Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover

by Mike Cooper

  “Fuck!” He picked himself up from the ground, rubbing his knee.

  “Ouch,” said Elsie.

  “No, I’m fine. Fine!”

  “It came out of nowhere, didn’t it?”

  I glanced over quickly, but her face was clear.

  The Saturn’s hood was warm. Dave nodded, already stooping to look closely at the driver’s-side lock.

  “Maybe scratched, maybe not,” he said. “They could of just slim-jimmed it.”

  “I think I parked here,” said Elsie. “This same spot. I usually do.” She crossed her arms, the cigarette still held in perfect equipoise. “But you boys seem to be saying someone took it for a ride this morning. While I was working.”

  “Can you let me in?” I asked. She nodded. The keys were in a pocket deep in the smock’s waist, and yes, I watched their extraction quite closely. Just like Dave.

  “Here you go.” Elsie swung the door open and made a slight, perfectly timed voilà gesture.

  Almost ironic. There seemed to be some deep currents running under that Elite Models façade.

  Inside we found french fry bags, empty cups, a dirty towel, loose shotgun shells, a videogame cartridge, three T-shirts—all dirty and one torn—and another armful or two of similar junk. It smelled of Elsie’s cigarettes. If the attackers had left any clues behind, they were impossible to find in the heaps of Brendt’s trash.

  No blood on the seats.

  But as I looked more closely at the stained cushions, I noticed something stuck in the gap between the seat and the hand brake. I worked it out from the crack.

  “I got to get back,” Elsie said when we emerged. “Manager’s strict about breaks.”

  “You’re smoking Virgina Slims?” I asked.

  She paused. “Super Slims.”

  I looked at the cigarette in my hand. “Not this kind?”

  Elsie leaned over to look and shook her head. “That one doesn’t even have a filter. And what’s that writing? Not English.”

  “Cyrillic, I think.” I found a dollar bill in my pocket, the only paper I had on me, and carefully folded it around the cigarette. “A clue.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Holmes.” She nodded. “I really got to go.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Dave scratched his head. “Thanks.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on? Since I have to drive this home tonight?”

  I looked at Dave and shook my head a little.

  “Not rightly sure,” Dave said. “Some visitors out to the shop, thought they might have been in this car.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Because they needed another car. It was clear enough. The three men couldn’t have been local—Pittsburgh, just maybe, but the skills they demonstrated tended not to live in slow, rustic parts of the country. So they drove here, either direct or from the airport, almost certainly in one car. But for the assault they needed another. A backup. In case something went wrong—you know, like a ton of bricks falling onto your getaway vehicle.

  Say you want a car for a quick in-and-out. Borrowing from someone on an eight-hour shift, from what was probably the busiest parking lot in the county?—that’s how I’d do it. They might even have staked out the lot, waiting until an obvious employee arrived.

  Just coincidence they picked a vehicle Dave knew? Believable enough, I suppose, considering Clabbton’s small size—Dave probably had some connection to nine tenths of the people here.

  Still.

  “If the police come calling, don’t bother hiding anything,” I said. “Go ahead and tell them we were here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Elsie’s wide gaze stayed on mine, this time.

  “Uh, just, you know.”

  When she’d gone back into the Super Duper, the sunshine went with her. Literally—clouds closed over the sky again, the light dimmed, and a rising breeze blew some paper trash through weeds in the drainage ditch by the road.

  “Brendt’s a loser.” Dave seemed in pain. “In high school, I seen the guy eat his own boogers.”

  “What, you didn’t?”

  “Not where anyone could watch me.”

  “How would you know?”

  “He works in a fucking muffler shop.” Apparently in the auto-repair world, you couldn’t go much lower. “I’m not sure he knows how to open a bar of soap.”

  The drift wasn’t hard to catch. “Just because you don’t want to sleep with him doesn’t mean she can’t.”

  “Yeah, but . . . why?” His question plaintive, almost keening. “What could she possibly see in Brendt?”

  “Don’t go there.” I looked across the lot. “Come on, I need to get something.”

  But as we walked to the row of stores, Dave stopped abruptly. “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “The bad guys. They borrowed the Saturn, along with the blue car. Right? But they drove back here in just the Saturn.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “How did they leave?”

  “They probably had another car waiting. The one they drove here in originally. One big shell game.”

  “Oh.” He started walking again. “I thought they might still be here.”

  “Unlikely.” I looked at the teeming lot. “But who knows? Keep your eye out.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The gun shop was typical: metal plates bolted over the windows, reinforced door, linoleum and exposed concrete inside. The interior was smaller than expected, because a heavy wall had been built crossways, to add an ammunition bunker in the rear. Only the psychotically fearless keep their crates of black powder out in the open.

  “No blue laws?” I asked as we entered.

  “Not for selling guns,” Dave said. “But you can’t use them—no hunting on Sunday in Pennsylvania.”

  A man stood behind the counter, catalog open on the glass case, marking annotations on the page. He looked up when we entered, then twitched a smile and slapped the pen down.

  “Dave, bro.” He came around to shake hands, rural-America style—a plain hearty grip, no fist bump or shoulder clasp or high punch. “How’ya?”

  “Aw, you know.”

  The man looked at me. “Who’s this, separated at birth?”

  “My brother.”

  “Brother?!”

  Would we have to endure this every single encounter? I nodded, let Dave run through the introductions. He still sounded a little amped, talking a bit too fast, laughing a half second too long, but the owner didn’t seem to notice.

  Meanwhile, I glanced over the stock. Hunting rifles, shotguns, a wide range of handguns, a few assault-style weapons locked to rings on the pegboard. Ammunition boxes lined one shelf. Cleaning kits, eye and ear protection, a rack of DVDs. Belts and camo.

  I felt more secure already. Whoever had come gunning, if they returned, guns blazing, I’d be able to fire back more than just thirteen times.

  “Heard you were up with Van,” the owner said to Dave.

  “Been talking to him, yeah.” Dave shook his head. “Van, shit, I swear he’s got a piece of every man, woman and child in Clabbton.”

  “I’m paying him.”

  “He’s a good guy, but, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  They caught up on other acquaintances. I remembered what it was like in New Hampshire growing up—small-town life, everyone in everyone else’s business all the time.

  It was one reason I’d been so ready to leave.

  “Four boxes of nine millimeter,” I said, when we finally got around to business. “Overpressure rounds.”

  “What weight?”

  “One twenty-four, one twenty-seven. Whatever you have.”

  “Remington hollow point? That’s one forty-seven.”

  “My experience, the heavier weights underperform.”

  “The Federal, then. One twenty-four.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “That all for you?” He snapped open a brown paper sack
from under the counter and placed the boxes inside.

  I’d been eyeing the armament on the wall, but this guy was clearly a legitimate dealer. I didn’t have the ID to pass a background check, and Dave was an ex-convict. Neither of us could buy anything more dangerous than bullets.

  “I think so,” I said. “But let me ask you, when’s the next gun show around here?”

  “Gun show?”

  “Within, oh, a hundred miles?” No response. “Two hundred?”

  He studied me, then looked at Dave. “What do you need?”

  Dave raised his hands in a wide shrug. “You know me, I just do a little quail shooting in the fall.”

  “That’s a real nice-looking bullpup,” I said. “Is it really a TAR-21?”

  A pause.

  “Were you in the service?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Didn’t think the Pentagon was buying Tavors.”

  “Standard issue was M4, that’s right. But once we were in the field, we kind of got to choose.”

  “That right?”

  “A lot of the guys, they liked the carbine. Reliability, though—I heard too many stories about sand jamming them up. I got to know this Polish commando on some joint patrols, and he swore by the Tavor. After he let me try it out, I had to agree.”

  “Army doesn’t let you choose your own weapon.” His face was unreadable.

  “Not the Marines, either. You’re right.”

  “Special Forces, now . . . I heard the rules was looser for them.”

  “Could be.”

  “How long were you in?”

  “Eight years. U.S. military the whole time.” I’d noticed the tattoo on his forearm, long faded. “No two hundred grand a year for me, contractor bullshit, driving politicians around. Low pay and lieutenants yelling at me, all the way through.”

  “I hear that.” Another pause, then back to Dave. “He’s your brother, you say?”

  “Yup.”

  “How come you never mentioned him before?”

  “Just found each other. You knew I was a foster kid, right? Finally went through the records, and here we are.” Dave grinned. “Just look at him. Of course we’re related.”

  What I’d forgotten was, Dave had served only eleven months—which was the full sentence; nobody gets parole anymore. The Brady law rules you out if you’ve got a one-year record. Dave scraped in just under the wire, and his background check was already on file here.

  I think the guy might even have discounted us. When we left I had a large paper bag in each hand, and they were sagging from the weight of a Beretta M9, the ammunition boxes, cleaning supplies—and a well-used MP5, chambered for 9mm, so both weapons could take the same rounds. I’d paid cash, nearly emptying my wallet.

  Not the Tavor, though. It was display only—the shop owner had gotten around import rules by swapping out just enough parts with domestic replacements—and even if he’d been willing to sell, I sure didn’t have another three thousand bucks for it.

  “I was serious,” Dave said as we walked down the cracked pavement fronting the stores. “Skeet’s about all I done my whole life. I couldn’t handle that stuff you got there without a month of practice.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “Huh?”

  I meant it. “Most people, they figure, how hard can it be? Then they shoot their best friend in the head by accident.”

  “No, I—”

  “These things—” I hefted the sacks—“they make it too easy. Anyone can pick one up and start putting rounds into a twenty-five-yard target. They’re probably the best engineered machines on the planet.” I considered. “Apart from Toyotas, of course.”

  “Toyotas?”

  “It’s good to recognize your limitations, that’s all.” I tipped my head. “Mine are cars, by the way.”

  When we turned the corner, Dave stopped short with a grunt, and I almost ran into him.

  A police cruiser was pulled alongside the Charger, and a tall officer stood in front of it, arms crossed, waiting for us.

  —

  “Dave.” The officer’s uniform was tucked and neat, the Sam Browne belt worn from use but polished clean. His sidearm—a 1911 maybe, the holster flap covered it over—draped a leather lanyard in a neat loop. “Been looking for you.”

  “What’s up, Chief?” Dave didn’t sound the least bit surprised or nervous.

  Had to say I was impressed.

  “Who’s this?” Looking at me.

  “My brother. Never knew I had one!—tracked him down through the registry, and he came to visit. Silas, this is Gator.”

  Of course. Who else? I shifted the paper bags and we shook hands.

  “Gator and I, we used to run into each other on the football field,” Dave said.

  He seemed to know everyone. Memory lane lasted another minute, which was good, because it allowed me to study the chief of police—but not good, because it allowed him to study me.

  Satisfying neither of us, naturally.

  “Bad news,” the chief said. “You had an explosion out at your shop.”

  “What? No way!” Dave’s act was actually convincing. “What happened?”

  “Where have you been the last hour or so?”

  “Around town. Silas came up this morning, we, you know, sat around a while, talking.” He hesitated. “I had a beer, but you know me—only one. Then I wanted to show him around, and we ended up here to pick up a few things.”

  He indicated the paper bags in my hands with a slight wave of one hand. Incredible.

  Gator looked at the Charger. “Seems like you stopped right in the middle of a waxing job.”

  “Just letting it cure before buffing.” Dave made a face. “I won’t deny it looks like shit. But the coating stays on better.”

  “Uh-huh.” He switched to me. “You help with that? Putting on the turtle wax?”

  It felt like a trick question. “Uh, no. I just watched.”

  He didn’t respond, just waited. We stood in silence long enough it started to feel uncomfortable.

  “Someone called in a fire,” the chief said finally. “But that was the least of it. Looks like a truck crashed into two cars, and something blew up. I’m sorry, Dave—the place is a goner.”

  “Blew up?”

  I decided I’d better step in before Dave went for an Oscar. “I left my rental car there. Parked right out front. A Malibu. You said there was an accident?”

  “I hope you bought the insurance.” He pronounced it with an accent on the first syllable: in-surance.

  “Aw, shoot.”

  “You mind if I look at your license, Silas?”

  Another long moment.

  As I mentioned, half my life is on the grid, perfectly normal, perfectly correct. The other half . . . not so much. “Silas” is the first half, and he’s got a whole legitimate paper trail: ID, bank account, tax returns, rent checks, you name it. Even a few credit cards. Hell, the government has my fingerprints and DNA—and the Pentagon, for all its wasteful incompetence in so many areas, might not have lost them yet.

  But according to Zeke, the firewall had been compromised. Bad guys were at my apartment—Silas’s apartment. The dam was breached.

  I didn’t want to give the chief a foothold. I was within my rights—you never have to tell the cops anything. But of course I couldn’t refuse.

  He studied the license briefly, then pulled out his cellphone and took a picture of it.

  “New York City, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like it?” He smiled, sort of. “Too crowded and noisy for me.”

  “No one’s ever blown up my car there.”

  “Good point.”

  The discussion ran aground. Obviously, the chief wasn’t telling us everything he must have seen, hoping for a slip. But it would be remarkably stupid for Dave to destroy his shop, his livelihood, and several other vehicles—and then go shopping at the Super Duper. So we weren’t exactly suspects,
either. He just didn’t know what was going on, and he really didn’t like that.

  “Call your insurance agent,” he said to Dave when we were done. “And you might have to find another place to stay.”

  Driving away, I looked back and saw him still standing there, arms crossed again, watching us go. Dave demonstrated an uncharacteristic respect for traffic law, stopping to signal his turn at the parking lot exit, waiting for a long break in traffic, and turning slowly into the road before moving off at about twenty miles an hour.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “What would a normal person do, if the police just told them their house was destroyed?”

  “Go to a bar?”

  “They’d head right over to see for themselves.”

  “Oh. Sure. But do we really want to do that?”

  I twisted around to look back—hard to see much, with the roll bars and the rather small rear-window glass. The Super Duper had already disappeared, sunk behind a Lukoil gas station and a bend in the road.

  “Your pal Officer Friendly was surely paying attention. Now he’s curious why you’re not driving straight back to the shop.”

  Dave gave the car some rein, picking up speed. “Maybe we’re taking Furnace Creek Road, around Bass Lake.”

  I thought for a moment. “That doesn’t make sense. You’d end up in Connellsdale. It’s at least ten extra miles.”

  He glanced over. “I thought you never been here before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how—?”

  “I’m good with maps.”

  Because I have to be. In ten years GPS smartphones have basically obliterated the human race’s sense of direction. But I can’t use them, because it’s a two-way data flow—if Google tells me where I am, then Google knows too. And what Google knows, anyone can find out. Usually without a subpoena, or even a warrant.

  Which means that I have to rely on paper maps and memory. Conveniently, Uncle Sam provided lots of training in that area—topos and artillery grids mostly, but it carries over.

  Always study the terrain beforehand.

  “Well, it’s too late now.”

  “Yeah.” I found the license plate that had come from the attackers’ Nissan on the floor of the car and added it to one of the paper sacks, then started unpacking our Christmas presents. “Where are you going anyway?”