Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (18 page)

“Silas!” Dave, again. Gunfire came in even stronger.

An electrical cable extended from the crane’s end to the shed roof, clamped to insulating posts. Zeke didn’t stop, just threw his jacket around the cable, grabbed on with both hands and jumped.

We all stopped shooting simultaneously, equally stunned by the move. For a full second nothing but silence, as Zeke slid down the cable like it was some Delta Force zipline.

Then everyone lit up again.

Z
eke crashed onto the roof, rolled off and fell to the ground just behind me. I ducked back, gunfire following.

He was hurt. Blood on his head and all over his shirt, arms held across his chest in that way meaning
pain
. He’d lost one pistol, but the other was holstered and the shotgun was jammed barrel-first into his belt.

“Shit,” he muttered hoarsely. “Just when I hit the roof.”

No time for triage. “Can you move?”

“Have to.”

I lifted him up. He groaned, teeth clenched.

“Dave?” I shouted. “Ready to go?”

As an answer, I heard the Charger’s engine roar to life.

But the chain-link fence was still between us and him.

I grabbed the shotgun from Zeke, held him up with one arm and aimed with the other.

BLAM!

The first round was fléchettes and didn’t do anything to the fence. We hobbled forward, still protected from the ambushers by the bulk of the shed, until I could hold the barrel a foot from the fence post.

I fired, and the slug round cut the pole off at its base.

“Awesome.” The fence sagged. We staggered six feet to the next pole, I fired twice, and it went down too.

One more and then the chain-link drooped enough that I could haul Zeke right over, dragging him like we were trampling a field tent.

The Charger appeared in a spray of gravel, wheels skidding. Dave jumped out and helped me pull Zeke into the rear seat. He slammed the door and slid into his harness while I got into the back. We took off so fast my door was still open, but it banged shut as the car swerved back onto the service road.

“Hospital!”

“Already called,” Dave said. I raised up enough to look out. Puffs and smoke, nothing else—they were probably still firing, but Dave got us out of there in about four seconds.

“They can’t follow,” I said. “Not through the gate, with the Aveo in the way.”

We crossed the bridge and hit the blacktop, bouncing hard across the edge of paving. Zeke winced and moaned. He was almost unconscious.

“Sorry.” Dave shifted, the car flying but more smoothly now on the blacktop.

“How’d you end up down here?” I was working on Zeke, but talking to Dave.

“I was watching through the binocs—saw gun barrels in the windows. Had to warn you.”

“I told you to stay out.”

“Well, fuck that.”

“Yeah.” I glanced at the back of his head. “Thanks.”

Chest wound. Bad. Air bubbled in and out. I ripped off my jacket, folded it with the nylon shell on the outside and pressed the pad hard onto the torn bloody mess.

“Ambulance’ll meet us at Route 509,” Dave said.

“How far?”

“Five miles. Maybe . . . three minutes.”

It was an empty crossroads, two state routes meeting in the woods, a yellow blinker hung in the middle. One verge was wider, with some gravel—just a place for cars to pull over for a moment, maybe turn around. Dave brought us in nice and gentle, despite the long deceleration, stopping at the edge of the ditch.

“They’re coming from Leechburg.” He pointed down the left road. “Dispatch probably has police and fire from Freeport, too, but the medics’ll be here first.”

“Help me get him out.”

“What?”

“We’ll wait here. You take off.”

The roads were deserted. A light breeze carried the smell of brush and asphalt.

“I can’t just
leave
you like this.”

Zeke was as stable as he’d get for the next few minutes, so long as I kept the lung puncture closed and an eye on his circulation. “We’ll be fine. If it makes you feel better, drive a half mile down and pull off. If you don’t see the ambulance go by real soon, come back and you can drive us in.” I watched Zeke’s breathing—short and labored. “No offense, but he’ll be a lot better off on a paramedic’s gurney than your backseat.”

“All right.” It bothered Dave, but he could see the point.

“Take the weapons.” I pulled the Sig out one-handed, keeping my other on the improvised chest pad, and passed it over. Then the extra magazines. The MP5 was in the car.

“What about you?”

“What’s . . . if I walk straight through there, where do I come out?” I pointed into the forest, directly away from the road.

“There?” He frowned. “Nowhere. The Allegheny, eventually. Farms? I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll wing it—hike until I find another road, then I’ll call.”

“Yeah, okay, shit.” He didn’t like it. “You need another car already, you know.”

The Charger vanished around the bend about half a minute before the ambulance appeared. It was an advanced life support vehicle, one paramedic inside and another right behind in his own vehicle, a private Blazer with a rooftop blue light flashing. One paid, one volunteer—typical for a small-town department.

“What the
fuck,
” said the volunteer, staring at Zeke’s bloody torso, but the professional got to work.

“Two rounds through the chest,” I said.

“I see that.” He lifted my ruined jacket to see the wound. “Hunting accident?”

“Sort of.”

He glanced up. “Anything you need to tell me?”

“Keep him alive. Everything else is for the cops.”

“Right.”

They were putting Zeke on a backboard, getting ready to strap him to the gurney, when the law finally showed up—county police, one officer in a dusty cruiser.

He nodded at me, then looked at the paramedic. “How’s he doing?”

“Stable. Shooting incident.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No.”

They loaded him up. Zeke looked small and helpless—oxygen mask, two IV lines, bloody white gauze crisscrossed over his chest. “We’re taking him to St. Joe’s if that’s okay.” A half question, directed to me.

“He’s not local. That the best choice for trauma?”

“Around here?” The medic shrugged. “Without driving all the way into Pittsburgh, yeah. Saturday nights are busier than you’d think.”

His volunteer partner closed the door on him and Zeke, then jogged around to the driver’s door. “Have somebody drive my truck back to the station,” he hollered at the police officer. “The keys are on the seat.” And then they were gone.

I should have left too, right then, but I was staring at the bloody dust where Zeke had been lying on the ground. The adrenaline of the last thirty minutes had ebbed away. I felt leaden and inert.

The policeman stepped up. “So what happened?”

I noticed his holster was unsnapped. Both hands were free, and he stood ten feet away, sideways to me, feet angled, knees slightly bent.

He knew what he was doing. He was, reasonably enough, suspicious of me. I had no weapons, no energy and no desire to start shooting it out with the law anyway.

What the hell. This had gone too far. Multiple running firefights were out of my league. Not to mention seriously out of proportion to a little accounting fraud—even if Russian gangsters
were
involved. I was over my head, and this seemed like a good time to turn it over to the authorities.

“I think it was a meth gang,” I said.

“That right?”

“Yes. So here’s—”

That’s when I noticed a white panel van approaching, the same way Dave and I had come.

It had a roof rack, and indistinct lettering on the side—and it was moving about ninety miles an hour.

“Shit!” Why had I assumed they wouldn’t try to finish the job?

The officer turned, frowning, and drew his service weapon—some sort of 9mm—pointing at the ground but looking at the oncoming truck.

“Who’s that?”

I was already running, diving into the ditch at the edge of the turnout.

BRRR-R-R-R-R-A-A-A-PPP!

Automatic gunfire stuttered across the ground, somehow missing both of us. The van braked hard, screaming through a long skid that took it sideways into the intersection. A barrel pointed out one window, muzzle flashing, but the vehicle’s motion made aiming impossible.

Fortunately.

I scrabbled at the ground, seeking a rock, a stick,
anything
. Before the van stopped fully the side doors swung open. Two men leaped out, assault rifles in hand.

And fell immediately.

Two gunshots. My brain was a little behind. I looked over and saw the officer, standing in an old Chapman stance, two hands holding his pistol. He’d dropped both assailants, one shot each, like they were no more threatening than paper targets at the range.

Clint Eastwood was in town, apparently.

“Hands on the dashboard!” he shouted at the truck, fully in control. “Anyone else in back, stay there!”

For a long moment, no one stirred.

The van’s engine was running, a low grumble and exhaust visible from the pipe. I could see a figure at the wheel, through glare on the windshield—too blurry to recognize, but surely he was one of the Russians.

“
Ubey etih vybliadkov!
” Faint, from inside the truck, but audible.

Clint glanced my way. “Whose side are you on?”

Just my own, but that seemed like the wrong answer. “Yours.”

“Stay dow–”

Then everyone exploded into motion.

The policeman broke for his car. The driver gunned the van forward. One of his pals in the back leaned out the open door holding a Vikhr, and fired a long, wild blast.

I tried to burrow into the dirt, arms over my head. Bullets nicked the ground and cracked overhead. More shots—at least two weapons, maybe three. Someone screamed, abruptly cut off.

WHOO-O-O-M-M-P!

The explosion sent a fireball over me, hot enough to scorch for an instant. A millisecond later shrapnel rained down. Something struck my back, burning through my shirt. I jerked in pain, grabbing at it, and came up with a long, jagged piece of metal.

I risked a look.

The officer was down, bloody in the gravel. His car burned, huge gouts of black smoke pouring out of its blasted frame. Another Russian lay slumped from the truck’s passenger door, and as I watched the driver pulled him inside.

Was he going to leave?

No. Christ.

The driver swung down from his own door—the seven-foot motherfucker, in body armor, carrying a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other. He stood, head moving side to side, surveying the scene. Smoke billowed from the burning car, thick and acrid. A gust of wind pushed it down and across the turnout, obscuring him for a moment.

I rolled to a crouch and sprinted toward the flames.

No other voices. I had to assume the driver was the last Russian standing—otherwise they’d be yelling at each other, coordinating. No one can survive this kind of action—watch their teammates killed, blow shit up—without shouting.

Not exactly even odds, though.

BLA-A-A-M!

The shotgun blast peppered the police car, which I’d now taken shelter behind—I figured the smoke and flame would make me harder to see. I could barely make him out, a dark figure shimmering indistinctly through the inferno. He raised the shotgun and fired again.

And then he drove away.

I mean, he picked up his two
tovarishi
,
slung them into the truck, slammed the doors and
then
drove away.

He was the worst kind of enemy. Not just armed, armored and shooting to kill . . . but sensible.

He didn’t know what kind of weapons I might have. He’d lost three fourths of his team. Other police and fire volunteers were probably already on their way, responding to the first call, and the scene could quickly get crowded and messy. He wanted me dead, clearly, but he was willing to make smart choices along the way.

The truck disappeared. I stood up and ran around the burning vehicle, but it was too late—the officer had died immediately, his head shattered by the bullets.

So much for going to the authorities.

Plan B. Or C or D, maybe. I looked at Clint’s pistol, still in his hand, but that was too much risk—steal a dead hero’s gun, and you’re as good as dead yourself when his fellow officers catch up.

Instead I brushed myself off, looked around, didn’t see any obvious clues to pick up and headed for the volunteer’s Blazer.

Keys on the seat, just like he’d said.

RT @lcPDept
: Squatters in violent gun battle at old steel mill—2 dead, 5 wounded http://bit.ly/z8gtCW #leechburg #crime

@shootmaven:
serious shit they blew up 2 cars, police say 5000 bullets found

RT @ctymoose
: #scanner 123.65 hz—heard #fire response, recording online here http://bit.ly/z8gtCW

@blt33
: musta been drugs—fuckin gangstAZ send em all back 2 NYC

@anarchyn0w
: yr asshol @blt33 all that crack comin from Pitt u know it

@blt33
: @anarchyn0w you lv in NY dont you? no crack here its just getto gangz

@anarchyn0w
: @blt33 Id rather lv here thn fuck sheep like u do u crackhd

@SidewalkRepairCheap
: Cracks in your driveway or sidewalk? We’re the EXPERTS!!! http://bit.ly/H7qxBI

“Anything about me?”

“No.”

“Really?” Dave sounded disappointed.

“Don’t worry—someone figures out you were involved, first you’ll hear will be when SWAT comes through the door with a battering ram.”

“Huh.”

We were in the Charger, headed back to Clabbton on small side roads. I’d driven the volunteer’s Blazer to Leechburg, wiped it clean and walked away. Dave picked me up fifteen minutes later—he really had been just down the road, waiting for my call.

“How’s Zeke doing?”

“Alive.” I’d called, but of course they wouldn’t say anything. Total news lockdown. All we had was some skimpy journalism and a thousand online rumors. “I assume.”

“Soon as he wakes up, they’ll start asking questions.”

“He won’t say anything.”

“Nothing?” Dave sounded skeptical.

“Zeke’s been there before. Even if they prove he was at the mill, so what? The bad guys aren’t going to the police, and they’ll have removed any bodies. The prosecutor might get frustrated and file a few nuisance misdemeanors—discharge of unlicensed firearms, that sort of thing—but he’ll be fine.”

“Anyway,” Dave said. “I mean, I wish Zeke hadn’t got shot, but you know . . .”

“What?”

“Really.” He slowed, went through a turn, shifted back up. “When I wrote that letter I thought you might—well, I dunno what I thought. But this is a goddamn
adventure
.” He grinned.

Gunfights. Explosions. Men dead and hospitalized. Those killjoys always criticizing modern entertainment for brutalizing the culture—they might have a point.

“I don’t like to mention it,” I said. “But I need another vehicle.”

—

“What is this, number four?” Dave sat on the passenger side for a change, while I tried to slide the bench seat farther back. No luck, it was jammed in place.

“Five, if you count borrowing the Blazer.”

“You’re hard on cars, man.”

“I’m a very safe driver.”

He laughed. “Me too.”

It was an old Chevrolet single-cab pickup with a cracked windshield, no tailgate and a pronounced list to the right side. Reverse didn’t seem to engage, and smoke coughed from the pipe whenever I accelerated. None of the interior lights worked.

“This can’t be legal,” I said. “And I don’t see an inspection sticker.”

“Naw, you’re good.”

“Nice of him to leave the temporary plate on.”

“Yeah.” Dave grinned. “I think he done forgot, actually.”

I didn’t have enough money to buy another used car. But Dave, ever resourceful, knew a teacher who ran the high school’s vocational auto repair course. They always had a couple of vehicles to work on, given to the school by other charities.

Someone donates a clunker to Goodwill to get the tax deduction. Goodwill, not in the used-car business, simply sells it on. Sometimes the car is so pitiful that even bottom-feeding chop shops won’t take it, so Goodwill trailers it to the school for students to practice on.

Some money changed hands, but not much. I had a new ride, the teacher could buy a few tools the next time the Snap-on truck stopped by, and it was all subsidized by the federal tax code. Win-win.

“I know he’s your friend and all,” I said. “But it’s a school day, and it sure smelled like weed when he came out of the break room.”

“Probably.”

“Uh-huh.” I slowed for a traffic light, pedal all the way to the floor before the brakes grudgingly took hold. “I hope the kids
learned
something, putting this bucket of bolts back together.”

I wasn’t convinced the truck wouldn’t fall apart at about fifty miles an hour, but Dave said he was satisfied, so I drove back to the high school. I pulled up alongside the playing field, where we’d left the Charger. The truck’s engine promptly died.

“I need to end this,” I said.

“We can figure something out, though, right?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t feel like more get-rich-quick schemes. “How’d it go with the chief last night?”

“Gator? Aw, he was fine. Don’t worry, I ain’t mixing you into it. Far as he knows, complete strangers drove up to my garage and shot it up for no reason in the world. Since nobody got hurt, for Gator it’s the insurance company’s problem.”

The mill near Leechburg was out of local jurisdiction. The staties might put two and two together, but they were stretched as thin as anyone else nowadays. I figured the CSI van was the last official contact they’d have with Barktree.

Dave might actually be in the clear.

If I could finish off the Russians, that is. And Harmony, whatever
she
wanted.

“Wait a second,” he said, getting out. The door took a couple of tries to latch shut.

“What?”

He walked to the Charger, opened the truck and pulled out the plastic bucket that had carried his tools to the furnace demolition.

I turned the ignition while I was waiting.

Rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-click
.

Rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-click
.

“You should hold on to this,” Dave said. “Brendt didn’t want it in his car no more.”

“Is the dynamite still in there?”

“Yeah.” He put the bucket in the truck bed. “Don’t give it so much gas, you’re gonna flood it.”

“I don’t want the dynamite either!”

“Well, we can’t just leave it on the street for some kids to find.”

A reasonable point. “Yes, but—”

“Look, if anyone’s gonna need some unstable high explosive, it’s you, right? Keep it out of the hands of careless civilians.”

The engine finally turned over and caught, sputtering.

“This junker’s too unreliable,” I said.

“White smoke’s better than black.”

“It could break down and crash any minute, and then what? You’re the one with the tuned automobile and the high-end driving skills.”

We argued another minute before Dave grudgingly returned the bucket to the Charger.

“If there’s a bridge over a nice deep river, we can drop it in,” I said.

“Okay, I guess.” He closed the trunk. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Where will you be?”

He grinned. “Elsie said her car was all banged up, needs some repair. I thought I’d see what I can do for her.”

I shook my head. “She’s Brendt’s girl.”

The grin disappeared.

“Now, Silas, that ain’t your business.”

“You ought to think it through.”

“
You
got no right telling me what to do.”

“Maybe not, but—”

“Don’t be acting like my fucking case officer.”

Dave turned away and got in the Charger. The engine roared to life with more gas than seemed necessary.

I watched him go, the wheels spinning just enough to throw sand in my direction.

Being someone’s sibling was harder than it looked.

—

Zeke had a double room to himself, which was kind of nice except maybe he still should have been in the ICU. I looked at him through the room’s window to the hallway before I entered—the blinds were slanted open. Bandages across his chest, tubes and wires, the bed at a slight angle. The overhead fluorescents were off, illumination coming from cove lights along the wall.

His eyes were open and alert when I came in. Fortunately, the TV was silent.

“You look great,” I said.

“Fuck off.” His voice was attenuated and whispery, hard to hear. I guess you can’t put much air through with half your chest caved in.

“Okay, you look like shit.” I gripped one of his hands for a moment. “I’m sorry, Zeke.”

“Not your fault.”

He was hooked up to oxygen from a freestanding green tank on the floor. Old-fashioned—most hospitals have stopcocks right in the wall, connected to a central supply. No mask, just a nasal cannula, so he could speak okay.

I sat in the bedside vinyl chair. A meal appeared untouched on the little swing table, now pushed toward the monitor rack.

“There’s no recording,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’ve been staring at the walls for four hours. Can’t see any microphone, or any obvious place to hide one.”

“How come everyone says I’m so paranoid, but they never talk about you?”

He ghosted a smile. “They didn’t handcuff me to the bedrail, either.”

“I noticed that. No restrictions on visitors, for that matter.” I’d left my weapons in the truck, expecting a police guard or at least private security, but the only barrier to entry was a harried triage nurse who just pointed me at the elevator.

“They let
you
in.”

At least his spirits were up. “I would have called, but I figured they wouldn’t let you have a cellphone in here.”

“Nah.” Zeke pushed down the sheet by his side, revealing his phone. “They don’t care. I’m keeping it for when I call a lawyer.”

“You haven’t yet?”

“No need.”

I wasn’t sure about that. “What do the police say?”

“They’re having trouble with the hunting-accident story.”

“I can see their point. Whatever’s in season now, I don’t think mortars and automatic weapons are on the permit.”

He started to shrug, then grimaced and went motionless for a long moment. When he started breathing again it was slow and labored.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice even hoarser.

“Don’t be ridic—”

“No.” Pause to breathe. “Serious.”

“What?”

“Been thinking, drugs make it hard. How’d they know where you were?”

“At the mill? Brinker
called
me, remember?”

“No.” Some color in his cheeks now. “At your brother’s garage. You lost the tail the night before. You didn’t do anything to surface, right? Cash, no bars, all that?”

“Yes.”

“So how’d they know you were at the shop the next morning?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

“That’s a good question.”

“Phone? GPS?”

“The phone’s not traceable. The GPS I turned off. No reason to let Alamo follow me around.”

A cart rattled down the hallway outside. Muffled alert tones beeped steadily from the nurse’s station. We could hear voices as people walked past, but the words were indistinct.

“You want that juice?” I took the pint serving of OJ from the dinner tray and stripped off the foil lid. “Been a while since I ate.”

Zeke shook his head slightly on the pillow. “Dumb.”

“What?”

“A rental? And they followed you in it?”

“I told you, I lost them. Checked about three times, too.”

“But they got the license plate. Easy.”

Oh. “Um, maybe.”

“Then they bribed someone at Alamo. GPS doesn’t matter. The big fleet companies, they’ve installed tracking in all their cars now. Saw it in the news.”

“Shit.” The juice stopped halfway to my mouth.

“Not LoJack but like that. Satellite transponders. Whatever. They always know where you are.”

“Okay, I fucked up.” My fault Dave’s life got blown to hell after all. “But at least they wrecked that car when they attacked us. They haven’t been able to follow me since then.”

“Don’t have to.” Zeke’s eyes were bright, and he lifted his head a little to stare at me. “Don’t you get it? They know where
I
am.”

I realized the hallway had gone silent. I turned, starting to rise, looking at the door.

It crashed open, kicked to the wall and bounced back.

“
Umri, huesos!
”

The seven-foot Russian came in hard, both hands inside his leather jacket.

Drawing weapons now because he had to keep them hidden in the corridor.

I flung the orange juice into his face, let the cup go, and dove forward. My head and left elbow struck his legs. He fell back, banging the door, and we collapsed onto the floor.

He brought one hand out empty and punched at my head. I ducked enough to take it on the skull, then jabbed him as hard as I could in the privates. A grunt, but now he had a gun in the other hand, bringing it around.

BLAAM!

The shot went into the monitor rack, smashing it against the wall. Sparks and pops. Zeke groaned and alarm beeps went off everywhere.

Another shot. Glass shattered into the hallway. Screaming.

I had to control his gun hand.

He brought his knee up. Weak leverage but it still almost broke ribs. I grunted, punched again and used the motion to rise up a bit. He twisted, swung his other arm—

—and I trapped it with my own, bringing my forearm under and locking his elbow. The pistol fired again, deafeningly loud. With a surge of terror and desperation I twisted, jamming his arm and trying to break the elbow.

No go, but it must have hurt. He dropped the gun. It clattered to the floor, knocked sideways by our struggles, and went skidding under Zeke’s bed.

He clouted me on the head and I rolled away. A split second to make a decision—fight or run?

As if. I pushed myself through the doorway. He must have gotten his other gun out because another shot smashed the wall above me, then two more. I kept rolling, scrabbling on the tile to get farther from the door.

A real alarm went off, fire maybe, a painfully loud blare synchronized with on-off red lights along the corridor. Nurses in scrubs and doctors in white jackets ran this way and that, mostly away from us. A patient down the hall peeked out a doorway, leaning on a walker.