Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “Why’s that, Theo.” She smiled at him and he smiled back, all the angst and unease dissipating like a puff of smoke. “Speak softly and carry a big stick. Seems fitting.”

  He chuckled through his nervousness. He hadn’t really talked to a woman… or man, for that matter, in a long time. “Funny you should say that. My mother named me after Roosevelt.”

  “You a defender of the people?”

  Ramage chuckled. “Depends on your point of view. Vitam impendere vero.”

  Anna cocked her head.

  “My mom named me Theo, but dad was cut from a different cloth. He followed the Ramage family credo, life for truth. Vitam impendere vero.”

  The buildings on both sides of the road thinned and gaps appeared between structures. “There on the right,” she said.

  A crudely painted sign sat propped against a telephone pole. It read “All Trees $75.” Ramage ground his teeth. He was a volcano ready to erupt, all calm on the outside but building pressure and heat inside, and he didn’t want Anna to get caught in the lava flow when he blew.

  “Seventy-five bucks.” He’d grabbed the Glock from the Ford and he pulled it from the glove compartment. Ramage snapped out the clip, checked the weapon again, and slammed the clip back home.

  “What do you plan to do with that? I’m not looking to be an accessory to murder.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t kill anybody. That is, unless they try and kill me first.”

  She said nothing and made a left into a parking lot that had once been asphalt, but was now patches of dirt and black rubble. A foundation to a building long gone was in the background, and poles with lines strung between them displayed the Christmas trees. An old work truck was parked next to the trees, and sitting in a folding chair soaking up the late morning sun was Chiclet.

  “Park behind the trees so he can’t see us get out. You go into the lot and look for a tree.”

  “What are you gonna do?” She parked and shut down the engine.

  He smiled and got out of the truck.

  Ramage slipped into a row of cut Christmas trees, skirting the edge of the lot, Glock held at his side. He heard Anna get out of the truck, slam the door, and yell, “Can I get a little help here?” He crouched as he jogged around the last row of trees and hid behind the work truck.

  Chic had gotten up from his lawn chair and was sauntering toward Anna like he was in a bar and was about to make his play.

  There were trees stacked in the back of the work truck and Ramage ran his hand over the course plastic wrapping. They were his trees, and whatever money Chic was getting for them was his, and Ramage was going to take the rest out of his ass.

  “Is this the tallest you have?” Anna asked.

  “You like big things?” Chic said.

  Ramage squeezed the Glock’s grip so hard his fingers hurt. Joints ached, bruises and wounds thumped in rhythm with his heart, but with the adrenaline running through his veins he hardly noticed.

  He didn’t hear Anna’s response. Chic had her half blocked between two trees, his back to him.

  Ramage eased from cover, lifted his gun, and moved forward. He didn’t run, or rush, but moved slow and silent. Anna saw him coming and her eyes grew wide.

  Chic noticed and spun around, a hand darting behind his back.

  Ramage put the tip of the Glock to his forehead and said, “Don’t. Or the tree behind you will be decorated with your brains and skull fragments.”

  Chic froze with his hand behind his back.

  “Anna,” Ramage said.

  She stepped forward and pulled a gun from Chic’s waistband. “Got it,” she said, and held up a Heckler & Koch VP9, the Glock’s better-looking sibling. She looked at ease with the weapon, like she’d handled guns many times, which he was sure she had. Out on the frontier everyone had a gun.

  “Let’s step behind the trees so as not to alarm any passersby,” Ramage said.

  The three of them inched backward, eyeballing each other. When they were behind cover Ramage punched Chic in the mouth and the thief hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Let me see his gun,” Ramage said.

  Anna held out the handgun and he took it. He snapped the magazine out, checked that there wasn’t a round in the chamber, and pulled the trigger several times. The gun clicked and appeared to be in working condition. Ramage hated trusting weapons he hadn’t fired, but in this case his cursory inspection would have to do. He jammed the magazine home and handed the gun back to Anna.

  “He moves, shoot him.”

  Ramage searched the work truck and found an open cash box on the front seat. It contained three hundred and seventy-five dollars in small bills. He’d only sold five trees today. In the well of the passenger seat was a pint can of black paint, and atop it a brush wrapped in a rag. There was a pack of cigarettes on the dash with a lighter tucked into the plastic wrapping. He took the money, cigs and lighter along with the paint and brush.

  Chic hadn’t moved. He sat on the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Anna pointed the gun at his head, her arm out straight. “Here,” he said, and handed her the can of paint and the brush. “Go turn the sign around and paint ‘Out To Lunch’ on the back.”

  She nodded, and left them alone.

  “So, what should we talk about?” Ramage said.

  “Listen, man. You saw. I had no choice. Joe was the one—”

  Ramage lashed out with his gun and caught Chic on the temple. The man collapsed, holding his head. Ramage reached down and grabbed his shirt. “Get up, before I hurt you.”

  “Come on, don’t do that.”

  “Where is Piranha and my truck? And you assholes are going to pay me—full price—for my whole load of trees.”

  Chic laughed. “Man, you can push me around, but you just try messing with Joe. He’ll—”

  The roundhouse kick caught Chic on the jaw, and he lost two chiclets, more blood spurting from his mouth.

  “He’ll what?”

  Chic said nothing.

  “Where is my truck?”

  Chic looked up at Ramage. “Fuck you.”

  Ramage didn’t hit him. Instead he laughed, a full belly laugh that was so loud it sounded manic. “It’s clear you don’t know who you’re dealing with. You think I’m a truck driver, long in the tooth and going with the flow? Unfortunately for you, I have other experience. Get up.”

  Chic hesitated and stared up at Ramage like a child afraid to move or say anything for fear of another whipping.

  “Come on, get up.”

  Chic got on his hands and knees and spit blood on the ground. He rubbed his forehead and got to one knee, then pushed himself to his feet.

  Ramage hit him hard in the chest, knocking the man backward into a row of Christmas trees. He screamed, grabbed a tree for support, but the tree and Chic went to the ground.

  “Where’s Piranha and my truck? I’m not gonna ask again.”

  “Your truck’s fine, OK? The boss was supposed to have it stripped, but then he decided he’s gonna get it painted so we could use it to haul… sand,” Chic said.

  “Good. That’s good. You might get to live then. Where is it?”

  Chic didn’t answer.

  Ramage prepared to kick the man, but stopped when Anna approached.

  “We got a problem. Old man Jessup saw me out front messing with the sign,” Anna said.

  Chic gurgled and Ramage thought it was a laugh.

  “Who the hell is Jessup?”

  “If I’m the local social justice warrior, he’s the local snitch. He probably called the sheriff.”

  Chic chuckled again, this time no gurgle.

  Ramage lifted Chic to his feet and proceeded to pound him like a heavy bag, holding the man up with one hand while punching him with the other. When he was done he let Chic fall to the ground.

  The warble of a single siren echoed in the distance.

  Ramage went into a catcher’s crouch and lifted Chic’s head. “You listen and listen good. Tel
l your boss I’m coming for him. Tell him to hide in the deepest drill hole he can find, because I’m coming. Tell him if he takes one more grain of sand from land that doesn’t belong to him, I’ll make him eat it.”

  Chic’s eyes grew wide and he sniffled.

  “Yeah, and what I did to you, this was nothing compared to the pain I’m gonna inflict on your boy.”

  “You have no idea—”

  The right cross to the face shut Chic up.

  “Oh, but I do have an idea. I know who the Sandman is. At first, I just wanted my truck back, and to give you both a beaten. And eye for an eye and all that. But now I’m pissed and I’m gonna burn it all down—you, Piranha and old man Carl along with it.”

  Anna stared at the scene wide-eyed, but said nothing. She didn’t look scared, or afraid, or appalled, but like she was enjoying the show.

  Ramage picked up Chic’s knocked-out teeth and handed them to him. “Chiclets for the tooth fairy. I have a feeling you’re going to need the money.”

  The siren in the distance was getting louder.

  Ramage saw Chic look at Anna. “Don’t look at her. Don’t think about her. Don’t even say her name. If I find out you did anything to her, or her house or land, I will kill you. Savvy?”

  Chic said nothing.

  “She gave me a ride and doesn’t know anything about our business, so maybe we should leave it that way.”

  Chic stayed silent.

  “Good.” Ramage punched the man three more times, just because it felt so damn good, and then dragged him to his truck and threw him in the back bed.

  The police siren was moments away.

  Ramage turned to Anna. “Stay and deal with the cops… cop. Tell him I made you bring me here if Chic starts spinning bullshit. I don’t want you in trouble,” he said.

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. When this is done call me at this number.” He handed her a slip of paper. “I’ll leave my car at the diner for now, and I can’t go back to the hotel unless I want to meet some of the locals. I’ll look around and you can pick me up and show me where these dirt bags operate. Don’t forget to take your Christmas tree. It’s on the house.”

  She nodded and Ramage slipped through the trees, working his way behind the buildings along 1st Street. The siren got louder, and he stepped into the shadows of an abandoned building that looked to have been a bank. There were teller windows, a vault with no door, and old security cameras the size of TV cameras covered in cobwebs mounted in each corner.

  Things would be harder here on out. Piranha and poppa would be on the lookout. The police car tore down the street toward the Christmas tree lot and Ramage smiled. He’d escaped frontier justice for now, but who knew what the night would bring.

  Chapter Ten

  Ramage wheeled an abandoned office chair over to a gap in the southern wall of the old bank and sat. He’d hoped to hear the conversation between the officer and Anna, but no luck. Not even muffled voices. He leaned forward, the old chair creaked, and he froze, but he remembered he couldn’t hear them, so they probably couldn’t hear him. He peered through the rent in the wall and saw Anna standing next to the sheriff, who was looking at Chiclet, who still hadn’t returned from I Just Got My Ass Kicked Land.

  The sheriff kept glancing at Anna, as though they were talking, but Chiclet didn’t appear to be saying anything. He hung his head, spitting blood.

  The officer helped Chiclet from the back of the pickup, guided him to his lawn chair and plopped him in it. Then the guy left, mirrored sunglasses and all. No report. No dressing down of Anna, questions about who beat Chic, what had happened. Chiclet hadn’t told the cop anything. That was the only explanation. No complaint, no crime.

  Ramage smiled. Anna was waiting around, pretending to look for a tree.

  When the patrol car pulled away Ramage walked out onto the street and looked in both directions. No people. No cars. Nothing but the worn-out, desperate desolation. That didn’t add up to Ramage. If the sand business was so lucrative and there was so much oil work around, why wasn’t the town crawling with prospectors and real estate people?

  When he got to the Christmas tree lot Anna was throwing a ten-foot Colorado Blue Spruce into her pickup bed. Chiclet was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey, there,” he said.

  She jumped. “You scared me.”

  “I’m scary looking.”

  She smiled.

  “That whole thing with the cop was anticlimactic.”

  “Chiclet told him to leave. That he fell hauling trees from the truck.”

  “The cop bought that?”

  “No, but why would he care?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  They got in the truck and Ramage peered in the sideview mirror, but didn’t see Chiclet. The dipshit was probably calling for backup. “Maybe we should wait around. See what happens.”

  “Are you nuts?” she said. “He’s probably calling—”

  “I know. That’s why I asked.”

  “And what good would that do other than to get your face more messed up?”

  “No faith in me, eh? I handled Chic easily enough.”

  “Chic and the guys the Sandman will send might as well be different species.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She sighed. “I’m starting to understand why…”

  “Why what?”

  “Nothing. What purpose would staying serve?”

  “Who knows? We could send a message. Maybe hold onto one of them and force the old man’s hand. Or better yet, drag them down to the police station.”

  “Good luck with that. All we’ve got here is a room in the town building with a cage bolted to the floor in its corner. The sheriff is never there. His main office is in Odessa.”

  “We can drag them there then.”

  “And tell them what?”

  There she had a point. “You still have his gun?”

  “It’s in the truck.”

  Ramage felt the barrel of the Glock digging into his back.

  “What’s it gonna be?” she said.

  “Let’s take a ride. There’s plenty of time to fight, and I’d rather do it on our terms in a place of our choosing.”

  She wagged her head up and down as she jumped in the pickup. Ramage did the same and they rolled out of the lot, made a right on 1st Street, and headed back toward the center of town.

  “I want to see this compound you told me about. The place where they took my truck. Can you show me?”

  She glanced over at him as she drove. “I don’t know you, and… I hate these guys, but I’m not looking for trouble. You can come in here like a cowboy, but I live here. I’ll need to deal with the long-term consequences of whatever we do.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But…” She looked over at him again. “I can’t let these guys get away with their shit. I’ll show you, but I reserve the right to disappear.”

  “Deal.”

  Anna made a right on Main Street, and a black van pulled across the road and blocked their way.

  “Shit. So much for doing things on our terms,” Ramage said. He looked over his shoulder and a red car blocked their backward escape. “Put it in reverse and floor it.”

  “What? I’m not…”

  Two men got out of the van. One held a shotgun, the other a revolver.

  Seeing the guns changed Anna’s mind and she dropped the truck in reverse and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  The white Chevy pickup lurched backward, slamming into the red car, pushing it aside. The men from the van brought up their weapons, but Ramage was faster. He opened up with the Glock, firing through the windshield. The sound of the gunshots and shattering glass was deafening, but it didn’t appear to affect Anna. Ramage fired as she spun the wheel, dropped the truck in forward, and tried to go around the van.

  The van backed up, blocking the pickup’s path.

  Anna jumped on the brake, and the truck skidded into
the van and metal crunched and glass shattered.

  “Get down,” Ramage yelled. He slipped out the passenger door, Glock before him, head on a swivel.

  One of the goons was down, blood leaking from a wound on his shoulder. The other guy hid behind the van, using it as cover. Two men emerged from the red car, also holding guns. Ramage looked up the street in both directions. No patrol car in sight.

  He was many things, but a killer wasn’t one of them. He was justified in taking these men down. They’d attacked him, but it wasn’t that simple. If he got hauled in for shooting someone Rex would pull him in permanently. Sure as rain.

  “Don’t move or your dead,” said one of the men from the red car.

  “Screw you.” He eased behind the pickup’s open door, shielding himself from the car guys, but leaving himself open to the gunmen hiding behind the van.

  “Why aren’t they firing?” Anna said. “They’ve got us dead to rights.”

  “Two possible reasons, and both might be true. One, if they fire on us and miss they might hit their own men. We’re between them. Second, and the more likely because option one requires some thought and experience and I don’t think these guys have much of that, is they’ve been given instructions to take us unharmed so the Sandman can interrogate us. Find out who I am and what I know about his operation.”

  “Look, we just want you to leave town,” said the guy behind the van.

  Ramage swung the Glock and put four bullets into the van, then whipped the gun forward and put three in the side of the red Camaro.

  The guy bleeding on the ground didn’t look good. A black puddle spread-out around him, and he’d stopped moaning.

  “Your man is dying. You want to take him to a hospital?”

  No response.

  “OK, I’m done with this,” he whispered to Anna. “I’m going to start firing, and as I do I’m going to get back in the truck. As soon as my ass hits the seat gun it.”

  She nodded.

  Ramage breathed deep and snapped the clip from the Glock. Two bullets left. He slipped the almost empty cartridge into a pocket, drew out a full clip, and eased it home until it clicked in place. “Ready?”