Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover

by Mike Cooper

Either he’d returned, or he’d been there the entire time. I patted myself on the back for not having given up the surveillance too soon.

  Brinker strode across the parking lot, out the exit and—without hesitation—along the canal toward the sedan. Whoever was in the car, they expected him.

  I needed a shotgun mic. A better vehicle, parked closer. More weapons.

  I needed a fucking team. I wished Zeke had been able to come sooner.

  Instead, I holstered the Sig, crouched and moved onto the bridge.

  And when I say “onto,” I don’t mean the road deck. The box trestle was riveted together from twelve-inch iron beams, a broad trapezoid that bent to the top height from either side of the canal. By grabbing either side of the beam slanting upward in front of me, I was able to climb it like a monkey—or rather, like one of those machete-wielding island natives who zip up palm trees to drop coconuts to the tourists. Fifteen feet to the top, and my hands began to hurt from the rough metal edges.

  The bridge’s open top was a framework of girders crossed from side to side. I kept low and moved as quietly as I could, along the beam until I was at the far end. I stopped and squatted there, a new gargoyle crouched at the top corner of the trapezoid.

  It was dark, almost misty, and street lamps cast dim pools of light. I hoped that Brinker’s attention was on the car, and the driver’s on him. He didn’t look up and nothing happened in the car, so perhaps I remained unseen.

  Twenty feet from the car Brinker stopped abruptly. He stared at the windshield for a moment and backed away, starting to move fast.

  Harmony swung her door open and stepped out, pistol raised in an easy two-handed grip. Shielded by the door she called out in a clear voice.

  “Brinker! Stop there!”

  “You’re not—” He bit off the word. “Who are you?”

  “Get over here. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  This was fun. I shifted my weight a fraction, getting comfortable.

  Brinker didn’t move, except for his head, turning slightly this way and that as he looked for help.

  “Your pals aren’t here,” said Harmony. “Just me.”

  Was she serious? If it was me I’d have said “us” even if I was alone, to intimidate Brinker as thoroughly as possible.

  Maybe Harmony didn’t play that kind of game.

  “But I got a call.” Brinker was almost plaintive. Looking more closely I could see a bandage on his hand, and his other arm seemed unusually stiff. “I was supposed to come out here . . .”

  “A ten-dollar children’s toy can change anyone’s voice,” Harmony said.

  Ha! I’ve done that myself. But I probably wouldn’t have boasted about it.

  “What’s going on?” she said, raising the handgun enough to catch Brinker’s attention.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”

  “On the phone, you said there was a problem.”

  “Yeah, but I thought—”

  “Tell it, Brinker.” Her voice sharpened. “Or I’ll fucking shoot you. I’m really tired of not knowing what’s going on, and if you can’t help me out, then fuck it, you might as well have a few more holes in your head.”

  He didn’t think about it long.

  “Nabors just called me. His car got stolen out from under him.”

  “Really?” Harmony became more alert, straightening into a quick left-right scan. “He got jacked?”

  “No. From in front of a store or something—he went inside to get his dry cleaning, he came out, it was gone.”

  “What about him?”

  “Nabors?”

  “Yes, Nabors.” Maybe a little impatience there. “Anyone threaten him? Point a gun? Did he see anything?”

  “Nothing.” Brinker laughed, too high-pitched. “Literally nothing—just an empty space where the car used to be.”

  “What about police?”

  “Police? You don’t want us to call them, do you?”

  “He didn’t, did he?”

  “No. I told him to find a taxi and go home.”

  Pause. Harmony seemed to be thinking. I tried to see her shoes, but it was too dark at the ground. The plain black windbreaker and dark pants carried no message.

  “All right.” Harmony had apparently come to a decision, her voice sharp. “You’re coming with me.”

  “What? No, I’m not!”

  She raised the pistol. I couldn’t see the make. “Yes. Silas was smart enough to pick off your CFO. He must be looking for you, too.”

  “Silas? He’s here?” Brinker’s head twitched side to side. I hunched involuntarily.

  “Of course not. He’s driving Nabors’s Porsche. Or searching it, more likely—I bet Nabors left his laptop inside, full of all kinds of evidence.”

  Shit. I didn’t even think of that.

  “In any event, I want to talk to him, and he probably wants to talk to you. We’ll have a nice little sit-down.”

  “Uh-uh.” Brinker shook his head. “That’s not part of the deal.”

  “Deal? There is no deal. Get in the car, asshole.”

  “You think you can fuck with me?” Brinker was back to his old self. “I’m protected, you dumb bitch. Do anything to me—anything at all—and the Russians will tear you into shreds.”

  Ah-hah! Russians.

  “You’re leaving, and I’m going back inside.”

  He turned away. Harmony raised her handgun—a nice two-handed Weaver stance, steady and unhurried.

  “Brinker.” Her voice still calm, but with an absolute edge. “Get in the car.”

  Decision time.

  She appeared ready to shoot him if he didn’t turn around. I didn’t want Brinker dead until I understood what was going on. I didn’t want him disappeared, either—he might never come back, no matter what she said about using him to draw me in.

  And, okay fine, I admit it, I wanted to talk to Harmony directly.

  I raised the Sig—slowly, still trying to avoid attention—aimed and fired at her car’s front tire.

  BAANG!

  The gunshot was stunningly loud. I missed the tire, but a cloud of steam jetted from the grille—guess I hit the radiator instead. Harmony dropped immediately, seeking cover behind her car door. I could see her scanning the area, rapidly, efficiently.

  Brinker went to the ground and stayed there, curled into a ball.

  I ran down the beam, firing three more times as I went. Because the beam was at about seventy-five degrees, “fell” or “skidded” might be more accurate, but I managed to land on my feet and keep going. Harmony, undeterred by my wild aim, raised up just enough to shoot back. I dove for the other side of the car, fired twice more underneath it, then jumped up, bringing the Sig into line—

  —and stared into the barrel of Harmony’s pistol, pointed straight back at me.

  We both froze.

  She was still behind her open door, aiming down over the corner of the windshield. I crouched behind the tire, my head exposed and both arms just above the hood, holding my handgun in a range grip.

  If we fired simultaneously, the bullets would probably collide. Just like in Wanted.

  “Hi, Silas.” If there was stress in her voice I couldn’t hear it.

  “Hey, Harmony.”

  “Sorry I missed you last time.”

  I paused. “That’s pretty good.”

  “You going to pull that trigger?”

  “I hope not.” If either of us fired, an involuntary muscle spasm in the other would bring a return shot. Even unaimed, we were so close that the odds were good of mutual, possibly lethal, injury.

  Steam hissed from the radiator. Something pinged inside the engine. My senses were on overload, hearing every little rustle, seeing every little movement.

  “How are the horses?” I said.

  “Horses?”

  “His.” I kept my eyes and aim at Harmony but tipped my head toward Brinker.

  “They were fine when we left. I gave them some fodder.”<
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  “Glad to hear it. I felt bad about them. All that gunfire.”

  Brinker stirred on the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?” he said.

  “Is he yours?” I asked.

  “No.” She glanced over his way, utterly disdainful. “What’s your interest?”

  That was a good question. “I’m not . . . hmm. Staying alive, I think.”

  “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

  “I heard.”

  “In person.”

  My hand trembled slightly. You try holding two pounds of metal at arm’s length, motionless—it’s not so easy. Harmony was able to brace her forearms on the car frame.

  “Not today.”

  She nodded slightly. “What are we going to do here?”

  “I was hired for a job. You were hired for a job. Mine’s done.”

  Another pause. From the corner of my eye I noticed Brinker start to slide backward, out of the way.

  “Shifting terrain,” Harmony said. “Not quite sure where I stand.”

  “How about you go find out? We’ll set something up later.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Starbucks?”

  “I’m going to down weapons,” she said. “I’d rather you didn’t shoot me.”

  I stared into her eyes. They were dark and unblinking. “Okay.”

  I moved the pistol sideways and down. Harmony lowered hers. We both straightened up.

  “Your vehicle’s shot,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Her gaze flicked to the engine compartment, then back to mine. “More than once, in fact.”

  “Sorry.” I paused. “You know, Nabors isn’t using his right now.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s in a lot on Canfield Avenue. Engine’s running. Hitchhike up there, it’s all yours.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Brinker stood and ran. Harmony and I swung toward him in unison, both weapons up again. He sprinted across the road—four, five steps—and dove unhesitatingly into the canal.

  The splash was loud, and I thought I saw drops glittering briefly in the air, reflecting the street lamp’s dim light. More splashing as Brinker paddled away.

  “Ah, fuck.” Harmony walked over and looked at the water. “Brinker! Brinker, you dumbshit, get back here!”

  No response. He’d already flailed to the other side, and we could see him pulling himself up the canal’s rock wall. In a moment he was over the top and running down the same alley I’d come through. The squelching of his shoes echoed slightly.

  I glanced sideways. Light from the parking lot outlined Harmony’s profile, making her hair glow with a sort of halo.

  Halo? Jesus.

  “I have to go,” I said. “We good?”

  “No.” She still held the pistol in a movement ready. “I don’t know.”

  I thought about offering her a ride, but managed to suppress myself. “You have a number?”

  She looked directly at me, frowning, though the handgun stayed down. “What?”

  “You know.” I made a phone pantomime with my free hand by my ear.

  She laughed. “Get out of here.”

  “Sure.” I backed toward the bridge. Once I was a little farther away and moving, she probably couldn’t hit me except by luck. We watched each other the whole way, until I scuffed the main beam with one heel. “Later,” I said, and started jogging.

  I didn’t look back. She didn’t shoot me. Good enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Harmony reminded me of someone.

  Showing up to brace Brinker all by herself—that wasn’t so smart, especially if she had backup available. He was a civilian, sure, but he’d already proven to have dangerous associates. The firefight at the barn was adequate demonstration of that. A lone gun for hire, prone to unnecessary risks . . . oh, right, that’s me.

  Anyone else on the other side of our standoff, I probably would have kept firing, the hell with the risks. But Harmony struck a chord.

  So to speak.

  I bet she hated that sort of pun.

  Meanwhile, a more immediate question: where could I sleep tonight? Dave wasn’t answering. I didn’t want to drive all the way down to the cabin in West Virgina, especially with the bedbug problem there. Money was low but hadn’t run out yet, so I found a motel not far from downtown, a five-story granite building with a façade from the nineteenth century. It still had “Fur Exchange” carved into stone above the second story, but now it seemed to house mostly homeless families, not trappers and traders.

  I took a shower so long and hot it was a wonder the boiler didn’t run out.

  The night wasn’t restful.

  I was out at dawn, hauling my satchel of guns down to the car—no way would I have left it in the trunk overnight. Breakfast was coffee, “cheese” Danish and a jar of peanuts from a gas station. Then I drove out of the city. Back to horse country.

  Brinker had left home.

  No lights, no cars. I waited two hours, sitting in the Aveo a quarter mile up the road, the estate just visible. Commuter traffic started early: pickups mostly, at first—the hard-used vehicles of people who work for a living. Then more cars, newer and shinier as the clock ticked through rush hour. Around eight-thirty the volume slowed again. I ate peanuts and tried not to yawn too much.

  An hour after that I emerged from the cab, stiff and tired. But the day was beautiful, sunshine burning off the dew and birds in the air. I pissed against the rear tire, checked the Sig, got back in and drove straight to the barn.

  All the way in I kept scanning the grounds. Nothing suggested habitation. The windows were blank and still, the doors all closed up tight. The gravel drive was gouged and the lawn torn where my Lincoln had been flipped over, but no other sign of the events two nights ago was visible.

  The barn was empty. It smelled of horses and feed and shit, but the animals themselves were gone. I walked back to the house and tried the bell, then pounded the door. Nothing.

  I could have broken in, but Brinker didn’t seem like the kind of wrongdoer to leave evidence lying around in plain view. After another minute I gave up and returned to the car.

  Down the road I called Clara.

  “Kind of busy right now,” she said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Deadlines. Server crashing my last post. Twitter queues. The usual. Hey, how’s Harmony?”

  What is it about women? “We’re not completely trying to kill each other anymore.”

  “That’s progress.”

  I pulled off the road at a wide patch of gravel—the kind of place hunters might park for a few hours of deerstalking. Trees shaded the ground. A pair of cars went by in the other direction, one tailgating the other, clearly impatient.

  “Give me a minute?” I said. “I was hoping you’d found something on Clayco’s mystery buyer.”

  “They’re selling the Micro division, all right.”

  Nabors had confirmed as much, but it was nice to hear it from outside. “I thought so.”

  “This guy I know, he’s an analyst at Wetherell Stark.”

  The name was familiar. “Hedge fund?”

  “Private equity, mostly. It’s been a bad few years—they’re trying to move into distressed debt.”

  “An evergreen market, the way the world is now. What about them?”

  “So he pays attention to subgrade issues, and Clayco’s barely treading water. It’s a lot worse than it looked when I first checked. You know the story—borrowed way too much when the money was easy, and now they can barely roll it over every quarter.”

  “Liquidity crunch?”

  “Serious. Selling Pittsburgh will keep the wolves away for . . . let’s see, he gave me some cash flow numbers . . . nine months.”

  I found myself nodding. “Clayco really needs the deal.”

  “Nine months takes us just through next bonus season. What do you bet the CEO’s rewriting his retirement provisions as we speak?”

  “No bet.�
� I got out and leaned on the car’s door, stretching my legs. “Okay, I get it. Clayco is a motivated seller. Who’s the buyer?”

  “Ah.” Clara sounded disappointed. “Not so much progress there. The entity’s name is Dagger Light Holdings, but it’s just a shell. Montserrat incorporation and the directors are names from the same local law firm that set it up.”

  “Can your friend track them down?”

  “He’s busy. Wetherell Stark looked at Clayco, decided against it and moved on. Probably why he was willing to tell me anything—it’s just an anecdote now, impress the crowd at the bar.”

  “Was that you? A face at the bar?”

  Clara laughed. “I bought him some drinks, yeah, so what?”

  “Uh-huh.” I let it go. “Know anyone else you can throw at Dagger Light? Which, by the way, that’s a pretty good name.”

  “For a throwaway.” She paused. “Sorry, had to check . . . um . . . oh, right. Montserrat. Yeah, I’ll ask a Scottish contact I know. She’s got some connections at HMR.” Her Majesty’s revenue service, that is—Montserrat is a British territory.

  “Maybe you could talk to Johnny, too.”

  “Why, is he in on this?”

  “No, but he might be able to help out. He knows everybody.”

  “I’ll call him.” She might have anyway—he really was good for gossip, and always willing to listen to Clara. I know he fed her storylines occasionally, hoping to spin the market one way or another. They could be remarkably useful to each other.

  “Nothing about Russians?” I said.

  “No.” Clara paused a moment. “Though, I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “Want me to plant something?”

  “Try to flush them out?” I thought about it. “No, not yet. Might be useful later.”

  “Whatever you do, you’re going to let me know, right?”

  So she could beat the other newshawks into print. “I don’t think there’s anything in it for you.”

  “There’s always something.”

  A beep. “Hey, I got another call.”

  “See you.” She hung up.

  I looked at the phone, pressed a couple of buttons and lost the call waiting. That’s what happens—I’m always buying new crappy phones, and they’re all a little different.

  The incoming number read as “unavailable.”