? She’d never been attracted to a Skeeter, and she felt excited, scared, and embarrassed.

  Back in her hotel room, Karma gathered her meager belongings, and piled into the white Chevy Traverse, no destination in mind. She drove around town, saw Rolly’s truck parked out front of a hotel, and pulled into a deserted lot with a building at its center that was so dilapidated she couldn’t figure out what the establishment had originally been. She thought maybe a parts store, because a long counter ran along the rear of the abandoned building.

  She pulled around back, shut down the engine, pulled her phone, and called up the trail camera. The Kenworth hadn’t moved, and though it was difficult to tell because the camera’s scope was so limited, she didn’t think the curtains in the truck’s cab had moved since she’d last looked. Ramage couldn’t be in there yet, or could he? She watched and waited.

  An hour slipped away before she got bored and started driving aimlessly around Price, circling ever closer to the Red Rock Truck Stop like metal drawn to a magnet. She drove past the depot and checked it out, circling around several times, lights off. The Honda was the lone car parked in front of the diner, the Kenworth and two other rigs in overnight parking.

  She parked the Chevy across the street from the service depot in a lot filled with junk cars and piles of metal. From her position she had an excellent view of the Red Rock’s entire parking lot. She scanned the area with her scope, and when she saw nothing of interest she leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. But there would be no sleep this night. The Skeeter was out there, and now he was looking to bite her.

  Karma needed to act while she still had the cover of darkness. From the same case she’d plucked the trail camera, she drew out a small brick of C4 with a burner phone taped to it. It wasn’t enough to blow the Kenworth into a million pieces, but placed in the right spot the cab could be turned into an explosive oven. It was an easy way to finish this, and the device was small enough that she felt comfortable there wouldn’t be any collateral damage.

  With blackness still pressing on the Red Rock Truck Stop, Karma slipped from her car, crossed the road, and walked the perimeter of the station, staying in the shadow of the red-streaked walls that surrounded the depot on all sides except the southern exposure that gave way to the road. She worked her way along the wall, sliding in on the side of the Kenworth that faced away from the diner and gas pumps.

  The rig was in shadow, but the trailer filled with drilling equipment was bathed in light. Karma smiled to herself. The rig hadn’t moved since she’d sabotaged it, and when it went on the lift in the morning Manny would be all over the vehicle, so she needed to make sure she hid the device well.

  She sidled up to the truck’s passenger side front wheel well, reaching up toward the motor, feeling around for a spot to hide the bomb, when her hand came across a box affixed to the metal. She pulled it free and smiled. The metal box had a magnet on its back and contained a key to the Kenworth.

  Karma pressed her back to the truck, marveling at her good fortune, scanning the cab’s curtains and windshield, looking for any sign the Skeeter was inside. She was pretty sure he wasn’t, so she used an old school teenager trick, ring and run.

  She tapped on the truck’s cab door and ran around the trailer, hiding behind the Kenworth. Nothing moved in the cab; no lights, no sounds, nothing, so she took things up a notch. She knocked two more times, same result, and after the fourth time she slipped the key into the lock and popped the door open.

  Karma slid under the truck, Beretta in hand, waiting for gunfire to explode from the cab.

  There was nothing but the night symphony and the gentle push of the cold wind.

  Karma slipped her pistol in her jacket and eased up into the Kenworth’s passenger seat, sliding over until she lay before the steering wheel. She
attached the bomb above the truck’s steering column, and unless Manny replaced the truck’s gauges, he’d never find it. The wire she ran from the bomb to the ignition switch was so fine it looked like hair, and she fit it under the steering column’s plastic shell. The wire created a closed circuit with the bomb’s detonator, which was controlled by a reprogrammed phone that could be accessed via Karma’s cell like the trail camera. When she activated the device and the Skeeter started the truck, the bomb would detonate.

  Manny was the wildcard.

  She would’ve preferred to set the bomb manually, but she needed to wait until Manny fixed the truck.

  Karma left the cab as quietly as she’d entered, put the key back where she’d found it so as to not raise any suspicions, and retreated back to her car.

  The hours dripped away, and the sun came up in the east like a flower opening; red-black cotton candy giving way to an orange and blue sherbet sky. The diner opened, the chef arriving in the dark and the lone waitress soon after. Cars and trucks streamed in to get gas. Nothing out of the ordinary until the Skeeter appeared out of thin air.

  There’d been no signs of Ramage all night, and then the guy just waltzed around the front of the building like he’d come through a time portal as soon as the restaurant opened, backpack over a shoulder. He looked around like he was being followed, then went inside the diner. She focused her spyglass, but couldn’t see through the restaurant’s large front windows.

  “Shit,” she muttered. Everything changed when the comforting invisibility of darkness fled, and with witnesses around she had no option but to wait.

  Ramage had only been in the diner fifteen minutes when Manny arrived at his shop, and fifteen minutes later he was working on the Kenworth. Manny slid around under the truck on a board with wheels, the old hoses she’d cut flying out from beneath the rig as the mechanic fixed the damage. He slid out and unlocked the semi and popped the hood. He was under there a half-an-hour before he cranked up the Kenworth’s 565HP diesel engine and let it idle for twenty minutes before he shut it down and headed into the diner.

  Karma figured the guy hated working out in the cold, but it would have taken twice the amount of time to tow the huge rig across the lot and use a winch to pull it into a work bay over a service pit.

  The entire job had taken Manny an hour-and-a-half, and at 9:19AM he came out of the diner, collected his tools, and picked up the cut hoses littered around the Kenworth’s cab. He went in his office for ten minutes, then hopped back into his car and tore from the lot. It was Saturday morning, and Karma figured the guy was going armadillo hunting, or something equally bucolic.

  Karma armed the bomb and dropped her phone on the seat. It was done and there was no turning back.

  Things got interesting when the black Tahoe pulled into the station, Shelly driving around the main building twice and parking before the diner’s front door. Karma figured the waitress or chef must have tipped off Pepper, but knowing what she did about Ramage, that was probably exactly the way he’d planned it.

  Rolly got out of the Tahoe and went inside the diner. Karma struggled with her spyglass again, but couldn’t see what was going on. She considered going into the restaurant, but then she remembered the Skeeter knew what she looked like thanks to her stupidity of the prior night. Minutes slid away, five, ten.

  Karma was jumping from her skin when Rolly burst through the diner’s front door like the devil himself was on his heels. He staggered on his feet for a second, and when he saw Big Blue the goon made for the Kenworth.

  Karma pulled her Beretta, but she didn’t know why.

  Shelly slid down the Tahoe’s window and yelled something at Rolly as he ran past, but he didn’t stop. A deep heat rose in Karma’s stomach as Rolly bee-lined for the Skeeter’s truck. She brought up the spy glass.

  Rolly’s face was twisted and red and he carried keys with a blue rabbit’s foot keychain.

  “What in the hell?” she said.

  Ramage thundered from the diner, legs pumping, blood leaking down his face.

  Shelly opened the Tahoe’s door, trying to block Ramage, but he swerved, doubling his pace as he charged after Rolly, who had reached the blue Kenworth.

  Ramage yelled, “Touch that truck and—”

  Rolly had the truck’s door open and he jumped into the cab.

  Ramage was closing in, twenty feet away.

  “No, Rolly, you stupid piece of sh—” Karma said.

  The Kenworth rumbled to life and a thump echoed over the parking lot as the truck’s doors blew off, windows shattering, tiny squares of glass spraying across the lot. Smoke poured from the cab as a shock wave threw Ramage backward onto the pavement, his head bouncing off the ground.

  The Tahoe tore from the parking lot, people screamed, and in the distance a siren wailed. Karma sighed as she put down her spyglass, thick black clouds of smoke rolling over the Red Rock Truck Stop, obscuring her view.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ramage stalked across the Red Rock Truck Stop’s parking lot, his eye stinging from Rolly’s punch, blood leaking from a cut on his cheek he’d gotten in the scuffle. The shit had sucker punched him, and before he knew what was happening Rolly was yelling about payback, and lost money, and how Ramage’s Kenworth would do nicely for payment.

  Rolly pulled open Big Blue’s cab and jumped inside.

  “Hey,” Ramage yelled. “I’m gonna fuc—”

  The Kenworth rumbled to life and an explosion rocked the morning. The cab doors broke from their hinges, and glass and smoke and metal burst from the truck. Ramage was blown from his feet, and he hit the ground hard, his head bouncing off the pavement. He rolled onto his side, coughing, tiny pieces of square glass pushing into him. People screamed as dark smoke rolled across the truck stop, the wailing of sirens getting louder.

  He sat up and felt his face, arms, legs. Everything was where it was supposed to be, but his head pounded, and he felt a lump forming.

  Rubber screeched and the Tahoe tore from the parking lot. Shelly. Now he had to worry about her heading home and causing trouble.

  Ramage looked back at what was left of Big Blue, flames licking what remained of Rolly’s body. The trailer would live to see another day, and the heavy equipment appeared undamaged. Smoke billowed over the lot, flames licking the large steel gas tanks on the underside of the cab.

  “Oh, shit.” Ramage got to his feet, hands on his knees as spittle leaked from his lips. Nobody was near the truck. A crowd stood waiting for the police in front of the diner, and he hobbled toward them. “Move back. Back!”

  One of Big Blue’s gas tanks exploded, and a heavy womp pushed over the depot, the scorching breath of the concussion wave like a hot desert wind. The crowd shrieked and cawed, pieces of truck shrapnel landing all around the lot, some on fire. Balls of flame and dark smoke churned into the sky, charring the equipment on the Kenworth’s trailer.

  Ramage stood watching, his feet pasted to the blacktop, his mind struggling to put the images he was seeing in order. Someone had planted a bomb in Big Blue, and since pieces of Rolly were raining down on the parking lot, he had to assume the explosion was Karma’s work.

  He ducked and looked over his shoulder, bringing up his arm to cover his face as he searched the tops of the red-streaked rock walls that surrounded the station on three sides. Smoke obscured his view, but he didn’t see anybody standing atop the walls. Ramage’s head jerked toward the road, and the work yard across the street.

  A white Chevy Traverse, new and pristine, sat nestled within mounds of metal and rusted cars. Where had he seen the car before? Somewhere in the back of his brain a memory fought to free itself, but Ramage’s head still rang, his eyes stinging with smoke and tears.

  The Chevy inched forward toward RT-6, and Ramage saw Karma behind the wheel.

  Ramage reached behind him and was happy to find Santino’s .38 snubby still sticking from his waistband. He jerked it free and ran, bounding across the lot, past the diner and the gas pum
ps. Sirens wailed and a sheriff’s car tore into the lot, followed by an ambulance. He lowered the pistol to his side as he ran, chaos and confusion bubbling around him.

  The white Chevy peeled out, front tire spinning and kicking up dust and dirt as the car bumped up onto the road. People were yelling, and a fire truck joined the cops and paramedics.

  Ramage doubled his pace, pumping hard.

  The Traverse fishtailed, straitened, and headed north.

  Ramage reached the road and brought up the gun. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw police and firemen tending to what was left of Big Blue, flames and black smoke billowing from the wreckage. The crowd in front of the diner was pointing, and an officer stood before the group, craning his neck in Ramage’s direction. Ramage didn’t care. He was going to end this. Now.

  He ran onto the road and a car screeched to a halt and almost hit him, the vehicle’s driver letting loose with a litany of colorful adjectives. Ramage planted his feet, aimed the pistol in a two-handed grip, and fired.

  The shot hit the Chevy’s rear driver side tire and blew it out. The Chevy swerved, avoided an oncoming car, and hit a light pole. Metal crunched, glass broke, and the pole leaned precariously over the road, but didn’t fall. The power and communication lines strung between the poles had gone taut, the lines holding up the broken pole.

  A gunshot rang out. Another. The cop lumbered across the lot, firing his revolver into the sky. He was screaming for Ramage to stop, but that just wasn’t in the cards.

  Ramage ran for the crashed Chevy, weaving in and out of cars and trucks stopped on the road. White smoke poured from the Traverse’s engine compartment, mixing with the black clouds rolling off the Red Rock’s parking lot.

  “This is Sheriff Queensbury. I order you to stop and put up your hands,” the cop yelled, but didn’t shoot.

  When Ramage arrived at the Chevy he found the driver’s door open, and Karma gone. He stood there blinking, the empty bucket seat staring up at him like it was in on a joke everyone but Ramage understood. He looked around, smoke stinging his eyes.