Mesa-like hills pocked the lower basins of eastern Utah like stone goosebumps; harsh, jagged-edged, red-striped bricks. Over time, these standing monuments to when the entire eastern half of Utah had been a raised plain crumbled and cracked from water and wind erosion, like cheese that’s been left out to harden. These crevasses rarely ran all the way through the red-striped mesas, and the one Ramage was heading for didn’t.
He wasn’t from Utah, and the locals with Rolly would figure he didn’t know anything about Utah’s backcountry, and he hadn’t. Except, he could do a basic internet search. EarthPrime, the app that provided a current picture of any spot on Earth, showed an ariel view of the cut he’d selected. It went most of the way through the giant cinderblock, but not all the way. The ground rose, and he slipped in gravel and sand as he climbed the slope of tumbled stones and sand to the spire of rock fifty yards ahead.
He reached a patch of thick underbrush, some kind of twisted vine with thorns the size of steak knives, and cut behind it, sand cascading down the slope. Shadows danced, moonlight and starlight peeking through the cloud cover, and judging distances and depths was difficult, but Ramage had no problem seeing the cut in the mesa. The cloud of light from the Tahoe’s headlights got brighter and spread, the harsh white light streaming through the pines and underbrush and providing cover.
Ramage finished climbing the slope and didn’t slow as he bolted into the cut, disappearing into the red rock crevasse like a snake into its hole. He ran on for a hundred yards, then stopped in his tracks, darkness pressing in around him, the bleat and chirp of the night symphony echoing off the red stone walls.
Like a ballerina with the entire world watching, Ramage slowly retraced his steps, carefully placing his feet in the depressions he’d made. It was slow going, the glow of the Tahoe’s headlights cutting through the evergreens and painting a spider work of shadows on the crevasse walls. The white light was blinding when Ramage finally slipped out of the crack into a thicket of underbrush. He put his back to the rock spire’s wall and inched west, out of the wash of the headlights.
If Rolly did what Ramage thought he would, he’d send one soldier into the cut after him via the obvious path, but he’d be suspicious of an ambush in the narrow canyon. So he’d order two guys around each side of the mesa to head him off should he come all the way through, leaving himself and Shelly to wait by the entrance in case Ramage backtracked, which he’d shown an inclination to do more than once. It was a sound plan, or would have been if Ramage hadn’t thought of it first, picked the location, and maintained the element of surprise.
The pile of dirt, sand, and rocks at the foot of the red spire of stone wasn’t large by the standards of Arizona and New Mexico, with a circumference of roughly half-a-mile, but the base of the slope was packed with undergrowth and fallen stones, and moving along its edge would take time and cutting through the vegetation without making noise would be difficult. He was counting on it. The goons stalking the perimeter would eventually meet each other, and Ramage intended to confuse the issue.
From there, he’d be homeward bound.
Chapter Fifteen
Moonlight cut through the thin cloud cover, stray spotlights illuminating sections of the terrain like attractions in the rings of a circus. It was quiet, but the push of the wind, sand scraping over sand, and an occasional hoot, bleat, winnow, or coyote cry filled the silence. He had the rifle over a shoulder and the snubby in his right hand, his left picking and pushing through the dense vegetation that encroached to the base of the rock spire. Someday the intricate pile of rocks, sand and dirt would fall, and there would be nothing left but a pile of red stones and sand.
He stopped to take a sip of water, listening hard, trying to block out all ambient sounds. There was something there, maybe two people talking. Despite his best efforts, he’d left more of a trail than he’d intended, and Rolly’s mercenaries would have no problem finding him.
A scream cut through the night, not of pain, but somebody shouting. There was an answering cry, but Ramage couldn’t make out what was said. He figured whoever had followed his trail into the crevasse had just discovered Ramage had disappeared into thin air. Would Rolly want to look for himself? In the old day’s communication would’ve been a challenge, but in an age of cellphones coordinating nefarious activities was easier than ever. The question was, how tech savvy was Rolly? Or one of his crew? The cell signal in the valleys and washes of eastern Utah was unreliable on good days, but cellphones could utilize walkie-talkie apps that used Bluetooth, like a two-way radio, so Ramage had to assume Rolly could assemble his troops without having to shout orders. More muffled screams. Guess not.
He estimated he’d gone a quarter of the way around the base of the spire when a gunshot rang out through the stillness. It was a boom, like a shotgun, not the short pop or crack of a handgun. Probably shooting shadows, which was what Ramage was counting on. His plan involved luring the goons into a crossfire, which should be easy, but as the juniper, pine, jagged stones, and snakes tried to bite, rip, and cut him, he wondered how far the hired help would go before they concluded they weren’t being paid enough to stumble around in the dark hunting for an armed assailant with the element of surprise on his side.
A flashlight beam arced over the wasteland to the west, bouncing off desert willow trees and spreading into the foothills like fog. The team that had come around the eastern side of the mesa had been faster, perhaps because there’d been less vegetation, or maybe the guys wanted to get home. There was a Jazz game on, and tipoff was at 8:20PM.
That was the part of all this that made bile creep up Ramage’s throat, the early stages of vomit reminding him it had a reservation in the restaurant of his brain. These men, that had taken money to what? Catch him? Shoot him? They had families, probably children, responsibilities, people who counted on them and would miss them. Thing was, Ramage had all those things now also, and what made their lives more important than his? He wasn’t chasing them, and he didn’t know anything about them. Just as they knew nothing about him, other than what Rolly had told them, and any person who thought Rolly Pepper was legit didn’t deserve his concern because they were too stupid to live.
The occasional desert willow tree wasn’t climbable, their rough sap covered trunks flexible and thin. He had to find a rock, one that had tumbled away from the base of the spire.
The flashlight beams arced closer as the goons searching for him came around the northeastern curve of the mesa. There’d been no signs from the crew behind him, but that could mean many things, including they were smarter than the dipshits coming at him, lights ablaze, right into his potential line of fire.
He slipped the snubby into his belt and let the rifle drop into his hands. Small valleys and crevasses cut into the base of the mesa, dry riverbeds that only flowed red during heavy rains. Most were thin, and weren’t big enough for him to hide in, and the ones that were would box him in, which was good, but also bad as he’d have no escape should his pursuers manage to figure out what was happening.
He opted instead for a thick patch of yucca. The plants sharp, evergreen, sword-shaped leaves kept animals away, so Ramage hoped the harsh vegetation would deter his pursuers. Large dead panicles, that during the summer burst with flowers, were dried brown and swaying in the breeze. Ramage army crawled, trying to be silent, but he squeak-yelled when one of the stiletto-like leaves tore his hand. A thin stream of blood dripped onto the red sand, the dark stain glowing in the moonlight.
Ramage’s breathing pounded in his ears as he waited, the flashlight beams coming in from the east getting closer, the crunch of footsteps and the snap and scrape of his pursuers working their way through the vegetation getting louder. The guys were moving away from the mesa’s base, following the noise Ramage had made. He smiled. His accidental scream was working in his favor. As the men moved away from the mesa’s base, it would be easier to create a crossfire.
A stick snapped to the west, and Ramage pulled his night binoc
ulars, but they weren’t much help. He was hidden in the thicket of yucca and the vegetation beyond was thick. Despite this, Ramage tracked the crew that came around the western side of the mesa. The morons were lighting up the night, flashlight beams and the glow of cellphone’s sending shards of pale light through the underbrush.
Ramage sighted the rifle through the yucca on the cloud of light that leaked through the bushes to the west. He couldn’t see shit, but he fired anyway, trying to get the boys to play with their toys. The crack echoed over the stillness as the bullet zipped through the pines, snipping branches before coming to a stop with a thud. If he’d hit one of the guys it would’ve been the luckiest shot in history, but judging by the barrage of bullets that tore through the trees he guessed he’d come close.
The snap and pop of gunfire filled the night. Bullets tore through the underbrush, branches falling, light spilling through the scrub pine. None of the shots came within fifty feet of the patch of yucca where Ramage hid. Someone yelled in pain, and the gunfire slowed, the rattle of an automatic weapon rising above the others.
“I’m fuck’in hit. Shit. I’m hit!” The voice came from the west. “I didn’t get paid enough for this shit. Somebody—”
“Shut up or I’ll put a bullet in your mouth.” The voice was Rolly Pepper’s. He yelled to his men, “Ceasefire. He’s got us shooting at each other. Move in slow, heads on swivels.”
“Screw you, Rolly. You didn’t say anything about having to take a bullet. I’m out of here. I’ll wait—”
A gunshot rang out, and the complainer let loose with a thin, earsplitting scream.
“Wait here and shut up or the next one will go in your head. Understand?” Rolly yelled.
No response, but Ramage could imagine the guy’s head driving up and down so fast he might break his neck. Ramage smiled as he reloaded the rifle. He hadn’t counted on the dumbasses purposefully shooting each other. Stupid is as stupid does, but even Rolly couldn’t be that dense, could he?
Ramage remembered the bottle of Ride he’d found. Rolly and Shelly were both probably hopped-up on the stuff, which tended to lower one’s cognitive abilities, if said user ever had any to begin with. With at least one man down, he stayed silent, waiting for Rolly to make the next move.
If he came on Ramage would be boxed in unless he could slip past them, but that was risky. He’d been confident in his outdoors skills when sitting in his heated rental car, but now, half frozen, lips cracked, joints aching, he felt every one of his forty-plus years, and that sucked the life out of him more than any gunshot wound ever could.
Things were quiet for a time, but Ramage heard Rolly and his crew moving through the juniper and scrub pine, the thump and sigh of their footsteps, and the occasional snapped branch or kicked stone rising above the gentle wind that pushed down off the Wasatch Plateau into the foothills and basins. Rolly and crew had dowsed their flashlights, apparently having learned it made them ducks in a shooting gallery, but Ramage felt them getting close, his options slipping away with each passing second. He needed to move. Create a distraction.
Ramage considered firing into the trees. He could hit someone, or a ricochet might, but that would make it easier for Rolly and crew to pinpoint his position, so he decided against it. He picked up a stone the size of a golf ball and hurled it into the vegetation to the north. “Hey, jackasses. Need help? Its dangerous out here,” he yelled. Ramage knew his pursuers would’ve all looked toward the sound of the rock crashing through the underbrush, drawing their attention away from the sound of his voice.
Still a gunshot thundered through the night and buckshot tinkled and thudded through the trees to his left.
Ramage fired in the direction the shot had come from. What was good for the goose and all that rot. He jacked back the rifle’s slide, slipped in another bullet, slammed the bolt home, and fired again. He did this six times in fast succession, gun smoke filling the air, the scent of cordite and fire tickling his nose. With the ring of his shots still hanging in the air, Ramage crawled from the yucca, pressed to his feet, and ran into vegetation that ran along the foot of the mesa.
Gunshots peppered the stone wall beside him, and he dropped and rolled, his backpack getting caught on a pricker bush as the vegetation pawed and pulled at him.
“Over here!” Someone yelled, and more gunfire erupted, but this time they were further from the mark.
He moved along the red rock wall, and something crawled from a cut in the stone onto his shoulder. The wolf spider was the size of a quarter, its long, pointed legs scuttling over his neck in the moonlight. Ramage jerked, attempting to brush the arachnid away, missed, and hit himself in the side of the head. The spider scrambled down his arm as he lurched and shook himself, the creature flying into the underbrush.
Gunshots rang out, cutting through the trees and smacking stone. Ramage dumped a fresh bullet in the rifle. He got low and plunged into the junipers and devil grass, leaves scratching his face and tearing at his clothes.
A figure appeared before Ramage in the darkness, and he froze.
The guy’s radar was good, because the shotgun he held swung toward Ramage, no hesitation.
Ramage leveled his rifle and fired, the pop of the gunpowder expanding, the whiz of the shell as it zipped through leaves and branches, and the thud as the slug hit home echoing above the wind.
The shot spun the guy around, and the dark figure fired, spraying the underbrush with buckshot as he pirouetted and fell, the shotgun falling from his grasp, tiny pellets cutting through the evergreens like hail hitting pavement. The shot went wide and high, but a pellet ricocheted off a rock and hit Ramage in the right thigh.
He stifled a scream, the small BB-sized metal ball passing through the outer layer of his calve muscle. Hot, searing pain knifed through him, blood leaking from the small wound which amounted to no more than a nasty bee sting. It hurt like a bitch, and if he didn’t take care of the wound, it would fester and become infected.
Ramage jacked another shell into the rifle and slammed the bolt home. The guy he’d shot was reaching for his gun, and Ramage put a bullet in his other shoulder. The guy shrieked and put his hands up in a ‘I’ve had enough’ gesture. Ramage reloaded the rifle, took two steps forward and shoved the tip of the Remington’s barrel into the man’s mouth.
“Can you see my face?” Ramage said.
Moonlight cut through the vegetation, everything cast in flickering black and white.
The guy nodded.
“Since you don’t know me, and were lied to, I’m going to make an exception and let you live. That sound OK to you?”
The guy nodded so fast and hard he grimaced in pain, the bullet wounds in each shoulder pinning him to the ground.
“If I ever see you again…” Ramage picked up the shotgun, tossed the empty weapon into the underbrush, and said, “Don’t move or speak or I’ll shoot you. And no more shots to wound. Savvy?”
The guy wagged his head.
“I’ll send an ambulance back for you wh—”
“Joe? You there? You get him?” said a voice from the darkness. He heard Rolly and crew coming through the woods from the east, the crunch of dried leaves, the dipshits close now, maybe a hundred feet behind Ramage in the underbrush.
Ramage crouched next to the fallen man, and said, “Remember you deserve this.” He rabbit punched the guy in the face three times, pushed to his feet, and pounded the man on the back of the head with the butt of the rifle. Three vicious blows that knocked the guy unconscious. Bile rose in Ramage’s throat, and he had to remind himself the guy he’d just sent to Sleepyville was trying to send him to Deathtown.
He went by the thicket of yucca he’d hid in and crouched behind a large boulder that had tumbled off the mesa, putting the rock between himself and Rolly. Ramage whispered, “Joe is dead. And you’re next. Why don’t you hit the road before I make you part of it.” He shook his head. His threats were getting weak. What did that even mean?
No response bec
ause the guy was probably confused, the only sound the gentle push of sand over sand, the chill breeze nothing more than a faint brush of cold on Ramage’s cheeks.
“To the hired help,” Ramage yelled. “You’re probably thinking you came out all this way and now you’re not going to get paid. Am I right? Think of it this way, at least you’ll be—”
Gunshots tore through the vegetation, cutting through the underbrush like a hurricane and smacking into the stone Ramage hid behind. The shots died away and Ramage popped up, braced the rifle on the rock, and fired in the direction the shots had come from.
Metal slid on metal as one of Ramage’s assailants pushed a new magazine home.
Gunfights were so juvenile, but as the fog of anger consumed Ramage, and the lizard part of his brain reminded him the assholes he was shooting at were trying to kill him, he dropped the rifle and drew down the .38, firing the gun until it clicked empty. He reloaded, thumbing six bullets into the gun, the click of the snubby’s cylinder falling into place reassuring.
Screaming and gunfire echoed off the spire of stone and the pile of rock and dirt that made-up its base. He put the .38 in his jacket and fit a bullet into the rifle. He blinked, pain running down his back, his joints aching with cold, the tips of his fingers and toes numb. Rolly was still out there, but with two men wounded and out of action, he was down to Shelly and three hired guns.
Ramage got on his hands and knees and crawled into the underbrush, disappearing into the shadows and darkness like a four-legged wraith.
Chapter Sixteen
Ramage crawled a hundred yards into the underbrush, steadily making his way toward a shallow valley that cut into the foothills behind the mesa. A coyote howled, a lizard bleated, and a gentle breeze pushed over the ponderosa. It was like timeout had been called. Rolly had probably found his second fallen soldier, and was fighting off a mutiny, or flat-out desertion. Rolly and Shelly were outnumbered, so the pseudo tough guy would huff and puff, but he had very little leverage other than to offer more money for Ramage’s head.
Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2) Page 11
