Even with all the trappings of a luxury ride, the combination of keeping the heat adjusted for their attire and the lack of shocks on the snow tracts gave Trick the sensation that he was riding in a World War I tank. Every small bump managed to lift him from his seat, each small shift in the landscape tossing him from side to side.
In the passenger seat Mac seemed to be having much the same experience, his mouth clamped shut as he worked the handheld GPS device.
Mac had a full name, but it had been so long since anybody used it, Trick couldn’t remember what it was. He was pretty sure the Mac moniker was an abbreviation of his last name – MacMillan, perhaps – but he wasn’t sure.
Not that it mattered much anyway.
The man had been with The Dogs for more than two years now, having joined up after Wood took over, another one claimed in the rapid member expansion that took place as the old guard was removed.
A glance into the rearview mirror showed no sign of Barnham, meaning he was still stretched out on the bench seat, his feet flat on the floor by the door.
At six and a half feet tall, Barnham was far and away the most distinguishable of the group, whether standing up or folded onto a chopper. In a previous life he had been a chemist for a small company somewhere down south, having moved north under personal invite of Wood, his expertise serving well in their newest financial undertaking.
“How we looking?” Trick asked, glancing over to Mac.
“Just stay on this road,” Mac replied, his voice a deep baritone that always reminded Trick of Barry White, though he would never admit to a soul in The Dogs he knew who that was. “Clear sailing on in.”
“ETA?” Trick asked, shifting his weight over onto his right haunch, attempting to give his left side a break from the continued pressure of sitting on it.
“No clue,” Mac said, arching an eyebrow as he glanced to the speedometer and up to Trick. “But we’ve got about a mile and a half.”
Three hours ago the attempt at levity would have drawn a smile from Trick, but at this point all he could do was grunt in response.
The reasoning behind the trip was sound. He and Wood had sat at that kitchen table sharing Cold Smoke beers and analyzing it from every angle, jointly deciding it needed to be done. At the time he had agreed with it, still felt that way now.
If he didn’t, he would have told Wood, who would have listened.
It was what allowed their dynamic to work, had changed the culture of The Dogs for the better in the preceding year.
Still, it did nothing to lift Trick’s mood as he pressed just a little harder on the gas, watching the RPM’s rise by nearly 1,000, the speed barely increasing as they rumbled on ahead.
“Alright,” Mac said, “we’re getting close now.”
He held the small device out in front of him, the tip of it just a few inches from the dash as he looked out his side window, Trick doing the same.
In the rear they could hear movement as Barnham rousted himself, taking up a post and peering into the snow swirling about the van.
“What are we looking for again?” Barnham asked, the van shifting slightly as he moved over behind Trick, pressing a shoulder against the outer wall and peering through the window, his head now visible in the rearview.
“Just the house right now,” Trick said. “We need to find Cuddy and his guys, need to see how bad the lab is, then figure things out from there.”
“Well, I can already tell you the lab is toast,” Barnham said, letting out a small groan as Trick glanced to the back seat, seeing the large man press both palms into his eye sockets for a moment.
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Because I can smell it,” Barnham said, “and trust me, that’s not how any functioning lab is supposed to smell.”
Despite his position, Trick had never really had much experience with meth. He had been around it a fair bit, never once taking even a sample, knowing his own personality well enough to know there was a weakness for indulgence.
He had moved it, he had brokered more than a couple deals involving it, but never had he gone near the production or consumption sides.
That was Barnham’s department, and if the man said something was wrong, he would take him at his word.
“Quarter mile and closing, according to this,” Mac said, all three falling silent as they stared out the windows, trying in vain to see past the blowing snow, the wind whipping the top layer up from the ground and enveloping the van.
For the first time all morning Trick let the misery he felt at being holed up in the coach fall away, his focus on the world outside, hoping for there to be at least something positive for him to work with when they arrived at their destination.
Little by little the house came into view, pulling away every bit of that hope. Dread, anxiousness, even a bit of rage, flooded in to take its place.
“That’s not Cuddy, is it?” Mac asked from the passenger seat, registering what he was seeing at the same time as Trick.
“Get the sat phone up,” Trick said, ignoring the question as he again leaned on the gas, moving straight past the driveway without slowing. “Prez isn’t going to be happy about this.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Standing in the open end of what remained of the barn, there was no way anybody inside the snow coach didn’t see Ferris and me. Given the distance, and the snow continuing to swirl around us, it was impossible to get a clear look at the driver or any passengers, but it wasn’t hard to notice the way the vehicle slowed upon approach, before hitting the gas and speeding past the house.
As much as a snow coach could anyway.
“What in the hell?” Ferris muttered, shifting just slightly to watch the vehicle, staring until it disappeared on the opposite side of the farmhouse, the sound of its engine revving the only sign of it passing.
“Snow coach,” I said, not sure if his question was rhetorical, but answering it just the same. “Without a doubt the first time I have ever seen one outside the park, or pulling a trailer behind it.”
“Any guesses as to what might be under the tarp in the back?”
Like Ferris, I stood staring at the back of the farmhouse, wishing I could see through to the other side, could get a better look at whoever had just driven past.
“Best guess? Either snowmobiles or supplies.”
“Supplies?” Ferris asked. “As in, food and water?”
To that I shook my head slightly, already drifting away from the shattered barn, taking my first step back into the deep drifts surrounding us. “Food and water they could easily store in the van. Whatever was back there they weren’t as concerned about the elements getting to.”
I left the explanation at that, letting Ferris fill in the rest.
Before us were the remains of a large meth production facility, all of it constructed from wood, plastic and copper. Even the raw materials needed to feed it could be safely sealed and stored without concern for snow touching it, a simple tarp being more than sufficient to transport everything that was needed to get the place back up and going.
As my mind continued to piece together what we had just seen, my legs began to move, my pace picking up to a hurried walk before moving into a run, arms and legs pumping, fighting in vain against the deep snow piled around.
Thus far, in the 12 hours and counting that we had been on this case, we had seen at most a handful of vehicles out moving around. A couple of the regulars at Ned’s, Baker and Azbell on their patrol, a person or two going to the hospital or Albertson’s. None beyond the edge of town.
For somebody to have been this far out, driving that oversized contraption, was too far a stretch.
My quads and calves burned as I pushed on, a dull stabbing arising in my ribs. Ice crystals clung to the air, scratching my throat as I pulled in deep gulps, ignoring the bits of wood and metal passing against my legs, arms pumping, trying to develop some momentum.
I had no way of knowing if Ferris was behind me, no sounds reaching my e
ars beyond my own panting, the howling whistle of the wind as I made it to the indentation on the driveway. I plowed straight through the shallow snow before delving into the deeper stuff again, using the trough Ferris and I had cut on the way in, moving directly for the truck.
This time I didn’t bother waiting for him to take the wheel, going straight for the driver’s side, wrenching the door open and starting the engine. Just minutes removed from the trip out, the machine roared to life on the first turn, warm air blasting through the vents, hitting me square in the face.
My pulse raced as I drew in heavy breaths, the shelter of the truck allowing bits of sweat to form on my brow, streaking south on either side of my face.
It took more than a minute for Ferris to arrive, jumping into the passenger seat, throwing a spray of snow across the front of the truck before slamming the door. Leaning forward, he braced his right forearm against the dash, his left hand pointing out through the windshield.
No words crossed his lips as he signaled for me to move, his breath so short it resembled angry wheezing, his face void of color as his mouth gaped.
Under different circumstances I might have had concern for his state, even paused to make sure he was okay, wasn’t having a heart attack.
As it were, I focused on his directive, pulling a K-turn in the driveway, the snow crunching beneath our tires as I followed our trail back out onto the road, the rear end fishtailing slightly behind us.
It took less than 100 yards behind the wheel for two things to become immediately apparent. The first was that I now understood why Ferris was so tense the entire time he was driving, the elements giving the truck a mind of its own.
Every part of me wanted to jam the gas to the floor, to speed forward, find out who had just happened to show up in a snow coach and find us on a desolate country road, a load of mystery supplies on a trailer behind them.
Once or twice I even indulged myself, pressing my foot down hard, only to hear the engine whine, to see the RPM’s spike, but notice no effect at all on our speed.
The second thing that stood out were the tracks of the snow coach, the tank-like treads leaving a clear path through the middle of the road. More than a foot wide with thick rubber slats every few inches, they cut an obvious trench through the drifts, a second set of tracks resting comfortably within them from the trailer they pulled.
Even with the swirling snow outside, it was some of the easiest tracking I had ever done.
“You see anything up ahead?” Ferris managed, the words coming out one at a time, placed between breaths. My previous assumption about his graveled voice seemed to confirm a lifetime of cigars, his breathing sounding pained, punctuated by a cough thick with phlegm.
“Trail is clear as day,” I said, realizing I was maintaining the same stance he had before, my chin just a few inches above the wheel as I stared out at the road.
“I mean the coach,” Ferris pressed, “you see it?”
Angling my gaze upward a few degrees, I squinted into the sea of white moving about us.
“No,” I said, giving a quick shake of my head.
I had never been behind the wheel of a snow coach, but I’d encountered more than my share of them in the preceding five years. No less than three different companies used them for winter tours to popular attractions, allowing people to travel in warmth and comfort.
My own shop was closed from Halloween to the first of May, having done a few experimental runs using snowmobiles before deciding that it just wasn’t worth the effort of trying to keep business going in the winter, the elements and the liability too much to bother with.
What I knew was that the coach was far better equipped for these conditions than any truck ever would be, even with the heavy chains wrapped around the tires. The treads on the coach allowed it to sit much higher, riding along the top of the snow rather than trying to plow through it.
As such, it had a top speed of at least 10 miles an hour faster than us. Coupled with the extensive lead they had, the outcome of our chase was already clear.
“There’s no way we’re going to catch them,” I said, stating the realization out loud, letting Ferris hear the disgust in my voice as I delivered the news. “They’re too far out, have a top speed much higher than ours. All we can do is keep tracking them, see what we find when we get there.”
Even as I said the words, I knew it was an eventuality that wasn’t particularly attractive. They would arrive wherever they were headed long before us, no doubt have more men, probably all with heavy firepower.
The reality of our situation was that there wasn’t anybody we could call on for help, no SWAT teams or air support that could give us a hand. With only two people, arguably four if counting the deputies back at the station, we had to be careful what we did.
“Of course,” I said, “the noise of the truck will alert them long before we get there. Someone could probably hear this big engine more than a mile out, even with the wind.”
I glanced over to see Ferris raise his hands to his face, the skin loose and moving beneath his fingers as he rubbed twice before dropping them to his lap.
“Yeah,” he finally said, resignation in his voice.
I knew the feeling. The very last thing I wanted to do was stop our pursuit. This was the first clear lead we’d had on Yvonne Endicott since she was kidnapped.
Still, we had to do things intelligently. Showing up and getting ourselves killed wouldn’t do anybody any good.
“So what are you thinking?” Ferris asked.
Again, I noticed his deference to me, though whether he was just showing professional courtesy or legitimately seeking my counsel I didn’t know. Didn’t much care either.
“We stop at the station,” I said. “Find out who owns that house we just came from, maybe figure out where they’re headed from that, start working our way out from there.”
I paused, lowering my gaze to look up through the window, and said, “Even with the snow coming down like it is, I figure we’ve got hours before this trail is filled in.
“Let’s try to be smart about this while we still have that luxury.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sam Cuddyer turned and whipped the welded copper pipe he held toward the back wall of the barn. His momentum spun him in a complete revolution across the smooth concrete floor, the overhead lights reflecting off the polished metal, the entire sequence resembling a bizarre discus throw.
Once it was released, Cuddyer didn’t bother watching, not giving it a second thought as it slammed into the metal wall and clattered to the floor, two distinct sounds indicating that it had come apart on impact.
Reaching out and cutting the gas feed to his torch, Cuddyer pulled off his welder’s gloves and threw them at the ground. For a moment he stood over them, fuming, before lashing out with his foot, sending them across the floor.
This was not how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to be home, in the farmhouse, his feet propped up. Every so often he and Elias would take a walk out back, make sure things were coming along as expected, sending Jasper to lug in more supplies whenever they needed something.
It didn’t matter that it was a damn blizzard outside, his occasional walk out back a little colder than usual, but nothing more.
All he had to do was tell Jasper to clear a path and the man would, his eagerness to please so ingrained it was difficult not to exploit it from time to time.
In a couple days, when the run was finished, they would load it all up and drive it over, collecting a nice duffel bag full of cash for their efforts, getting instructions on how much to prepare the next time.
It wasn’t millions, but it was damn sure more than Cuddyer or his crew had ever seen before.
That’s not how any of it was playing out though. Somewhere along the line Elias had gotten lazy, had given himself over to his long dormant addiction, had begun dabbling in his own product again.
Raising both fists to his temples, Cuddyer ground his knuckles i
nto the soft flesh, pushing until pops of light burst behind his eyelids.
In a way, this was his fault too. He had also gotten lazy, had not kept a close enough eye on Elias, had maybe even chosen to ignore the obvious for the sake of keeping things going.
And now here they were, down to their last few precious hours, their enterprise, their very lives, hanging in the balance.
Standing at the end of the unfinished production line, Cuddyer couldn’t help but feel bitterness rising like bile in the back of his throat. Right now his cook was in a bad way, unconscious for 12 hours with no signs of emerging from it. He had been forced to farm out a job to Jasper that the man was ill-equipped to handle, trusting someone who could barely navigate under the best of conditions to make it into town and get what was needed without arousing suspicion.
Adding to the mess was the girl locked up inside, someone whose abduction was foolish, an act of desperation, the kind of thing Cuddyer usually tried so hard to avoid.
Making it even worse was the fact that she had managed to do basically nothing for Elias, her only accomplishment being pushing Cuddyer someplace he didn’t want to go, making him raise his hand to a woman.
Things were unraveling. The situation was getting beyond his control, was threatening to come apart completely at any moment.
Making the conscious effort to unclench his fists, to let his fingers extend themselves to full length, Cuddyer pushed out a long breath. Drew in another and held it, tried to force his pulse to slow down.
This was the moment, that point where he could either get things back on track or watch them go careening off the road. He just needed to tackle one item at a time, to make progress, to show they were moving in the right direction.
Moving through the middle of the two rows of tables, Cuddyer left his gloves and torch where they lay. He went straight for the far corner table, taking up the satellite phone and extending the antenna.
It took more than 30 seconds for it to come to life, the phone an old one that Cuddyer had gotten years before to use when going out into the back country. Dialing the number from memory, he pressed it to his ear and leaned against the closest table, the corner of the wood digging into his backside.
Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3) Page 14
