Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “Give me the surprise,” he said.

  Anna dug into her jacket pocket and pulled free a hand grenade with a battery and circuit board affixed to it with black duct tape. Ramage dug a hole in the sand next to the base of the fence, and buried the device, leaving only the black wire that served as its antenna exposed.

  As if on cue, a small explosion rocked the night on the southern fence line, and a ball of orange flame lifted into the night sky and a wave of white light like a camera flash lit the compound.

  Anna checked the fence again. No spark.

  Ramage pulled snippers from his pocket and made six cuts in the chain-link along with their corresponding electric wires. He pealed back the fence and Anna crawled through. Sand bit his elbows and got in his eyes and mouth as he followed. Anna got to her feet and hid behind an oversized backhoe bucket. Ramage squirmed through the gap and knelt before the hole. Using metal ties and high-grade wire, he repaired the chain-link one cut at a time, knitting the fence and wires back together.

  The commotion was dying down, and it appeared all the fires were out. The explosion had been nothing more than twenty M80s knitted together, and though the makeshift bomb had created a spectacular show and a deafening concussion boom, it had done little damage to the fence. The alarm warbled, men ran about yelling, and more guards gathered on the southern side.

  Ramage had five of the six metal ties in place, and most of the wires, when he heard the hum of power and moved away from the fence. Electricity crackled like thunder and sparks lit the night as the fence was energized. Ramage’s repairs held, the circuit closed, and the fence buzzed to life.

  They were in. Locked in.

  With many of the floodlights out the yard was dark and shadowy, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before a full search of the compound was conducted. They hid behind the steel bucket, but when the perimeter was searched they’d be discovered. Flashlight beams bounced around the yard, and the alarm was shut down. There were no sounds of sirens approaching, no headlight beams lighting CR-115.

  The two stolen cars sat abandoned by Gypsy and crew just outside the fence, headlight beams still on, engines running. From his hiding place Ramage watched the guards investigate, but his friends were gone.

  “Ready?”

  Anna nodded.

  Ramage stood and walked casually across the yard to the side of the metal warehouse. He pressed his back to the painted metal and called to Anna, who joined him. They threaded their way through the yard, passing trucks, mounds of metal and stone. In the confusion nobody noticed them. There were truck engines, a pile of scrap, and a large pile of black rubber that looked like old pool liners. The stuff was worn and shredded, and it looked to Ramage like a rubber roof had been stripped off the building and discarded, but he realized that couldn’t be. The warehouse had a metal roof.

  They worked their way toward the rear entrance, but it took longer than Ramage had planned. They stayed in the shadows, which wasn’t difficult. The structure seemed larger closer up, and he figured three football fields could be hidden within.

  The back door flew open.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ramage drew-down, dropped to the ground, and positioned himself belly on dirt in the prone position, but didn’t fire. A man burst through the open door, looked side to side, and moved away into the darkness. Ramage bench-pressed to his feet in one smooth motion, like a surfer rising on a board, and bolted toward the closing door. It slammed with a clang, the magnetic lock engaging just as Ramage’s hand wrapped around the handle.

  “Shit.” He pressed his back to the metal wall and searched for Anna. He couldn’t see her in the gloom.

  Ramage walked toward where Anna hid and called out softly, “Stay there for a minute. I’m going to get us a security card.”

  That was the second piece of information Splice provided about the compound’s security. In addition to old school panning cameras on each corner of the aircraft hangar-sized structure, magnetic locks secured each exterior door. All the locks ran to a central computer, which showed their status, and an error box popped up if one of the doors was ajar. There was no way to open the locks without a programed ID card which had a magnetic strip similar to a credit card. Cutting the power would theoretically release the locks, but Splice explained in his note there was redundant battery backups, so cutting the power wouldn’t work.

  Ramage stepped into the shadows between a backhoe and a stack of flatbed trailers. “Son of a bitch,” he said. The trailer on top of the pile was his, right there in plain sight. Not even hidden. Anger burned his stomach, and he threw his head side-to-side in an attempt to crack his neck. He failed, so he rolled his shoulders as he moved from his hiding place and walked toward the group of men gathered along the southern fence line. They were arguing about what to do next. Flashlight beams knifed through the blackness, but nobody noticed him.

  Act like you belong, and you do.

  When he was fifty feet away from the men, he made a hard left and headed for the front of the building. He looked at his watch. 5:38AM. They were overdue to check in with Gypsy. Anna had their radio, but they’d all agreed Anna should keep the device off, and only turn it on when necessary. Gypsy and Cecil would always keep there’s on and monitor channel six.

  The group by the fence broke up, and several men headed for the back entrance, and one walked toward the front gate, skirting mounds of equipment, drums of oil and solvents, a pile of shredded rope, and more mounds of torn black rubber.

  A single guard stood where Cecil had thrown the roadkill onto the fence. Ramage saw the man’s dark silhouette turn and scan the horizon. The yellow flame of a lighter sparked, then the orange glow as he lit his burner. There was yelling and screaming behind Ramage. The search was starting and soon Anna would be discovered. He’d run out of time.

  Ramage stepped from the shadows and walked briskly toward the smoker. The scent of the burning tobacco tickled his nose. Oh, how he missed smoking. He was halfway when the guy sensed his presence and turned, the cigarette falling to the man’s side in the darkness as he brought up his gun.

  “Excuse me,” Ramage said. He approached with his hands raised, palms out in the ‘I mean you no harm’ gesture. “Just wondering if I could bum a smoke. Crazy shit tonight, huh? What do you make of those crazy bastards?”

  A flashlight flicked on and locked on Ramage, who didn’t break stride as he covered his eyes with his arm. “I don’t know you. Who do you work for?” the man said.

  Ramage was ten feet away. “I just need a smoke. I’m dying here.”

  “Stop right there,” the man said. He pointed an old six shooter at Ramage’s chest.

  “Whoa, easy,” Ramage stopped short, hands up.

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw nobody.

  He leapt straight up, pushing all his strength into his legs, coiling like a spring. Ramage twisted in midair, his right foot lashing out with a vicious kick that knocked the gun from the man’s hand.

  “What the fu—”

  Ramage came out of his kick, planted his feet, and rabbit punched the guy in the head four times in fast succession. Blood splattered the man’s face, and his eyes rolled back as he reeled. The guard realized he was going down and reached out to grab the fence, but as his consciousness fled, he pulled back, remembering the fence was electrified.

  Ramage stepped right, threw his right arm around the man’s head, covering his mouth, and forced him to the ground. He jammed the Glock into the man’s back, but the guy was out cold.

  Ramage dropped to a knee and looked around. Nobody came at him. There were no blinding flashlight beams, no warnings to freeze or I’ll shoot.

  He dragged the unconscious guard into the shadows next to a dump truck that looked like it hadn’t moved since Reagan was president and propped the guy against a flat tire. The man’s breathing was ragged and labored, but he’d be OK. Ramage searched him, found a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and in his back pocket, covered in greasy fingerpr
ints, was his security card. Ramage snatched it and faded into the shadows.

  In the gloom men wandered around, searching in trucks, behind stacks of supplies. He worked his way along the fence line, pretending to search as he went, and when he reached Anna’s hiding spot behind the bucket she wasn’t there.

  “Psst.”

  Ramage looked around, but didn’t see her.

  “Up here,” Anna said.

  He looked up, but still didn’t see her until Anna lifted her head. She lay flat on the roof of a truck parked next to the bucket. She climbed down and she and Ramage hugged.

  “All good?” she said.

  He nodded and displayed the card.

  “We’re just gonna walk right in?” she said.

  “Just like we belong.”

  “What if someone challenges us?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said.

  They stepped from the shadows and walked toward the rear door of the warehouse. Not fast. Measured. Easy. Carefree. Figures moved about in the blackness, the camera on the corner of the building rotated, but Ramage didn’t think whoever was monitoring the cameras, if anyone was, would see much. It was dark with many of the floodlights out, and the equipment looked old.

  Ramage reached the door and flashed his card. Nothing. He laid the card flat against the black box with a red light, and the light turned green as the magnetic lock disengaged.

  “After you,” Ramage said as he held the door open for Anna.

  Twelve minutes had passed since they began their assault, and Ramage figured the Sandman and his spawn had been woken and were probably pulling on pants and shirts while Chiclet came with the car. They had maybe fifteen minutes before they arrived. How did he know Piranha and the Sandman would come? Simple. Right about now Carl senior and junior were learning Sheriff Kingston was missing in action, and they’d start putting things together and get suspicious.

  The warehouse was cavernous. Tracks of rectangular fluorescent fixtures cast yellow light, and shadows danced on the walls, trucks and piles of supplies and scrap. The building was rectangular, with large bay doors on both ends, which were closed. Above, all along the structure’s length on both sides, gantry walkways, with metal steps on each end, ran the length of the building. A series of closed doors lined the upper walkways. Ground level looked like a work yard. Trucks of all shapes and sizes were parked in ordered rows along the warehouse’s walls, and in the center a huge pile of sand rose to the roof.

  Guards walked back and forth on the gantry, and Ramage tugged on Anna’s elbow and they hid behind rows of tall gas canisters marked with a variety of warning labels. He took out his phone and took a picture of one of the canisters, which was labeled ‘hydrogen’.

  “What the hell do they need hydrogen for?” Anna said.

  “Balloons?”

  “That’s helium.”

  “Right,” Ramage said.

  “What now?”

  “Hang here. I’m going to see if I can match the treads on any of these truck tires.”

  “You see your truck?” she said.

  “Not yet.”

  Ramage straightened and strode toward the line of trucks. At the far end of the building somebody walked along the edge of the sand pile, but the guy didn’t look his way. Ramage made a hard left and disappeared between two large gray trailers. He pulled free his phone and tapped on his light. When he got to the back of the truck he knelt and held out the picture of the tire treads he’d taken. No match.

  He moved down the line of trucks, stopping twice to hide from workers going about their business, and on his fourth try he got a match. It was a big red Kenworth that currently didn’t have a trailer attached. He took pictures of the truck and its tires and faded back to Anna.

  “Got it,” he said when he reached her.

  “Really? That easy?”

  “Easy peasie lemon squeezie.”

  Anna chuckled. “My dad always says that. You find anything else?”

  “Not yet. We need to search the sand trailers. Figure out why they hell they were filling them with gasoline.”

  “I want to get a look behind those doors up there,” she said.

  “The big boys are going to be here soon, so we need to make this fast. Stay close to me and cover my back. Shoot first and ask questions later. If we get separated head for the back door. If I’m not there, proceed to the extraction point.”

  She nodded.

  They slipped from their hiding place, walking side by side, making small talk about the weather and trying to look like they belonged. Thing was, they didn’t belong, and anyone they came across would know it. The compound was huge, but there couldn’t be more than twenty people working at the facility at any given time, so Ramage guessed everyone knew everyone. It was Prairie Home, after all, so if anyone got close, he’d have to take evasive action.

  The mountain of sand loomed before them and Anna bent and took a handful and let it sift through her fingers. “My sand.”

  “Most likely. I assume there’s no way to verify that? Like your sand is special or something?”

  “Nope, but the tire tracks—”

  “Are good corroborating evidence, but that’s not enough to bring to the cops.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you know how many Kenworth trucks are on the road down here? And there are sure to be many of them with the same tires.”

  Hand shovels stuck from the sand pile, and wheelbarrows were turned over. Ramage did some fast math based on the height of the pile and the size of its base and figured his original estimate of one thousand yards of sand probably wasn’t far off. Above a fluorescent light buzzed and went out, and Anna lifted an eyebrow.

  “All my positive energy,” Ramage said.

  As they came around the pile someone was coming the opposite way and Ramage did an about-face.

  “He coming after us?” Anna was ahead of him now.

  Ramage glanced to his left and checked behind him using the reflection in a truck window. “Clear.”

  They came around the pile of sand and a line of trucks filled the western wall, and there, tucked away behind two other rigs, was Big Blue.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Big Blue’s cab was locked, so Ramage fished under the passenger side wheel well and brought out a key. It was in a tiny rectangular tin can with a magnet on one side, and the word HELP written in red on the lid. Ramage held it out to Anna in the palm of his hand. He’d bought the box in Des Moines four years ago when he’d locked himself out of the rig on a bathroom stop. Eight hours and four hundred dollars later he’d vowed to never make that mistake again. He hadn’t locked his keys in the truck since then. Ramage stared at the key box like he’d never seen it before.

  “You OK?” She looked around furtively, clearly uncomfortable out in the open. Above the gantry creaked as a guard walked its length, and the gentle sifting of sand blowing against the metal warehouse was always in the background like static.

  “Yeah,” Ramage said. He was trying to remember what his life had been like when he’d hidden the key. Everything had been new, the wounds fresh. The key reminded him of those times. How those wounds would never fully heal.

  He climbed onto the rusted metal step and inserted the key. He turned it and swung the door open. Stale air mixed with body odor and the faint scent of French fries assailed him. He climbed in, his duct-taped driver’s seat squeaking.

  Anna followed, shutting the door gently behind her.

  Silence.

  Ramage climbed back into his small living quarters and found that all his personals had been removed, most likely thrown away. His wallet, ID, all his money, his bank book, his meager stash of clothes and food; it was all gone, and the interior of the truck had been cleaned. He sighed and balled his fists.

  “Sorry, Ramage.”

  “They will be. That’s for sure.” He climbed back into the cab and pulled on the door handle and made to get out, but Anna put a hand on his arm.


  “Hang on, now. Don’t go running off all angry. You’ll do something stupid.”

  He jerked his arm away. “Count on it.”

  “Ramage.” She stared at him the way his mother used to, with eyes that said you’re acting like an ass.

  He sighed.

  “Let’s catch our breath,” she said.

  Ramage closed the truck door and ran fingers through his hair. She was managing him, and he thought he liked it.

  “We can see pretty good from here,” she said.

  He looked toward the entrance, and while he couldn’t see the actual door, he saw a good portion of the front of the warehouse. They’d definitely see Piranha and Carl when they arrived, but they were wasting time.

  “Keep an eye on things.”

  She nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “Check out those trailers. Be right back.”

  “Ramage, I—”

  “Listen, I didn’t bring you so you can hide. We’ll move on in a minute. Just watch my back while I search the trailers. If you need to, beep the horn.”

  She nodded, and he got out of the Kenworth and shut the door behind him.

  Somewhere two men argued, their voices echoing through the metal building. Something about the boss kicking their asses. He smiled. Piranha and the Sandman were on the way. Just like he’d figured.

  There were six gray trailers lined up on the eastern side of the sand pile. He stayed in the shadows, slipping behind trucks, and through a pile of wooden crates stamped Juniper Plastics. The boxes were nailed shut, but the packing slip said each pallet had one hundred boxes, each containing one hundred one-ounce medicine bottles with childproof safety lids. “What the hell are you up to?” Ramage said to nobody.

  Footsteps tapped ahead and Ramage peered around the stack of boxes. A guard patrolled the outer loop of the warehouse, his flashlight beam arcing around, finding every dark space. Ramage considered taking the man down, but decided against it. Any noise—a scream, a gunshot—would bring the cavalry and they’d barely started their search.