Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  Ramage looked up, jaw clinched, but he said nothing.

  “She was an innocent, right?” The Sandman’s smirk made Ramage want to burst from his skin.

  Ramage remembered the night like it was yesterday. Nothing had been left to chance, except his ability to control his anger. Sadness washed over him. He’d failed Joan. And Anna. He’d failed himself. He jerked in his restraints and the tape dug into his wrists. “Go ahead. Kill me. I told the feds everything you’re up to,” Ramage said.

  “You don’t know shit,” the Sandman said.

  Ramage said nothing. What he knew was his business, but did it matter at this point? He might have greater leverage if Carl Sr. felt what Ramage knew was a threat. He decided to throw it all at them and hope it knocked them off balance.

  “I know you,” Ramage said.

  It took Piranha a few seconds to realize his father had been insulted. His face went red and he balled his fists.

  Carl Sr. put out an arm, patted the air, and Piranha backed off.

  “Looks to me like you steal sand to get you into the fracking sites. You make money on that. Then your man on the inside lets you fill bladders you have in the trailers with crude. Cool trick that is. Using the pump to speed things up. Then some of the crude loads you bring back here so you can strip the oil of chemicals you use to make Ride. The cherry on the sundae is then you sell the crude to the refinery, which is mixed with regular oil when you deliver it. So nothing is missed. Brilliant when you think about it. You need benzene, and pulling random loads for filtering would reduce your risk. Easy peasie lemon squeezie,” Ramage said. “I miss anything?”

  “Prove it,” Piranha said.

  Ramage laughed. “Are you really that stupid? The feds are on the way, backed up by the state cops and Army. They’ll be here in, oh…” Ramage made a show of looking at his watch. “Anytime now.”

  Carl Sr. looked to his son, who shrugged.

  It was a good bluff. All the physical evidence at the compound would be more than enough proof, and that had to worry the Sandman.

  Anna cleared her throat. “That’s what that machine I saw upstairs does? It strips out the benzene from the crude using heat—the coal we saw—hydrogen and other chemicals and you make Ride. What the hell is it?”

  The Sandman sighed. “It’s a type of speed combined with acid. Old school and trippy. People love it.”

  “How many people has it killed?” Ramage said.

  Carl Sr. laughed. “Less than die from opiates every hour. Way less.”

  “So you’re not hurting anyone? You’re providing a service. Right?” Ramage said.

  Carl Sr. chuckled. “Now that you mention it. Never thought of it that way before. We’re doing good, hey son.”

  “Regular doctor do-goods we are,” Piranha said.

  “Do-goods. Yeah, I like that. OK.” The Sandman leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m losing my patience here. Feel me?”

  Ramage was still as stone and he didn’t answer.

  “Who have you told this fantasy to, Ramage?” Carl Sr. said.

  “Anyone who would listen,” he said.

  “Really, because you just broke in here and figured this all out like five minutes ago. How’d you fill in the feds with your ass taped to my chair?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “What I thought. You’re full of shit. You haven’t had a chance to tell anyone anything and you’ve got no proof.” Carl Sr. stood. “Enough of this shit.”

  “Who sent you?” Piranha said. “Best to just tell us. Be easier on her.”

  Ramage shook with anger. Anna’s eyes glistened with tears, the black bags beneath her eyes the color of night.

  “Anna,” Ramage said.

  Her head snapped up.

  “Hang in there. We’re OK. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

  The right-cross caught Ramage on the side of his head and his ear rang like an alarm. Pain and anger cycled through him. His face grew hot. He was helpless.

  “Look.” The Sandman stood before Ramage. “You’ve lost this one. You can’t win. When the fuzz shows—if they show—you two will be long gone. What other evidence do you have? Our paperwork for the oil is in order. We make a solvent used in the fracking process in the lab upstairs. I’ve got a license.”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “I’m going to give you one more chance. That’s the fair thing to do, right son?”

  Piranha’s face twisted, but he nodded.

  “Who sent you? Why are you here? And who have you told your wild story to?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Ramage took another punch to the face, but he hardly felt it. He was worried about Anna, what they’d do to her when he was gone. Even if Rex did come, he hadn’t missed check-in yet, which meant it would be hours before the feds arrived. Gypsy and Cecil backed them up, but what could they do?

  “I’m going to take this piece of shit to the spot and dispose of him,” Carl Sr. said. “I don’t want a mess in here. Just in case he’s telling the truth about the feds. Since you and your boys have proved next to useless, I’ll take care of this myself. If you want something done right and all that shit.”

  Piranha said, “And the girl?”

  “She’s with you for now,” Carl Sr. said. He stripped the tape off Anna and helped her from the chair.

  She pleaded with her eyes, begging Ramage to help. He struggled against his bonds and the duct tape bit into his wrist and ankles. Piranha guided Anna from the conference room, the door clicking closed behind them.

  The Sandman said, “Looks like it’s just the boys now. How fun.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Sandman stuck the muzzle of his gun in Ramage’s back as they exited the warehouse via the same door Ramage and Anna had entered. The eastern horizon was orange-purple, and sunlight spread over the plain, casting long shadows over the rolling mountains of sand. Ramage looked toward the road, trying to see the glint of Gypsy’s field glasses, but couldn’t find her. Gypsy and Cecil were out there watching, but that brought him little comfort.

  “This way,” the Sandman said. He’d brought a goon with him. A big guy with a receding hairline and a gut that spilled over his belt. Carl Sr. called him Jabba.

  They threaded through the equipment he’d hidden behind earlier and made a left at the fence line, heading away from where Ramage had buried his surprise. A sparkle of light on the fence caught his eye and he noticed something he hadn’t before.

  There was a neat slit in the chain-link, a better cut than he’d made, and judging by the worn path it had been used extensively. A sentry radioed the guardhouse and the electric fence was shut down. The chain-link was peeled back, and Carl Sr. went through, followed by Ramage and Jabba. The fence was wired back up, reenergized, and within two minutes the three men were trudging across the hardpan toward the arroyo and large sand dune Ramage had traversed earlier.

  “I know you’re upset about your girl. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of her for you,” the Sandman said.

  Ramage said nothing.

  “What? No wiseass comment? No tough talk? No life for truth?”

  Ramage put his head down. His wrists were taped together, and Carl Sr. and Jabba had their guns pointed at him.

  The cut in the land was a hundred yards off. In the arroyo they’d be hidden from prying eyes. That’s where they’d shoot him, so he needed to do something before they got there. A gust of wind sprayed sand in his face, and Ramage closed his eyes.

  “You should have listened to my kid. He warned you. Told you to call your insurance company and forget about the whole thing, but you just couldn’t. Had to be the big man. You were warned,” the Sandman said.

  “Shut up, will you? You sound like a jackass,” Ramage said. He slowed just a little.

  The Sandman laughed. “That’s rich. Isn’t that rich, Jabba?”

  Jabba said nothing. Didn’t even nod.

  Ramage s
aw a glint to his left. He slowed a little more.

  “Pick up the pace. I ain’t got all day,” Carl Sr. said. He pushed Ramage and he stumbled forward, putting on a show and almost taking a swan dive onto the sand, but it wasn’t time. He needed to get closer to the arroyo.

  Jabba went ahead, and the Sandman followed, his gun in Ramage’s back. Sand blew over the hardpan, and no cars moved on the road. Everything was silent and still. They could shoot him out on the open plain and nobody would be the wiser. Just drag him to the hole, push some quick sands onto him, and that would be it, but Carl Sr. wasn’t that dumb. Piranha would’ve been a different story.

  They were twenty yards from the arroyo when Ramage saw a path that ran down into the cut. It was now or never.

  Gypsy and Cecil must have felt the same way because as Ramage approached the path a gunshot rang out and a small puff of sand rose from the ground to Jabba’s left. Carl Sr. and Jabba panned their guns around, aiming at air. Ramage threw himself toward the arroyo.

  Another gunshot from far off—Cecil with Santino’s hunting rifle.

  Jabba screamed, and Ramage looked over his shoulder as he jumped over the lip of the arroyo.

  A bullet tore into the side of Jabba’s head. The big man took two more steps as the final orders from his splattered brain were followed. Then he crumpled to the ground.

  Another gunshot, but this one was aimed at him. A bullet whizzed overhead as he landed on the downslope of the arroyo and tumbled into the cut, quick sands engulfing him like water. He flailed and bucked, sucking in sand as he spit and coughed, finally coming to a stop face down at the bottom of the arroyo.

  The crack of gunfire. Puffs of sand to his left. Ramage struggled to free himself from the deluge of sand, digging with his bound wrists, squirming, and pushing with his buried legs. He tumbled free, rolled, leapt to his feet, and ran. The walls of the arroyo grew steep, sheer sand that was unclimbable.

  “Now I’m pissed,” the Sandman yelled. “Jabba was one of my best guys. Son of a bitch.”

  The jagged cut in the land shifted left and right, years of history displayed in the striated layers of the sand walls. Purple, red, and black lines ran horizontally like roadways, occasionally interrupted by a boulder or piece of debris. It reminded Ramage of Jupiter.

  He came around a corner and stopped short.

  Chiclet’s face stared out from a wall of sand, his eyes glazed in death. His body was buried, and only his face was visible. There was a purple-black hole in the center of his forehead.

  Ramage stopped and bent over, his gag reflex kicking in. He didn’t throw up, but only because his stomach was empty, and spittle ran in long strands from his mouth. He heard footsteps and heavy breathing.

  “Where are you, Ramage? Come out and let’s get this over with.”

  The path split ahead. To the left it ran on straight, and to the right it turned sharply south. Ramage went right, and stopped, pressing himself against the hardpacked wall of the arroyo. He waited, breathing softly, heart pounding, eyes stinging with sand, shoulders aching, tape digging into his wrists.

  At his feet, a stone stuck from the sand, and Ramage dropped to a knee and ran the duct tape binding his wrists over the edge of the stone. The edge was dull, and his wrists were torn and bloodied as he raked the tape over the stone as fast as he could.

  The Sandman’s shadow appeared on the wall across the arroyo.

  Ramage doubled his efforts, jerking his hands back and forth. He twisted his wrists, the tape biting into his skin, blood dripping through his fingers as he flexed his arms. The tape tore a little, but not enough to free his hands. He stood, pressed his back to the wall, and listened hard, eliminating the whisper of the wind, the scrape of sand pushing over sand, and there was… nothing. No footfalls, no heavy breathing. The shadow paused, Carl Sr. so close Ramage smelled his cologne on the breeze.

  The primal part of Ramage’s brain jarred his instinct and reminded him of his training, which insisted he act. His rational side pointed out that he didn’t know exactly where the man was, and if he leapt from his hiding place to find Carl Sr. wasn’t where he thought, it would be too late to adjust.

  The tip of Carl Sr.’s boot inched passed the corner and Ramage sprang, throwing himself blindly toward where he thought the Sandman would be.

  Carl Sr. fired, and hot air whizzed past Ramage’s ear as the bullet just missed.

  Ramage tackled Carl Sr. full on, slamming him in the chest with all his weight and driving him to the hardpan.

  The Sandman fired again. And again, but Ramage was to close. He clung to the Sandman like a spider, legs wrapped around the man, bound wrists like scissors around the guy’s neck. Ramage squeezed with his arms, and the Sandman yelped. The tape tore a little more, but still didn’t break.

  The two men rolled across the hardpan, Carl Sr. fighting to aim his gun as Ramage struggled. Carl Sr. fired again, and this time the slug grazed Ramage’s ear.

  Ramage wailed in pain and rage. He jerked his arms, the torn tape like a dull knife on the Sandman’s neck.

  Carl Sr. twisted and bucked, the tattered duct tape tore, and Ramage pulled his wrists free. He slammed the Sandman’s arm into the ground and the gun fell from his hand. Both men threw wild punches as they rolled over the hardpan, most of which didn’t land. They got winded and separated.

  Ramage got to his feet and backed up. “Come on. No guns now. Just you and me,” he said.

  “Screw you.” Carl Sr. bent and pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster.

  Ramage dove left.

  Gunshots peppered the wall and sand fell like rain.

  “Get up,” the Sandman said. He held his gun out, the diamond on his pinky ring glistening in the sunlight, his eyes blazing with hatred.

  Cecil was a blur of white as he flew through Ramage’s peripheral vision, slamming into Carl Sr..

  The Sandman fired, and blood exploded from Cecil’s arm, but the man didn’t stop. He tackled Carl Sr., and the gun went off three more times in fast succession, but the shots smacked into sand. A low grumble rolled through the arroyo and the wall collapsed, an avalanche of sand rolling toward them like a wave. The two men struggled, and Cecil knocked the gun from Carl Sr.’s hand, but the criminal managed to punch his wounded arm. Cecil screamed and crumpled like a dead leaf.

  Ramage waded through the sand, climbing out of the arroyo, up the dune created by the collapsed wall.

  Carl Sr. straightened and went after Ramage, slipping and sliding in sand. “Where you going, pussy?”

  Ramage turned and pushed through the sand back the way he’d come. He lowered his shoulder and wrapped the guy up, driving the smaller man back like his high school football coach had taught him. Carl Sr. fell backward, and Ramage’s momentum took the legs out from under both men as they slipped in the shifting sands.

  The Sandman fell on his back and Ramage landed on top of him as the two men rolled down the side of the cave-in, quick sands chasing them like a wave closing out. Ramage punched and clawed, kicking with his feet, trying to keep his head above the flowing sand. The roar of rushing sand, like sugar being poured from a giant paper bag, filled the world as Ramage fought off Carl Sr.’s blows with his left forearm, and pounded the man with his right. Red speckled sand slid by and Ramage was buried to his waist.

  The two men stood face-to-face, waist-deep in sand, swinging, and punching like Rock-em – Sock-em Robots, the older man taking the brunt of Ramage’s anger.

  A large section of the wall gave way above and a deluge of sand slid down the cave-in. Ramage had no time to react and he and the Sandman were consumed by quick sands.

  Ramage remembered a docudrama he’d seen about extreme skiers who rented helicopters and got dropped off on mountain tops. Free skiing, they called it. No trails. No grooming. He recalled how they protected themselves in an avalanche. He didn’t have a fancy backpack that turned into an inflatable safety pod, or an emergency beacon, so he swam in the sand, stroking and kicking like
he was in the ocean. Sand crested around him like whitewater, sucking him down, and Ramage kicked hard, driving himself upward, but it wasn’t enough. He raised his right hand as he was encased in sand. His arms and legs were held fast, but he managed to jerk his head back and forth enough to create a small pocket of air in front of his face.

  Ramage held his breath as the seconds ticked by. He flexed his arms and legs again. No movement. He thought of Joan, of everything that could have been. Anna, and the future they might’ve had together. All that was gone, and it was time for him to see his wife again. Would that be so bad? He let go of it all.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and the sand loosened around his head. There were panicked yells and cries of pain. It sounded like Gypsy. He sucked in sand, stars blooming beneath his closed eyelids. Hands on his shoulders. Heat on his face. Ramage opened his eyes. Bright sunlight, then Gypsy’s smiling face as she uncovered him like he was some long-lost relic.

  He spit sand and said, “Howdy.”

  Gypsy fell back onto her ass, and Cecil laughed, blood dripping from the gunshot wound on his arm.

  When he was half dug out Ramage was able to squirm the rest of the way free. He rolled on his side, coughing, and spitting up sand. “Where’s—”

  Ten feet away the Sandman’s hand stuck from the quick sands, his middle finger curled up in a single finger salute.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Anna Gutierrez was a practical girl and she’d never expected much from the world. She hadn’t had a hard life, but it hadn’t been a bed of roses, either. She’d made choices, some good, some bad, but as Piranha rubbed her back, she knew her decision to help Ramage—demand she help—may have been her last stupid decision.

  Carl Jr.’s cologne wasn’t as bad as his father’s, but it was pretty vile. A sharp tang that smelled part gasoline and part ammonia. He was an ugly SOB, but she found herself wondering if it came down to having sex with him or dying, could she get through it? Her face burned with shame as she thought of Ramage.

  They walked down the gantry hallway toward the metal staircase. Men bustled about below as the compound came to life. Equipment growled as workers moved supplies and sand, and trucks were shifted and prepared for the day’s activities. She considered screaming, yelling rape, but figured it wouldn’t get her anything but a smack to the head. These men were loyal, otherwise they wouldn’t be permitted this deep into the Sandman’s operation.