Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (24 page)

Harmony finished her granola bar and crumpled the wrapper into her pocket. No clues to be left lying around. I drank from the Nalgene water bottle.

“How long you been doing this?” I asked.

“Long enough.”

“Like it?”

“It’s better than retail.”

“Have many clients on the East Coast?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

I turned to look at her. “Is there
any
part of your personal history or outlook on life you’d care to share with me?”

“Why?”

“Ah . . . light conversation?”

“I used to play lead guitar in a South Central band. We opened for Against Me! once. It was great, but girl bands can attract some really scary groupies. So I decided to do this instead.”

I nodded. “I don’t believe that.”

She smiled. “Good for you.”

Light from the windows fell on her face, leaving the other side in shadow. Her eyes were clear and steady. The perfect haircut was soft and disordered.

Was there an invitation there or not?

“You know my history,” I said. “Even about Dave. I don’t think I have any secrets bigger than that, and he’s really more in the way of a surprise than a secret.”

Harmony nodded and her smile faded slowly away. She reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

Then she took it back. I was having all
kinds
of trouble reading the signals.

“I had some trouble once.” Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear it.

A long moment. That seemed to be it.

“Trouble,” I said.

“When I was young. Seventeen.”

“Okay.”

Another spell of silence.

“I decided,” said Harmony, then stopped.

“Yes?”

“That it would never happen to me again.” Her face closed in, suddenly hard and impenetrable. “Never.”

I kept still. “Got it.”

“Ever.”

Another siren went past outside. In New York I could have told you police, fire, maybe even which ambulance company. Here, out of place, I wasn’t sure.

The foam was compressed to the concrete floor underneath me, not as comfortable as at first.

Some of the tension left Harmony’s face. She looked away, and her shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t take any shit,” she said.

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s mostly about attitude.”

I’d noticed that, too.

“Sometimes . . .” she said, “sometimes it gets tiring. Carrying the attitude around.”

She looked back at me and smiled.

I
reached forward, a little hesitant given the discussion to this point, and met her halfway. The foam squeaked beneath us. Harmony put her hands on each side of my face and drew me in, a long slow kiss that gradually opened up into more exploratory realms.

For the first minute it was gentle—slow and achingly gentle.

My arms went around her waist, under the jacket, and I felt her muscles flow and tighten as she shifted into me. One hand went round my neck. She grabbed the back of my head and pulled. We separated for air, then back in, deeper, more desperate.

I twisted, seeking leverage, and instead toppled over, pulling her with me. Her hands were all over my back and chest, tearing my shirt out of the way. I tried to slide my own hand into her pants and collided with the Glock.

“Ow!”

“Shit.” Harmony reached back, drew the pistol and dropped it on the floor next to us.

“Yo, careful.”

She slipped out of her jacket, started tugging my shirt over my head. I went for her belt, one-handed, tangled up.

And then it was a frenzy. We tore at the rest of our clothing, mouths together, on our faces, our necks and chests. Harmony wore a dark sports bra, a wide band of lycra. I pulled it up, trying not to claw at her breasts. An odd weight on its side . . .

A folding knife, in a nylon sheath.

She yanked at my pants. The Sig fell out, clunking to the concrete. I tried to pull one leg from my pants but it got hung up on my backup Taurus in the ankle holster. Standing on one leg, pants at my ankles, Harmony all over me.

“Don’t—”

“Yes!”

“Oh . . .”

I had her panties down—more lycra, another hunk of heavy metal. A Kahr compact 9. I shoved it out of the way, grabbed her ass and pulled her close.

Something rough between our bellies. I felt around front.

“
Duct
tape?”

“Don’t tear that off!”

“What . . .”

“There’s a razor under it.” She put her mouth on mine again, tongue reaching.

“Jesus.”

Boots—hers slipped off and
another
hideout gun tumbled to the floor. Mine took some work, more wasted seconds sitting bare-assed on the foam with Harmony straddling my waist while I reached around and yanked at the laces.

Socks disappeared. Finally we were both almost naked, rolling on the foam. I hit my elbow on the floor and the pain almost distracted me for a second.

“Cold,” Harmony gasped. The foam had slipped and her thigh was on the floor.

I pulled her sitting, grabbed for the foam, but it went every which way, skittering out of reach.

“Fuck,” I said. “Up, up, up.”

We stood, her leg wound around me, pulling me off-balance. I toppled, banged into the pillar, found my footing and straightened up. With my back against the brick I embraced Harmony, a great enveloping hug, running my hands and arms up and down her back, feeling the heat of her skin. Harmony’s hair brushed across my face and I breathed it in. I found her ass, muscles dense and smooth and tight, then grasped it with both hands and lifted her up.

She helped, reaching down with one hand to make some room while pulling up with the other hand round my neck. One leg rose, hooking around both of mine.

I slid in, electric warmth and intensity.
Ohhhh
that felt good.

Harmony gasped.

We moved—the first moment out of sync, then finding the rhythm, gloriously.

“Don’t . . . don’t—” Her voice slipped into incoherence.

I felt the build and couldn’t help a groan.

CRAAAASH—BAANNGG!

An explosion shattered the room. I jerked in shock. Harmony screamed, eyes shut, head thrown back.

Fireworks in my brain. The loft was filled with gunshots, smashing glass, yelling. Synesthetic overload—I smelled gold bursts, saw screams, heard gunsmoke.

Two figures had crashed through one skylight, jumping in even as a third provided covering fire from above. In the fractured instant, I saw rifles and goggles, body armor and muzzle flash.

Harmony and I fell, landing on enough foam. I threw out an arm, found a pistol by sheer luck and fired without aiming.

I was still inside Harmony and the lizard brain had its way—I came in a great heaving spasm. I jerked the handgun’s trigger repeatedly, no more control over my fingers than I had over any other part of my body.

A few seconds. An eternity.

The pillar provided some cover, in particular from the man still at the skylight. One of the jumpers remained on the ground. Bad landing.

The other was on his feet, a dazzling beam from a superbright LED mounted under-barrel swinging through the haze.

Two Russians remaining, one below and one above. Reinforcements, sure enough.

I fired once more, then the slide locked open. Empty.

Harmony shoved at me. “Go! Go!”

I rolled out and off, skin shocked by the freezing concrete. The handgun—Harmony’s Glock—was empty. I dropped it.

She went the other way. I had a flashing glimpse of leg and back and golden hair, then she tipped the bench up and over and slid into cover behind the heavy wood.

A burst of automatic fire cut through the air above my head, chips spattering from the wall and pillar. I lunged, no plan—scraping my totally unprotected, still half-mast privates on the concrete. I screamed and curled up.

Gunfire from behind the overturned table. Harmony must have found a weapon, or maybe she’d had yet another holstered somewhere I didn’t notice. The LED flash swung in her direction.

I saw the pile of auto shop materials, realized what Harmony was doing, and went to ground, wrapping my arms around my head.

KA-ROOONNNK!

The toluene detonated first. Not much explosive pressure but it immediately set the paint and solvents on fire. Pinpricks stung across my back as superheated shrapnel blasted through the room. Yelling—Harmony? The Russians?

No, me. I forced myself to shut up.

Rolling across the floor, I’d snagged the sports bra. Even as I stared wildly around, trying to locate our assailants, my hands were busy extracting the knife. I flipped it open with the thumb lock, shifted automatically to a saber grip.

Flames roared at the stairwell. Acrid smoke rapidly filled the entire room. The man at the skylight fired three-round bursts this way and that, randomly. I guess he couldn’t see any better than I could. The LED beam shone at floor level, motionless in the fug—the attacker had either dropped the flashlight or was down himself, lying beside it.

“Silas!”

I looked over. The haze was just thin enough that I could see her emerge, standing from behind the table with guns raised in each hand, glaring at the ceiling.

Stark naked. Under close-quarters attack, probably about to die from gunfire, flames, smoke inhalation or all three—I still stopped for a moment, dumbstruck.

She fired two-handed, the pistols in exact parallel, rapidly alternating her shots.

The LED beam moved.

The attacker on the floor was back. He had the assault rifle.

I screamed and ran straight at him. The beam swung my way. A burst cut the air but I ignored it.

The man was an indistinct lump in the smoke, crouched in a kneeling stance. I leaped, crashed into him and punched as hard as I could with the knife.

It struck the ceramic plates in his chest armor, jarring my grip so hard I almost dropped it.

He grunted. I struck again, this time aiming for the gap between his helmet and chest armor. Missed again—the knife bounced off his neck guard.

If he was smarter, he’d have dropped the Vikhr—I was inside the radius, too close for him to do any immediate damage with it. But the noise and choking smoke and explosions had rattled him—he clung to the weapon, and that let me strike one more time.

Up, into his armpit, right between the side plates and the pauldron. The knife ripped straight through his jacket, into the shoulder. I’d put so much force into the blow that he stumbled left, knocked off-balance—even as blood gouted out, covering my hand and forearm.

The axillary artery is fatal. I snagged the rifle as he went down, blood spraying everywhere.

“Harmony!”

She’d exhausted both magazines but driven the rooftop sniper back. I coughed, choking and nearly blinded.

A hand on my arm and I almost lashed out—but it was Harmony, holding me up, eyes red and streaming like mine.

“We have to get out of here!”

I looked at the stairwell down—the epicenter of the inferno, a wall of flame and intense heat. Not that way.

“Up?”

She shook her head violently. “He’s waiting—suicide.”

That narrowed the options to one. I checked the Vikhr, pushed the selector to full auto and aimed at the window right next to the exterior door. I pulled the trigger and held it down, twitching the barrel right and left. The window glass blew out in a spray of shards.

Smoke and flame immediately billowed toward it—not quite a flashover but too damn much.

“Run!” I yelled in Harmony’s ear, over the roar and crashing of the fire. “Truck’s right underneath!”

She grabbed my hand and we sprinted for the window. I dropped the rifle—nothing but a hindrance now—and we hurdled the sill, still clutching hands, right into space.

An instant of clean cold air, the plummet, then we landed in the pickup’s bed, hitting it simultaneously. I fell, Harmony on top of me. We tumbled around the plywood in an awkward, tangled mess.

The fall was only about twelve feet but we had no padding of any kind and nowhere to roll to absorb the shock. It hurt.

The truck sagged.

I breathed. A moment passed, then we both tried to move.

“You hurt?” I said.

“I can move.”

“Check me.”

I pulled her up and we did a quick, mutual exam, looking for broken bones and blood and spinal injury. Shock can leave you functional for a few minutes—better your buddy figures out you need immediate attention, before you collapse and die.

Lots of bruises, nothing permanent. Amazing.

“We have to go,” I said. “The guy on the roof will figure it out any second.”

But when we climbed from the bed, I saw that the rear tire had finally collapsed. Our combined impact must have popped the ancient radial like a balloon.

“Fucking Christ!” I started to kick the shreds of rubber on the rim, stopped myself just in time. No need for broken toes.

“The SUV,” said Harmony. I glanced at her—naked, covered in soot and dirt, empty-handed. I was no better, especially with blood drying all up one arm and across my face.

“Just our luck someone will have a video camera.” We started running—slowly and painfully on our bare feet—toward the next block.

I really hoped she had a spare key.

M
y go-bag burned up back there,” Harmony said. “I didn’t bring anything else.”

“The floor mats are bolted down.” I sat back up. “No seat covers. Think there’s a horse blanket in the back?”

We had two handguns—the Kahr and my 226, both of which Harmony had scooped up on the way out. Fortunately the Escalade was locked with a keypad, so it wasn’t a problem getting in. She drove one-handed, her left arm across her chest. Not so much for modesty, at least not from me, but to avoid drawing attention from other motorists.

Of course it was dark—night now—and the Escalade’s cab was higher than most, making it harder to see in. But the last thing we needed was bystanders pointing and pulling out their cellphones and posting photos to Facebook.

We did have one more resource. Harmony had left her cellphone in the vehicle, plugged in to charge.

“I’ll call Dave,” I said. “He can meet us somewhere.”

“I guess that’s—I can’t think of anyone else.”

I lifted the phone from the cupholder, leaving it still wired to the cigarette lighter, and swiped the screen. The glass remained completely black but for a small white box in the center.

“How do I turn this on?”

“Biometric lock, plus a gestural password.” Harmony started to reach for it. “No, forget it, I need two hands.”

I hadn’t gotten a good look at her phone earlier, and now I studied it more closely. “This doesn’t look like an iPhone.”

“Of course not. Apple collects every bit of your data and never lets go.”

“So what is it?”

“Modified Chinese hardware, running a custom OS built on a mobile Linux kernel.”

I thought about my twenty-dollar throwaway. “Guns, unarmed combat and dark-side hacking. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I know some guys, and I pay them very well. Right? Recognize your shortcomings and hire what you need.” She glanced over. “You should try that.”

“I’m more of a Renaissance man myself.”

She slowed the SUV, studying the road. We were off the main avenue, driving through a semi-industrial area—low, dark buildings behind chain-link fences, a gas station, an equipment-rental lot with cherry pickers and excavators and minidozers lined up under sodium lamps.

“I’m going to stop over there.” Harmony slowed, crossed the road left and pulled along a railroad siding. It wasn’t a station or a stop, just a stretch of double track with some rusty signs and a pair of turnouts. The closest building was a hundred yards away. She killed the lights but left the engine running. “Switch seats. I’ll call, you drive.”

The Escalade might have been Humvee huge, but with the hump and the shift and the steering wheel, it was crowded in the front seat. Harmony slid right, I awkwardly tried to climb over her—and our lack of clothing was suddenly very obvious again. My knee came down between her legs for a moment, my chest brushed her head . . . she put a hand on my thigh for balance, looked up.

“Um—”

Our mouths met. I braced myself with one hand, ran my other across one breast. She gave me a squeeze and I was instantly ready to go, all other thoughts driven from my mind.

“No, wait.” She pushed back. “This is stupid!”

“Yes. Right. Absolutely.” I released her, twisted around and managed to fall into the seat beside her, more or less upright. For a moment we sat like lovebirds at the drive-in, side by side and pressed together.

My johnson was staying with its own program, straight up and waving around. Harmony looked at it and grinned. She turned to put both arms around my neck and snuggle in.

“Really . . . stupid . . .” she whispered. Then she threw her leg over and rolled on top of me.

We looked into each other’s eyes. I couldn’t move much, pressed into the seat with Harmony in my lap, but my hands were free to roam.

A vehicle drove past, fifty feet away. It didn’t stop and we barely noticed. Harmony braced her knees on the seat on either side of me and lowered herself down.

“Oh, jeepers,” I said.

Harmony started laughing. “Jeepers?
Jeepers?
” But then she gasped and stopped talking and that was all for a while.

—

At one point I thought the Escalade moved, bouncing and skidding on the gravel, but maybe it was just me.

—

We slumped, wrapped together. The seat fabric seemed damp everywhere, underneath, behind. I could feel Harmony’s pulse, strong and rapid, where her chest was pressed against mine.

After a minute she eased back slightly, so she could look me in the face again. Dim light from down the road showed her eyes gleaming in the shadow.

“Jeepers?” she said.

Too embarrassing. “Something, you know, in high school the, uh, first time . . .” I tried a casual shrug. “It kind of got stuck in my brain, I guess.”

She kissed my nose. “I got something stuck in my brain, all right.”

And I think it reflected the tenderness of the moment that we both let the puns drop there.

Ten minutes later, back on the road. I drove carefully, getting the feel of the three-ton behemoth. Harmony hunched, keeping herself low in the cab, and tapped at the phone. When it began ringing, she handed it over and I lifted it to my ear.

“What do you
want
?” The voice raspy and muffled.

“Dave?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s me. We need some help.”

“I’m in the middle of—oh,
man
.” Indistinct noises.

“Dave. I said we need some
help
. Serious.”

“Can I get back—?”

“We’re in trouble!”

Click.

I glared at the phone, looked at Harmony. “He hung up.”

“What’s going on?”

“Dunno.”

I came to a railroad crossing and bumped over the tracks without slowing, unwilling to linger under the gate’s bright streetlights. Harmony took back the phone and redialed.

“Dave!” Pause. “It’s Harmony. Don’t hang—don’t hang up on me! Look, if you drop us now, I will come over and—what?
Shoot
you?” She laughed, short and sharp and scary. “No, I won’t shoot
you
. I’ll take some Tovex and blast your Camaro into a pile of smoking junk so ruined and pulverized the insurance adjuster won’t even recognize it as an automobile! Okay? Are you listening?”

She handed the phone back to me. “He’s listening,” she said.

I put the phone back to my ear.

“Silas, what the fuck?” Dave’s voice was clearer now. “What’s with her?”

“Don’t worry, she was kidding—she knows it’s really a Charger. Can you meet us?”

“This isn’t a good time.”

I couldn’t help looking over at Harmony. We were covered in dirt and smoke and blood. The cab smelled of all that, plus the tang of sweat and coupling. We had one phone, two handguns and nothing else in the world.

“I’m sorry it’s not a good time,” I said. “But we need clothes, money and a ride.”

“Uh, give me an hour?”

Noise in the background. A woman’s voice.

“Who’s there with you?”

“Well, you know—”

“Is that
Elsie
?”

Even through the crummy cellular transmission I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Yup. In fact.”

I shook my head and glanced at Harmony again. “He’s fucking Elsie.”

“No I’m not!” Dave said. “We’re, shit, talking and like that.”

“Where’s Brendt?”

“At Sully’s.”

“Where are
you
?”

Pause. “His and Elsie’s house.”

We came to a dark intersection. I looked left, right, saw no traffic and picked left arbitrarily.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re going to save us, and I’m going to save you from yourself. Like I said, we need some clothes.”

“Clothes?”

“Yeah, clothes. Pants, shirts, socks—the whole bit. I’d say Harmony’s close enough to Elsie’s size, you can borrow some underwear from her.”

Dave started laughing. “You two are buck naked somewhere, and you’re giving
me
shit?”

“Long story.”

When we hung up, I handed the phone back to Harmony. “Third Street and Dunbar in Clabbton. A church. He says he’ll meet us behind it, half an hour. Can your phone get us directions?”

She nodded and tapped it into life. “This is total, gangster-on-the-run fucked up,” she said.

“Oh, that reminds me. Call 911 first. I assume your geek-boys have rigged that to block any line trace.”

“911?”

“Pretend you just fled the fire at the garage, and tell them it was a meth lab.”

Harmony got it immediately. “They’ll believe it, all those accelerants.”

“If they think there’s benzene and ether around, they’ll be a lot slower going in and investigating. Plus the red herring should keep them busy for hours.”

“That’s good.” She was already dialing.

“And after that, maybe one of the newspapers? Or TV stations? If we can get the idea out into the press that it was meth, that’s like perfect cover. Everyone will believe it.”

“Which might even buy us a day.” Harmony lifted the phone. “You’re kind of smart for a lunkhead.”

“And you’re a nice girl,” I said. “For a ninja weapons master.”

—

The Charger was already there when we arrived, parked in back. It was one of those newer churches, a wooden building with some metal siding and a cheap cross on the top. The sign out front had theater-marquee plastic letters:
HAVE YOU “LIKED” JESUS THIS WEEK
?

I pulled in alongside, closer to the building. A security light mounted on the corner pointed toward the road, leaving the back shadowed. The road was quiet. We were at the outskirts of Clabbton, where the cheap commercial strip gave way to open fields and third-growth forest.

Dave’s door swung open. I got out, wincing as I stepped barefoot on the gravel. Harmony came around from her side, much less bothered—probably all that time in the dojo, kicking the hell out of the
makiwara
.

“Silas—” Dave stopped, gaping at Harmony.

“Eyes front, asshole,” she snapped. “It’s been a long night.”

“What
happened
to you?”

“Those guys who blew up your shop,” I said. “They seem to specialize. Another auto garage now lies in ruins.”

“The Russians?”

“We didn’t have a long discussion.”

Dave pulled his gaze away from Harmony. He reached back into the car and handed me a big plastic bag. “Brendt’s, mostly,” he said. “Elsie threw a few things in there too.”

“How about shoes?”

“Not sure if they’ll fit.” He retrieved a pair of workboots, heels worn down and laces frayed. “What size are you?”

“Eleven.”

“I don’t know what these are—they’re his.” He had a pair of running shoes for Harmony.

We dressed quickly. Brendt’s clothes hung loose on me, no surprise considering his mass. Harmony’s jeans and T-shirt were tight but at least long enough.

“That feels better,” she said, threading a belt. “Much, much better.”

“Thanks,” I said to Dave.

He waved a hand. “I got to say, your phone call, you really killed the mood there.”

I wasn’t his keeper. “You left Elsie at home?”

“Sure. Brendt has the car.”

But I
was
his brother. “You’re not going back, are you?”

“I guess not.”

“Where is Brendt, anyway? I thought you said he worked days.”

“Got a temporary job, rigging out at Erlenton. There’s a big press conference tomorrow and they’re building a temporary stage.”

For what I’d thought was a depressed, declining, Rust Belt dinosaur, Pittsburgh seemed to have a lot going on. “FerroCorp again?”

Dave looked puzzled for a moment. “The mill? Naw, this is different. It’s one of the fracking companies.”

“Oh.”

“Someone’s buying in. They want to make a big splash, I guess. Brendt has a friend in the carpenters. Cash, no bullshit.”

Slapping together a temporary structure in the middle of the night—probably no permits, either.

Might be a little packet for the building inspector though.

Harmony had been checking her Kahr. Slapping the magazine back in, she said, “Want your pistol back?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

She passed me the Sig. I made sure it was decocked and slipped it into my back pocket.

“Eight rounds between us,” she said.

Not much. “I know.”

Dave watched. “You all gonna get into more shooting?”

“I hope not.” Harmony had that steely look again. “But chasing Silas around—best be prepared.”

“No shit.” He nodded. “So . . . now what?”

A very good question.

“That thing’s a liability,” I said to Harmony, gesturing at the Escalade. “Maybe they saw it, maybe they didn’t, but I don’t think we can take the chance.”

“I don’t want to abandon it.”

“Why not?”

“The guys who lent it to me—they’re not exactly U-Haul. I ought to give it back.”

I looked at Dave. “What do you say?”

“What?”

“Follow us into town, Harmony returns the Humvee, you drive us back?”

“Sure.”

And that was that—we had a plan. Harmony rubbed some dirt onto the Escalade’s rear license plate, while I fine-toothed it inside for anything we might have dropped.

“The seat,” I said, scooting back out of the cab. “It’s kind of, you know . . .”

She laughed.

Dave watched, leaning on the Charger, arms crossed.

“You two,” he said. “Man.”