Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “The other two—”

  “Don’t look like they could hit the floor if it wasn’t under their feet,” Ramage said.

  The sheriff waved two of his men forward.

  Ramage swept his left leg out from under the table and took the sheriff’s legs out from under him. The overweight cop fired into the ceiling as he went down, and everyone dove for cover.

  Except Ramage.

  He rolled off his seat onto the floor and yelled for Anna to get down. The sheriff struggled to bring up his gun as he lay prone on the faded vinyl tiles, and Ramage grasped the revolver and pulled it from Kingston’s hand.

  “Freeze. Or I’ll shoot,” said one of the goon squad. The other three deputies were hanging back, hiding behind dining booths, but this guy looked like he was on a mission.

  Ramage got to his feet and slowly laid the sheriff’s revolver on the table.

  The eager deputy bent to help the sheriff up as he pointed his Sig Saur at Ramage’s head. The man yelled, “Move. Please. Go ahead.”

  “Piss off,” Ramage said.

  “You attacked a cop. That’s all the justification I need.” The guy’s arm went straight, and he sighted the weapon on Ramage’s leg.

  Ramage dropped and rolled.

  A gunshot rang out. It was deafening in the confined space, and Ramage’s ears rang. Anna screamed as the bullet slapped into the seat where Ramage had been, stuffing rising into the air like a cloud, the scent of gun smoke filling the air.

  Ramage came out of his roll on his feet and delivered a massive right hook to the deputy’s face. The man’s head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser as Ramage spun on his foot and delivered an elbow to the side of the man’s head. The guy crumbled like aluminum foil and his gun fell to the floor.

  “Ramage!” It was Anna. She was on her feet, moving toward him, putting herself between the three advancing deputies. “Enough. They’ll—”

  One of the deputies pushed her aside, and Ramage thrust out his left foot in a vicious kick, but the three men were on him, and he was smothered under a mountain of flesh. He twisted and writhed, trying to free himself, but one of the guys had him in a bear hug. The guy was powerful, and Ramage was outmatched. He went limp and let the deputies press him to the old floor.

  “Get off me. Get the fu—”

  “Ramage. That’s enough,” Anna yelled.

  The dropped Sig Saur was on the floor by Ramage, and all he needed to do was grab it, but he didn’t. His mind started working the possibilities as the hillbilly deputy drove his knee into Ramage’s back. If Rex caught wind of this incident, he was done. Rex would never let him out of his sight again. Then there was him hitting the cop. Even if the man had overstepped his authority Ramage still had no right to take the man down.

  The sheriff read Ramage the Miranda rights as the guy kneeling on his back pulled Ramage’s arms out from under him and slapped cuffs on his wrists. He didn’t like the feeling. It brought back all the bad memories. All the regrets.

  “Get him on his feet,” the sheriff said.

  Two deputies lifted Ramage to his feet. He made himself deadweight, so the guys had to hold him up. He was nothing if not vindictive.

  The sheriff turned to Anna. “Can you join us down at my office… please,” he added.

  “Why has he been… I mean, why did you come here? Just to harass him?” Anna said.

  “He caused an incident out at the High Rollers site yesterday. Broke into the yard,” the sheriff said.

  “I didn’t break in anywhere. You’re full of—” The punch to the gut shut Ramage up.

  “Stop it!” Anna yelled, and she surged toward Ramage.

  The sheriff put out his arm. “You coming with us, or not?”

  She nodded.

  Kingston looked around, making eye contact with each person in the diner. Ramage knew the look. It was an “I know you were here, and you know I know you were here” look.

  As they shuffled Ramage toward the exit, he said, “I can’t finish my breakfast?”

  “Keep joking. We’ll see who gets the last laugh,” the guy holding him said.

  Ramage turned slowly to look the man in the eye. “You think we’re done? Naw, we’re not done. Not even close.”

  “Anytime, tough guy,” the guy said.

  “Big tough man when you’re pointing a gun,” Ramage said.

  “I don’t need no gun. Let’s do this right now. I’ll—”

  “Shut it!” the sheriff roared.

  Everyone fell silent and the bell tingled as Ramage was pushed through the glass door held open by the sheriff.

  “I’ll be right behind you. Don’t say anything,” Anna said.

  They perp-walked Ramage across the parking lot, folded him into the sheriff’s squad car and slammed the door. Fat boy dropped into the driver’s seat, panting and sucking air from all the commotion. “You screwed up in there, Ramage. Big time.”

  Ramage said nothing.

  The police car rumbled to life, and the sheriff lifted the handset from his radio. “Central, this is Kingston. We’re incoming with suspect, over.”

  “Copy,” said a gravelly voice that sounded aggravated. There were no real deputies in Prairie Home, so who had been at central? Ramage smiled. He was on his way to see the Sandman.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Town Hall was a crusty, ill maintained, one story brick structure that was so basic Ramage wondered if it had been built without architectural plans. It was a brick box, three windows on the east and west sides, and two on the front with a door in the center. The sheriffs annex had its own entrance next to the main entrance, and Kingston pulled his squad car diagonally in front of the door, taking up the handicap spot and the spot marked Sheriff.

  Kingston hauled himself out of the cruiser and waddled around to Ramage’s side of the car. The cop placed a hand on his sidearm and opened the door for Ramage. “OK, now, let’s go. Try anything and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that and know that nobody within a hundred miles will give a crap, except maybe Anna, but she can’t do shit.” He hiked up his sagging pants and motioned for Ramage to get out of the car.

  The cuffs hurt his wrists, but his legs weren’t shackled. He glanced over his shoulder. There were no other cars in the lot. No people. He could get out of the car and be on the sheriff before he knew what hit him, take his keys and be gone. But what then? Ramage gazed up the street, but didn’t see Anna’s pickup.

  The sheriff pulled a key and opened the office. A puff of sour air escaped as the door swung open, like and ancient tomb had just been discovered and opened for the first time in millennia.

  Ramage followed Kingston inside, dust tickling his nose. The cop flicked on the lights. The place looked like nobody had been there in months. A stack of mail sat on a single steel desk, and three chairs and some file cabinets lined the walls. In the northwest corner of the room a ten-by-ten cage was bolted to the floor. The sheriff unlocked the cell door and swung it open for Ramage, who stopped short of entering and held out his cuffed wrists.

  “Get in the birdcage, now. I’ll take them off once you’re inside.”

  Ramage stared at the man, but said nothing. He didn’t move.

  “Sooner we get this over with the sooner you can get out.”

  Ramage liked the “get out” part, and he wanted to see where this went, so he stepped into the cage and Kingston slammed the door behind him. Ramage held up his wrists and the sheriff took off the cuffs.

  Without another word Kingston hoisted his pants, tugged on his hat, and left.

  With the sheriff gone the room was silent, save for the hum of a small refrigerator compressor and the tick of a clock. There was a wood bench in the cage, so Ramage sat and rested his head in his hands. His ribs still hurt, but they got better every day, and the bruises on his face had faded, but still felt itchy.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into? Had he made a mistake in trusting in the
rule of law? By rule they could only detain him twenty-four hours without charging him, and surely they planned to use every minute, despite what Anna did, if she did anything. He was getting close, and the Sandman was getting nervous, wanted him out of the way. But close to what? He had paints, brushes, and canvas, but no picture. Clues, but none of them fit. Dropping sand, then going to a refinery. Putting gasoline in the sand trailer. He knew all this fit together. He considered asking Rex, but the fed would most likely call him off, as he’d been trying to do since he’d run into Piranha and Chic.

  Forty-five minutes slipped away before the door opened, and the sheriff was back. He finished eating something—smelled like an egg sandwich with bacon—and dropped a wrapper in the trash as he rolled his chair across the office and placed it in front of the birdcage. He sat before Ramage, a folder under one arm. The chair squeaked like a crow with a twisted wing.

  The sheriff opened the thin manila folder and cleared his throat, like he was some kind of judge, and this was serious shit. “Theodore ‘Theo’ Ramage, born of Adelle and Christopher Ramage. Father drove a postal truck, mom was a teacher. Father deceased, April 15th, 2013.” The sheriff chuckled. “Must have been a bitch of a tax day.”

  Ramage fought to keep his hands from shaking, and he clinched his jaw so tight it hurt.

  “Mom is alive and well in Sarasota, Florida. Dating ex-police officer David Nicks. They go to brunch every Sunday at a restaurant in the marina, Teddy’s.” The sheriff paused and stared at Ramage. The threat didn’t need to be verbalized. “Theo was an undistinguished lad. No real academic or athletic achievements. Graduated 169 in a high school class of 339. Dated one girl for three of the four high school years, but she terminated the relationship in your senior year. She was a junior.”

  “You trying to make a point here? Unless you’re looking for the copy of Catcher in the Rye I never returned to the library, I can’t follow you.”

  “Elementary school teachers pointed toward the law as a possible career avenue because of the child’s… and I’m quoting now, ‘the child’s ability to argue and rationalize at an adult level.’” The sheriff cracked his neck, shifted in his seat, and the chair screamed.

  “After a failed year in community college young Theo joined the Army, where he did zero time in the battlefield. It is here young Ramage learns of his aptitude for computers. Discovers his innate investigative abilities. Your commanding officer had you tested, and after twenty-months as an enlisted man you were sent to the farm where you trained to be a tech spy, hacker, and data psychic.” The big man’s eyes lifted, and he studied Ramage.

  Ramage was surprised at the depth of their information. The internet was a magical thing, but to get the level of info the sheriff had you needed skills.

  “I didn’t even know what a data psychic was,” the sheriff said.

  Ramage said nothing. He kept his face blank. No emotion. He couldn’t let the man know he was getting under his skin.

  “You were the guy who put stuff together. Saw connections nobody else could see. Valuable skill, especially for someone expert in data mining. You must have gotten whatever you wanted, am I right?”

  Ramage said nothing. If his eyes could shoot bullets, the sheriff would be a corpse.

  Kingston cleared his throat and continued. “After six years’ service you joined the FBI snoops, where you met a young Secret Service agent named Joan Westerly. You married on September 21, 2011. Your father gave Joan away because her dad had died four years prior. Here’s a picture of the lovely couple.” Kingston rolled the chair closer to the birdcage so Ramage could see the photo well. A smile spread across the fat man’s face.

  Ramage felt himself losing it. Anger burned a hole in his stomach. The sheriff was three feet from the bars, and all he had to do was grab the man’s wrist, pull him forward and slam him repeatedly into the steel cage, take his keys, and disappear. But this was all foreplay. The sheriff was getting him ready for the boss. For the Sandman.

  “Now the boring TV movie ends, and shit gets real,” the sheriff said. “Six years ago your wife Joan took a bullet for king-asshole, Senator Mcully, and you didn’t take it well. No surprise there.”

  Ramage, pushing down his anger, said, “Surprised you think Mcully is an ass. Thought he’d be your kind of guy.”

  Kingston whistled. “Damn, and it gets better. The doctors report from the night your wife died reads like a King novel.”

  Ramage knew what was coming, and he stiffened.

  “Patient was dead on arrival, as was an unborn child. The infant was too premature to save as subject was approximately eight weeks pregnant. Father was unaware of the pregnancy.” The sheriff looked up. “That must have stung.”

  “Screw you, you piece of human garbage.” Ramage remembered the conversation like it was yesterday. He’d been identifying his dead wife, when the doctor said, “I’m sorry about your wife and child.” Child? Sadness washed over him like he was living the entire nightmare again. Had Joan known? If she had, why hadn’t she told him? His heart ached, and he wanted to beat Kingston to dust.

  “At this point you stray from the law. You used your security clearance to investigate your wife’s killers. You enrolled in a survival camp, where you were radicalized and trained in hand-to-hand combat, weapons, and you built on what you learned in the Army. Then, along with your wife’s ex-partner, you killed six men, two women, and a child.”

  “They were terrorists!” Ramage yelled, unable to contain himself any longer.

  Kingston laughed. “Yes, they were. Problem was, you weren’t as slick as you thought. You and your wife’s ex-partner were caught. The ex-partner got busted down a rank, and you were let loose. That’s the end of the road. From that point forward, it’s like you disappeared off the face of the Earth. Went to live on the moon or something.”

  Now it was Ramage’s turn to laugh. “That’s all you got? What, you have someone track down my high school yearbook?”

  “Let’s see. Suspect fears snakes to the point of phobia, and…” The sheriff laughed, a deep full bellow that grated Ramage’s nerves. “You throw up when you kill someone. Says here you think it’s a crime against nature for one human to kill another.”

  Ramage’s head snapped up and he and the sheriff locked eyes. How the hell had he gotten that information? Must be a note in his file. Goddamn Rex. “Piss off,” was all Ramage could come up with.

  “About your language,” the sheriff pushed his chair back and the fat man slid out of Ramage’s reach. “The man coming to see you doesn’t like people talking to him like that. Get it? So, unless you want a broken leg, or your jaw wired shut, I’d suggest you zip it and speak when spoken to.”

  “Who’s coming to see me? The Sandman?”

  Kingston’s face revealed nothing, but that told Ramage all he needed to know. The boss was on the way, and it was time for Ramage to end this. Get his truck back, put a stop to all the underground bullshit, and get on his way before Rex decided he needed a few days in the field.

  “Let me out of here. Now!” Ramage raised his voice to an octave below a scream, and a smile slid over the sheriff’s face. “You’ve got no right to hold me.”

  “Ah, but I do. You assaulted a man in my town. Busted him up pretty good and he’s filed a complaint.”

  “Which guy?” Ramage asked. “I can’t keep all the pussies straight.”

  “Chic.”

  “The guy who stole my truck? He says I beat him? He’s full of crap and you weren’t there.”

  “Who says he stole your truck? I wasn’t there. An assault occurred, and the victim said it was you.”

  “No proof needed?”

  “Of course, proof is needed, Ramage.” He said it with an easygoing air, like he and Ramage were close friends just shooting the shit. “That’s why you haven’t been charged.”

  “So let me go! I swear to shit, when I get out of here you better be a long way away from here,” Ramage said, but his threat was in vain and t
he sheriff knew it.

  “Until I determine you’re not a danger to my community, you’ll stay right here.” Kingston got up and made a show of closing Ramage’s thin file. “Take my advice, Ramage. Shut up and listen. Don’t make your situation worse.”

  “I can’t wait to kick your ass,” Ramage said.

  The sheriff sighed and headed for the door. He dropped the file on his desk and turned to check Ramage and the office one last time. He flicked off the light and shut the door behind him.

  Ramage screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dust motes danced in the sunrays that cut through a twisted window shade, and the clock ticked, and the fridge buzzed. Ramage tried to calm down, but his blood boiled, and his stomach snarled. At least they’d let him have some of his breakfast before they ruined his morning. His internal clock told him the sun had passed noon, and he felt the day slipping away. His mind wandered, and he thought of Joan and Anna. What would his wife think of Anna? They were similar in some ways, yet different in a refreshing kind of way, like he was smelling different flowers and drinking new wines. With these feelings came responsibility, obligation, the end of freedom. He cared for Anna, and the feeling tore at him as he waited in the dim Prairie Home sheriff’s annex.

  At what Ramage figured was around 3PM in the afternoon, he heard a car pull up outside and skid to a halt in the gravel. A door slammed, then another. Surely the Sandman would bring help with him. A key jiggled in the lock, the door swung open, and a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt flicked on the lights.

  Piranha wore a dark blue sweat suit, white high-top sneakers, and shaded sunglasses. He entered the room and looked around, like he was advance security for someone important, and Ramage supposed he was. He moved slow with an odd gait and held his right arm over his stomach where he’d been shot.

  A short, stocky, rat-faced man entered behind Piranha, and closed the door. The guy stared at Ramage like he was an exotic animal in a zoo and took off his sunglasses. He had thinning gray hair, a dark mustache, and he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red tie with gray stripes. He looked like he belonged at a race track betting the ponies.