Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  Anna chuckled. That was some thin shit.

  After twenty minutes the Mack got on I-20 east which led to Dallas. Anna settled into her seat and set the cruise control at fifty-five, staying way back. The sun started its descent to the horizon in her rearview, and her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches she and Ramage had for lunch. Her mouth watered at the thought of Lucy’s fried chicken and a cold beer.

  Signs appeared along the road for Midland, Big Spring, Sweetwater, and Abilene. Half an hour flew by, then an hour, and Anna was half asleep when the Mack pulled off the interstate onto exit 174 for Big Spring. Her brow furrowed. Where the hell was this guy going with an empty trailer?

  Anna followed the rig down several backroads, made two rights and a left. She pulled over when the Mack joined a line of trucks waiting to enter a facility she’d heard about many times, but had never actually seen. The Tepper Refinery was one of the largest in the state. Texas refineries processed six million gallons of crude oil per calendar day, and the Tepper facility moved eighteen thousand gallons per hour, twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-four days a year.

  Anna counted four rigs ahead of the Mack. Security was only letting in one truck at a time. She brought the binoculars to her eyes.

  Dust, smoke, and haze hovered over the site like a UFO, and huge tanks that looked like honeypots were spaced evenly along one side of the facility behind a massive structure that had more pipes than an expresso machine. A twelve-foot slotted chain-link fence surrounded the site, and guards walked the perimeter.

  She considered trying to infiltrate the facility, but she was no Ramage. Whoever the hell the man was he had a confidence that she could only dream of. She got a hot flash every time she thought of the guy. She sighed as she watched a truck enter the refinery’s gate, and the other three trucks moved up.

  Twenty-three minutes later the white Mack disappeared into the refinery, and Anna set the timer on the pickup’s dash. She flicked on the radio and gentle jazz horns lulled her toward sleep. She leaned against the window, her face pressed to the glass. The Mack was behind the fence, and she couldn’t see what was happening.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. She couldn’t wait to tell Ramage about the two oddities she’d noted. First, what purpose could pumping gasoline into the rig’s trailer have? Though it couldn’t have been more than a few gallons given the amount of time it took to pump, she’d seen nothing leak out, which meant there was something in the trailer to hold the gas. And second, what possible business could the empty truck have at the refinery? She decided to try and find out.

  A visitor’s parking lot opened to the right of the guard house. There wasn’t a single car in it. Anna parked the pickup and worked on her story as she tried to mimic Ramage’s cocky gait. She failed. When she arrived before the guard’s window, he didn’t look up from the paperback he was reading. The Drawing of the Three by Stephen King. She’d read that one and saw her opening.

  “How far along are you? You meet Eddie yet?”

  At the mention of the character’s name the man looked up. He was rat-like and squinted at Anna like he hadn’t been above ground in days. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I believe you can. I’m from the state DEC and—”

  “ID please.”

  She sighed. “Listen, this is kind of personal and I’d rather not make it formal, you understand?”

  The man’s eyebrows rose.

  “I show you my creds, then things are official. I’ve got to write a report, speak with a supervisor, and if that bitch is having a bad day you’ll have an army down here with dipsticks measuring the tanks. That what you’re after today at 4:53?”

  The guy sighed. “What do you want?”

  “That white Mack truck that just entered. What is it doing here?”

  The guy leaned across his desk and peered into the refinery. His mouth became a thin line and he rolled his shoulders. “As you can see, I’m not exactly the CFO. Trucks come in here for all types of reasons.”

  “But the trailer carries sand. Any reason you’d need sand here?”

  The man shook his head. “Not that I know of, but I do know sometimes those dump trailers haul garbage and stuff.”

  Anna peered through the guardhouse window at an old computer on the man’s desk. “If I gave you the company name could you call up the records?”

  The guy glanced at the computer and laughed. “Even if I had access, that thing hasn’t worked in years.”

  “Why’s it there, then?”

  He hiked his shoulders and said nothing.

  “Look, I really—”

  “There’s nothing more I can do.” He lifted his paperback. “Unless you want me to call my supervisor?” A smirk spread over his face.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow with my team,” she said to save face. She turned on a heel and headed back to the pickup.

  Back in the truck she slammed the door and pounded the steering wheel. She started the vehicle and dropped it in gear, then thought better of it and shut the truck down. She had to head back toward Prairie Home anyway, so why not follow the truck and make sure it went back to the Sandman’s compound.

  Over the next fifty-seven minutes Anna did her best to stay awake, and when the Mack pushed through the gate and onto the road it was almost six o’clock. The rig made a left and headed west, back toward Prairie Home.

  She followed and had been driving twenty minutes when the rig pulled to the side of the road. She had ten seconds to ask herself WTF, when the radio chimed with the warning of an incoming sandstorm.

  She pulled over, made sure all the windows were tightly closed, and stared at the dark smoky line marching across the western horizon. It had appeared out of nowhere, as sandstorms do in western Texas. Anna recalled the first one she’d experienced as a child, the way the sand hitting the house sounded like paper crumbling.

  The wind picked up, and the pickup was pelted with tiny stones and sand. It sounded like bacon frying, and within sixty seconds visibility had reduced to twenty feet. Clouds of sand and dust rose from the ground as wind tore at the plain. There’d been a rainstorm two days prior, but everything had dried out, and the pickup was sandblasted, a pile building at the base of the windshield in the gap between the glass and hood.

  Twenty minutes later the Mack pulled back onto the road and headed west. Anna’s stomach growled, and she thought of Lucy’s fried chicken again. And that beer. She was looking forward to seeing Ramage. They hadn’t been separated, except to sleep, since they’d met, and Anna felt naked without him by her side. She shook her head. How could that be? She barely knew him.

  They repeated the trip to the refinery in reverse, and when the white Mack disappeared into the metal hut at the center of the Sandman’s compound, Anna kept driving. She rolled down the windows and thought she smelled the fragrant scent of roasting chicken on the breeze.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ramage crossed the road, wishing he’d brought the gun that was sitting under his car’s front seat. He passed three plain black passenger vans and headed straight for the cloud of protesters and security. Cecil had submitted, but Gypsy struggled, throwing elbows and scratching at faces. He worked himself up and didn’t have to dig very deep to find the anger. Since the incident, a controlled rage simmered just below Ramage’s skin, like a rash or constant pain. All he needed to do was call up certain memories that brought it all back like the incoming tide; ceaseless, tough, and always dragging back the past.

  Nobody appeared to notice him as he approached, and that was good. The element of surprise worked wonders and he intended to use the advantage. It was the only one he had. The security guards had Glock 9s strapped to their legs and nightsticks hanging from their belts. None of the rent-a-cops had gone for their weapons yet, but Ramage judged that time wasn’t far off. Gypsy thrashed and clawed, kicking and fighting to break free. Cecil lay face down, head in the sand.

  Ramage cracked his neck, rolled his
shoulders, and yelled, “Freeze and back away from that citizen. Now!”

  The clamor of the crowd stopped, and the security guards paused.

  Ramage had no gun, no badge, nothing. “What the hell is going on here?” he said.

  There were four security guards, and three of them looked at the guy holding Cecil to the ground. “None of your business. Who the fuck are you?” the fourth guard said.

  Ramage took three fast steps toward the man, and he flinched. “I’m bad luck. I’m gonna eat your lunch for you.” He took another two steps and shoved the man in the chest, hard, knocking him off Cecil.

  The rent-a-cop sprawled in the sand but recovered quickly. As he vaulted to his feet he drew down, pointing his gun at Ramage. Not good. The way the guy drew the weapon and the confidence with which he held it all told Ramage the guy was probably retired military. High end security contractors loved hiring ex-soldiers.

  “Put that thing away before I take it off you and shove it up your ass,” Ramage said. His voice was steady, but his insides were mush. His lower back ached as adrenaline ran through him and sweat dripped down his back despite the chill that had invaded his stomach.

  The guy hesitated, the consequences of shooting someone, maybe killing them, running through his mind as he weighed his options. Ramage saw the strain in the guy’s face as the man saw his future crumbling.

  Ramage took things down a notch. “Listen, soldier, what branch did you serve in?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “You a cop?”

  “Maybe. You want to let those people up so we can talk?”

  Gypsy took advantage of the break in the action and pulled free of the two guards holding her and went to Cecil who still lay prone on the ground.

  The two guards fell in behind their leader, while the forth circled around Ramage to cover his back. Boss man smiled. “Screw you,” the guy said.

  “Why so vulgar? There are women present.” Ramage heard one of the protesters laugh.

  The lead security guard chuckled as anger flooded the guy’s face. He holstered his gun, stepped forward, and stuck his finger into Ramage’s chest.

  That was a mistake.

  “What you’re going to do is—”

  Ramage’s left hand grabbed the man’s finger, and with his right hand he spun the guy like a top, twisting the finger. A loud crack reverberated over the silent crowd, and the guard screamed like he’d been shot.

  Ramage heard the scuff of guns being drawn from canvas holsters. He released the guard and pushed him to the ground. The man looked up at Ramage with a hatred he understood, even respected. Nobody liked being embarrassed, and nobody liked being embarrassed in front of their crew.

  The guards moved in, surrounding Ramage, guns trained on him.

  Ramage put his foot on the lead guys chest and said, “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Don’t call me that. You don’t have the right.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Though Ramage was maintaining his outward appearance of calm, his internal gauges were redlining. It was only a matter of time before one of the rent-a-cops concluded their boss’s life was in danger and shot him.

  “Get off him now, sir, or I will shoot.” A kid with red hair and freckles stepped forward, gun held out in a shaking hand. If the guy on the ground was ex-military, this kid was ex-high school.

  Ramage backed away and put his hands up. “No need to ruin your life, kid. Lower the weapon. I’m unarmed and there are fifty witnesses here. You want to spend the rest of your life in jail for shooting an unarmed man?”

  The tip of the gun dipped slightly as the kid saw his life evaporate before his eyes. He lowered the weapon.

  Ramage knelt and helped the head guy up. He dusted off the man’s shoulders and straightened his collar like the guy was Ramage’s kid and he was getting him ready to go to a dance. “Look. We got off on the wrong foot.” Ramage turned to Gypsy. Cecil was sitting up and appeared alright. “I’m just here to collect these two fools. Get them out of your hair.”

  Gypsy and Cecil looked at one another and Gypsy shrugged.

  The guy looked at his support team and laughed. “Naw, I think we’re going to have them arrested for causing a disturbance. You’re no cop, and if you don’t move along—now—I’ll have you arrested. After we kick your ass.” The man stepped forward and got in Ramage’s face. Onions and peppers. Someone must have brought a tray of the stuff in for lunch.

  “Where is everyone else?” Ramage said.

  “Everyone else?”

  “You think you and the three dipshits here can take me? You better plan on shooting me, which would also be sweet for me. I’ll end up owning this place—douchebag.”

  More laughter from the protesters as they closed ranks around the security guards, who surrounded Ramage. The guards didn’t appear to notice the crowd advancing.

  Ramage planted his feet. Before the incident he’d been a couch potato. Sure, he’d worked out, kept in shape, even hit the bag a little, but he hadn’t been a fighter, but that was the past. So far back in his memory sometimes he wasn’t sure if what he was remembering was the truth, or fantasy. He’d mentioned that to Rex once, who’d quickly changed the subject. If it was determined that Ramage was mentally unstable, he’d be called in.

  He’d learned to fight from and ex-Navy SEAL who taught him the two basic rules of hand to hand combat: strike first and strike hard. In this case there were also four handguns that needed to be considered, but other than the lead man the rent-a-cops looked like they’d never fired their weapons in the line of duty, which meant they probably couldn’t hit the side of a barn from ten feet away when under stress.

  Ramage coiled his muscles, stiffening, building tension and strength. He jerked his head forward and delivered a massive headbutt to the lead guard. At the same time his hand gripped the Glock and tore it from the guard’s hand as he fell backward.

  The guy hit the ground like a sack of onions and fell unconscious. Ramage got low and pirouetted, gun arm extended. He swept his right leg across the nearest guard and the man went down. Ramage dropped to a knee, disarmed the man, and stood.

  The two remaining guards, the red headed kid and an old fat guy who didn’t look like he wanted any part of the fight, backed away, guns trained on him. Ramage lifted both guns old west style and pointed one at each man.

  “Stalemate.”

  The protestors, feeling emboldened by the turn of events, yelled and chirped, moving in as they surrounded the fight. Ramage pointed one of the guns at the sky and fired. “That’s enough. Back off folks.”

  The head guy’s face was splattered with blood, and Ramage rolled him onto his side so he didn’t choke or drown in his own blood. The crowd stopped advancing and Ramage leveled the guns again. “You don’t want any part of this,” he said to the two guys. “I shoot, you shoot, we all end up in the hospital. And for what? Pride? To save face?”

  “Screw you, man. I’m calling the cops,” the redhead said.

  Ramage laughed. He put both guns in his pants behind his back and held out his hands. “Look. No gun. Now lower your weapons. All I want to do is help you guys.”

  The redhead looked at his only remaining partner, who shrugged.

  “I’m with the state. I came here to interview and speak with Gypsy and Cecil here. I’m their parole officer.”

  “Thought you said you were a cop?” the old guy said.

  “No. You need to work on your listening skills. I said, maybe I was a cop.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” the old guard asked.

  “It means I was a cop, but now I’m not.”

  “You just want these two? And you’ll leave?”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  The kid slowly lowered his weapon. The supervisor was coming awake. It was time to go.

  “Gypsy? Cecil?”

  Cecil looked at Gypsy as she bored holes into Ramage. Before she could blow things, he said, “Gypsy, Anna said Selena is el dios.”
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br />   The woman’s eyes went wide, and she nodded slightly. Cecil got up, dusted himself off and turned to Gypsy. She looked around at the protestors and appeared to make a decision. “Alright, everyone. That’s enough for today, I think.” Moans and complaints, but the group scattered.

  The guards holstered their guns, but kept their eyes locked on Ramage as he backed away, hands up, palms out in the universal ‘I mean you no harm’ gesture.

  Ramage breathed deep, his nerves dancing on a wire as the adrenaline fled. He removed the guns from his waistband, pulled the clips, and dropped both empty weapons to the ground.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gypsy said when she and Cecil reached him.

  “Not now.”

  “Where’s Anna?” Cecil said. The man’s voice was squeaky and feminine.

  “She’s not here. She sent me to help you. Where’s your car?”

  “Car? Who said we had a car?” Gypsy said.

  “Anna said… how did you get here?”

  Gypsy pointed at three black vans the protesters filed into.

  Ramage sighed. “Great.”

  He followed Gypsy onto one of the vans, and she led him to the rear bench seat. He collapsed into it. The confrontation had drained him, and his neck and back ached.

  “How the hell did you learn to fight like that?” Gypsy asked.

  Ramage chuckled. “From an ex-Navy SEAL. I spend four weeks in an intense training program. Learned all kinds of self-defense techniques, weapons training, and confidence building. Cost me three thousand bucks.”

  “Why the hell would you do that? Dude, you like pain?” Cecil said.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then why?” Gypsy asked.

  Ramage said nothing.

  The sun fell in the west leaving a sherbet colored sky. The chatter in the van picked-up and Ramage turned his thoughts inward. How had Anna made out? He hoped she was OK. He felt guilty about involving her and had to remind himself she had involved him.