Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover

by Mike Cooper

  “What was that about?” she said over the phone.

  “Someone might have seen us, right? This way, telling her to call the police, we don’t look so much like murderers.”

  “Huh.” She sped up, almost leaving me behind.

  “Slow down!” I shouted.

  “This machine is a beauty.”

  We decelerated for a red light, but it turned green and the Charger rabbited forward. I put the accelerator to the floor and strained to keep up.

  “Just . . . drive it like you own it,” I said into the phone. “Dave will never forgive me if you total his car.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Rockwire sprawled over several acres, from what I could tell driving past. A bit of shrubbery and a large wooden sign at the front gate, and chain-link stretching off in either direction down the road. Behind the fence a large muddy lot held an open-pit mine’s worth of heavy equipment: trucks, tankers, bulldozers and excavators, specialized drilling rigs and stacks of pipe. A pile of gravel at one end, stacked barrels with hazmat labels at the other. A long metal building had most of its bay doors open to the sun, mechanics and welders visible inside.

  Not far from the front gate was what was obviously the administration building—two stories of brick and glass with a neatly kept lawn and blacktop for executive parking. Several large American cars in the front rank, and some older econoboxes at the back, presumably owned by secretaries and junior accountants.

  And a Saturn, empty, in one of three visitor spots closest to the front entrance. Fear stabbed me in the gut.

  “The car’s there,” I said.

  “I saw it.” Harmony’s voice in the earpiece, flattened by the connection. She was a quarter mile ahead of me. “You sure it’s Brendt’s?”

  “Long scratch down the side and a cracked windshield. Dave must be here.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Same as us, has to be.” I realized I’d clenched the steering wheel so tightly my hands hurt.

  “Maybe.” Other possibilities were on the table, but she didn’t need to mention them. “Look, keep driving. There’s a farm stand down the road. I’ll wait for you there.”

  We were off I-79, not far from the interchange, in rural countryside. I’d already gotten stuck behind a tractor towing a large, empty trailer—several minutes at ten miles an hour before the road opened up enough to pass. Low hills, fields and fencerows, patches of forest. Hand-painted signs were nailed to trees and fence posts here and there: MULCH, FRESH CORN, 45 ACRES FOR SALE—MAKE OFFER.

  Harmony parked the Charger at the edge of a gravel lot. The barnlike wooden building behind it had some shaded tables with potted seedlings and sacks of compost and vermiculite. Two plastic-sheet greenhouses extended from the rear. No other customers—it was midmorning, early for business.

  She got out as I drove up, and we stood in the sun.

  “No time for recon,” I said. “God knows what’s happening in there.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “If they’re killing civilians, either the clock is running or they don’t fucking care.”

  “Brendt doesn’t make sense. Still less Elsie. They didn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  “You and Dave look so much alike.” Harmony stood with her arms crossed. It was as if last night—everything between us—had never happened. “They might have mistaken him for you, somewhere along the line, and tracked him down.”

  “And interrogated Brendt and Elsie to find out where he went, then killed them to cover their tracks.”

  “Or just because they made a mistake and were pissed about it.” Her voice was flat. “Assholes like this will do anything.”

  She knew it, same as me.

  “Time to go,” I said.

  “Dave—no telling what he’s doing in there.”

  “Nothing. If we’re lucky.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you . . . I mean, this isn’t your fight.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  We’d slipped a link, somehow, on the personal stuff. “Okay.”

  “I’ll stay outside,” she said.

  “Mobile response.” On the other hand, we were totally synchronized on the pragmatics. “Right.”

  “You bring him out, I’ll follow, make sure there’s no pursuit. Something goes wrong, blow the whistle and I’ll come get both of you.”

  “That’s a plan.”

  “No, it’s not.” But she wasn’t arguing.

  We checked weapons and double-checked comms. I switched the Sig to a shoulder holster. Harmony had the Kahr. Plenty of reloads, thanks again to her foresight in planting that kit at the hotel.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said. “Is the dynamite still in your trunk?”

  “What?”

  “Did I forget to mention that?”

  She hit the release and we took a look. The bucket of explosive that Dave had been carrying around since the FerroCorp demolition sat next to a large toolbox and an oily blanket.

  Harmony stepped back. “That’s raw nitroglycerine! I can’t believe you let me drive around like this!”

  “Yeah, you might want to take it a little slower.”

  “Shit.” She shook her head. “Leave it here. That stuff is contact sensitive—one stray bullet and it’s game over. Get it away.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll keep it.” She had a canvas athletic bag, and I dropped it in with the extra magazines. “We can’t have some innocent gardener stumbling across it.”

  Finally packed, we got in our respective cars. Harmony hesitated.

  “Nothing happens, we meet back here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Be careful.” And she was gone.

  Huh.

  An uneventful two minutes to drive back. Harmony went past. As I entered the plant I could just see her down the road, turning around.

  The gate was open, both sides swung back, and not staffed. Mostly to keep thieves out at night, probably. I drove another hundred yards to the admin building and did a three-point turn, backing the car in right next to the Saturn.

  I left the engine running, the driver’s door almost closed but not quite latched, its window rolled down. Someone walking past might notice, but I was faced away from the building’s windows and no one inside would see anything odd.

  Distant noise from the shops—metal banging on metal, the squeal of an air wrench. A tanker truck drove out, the diesel engine blatting loudly enough to echo off the walls in front of me. The day was warming but still cool.

  I shrugged to settle the holster, made sure my jacket still hung free and walked to the entrance.

  Double glass doors, a reception area tiled in ceramic, wraparound desk at the other end, framed photos of drill rigs and pipelines on the wall. The woman behind the desk looked up as I came in—she was on the phone, talking into her headset. Two low couches with vinyl cushions faced each other, one person sitting.

  Dave. A wave of relief, as overwhelming as the fear had been when I realized he was here.

  He got up, eyes opening wide in surprise.

  “Silas! What are you doing?”

  “That’s my question.” I kept my voice low enough that the receptionist couldn’t hear. “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “Brendt and I were talking after he finished up that job last night. I asked about Russians, like has he seen any around, and he mentioned this place. I thought I could come check it out. Brendt lent me his car so I could be, like, undercover.”

  “We have to leave,” I said.

  Resignation flitted across his face like a shadow. “I was trying to help,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I’m glad. Come on.”

  “What’s—”

  “Too dangerous here.”

  “Why?”

  He couldn’t know about Elsie and Brendt. No one was that good an actor.

  “Can’t explain now. Let’s go.”

  He turned toward the receptionist, who was staring at us. Maybe because I ha
dn’t announced myself yet; maybe for the same reason everyone stared at Dave and me, because we looked so much alike.

  Maybe because she’d just called the Russians.

  “We have to go now.” I grasped Dave’s arm lightly, above the elbow, and pointed him to the door.

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “Back in a second,” he called to the woman, whose response was lost as I pushed out the door.

  I kept moving. “Come with me. You leave anything in Brendt’s car?”

  “Uh, nope. Like I said, he let me borrow it because, you know, it doesn’t stand out like mine.”

  “I figured. Move.”

  “We’re leaving?”

  “As fast as possible.”

  Dave finally seemed to get the picture. “Okay then.”

  We approached the vehicles. “Can you drive?”

  “Sure.”

  “No offense, but Brendt’s car is both a pile of junk and known to the Russians.” I gestured. “Known quite well . . . we’ll take mine instead.”

  Dave looked. “That’s a Toyota.”

  “That’s right.”

  Dave shook his head but put out his hand. “Keys?”

  “Inside. It’s running.”

  I slid into the passenger seat as Dave slammed the driver’s door. He quickly adjusted the seat and mirrors, lowered the steering wheel a notch and put it into drive.

  All very competent, but the real reason I wanted him there was in case the Russians appeared. His competitive advantage was driving, and mine was shooting at bad guys. It’d be stupid to reverse that.

  Five seconds after leaving the building we rolled toward the gate.

  Nothing happened.

  Sunshine. A guy walking across the lot with a lunch box in one hand. I smelled exhaust and mud.

  “We’re clear,” I said as we exited the gate.

  “Got you.” Harmony’s voice. She’d heard everything I’d said, of course, and had the sense not to add unnecessary cross-talk while I was inside. I twisted my head around to see her behind us, swinging onto the road two hundred yards back.

  “I have to tell you something,” I said to Dave.

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “Elsie is dead. Someone killed her this morning.”

  “Oh my God!” We lost some acceleration as he fell back in the seat. “Wha—what . . . ?”

  “In Brendt’s house.”

  I was ashamed of myself that moment, holding Brendt back to see if Dave made a mistake. More than ashamed.

  But I wasn’t taking chances.

  “I can’t believe—I was there an hour ago! Her and Brendt gave me some breakfast, you know, toast and corn flakes, after Brendt got back from his job.” He stopped. “Wait, what about Brendt?”

  “I’m sorry.” I was. “Him too.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But . . . but, dead, killed—”

  He was taking it about as well as anyone, which is to say not great.

  “Silas!” Harmony shouted in my ear. “They’re on you!”

  I woke up and wrenched my attention back to the road. Nothing in front. I swung around and saw a truck roaring up on us.

  Not a truck—a white panel van with a contractor’s rack on top.

  “Behind us!” I drew the pistol from under my jacket. “Watch out!”

  Dave looked in the mirror, straightened up and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Toyota sped up.

  Far too sluggish compared to the Charger.

  I felt a sudden rush of wind, and a second later realized the rear window had been shattered. Air noise roared through the car. Too loud to hear gunshots, but I saw a man leaning out the van’s passenger window with a handgun.

  “They’re shooting,” I yelled to Harmony and Dave both. He swerved right, then left, jinking across the blacktop, tires squealing.

  “I’m on them.” Harmony was calm, at least. “But I can’t do much. They’re right behind you.”

  “I know.”

  “Who is it?” Dave raised his voice over the road and wind noise.

  “The Russians. The ones who killed Elsie and Brendt.” Probably.

  “Cocksu-u-u-u-u-u-ckers!”

  The windshield starred in front of me—a bullet must have gone right through, between us. I pointed the Sig and fired once, twice. No effect. Impossible to aim from the moving car. The van closed, speeding up, but there was too much glare on its glass to get a clear view inside. Dave jerked our car to one side again, then back onto the straightaway. My eyes were tearing from the rush of wind through broken windows.

  “This car’s a piece of shit,” he yelled. “We’re losing to a fucking minivan.”

  Oncoming traffic—we shot past a row of cars trailing a slow flatbed in the other direction. A flashing glimpse of shocked faces, staring at our shattered windows and the van about two feet behind us.

  “Anyone behind him?” Dave shouted.

  “Uh—”

  “Fuck them.” And he suddenly yanked the parking brake, twisting the wheel hard left simultaneously.

  “Harmony!” I realized what Dave was doing. “Drop back! Drop back!”

  “What?”

  The Toyota spun around, skidding down the road at sixty miles an hour as it slid through a one-eighty. Dave let it drift into the left lane and the van rocketed past us, unable to stop. He tapped the gas, flicked the wheel, then twisted it farther, and we stayed in the spin, coming all the way back around. I had a glimpse of the Charger, rubber smoking as Harmony jammed the brakes so she didn’t slam into us. The handbrake released—a fishtail right, left, then Dave stomped the gas again and I was jolted back as the wheels bit.

  Suddenly we were behind the van, coming up fast. Harmony accelerated into position, following.

  “Hey, that’s my car!” Dave said, checking the rearview. “Who’s driving?”

  “Harmony.”

  “Does she know what she’s doing?”

  “I hope so.”

  The van cut into the left lane, then back. We’d accelerated again, maybe sixty or seventy miles an hour. Dave was twenty feet behind. He floored it, and we rapidly closed the gap.

  “No, wait—”

  Too late. We struck the van’s bumper. I was slung forward, the seatbelt cutting painfully across my shoulder and chest. The crash knocked the van hard, and it swerved back and forth before coming back into the lane.

  I reached out the window and fired twice more, hoping the men inside would see me and think twice. A glance back confirmed that Harmony was still on our tail. The road curved and rose, fell, rose again. We flashed through a stand of trees, shade briefly dappling the vehicles.

  “Don’t do that again,” I said. “Dumb.”

  “What?”

  “Come up alongside, then tap their rear wheel well with the front of this car.” I looked over at him. “Don’t you know this?”

  “Know what?”

  “It’s how you knock out a car in front of you. The police use it all the time. Hitting the back is stupid—everyone ends up in the ditch that way.”

  “I never did demolition derby.”

  “Trust me.”

  He moved right, and a second later the van moved in the same direction, to block us from passing. Dave smiled grimly.

  “Harmony,” I said. “Stand clear.”

  “Coming up on the interstate,” she said.

  What was she doing, watching her phone’s GPS? “She says we’re almost at the interchange,” I told Dave.

  “Whatever.”

  He lured the van a little farther right until all our passenger-side wheels were kicking gravel from the breakdown verge. Then he hit the gas. The Toyota leaped forward and left. In two seconds we’d cleared the rear bumper, coming up to pass the van on the left. It accelerated, trying to get away. Dave drifted a little farther left—

  —then swung the wheel hard right. The car swerved and struck the van just behind the rear wheel. The collision
thrust them into an immediate spin. We were past in an instant. I had a kaleidoscopic glimpse of the van’s front, twisting around as we missed it by inches. Then we were clear.

  Dave popped a second bootlegger’s turn, to the right this time, and the Toyota screamed through the one-eighty, burning rubber down a hundred yards of asphalt.

  We slid to a halt.

  The van’s wheels went into the ditch. The driver almost made it, but the skid took him just a little too far right. When the tires dipped and hit the soft mud of the verge, they seized up. Momentum threw the van over. It kept moving another several yards, tearing the hell out of the ground, sliding on its left side.

  It finally stopped, a hundred yards behind us.

  Harmony skidded to a stop too, right alongside Dave’s door. She looked across.

  “Nice one.”

  “Dave gets credit.”

  “Harmony.” He sounded shaky.

  Nothing moved at the van.

  Dave reversed and swung the car around to face forward, then pulled to the side. Harmony followed. Vehicles approached from the other direction, slowed and stopped closer to the van. I could see an SUV on our side, also stopping. Doors swung open.

  Harmony put her head out her window to talk to us. “Now what?”

  “Authorities will be here any minute,” I said. “Troopers first, probably, if we’re that close to the highway.”

  She looked down—must have had her phone in her hand. “Markson’s making his big speech in half an hour.”

  It wasn’t a hard decision. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” Dave looked between us. “What’s happening? Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

  “Nah.” Harmony grimaced. “That’ll just waste everyone’s time.”

  “Markson,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “What?” Dave, still confused.

  “It’s our chance,” I said. “He’ll be out, talking to the public, and if he hears anything about this cockup”—I gestured toward the wrecked van—“he might be a little off-balance. We’ll probably get only one shot. This seems like the best time.”

  “One shot?” said Harmony. “You?”

  “We’re only going to talk,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE