Karma’s hands flew, her wrist bonds dropping to the floor. She gripped Duke by the arms, and threw herself off the chair, using her momentum to toss Duke across the trailer. Karma hit the floor, and she dragged herself across the camper, her legs deadweight.
Duke shook his head, rubbed his temples, then focused on Karma.
Ramage pushed himself off the couch, landing on the floor before Duke, tripping him up. Ramage threw his bound wrists over Duke’s head, scissoring his arms tightly together around his neck.
Duke clawed at Ramage’s arms, but with his jacket on Ramage hardly felt it. He squeezed, his vision going red, pain lancing his back.
Ramage kicked with his bound legs, driving his feet into Karma as she crawled. Duke bucked and heaved, still in Ramage’s arm vise. A stack of papers and magazines fell from the kitchen table, showering over the three fighters.
Duke wiggled free, twisted like a cat that’s been dropped up-side-down, and put Ramage in a headlock. The two men rolled into the kitchen cabinets, the clink and clang of pots falling echoing through the trailer. Duke tried to squeeze Ramage’s head off, fury lighting up his face as Ramage fought to free himself, legs and wrists still bound.
The door slapped against the trailer, and Ramage’s head jerked toward the sound.
Karma bunny-hopped out the door, down the metal steps, and disappeared into the glare of the midday sun.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ramage connected with an elbow to Duke’s head, the crack and pop of the blow like a champagne bottle opening. Duke’s headlock loosened, and Ramage jerked free, inch-worming across the grimy floor and coming to a stop in the kitchen. He used the cabinets to press to his feet, the t-shirt bonds digging into his wrists and ankles.
Duke reached into the cushions of the couch, and produced a knife. He got to one knee, blood streaming down his face, using the arm of the couch for support. The blade wavered in his hand, but Duke’s eyes gleamed with fury and desperation as they flicked from the guns on the end table, to the shotgun that leaned next to the door, to Ramage.
Ramage held up his bound wrists. “Go for it. You might make it.” Ramage said. “I dare you.”
Duke’s eyes went to the guns, then to Ramage.
The trailer’s door blew in the wind and slapped against its frame.
Duke jumped and turned toward the sound.
Ramage pushed off the cabinets, coiling his legs and driving forward like a human missile.
Duke’s eyes went wide, and he brought up the knife, but he was too slow.
Ramage crashed into him, bound arms like a club, and the two men fell onto the couch as Duke struggled to put his knife in Ramage’s gullet. Ramage brought both legs up to his chest, fast, hard, driving his knees into Duke’s balls.
Duke shrieked, dropping the knife as his hands went to his crotch in a vain attempt to stop the pain. Ramage rolled off him and scooped up the knife, fumbling it, his wrists tied. He managed to get his ankle bonds cut, but as he worked on his wrists, Duke lunged at him, screaming like a madman.
Ramage faded back and let Duke crash into the wall. He cut his wrist bonds as Duke struggled to his feet.
Ramage sprang, closing the space between himself and Duke with two fast steps. He delivered a massive roundhouse punch to Duke’s jaw, teeth and blood flying like hail.
Duke fell backward onto the couch and bounced off the flattened cushions like a ragdoll, falling to the floor. Ramage kicked him hard, and Duke groaned, a trickle of blood running down his chin. Ramage kicked him again, and again. Duke wrapped his arms around Ramage’s legs in a lame attempt to bring him down, but that only resulted in a rabbit punch to the nose, the loud crack like a tree falling, blood splattering the linoleum.
Ramage put the blade to Duke’s throat. “So, you’re one of those pussy Nazi lovers, huh?”
Duke’s eyes shifted to the floor.
“All you white supremist assholes should get together and compare penis size. I bet there isn’t an inch among you.”
“Fuc—“”
Ramage slashed Duke’s cheek with the knife and he screamed like a child getting an enema.
“You’re like one of those dipshits that can’t go to the supermarket without an AK47 or a pistol on their hip. What are you so afraid of? That a black man or a woman might be smarter than you? That is a pretty low bar, so why worry?”
Duke whimpered as blood leaked into his eyes.
“See. A little cut and you’re crying like a baby.” He wiped the knife on Duke’s shirt and tossed it across the camper.
Ramage grabbed the snubby, but left Karma’s Berretta. When the cops arrived, they could deal with it. He didn’t want his prints anywhere near it. He eased toward the trailer’s door, and took his eyes off Duke when the gleam of brass caught his eye.
The damn Nazi trophy shelf.
Ramage pocketed the snubby and grabbed the shotgun from where it leaned against the wall next to the door, right where Duke had left it. He leveled the weapon at the Nazi memorabilia and said, “That bullshit mean something to you?”
Duke said nothing. He stared at the floor, whatever fight he’d had in him gone.
Ramage fired, blasting a hole in the side of the trailer, and destroying the wall of crap in the process. He peered through the hole, but there was nothing out there. He hadn’t thought about potential collateral damage. Anna’s face filled his mind’s eye. “You’ve got to learn to control your anger.” Can I get an amen, sister?
“You sit and wait for the police, you hear? You don’t want to see me again, do you?”
Duke made no sign.
Ramage dropped the shotgun, drew down the snubby, and put the tip of the barrel in Duke’s face. “Do you.”
“No.”
“No what?”
Duke looked up at Ramage like he’d just asked him to put on a pink tutu.
“No what? You probably don’t need both knees.” Ramage shifted his aim and sighted Duke’s left knee.
“No…. sir,” Duke said.
Ramage slapped him on the cheek. “Good boy.”
Four minutes had slipped away since Karma hopped from the trailer. Ramage eased out the screen door, head on a swivel, ranging the .38 back and forth. He inched down the metal steps, his eyes finding the ribbons of blue t-shirt that had bound Karma’s legs.
“Damn you!” He spun on the ball of his foot, cocking his arm to hurl the snubby, but froze when he saw the faint trail of dust hanging just above the ground, twisting around a trailer to the east.
Ramage gave chase, threading through trailers, picnic tables, and leaping over bicycles, toys, and piles of trash. The place was like a beehive churned with a stick, and people emerged from their metal homes, yelling, the sound of sirens again filling the bright winter’s day. It was Saturday, and many people were home. A child burst from a trailer and Ramage wheeled, forgetting the gun in his hand.
“Clarence! Clarence!” a distraught mother screamed, and Ramage moved on, following the thin trail of dust, expecting Karma to ambush him.
He reached the edge of Happy Trails Trailer Park, and a six-foot chain-link fence with green privacy slots filling the squares separated the trailer park from the quarry. Fifty yards to the north Karma slipped over the fence, disappearing behind the wall of pseudo greenery.
Wind whistled, the sirens close, the faint scent of gas and burning plastic floating on the breeze. Was he smelling Big Blue burning? All his possessions?
Ramage mounted the fence and scrambled over, dropping to the ground in a cloud of dust.
A large dirt lot stretched out before him, piles of rocks and mounds of sand dotting the quarry. A large building housing the dinosaur museum loomed to the south, and there was a series of tourist traps and eating establishments situated all around the building’s large parking lot. The lot was half full, and Ramage pictured families with children, examining fossils from sixty-six million years ago… or longer.
Karma sprinted across the parking lot, people
pausing to stare. She entered a place called Taco Time, and Ramage slowed, not wanting to draw attention.
Taco Time was a small joint, and Ramage looped around back to make sure Karma didn’t slip out the back way, but the rear door didn’t open.
His phone vibrated and Ramage moved away from the restaurant until he could see the entire building. He pulled his phone, the name Rex flashing in the incoming call window. Ramage grunted and tapped answer, never taking his eyes off Taco Time. The seconds slipped away, and as Rex came on the line Ramage moved around to the front of the building so he could see through the restaurant’s large front windows. Karma waited on a line of three, apparently hungry for tacos.
“Ramage, you there?”
“Yup. Little busy at the moment.”
“Figured,” he said. “My alert system is lighting up for Price. An explosion at the truck stop where Big Blue is, multiple units on the scene, fatalities. From what I could gather, the truck that blew up was blue. You got anything to tell me?”
Ramage walked toward the front of Taco Time, eyes locked on Karma who glanced over her shoulder every two seconds.
“I try to be a better person, do the right thing and help others, but I keep getting sandbagged. You remember the name Rolly Pepper?”
“One of the Sandman’s guys we haven’t rounded up yet.”
“Well, he showed here and got blown to shit in Big Blue.”
“Wait, what? If he was there to kill you, why…”
“Cause he’s not the only one. Look, I’ll give you a full report later, but I’ve got to go.” Karma was next in line. What she’d do when she got her tacos, Ramage didn’t know. Probably sit and eat, and what could he do about it?
“Wait,” Rex said. “I’ve got some news.”
Ramage sighed. “Here I am thinking you were going to ask me if I was O.K.”
“Your always O.K.”
“What now?”
“You still have the laptop, right?”
Ramage’s heart sank as he remembered he’d left his pack in the diner. “Yes, of course,” he lied.
“Don’t turn it on until I tell you to. Got that?”
“Yeah, but what the hell is going on?”
“All my data on the blood case, everything I gave you, has been pulled and deemed classified at the highest level. I am no longer involved with the case and the second you turn on the laptop and it connects with the FBI servers, all the data will be scrubbed.”
Karma got her tacos and took a seat by the counter, her gaze settling on Ramage where he stared through the front window.
“Your… not following orders?” Ramage said.
Rex chuckled. “Don’t start. Give me some time to figure out what the hell is going on. Call me later.”
“10-4, boss.” Ramage clicked off, pocketed his phone, and when he looked up, Karma was gone.
He bolted toward the rear of the building, turning the corner as he lifted the snubby.
Karma went low, going for his knees, and taking his legs out from under him.
Ramage cartwheeled, barely holding onto the .38 as he brought up his arms to break his fall.
Karma lashed out with a kick, and the snubby flew from his hand, hit the concrete, and discharged, the bullet zipping through the air and smacking into the side of Taco Time.
He had no time to recover as he hit the hardpan, and Karma spun and kicked Ramage in the face, his head snapping back, pain arcing through him like electricity. Ramage rolled, trying to get out of reach, but Karma moved with him, kicking, fists up in fighting position.
She was fast, but Ramage surged into Karma as she bent to grab the .38. The collision sent the gun flying, and Ramage hit the ground again, but Karma managed to stay on her feet. This time she didn’t go for the gun, but instead kicked at Ramage, grunting with exertion and frustration.
Ramage caught her foot, and pushed her into the side of Taco Time, using her momentum to swing to his feet. She bounced off the wall like it was rubber, turning as she moved. Then Ramage did something he wasn’t proud of. He punched a woman.
The jab knocked Karma back a step, her eyes as wide as quarters, anger leaking across her face. They’d been shooting at each other, but on some level, she was pissed at him for hitting her, and strangely, he was ashamed.
Karma wiped blood from her nose and looked at her hand, rage turning her face red. She clenched her fists, let loose with a battle cry that sounded like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and came at Ramage like he’d stolen her child.
She punched and fainted, Ramage slow and blocking every other strike. She cycled her kicks and punches; stomach, face, knees, and chest, a random barrage of blows that made Ramage step backward. The Marine that taught him to fight said never step back when engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The second you do you’ve lost the fight. Karma bobbed and weaved, her hands and feet a blur.
Ramage was tiring, his stomach growling, wounds pulsing, every muscle in his body shrieking with weariness and pain. All sound died away, leaving only Ramage’s heart thumping in his ears.
A crowd had formed out front of Taco Time, adults and children inching around the corner of the building to see what all the commotion was about. They sucked on straws and crunched tacos as they watched like they were at a live show.
The faint warble of another siren cut through the chaos, and Karma came on, a savage knot of roiling fists and flying feet.
Ramage dodged and weaved, Karma pressing him back. The .38 lay on the ground at his feet, and Ramage bent to snatch it up. She caught him with a spinning kick that knocked him onto his ass. Stars ranged before Ramage’s eyes, head throbbing, vision blurry.
Karma scooped up the gun, glanced at Ramage, then at the cooing crowd, and turned and ran, bolting behind Taco Time.
He rubbed blood from his forehead, the small crowd inching toward Ramage along the mustard yellow cinderblock wall.
Now Karma had a gun.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“You alright, Mister?” asked a young boy that had separated from the crowd. “You’ve got blood on your face.”
Ramage shook his head, clearing the cobwebs as he got to his feet. “Excellent question, kid.”
The boy’s mother had arrived and was drilling holes into Ramage with her eyes as she pulled her son away. A police car screeched to a stop before Taco Time, and that was Ramage’s cue.
He pushed to his feet, spittle and blood dripping from his mouth. He couldn’t see the officer, but the crowd was pointing in his direction, people fading backward like an algae bloom as Sheriff Queensbury rounded the corner, gun in his hand.
Ramage surged forward, throwing himself behind Taco Time.
Karma hightailed it across the open plain of the dinosaur quarry. Kid’s dug in the dirt as employees and teachers in light brown safari-like gear helped the kids experience the Thrill of the Dig, which was the tagline of the place.
Ramage ran, knowing he could outrun Queensbury and that the sheriff wouldn’t open fire at him with kids playing in the sand. A line of outbuildings lined the edge of the dinosaur quarry; equipment huts, storage, indoor teaching labs. Karma was heading for the largest of the structures, a big brown building that looked like a barn.
Karma was two hundred yards ahead, and when she reached the door to the barn-like building she tugged on the door only to find it locked. She looked over her shoulder, saw Ramage, and kicked the door in with two powerful thrusts.
Dust rose into the cold air as he ran, blood dripping into his eyes, his body contemplating going on strike. Ramage skidded to a stop when he reached the smashed door, pressing his back to the wall and peering inside. Karma could be waiting to shoot him as soon as he stepped into the rectangle of light.
He crawled through the door. It was dim and shadowy inside, the sunlight leaking into the space the only light. Piles of rocks, wood crates, and rows of bottled water and soda filled the warehouse, a path running down the center, dividing the foodstuffs from the potential fossils. A skid-s
teer sat quiet in a corner, and Ramage crawled toward it.
The snap and crack of the snubby firing, a thump, and a stream of cold water hit Ramage in the face like he was being urinated on. A water bottle to Ramage’s right had taken the shot, and he placed his mouth under the stream of water and drank. He crawled behind a crate, peering around its edge into darkness.
The click of a deadbolt opening, the crack and pop of a seal being broken, and in the far corner of the warehouse a rectangle of light appeared, then Karma’s silhouette as she left Ramage behind.
He followed, staying in the shadows. Would she wait outside the door? He couldn’t turn back. Queensbury was fat, but not that fat. He’d be at the warehouse door in seconds, and if he tried to backtrack, he’d be caught. Moving forward was the only option.
Karma slammed the door behind her, plunging the far end of the warehouse into blackness.
Ramage didn’t slow, fear of ambush delayed.
“Hold up!” a male out-of-breath voice yelled. Sounded like Queensbury.
When Ramage was ten feet from the closed door, he still wasn’t sure what to do, so he plowed forward blindly, in line with his usual ‘hair-on-fire’ approach. He slammed into the closed door as he twisted the doorknob and tumbled into sunlight. The door fell back on its hinges as he dove left, hitting the hardpan with a puff of dirt and dust, the cold biting at Ramage’s fingers and ears. He pressed to his feet like a surfer getting up on a longboard, ready to jump and dodge when the shot came.
There was no shot, and no Karma.
Panic rose in him like a building volcano, sweat dripping down his back despite the cold. A chain-link fence ran north to south marking the eastern edge of the quarry, the thin alleyway between the back of the warehouse and fence bathed in shadow. Beyond the fence there was a large parking lot with a spattering of cars, a large industrial building with a sign reading Gemco Plastics in the background.
Karma was already over the fence and working her way through the cars parked at the front of the plastic plant. She looked back, but Ramage was in the building’s shadow, the chain-link fence providing little cover.
Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2) Page 22
