Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover Read online

  I tapped the steering wheel for a few moments. I’d tried Dave earlier, and he still wasn’t picking up.

  The phone rang again. This time I got it.

  “Where are you?” said a familiar cranky voice. “I’ve been on the road all night.”

  —

  I don’t know what it is about Zeke.

  He’s no more than average height, kind of stringy, wears plain cotton shirts, talks quiet and—mostly—polite. Nothing particular to see, unless you study his hands, or maybe watch him move, and those are the sorts of clues that only people in the business pay attention to. But somehow, there’s a feral, lethal aura that even children and dogs notice.

  Which is just to explain why there were three empty seats next to him at the Stanwood Road coffee shop. He’d been working on a large cup of something—black coffee, no doubt—and watching the street, while businesspeople and slackers and poseurs flowed in and out and around his invisible force field.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “You’re late.” He didn’t shake hands, just got to his feet like smoke rising from a fire.

  “I had to drive back into the city.” I looked at the line of people waiting. Some damp croissants and vastly oversized muffins sat uninvitingly on a tray behind the counter. I thought I heard a percolator—a percolator!—bubble somewhere.

  I missed New York.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Let me finish my coffee.”

  Zeke had taken a bus to Pittsburgh, which is a truly pathetic way to travel, but safer and more anonymous than driving. Over one shoulder he had his own go bag—stiff waxed canvas, faded with age and neatly strapped shut.

  He must have left long before dawn. Maybe he slept on the bus.

  We walked along the sidewalk, which felt empty compared to Manhattan’s constant throngs. For three blocks the downtown was a metropolis, skyscrapers and reflective glass and office workers smoking outside revolving doors. Then it all stopped. We crossed a four-lane avenue and landed in a scrabbly little park running along the bank of the Monongahela.

  Zeke looked up and down the river. The sun was bright enough to be painful. A powerboat motored past. Traffic noise drifted steadily down from the span of the Fort Pitt Bridge.

  “Ryan’s still missing,” Zeke said.

  “Nothing?”

  “He’s not answering calls and no one’s seen him.” Zeke started walking. “I mentioned to a couple of people.”

  “That he was missing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now they’re looking for him, too?”

  “Exactly. Wide attention, in fact.”

  Of course. Not because Ryan had a lot of friends worrying about him, but because he’d worked with many of us, here and there, different jobs over the last two or three years. If something had gone wrong and he’d been killed, well, that’s sad, but it happens and life goes on. On the other hand, if he was sitting in an interrogation room at the Federal Building, that was an altogether different matter.

  Most of Ryan’s acquaintances would surely prefer him dead.

  My world. Zeke’s world.

  “Hope they find him,” I said.

  “Yup.” Zeke shifted his shoulder bag. “So tell me a story.”

  I ran through it again, the detailed version. It took some time.

  We walked along the bridge to the water, the cars above us banging over expansion joints. I could smell exhaust and diesel.

  “Russians,” said Zeke when I’d finished.

  “Yup.”

  “Mafiya?”

  “Probably. Regular business doesn’t usually come to the table with light artillery.”

  “I thought the mafiya was regular business over there.”

  “Less so than ten years ago, according to the State Department.”

  “Not sure why they’re interested in seismographs . . .” He left the thought hanging.

  “Could be a natural gas company. Maybe the money angle is more important. Or some gang might be working for the government. Hell, in Russia now the gangs are the government, only they came out of the security forces.”

  “No need to make it complicated. If mystery Russians are shooting up America’s heartland—one phone call and the U.S. government will be all over this. That’s what the FBI’s hotline is for. Solve your problem for you.”

  We stopped on some wide stone steps leading down to the fountain at the end of the park. Water jetted fifty feet in the air. A light breeze blew the fountain’s steady mist away from us. It was warm enough to remove my jacket, but the world didn’t need to see the holster I had underneath.

  “The U.S. government might already be involved,” I said. “You don’t get a ghost plate at the DMV.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. There’s a market.”

  “Really?” I looked at Zeke. “I didn’t know that. Who’s selling?”

  “Something I heard once.” He made a who-knows gesture with one hand. “Could have been nothing but bar talk.”

  “I’d like to follow that up.”

  “I’ll try to remember who it was.”

  We watched a power yacht sail past, cutting a steady rumbling wake on the river.

  “This should have been a simple audit,” I said. “One little company fiddling the books. You know what the problem is?”

  Zeke shrugged.

  “Firearms,” I said. “There’re too damn many of them. People are always trying to fix things with guns.”

  “That’s funny, coming from you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m careful, well trained and respectful.”

  My phone rang. I pulled it out.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Brinker.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard right. “What?”

  “Brinker. Remember? You’ve almost gotten me killed twice now?”

  I gestured at Zeke, tipped the phone out so he could lean in and listen.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “You’re Silas Cade, aren’t you? That’s what that woman was hollering at my barn. I made some calls.”

  “Mistaken identity.”

  “I don’t think so. You still in town?”

  It sounded like him. The attitude was right. Brinker had an exceptionally generous allowance of self-confidence, even for a one-percenter executive.

  “Not sure what town you—”

  “We need to talk. You and me, in person.”

  “You’re talking to me now.”

  “Not on the phone. It’s possible you’re not who I think, right? Not likely, but possible.”

  I raised my eyebrow at Zeke. He shook his head.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Two o’clock. Versailles Road between Leechburg and Freeport.” He pronounced it ver-SALES. “Be there, and we can have a civilized conversation.”

  “Where?”

  “Right on the river.” He repeated the address. “Go in the second gate. The lock’s broken. I’ll be near the foundry.”

  “Foundry,” I said. “You want to meet at a steel mill?”

  “It’s been shut down for thirty years. Kids and scavengers get inside now and then, but that’s it.”

  “You’re setting up a meet . . . in an abandoned steel mill.” The conversation was going south.

  “It’s safe, and private, and I can see you coming from a mile away.”

  “You think we’re in some Jerry Bruckheimer movie? This is fucking stupid.”

  “No more ambushes. Two o’clock.” He hung up.

  Zeke straightened, a smile glinting. “That’s more like it,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We could see the plant before we arrived, stained smokestacks and a massive, rusting gantry rising above the wooded hill. The mill had been built on a fork of the Kiskiminetas River, near where it enters the Allegheny. A double-tracked rail line led in along the banks. On a rise overlooking the site I turned off the blacktop, following a dirt road marked PRIVA
TE—NO HUNTING. Once we were hidden from traffic I killed the engine and we both got out.

  Dave pulled in right behind us, bouncing the Charger over the rocky trail.

  We’d met for a brief lunch after he finally called me later in the morning. Packaged burritos and bottles of juice from a convenience store, eaten off the road outside Clabbton. Zeke and I didn’t need any more public face time. Surprisingly, he and Dave got along like peas and carrots. At heart, perhaps, their life philosophies weren’t that different—live for the moment, the hell with the rest.

  Unlike me, always worrying.

  “You stay here,” I said as Dave stepped from his car. “That’s the deal, right? Zeke and I have years of experience in this sort of thing.”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  We were next to a stream picking its way down the hollow. The water was stained dark red, striking against the green leaves around it.

  “Iron in the water,” Dave said, noticing me looking. “Maybe some oil, too. See the sheen? This is mineral country.”

  “Guess we can’t drink it, then.”

  “No.”

  Zeke glanced at it. “I’ve had worse.”

  No doubt.

  Dave watched with open curiosity as Zeke opened his satchel, withdrew two handguns and checked the magazines and action. Laying the weapons on the hood, he removed his belt and rethreaded it with two holsters, one behind each hip.

  We both preferred thigh holsters, but even in NRA heartland, it wasn’t a good idea to go running through the woods looking all Ghost Recon. Zeke’s jacket covered up the weapons well enough.

  “You should load up, too,” he said. He took out an M500 combat shotgun—it had a fourteen-inch barrel, the shortest stock model—broke it open and started pushing in shells. A yellow one, a red one, another yellow. Six, altogether.

  “Sabot rounds?” I asked.

  “Fléchettes alternating with unjacketed slugs.”

  I nodded. He wasn’t fucking around—that was a seriously illegal, seriously room-clearing load.

  “That’s awesome, man,” Dave said. Zeke rolled his eyes.

  Meanwhile, I’d opened my own bag and removed the MP5.

  “Maybe you should take this,” I said. “I don’t want to scare Brinker, walking up with it.”

  “He’ll expect you to show up armed.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re going to be drawing fire, not me. You should have it.” Zeke added a combat knife to his belt. “What I’d really like is a long gun.”

  “Sorry.”

  “They will be in ambush, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  The forest smelled of new growth and dampness. Leaves rustled in the trees.

  The Sig was still at my back. I pocketed some extra magazines. Zeke put on a pair of shooting glasses—clear lenses and metal frames.

  “Give me a quarter hour,” he said. To Dave: “You stay here, right? I’m not kidding.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have a drink before you go.” I handed him a water bottle from a crate we’d picked up the same time I filled the car’s tank on the way here. I’d also bought some blueberry energy bars and, finally, a toothbrush.

  “Right.” He drank, tossed the bottle back into the car and left. No wave, no goodbye.

  No need. We’d done this before.

  Dave and I waited, not saying much, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest. A bird called in the distance. Cars drove past, not frequently. An airplane buzzed overhead, then faded away.

  Half an hour. No need to rush Zeke, and showing up exactly on time would only empower Brinker.

  At two-twenty I policed the area, finding a paper insert that had fallen from one of the ammo boxes and a Mylar wrapper I’d dropped during snack time.

  “Is it really a trap?” said Dave.

  “Probably.” I checked the weapons once more. “Can’t think of any other reason he wants to meet way out here. But even if not, best to prepare like it is.”

  “I’ll be watching.”

  “Use these.” I ducked down to reach through the Aveo’s window and handed him the binoculars. “You should take them back anyway—they came from your friend’s cabin.”

  “Okay.”

  A moment’s awkwardness, not looking at each other. Finally I kind of tapped him on the arm. “Something goes wrong, find Chief Gator and tell him everything. Do that before you talk to anyone else—especially any federal agent.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “That’s why.” I got in the car. “See you back here in a few.”

  I put the MP5 in my lap and drove down to the mill.

  —

  I crossed a small, heavy bridge that led to the Kiskiminetas, then turned onto a gravel road that led around the perimeter of the plant.

  A chain-link fence encircled the site, newer than the decades-old buildings inside, with coils of razor wire along the top. Probably put up when it closed, to keep people out—or to demonstrate a good faith effort, at least. No fence would deter the metal thieves and thrill seekers, but leaving the place wide open would only invite lawsuits.

  I paused at the main entrance, pulling up to look through the gate. It was secured with a heavy chain wrapped around the galvanized posts, held tight by a huge padlock. Weeds had grown up through the pavement, including shoots where the gate would scrape along when opened.

  No one had come in this way for weeks.

  The service road continued around the side, following railroad tracks. These too were long out of use, overgrown and rusty. A switch point had been tagged with an illegible spray of dirty paint, the red-green signal light smashed years ago. A few wrecked train cars sat abandoned on the sidings—two tankers, a sagging boxcar near the next gate. The boxcar’s doors hung open, and I could see scorch marks on its walls.

  The side entrance was where Brinker had said: a single gate big enough for only one vehicle, entering between a metal-walled outbuilding and a huge gantry crane. The gate was pushed open wide enough for someone to walk through, but there it had jammed, stuck against rubble inside.

  I wished we had tactical radios. Once the shooting started—if it started—constant contact was critical. But cellphones would have to do. We’d turned off the ringers.

  I dialed, listened to it buzz once and then heard nothing.

  “Zeke?” I whispered.

  Two loud clicks. Yes. He tapped his phone’s case, not talking.

  “You see me?”

  One click.

  “Okay, I’m at the gate, I assume that big shed’s in the way. You in position?”

  Two clicks.

  “Good. I’m going in now, unless you say different.”

  Three clicks, pause, one more. The security phrase we’d set, thirty minutes ago. A one-off. Impossible to imagine that this simple communication could be compromised, but one last redundancy always makes you feel better.

  “Okay. See you inside.”

  Click click, then silence. I replaced the phone in my pocket.

  I looked at the debris that had blocked the chain-link gate. Chunks of concrete, some metal scrap.

  If someone wanted me to walk in, unprotected, they might have rigged it that way.

  The car was still running, the engine humming quietly. Pootie really had tuned it up. I backed up, diagonally across the service road, until its rear bumper tapped the boxcar’s frame. About fifteen feet, nose to gate—good enough.

  I engaged the clutch, moved the shift from reverse to first and put the accelerator all the way to the mat. The engine redlined, suddenly screaming loud, and I let the clutch go.

  The Aveo jolted, rear wheels spinning and throwing dirt before catching traction. Then they caught. The vehicle exploded forward.

  SMASH!

  The gate flew out of the way, slammed aside. The car bucked as it hit the rubble, almost grounding before banging over. A long scrape on the underside. I lost some control and skidded sideways, striking the metal shed
. For an instant I was out of focus, bouncing around, head whipsawed from one side to the other at impact.

  No airbags. Pootie had skipped something after all.

  I seized back the wheel, which had been yanked from my grip, and swerved back onto the pavement.

  A horn blared behind me. I twisted around—

  Dave’s Charger was on the service road, roaring up at a hundred miles an hour. Just as I looked he turned right, away from the gate, and an instant later his front wheel clipped the railroad track.

  The car immediately spun, 180 degrees in a half second of flying dirt and screaming metal. Coming around, the spin halted abruptly when the same right wheel slammed into the fence curb. The Charger bounced violently, now skidding straight backward, the rotational velocity somehow exactly canceled by the two collisions.

  “Noooo!” Dave yelled through his window. “Don’t!” He continued to slide, finally coming to a halt mostly behind the boxcar.

  And that’s when the ambushers engaged.

  Gunfire hammered into the Aveo. Both forward tires immediately blew—I could feel the front sag and rims grind into the paving. Holes appeared in the hood, dozens all at once. The windshield starred across its entire surface. I ducked, abandoning the wheel to put my arms over my face, and shoved myself down.

  The car crashed into something and slewed to a halt. I lay over the central hump, legs driver’s side and my torso under the passenger’s dash. The gearshift stabbed my abdomen painfully. Bullets tore into the entire car body, an unremitting fusillade. Through half-open eyes I felt the light increase—so many holes were drilled into the roof and side panels, it was like new windows.

  The car was a death trap. I had a little protection, the engine block and the firewall between me and the ambushers, but that wouldn’t last long. Meanwhile I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t fire back, couldn’t do anything but huddle on the floor.

  I somehow got my phone out, stabbed the buttons blindly. Redial.

  “Silas!” Zeke’s voice, barely audible over the waterfall roar of incoming fire. I guess we didn’t need the tap code anymore.

  “Which way?” I yelled back.

  “Out the right side. Starboard. On three, okay?”

  “Go!”

  He counted it off. I reached up, twisting like a contortionist to pull the door handle, and shoved forward with both feet. My head, a battering ram, forced the door open in a squeal of ruined metal. I kept moving, rolling out, dragging the MP5 by its shoulder strap.