Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (15 page)

“So who were they?”

“I don’t—” His voice squeaked and cut short when I shoved the pistol barrel into his lap. “Two accountants, that’s all! We sat down, went through some ledgers, I showed them some reports. Like any inspection.”

“How good was their English?”

“What?” His mouth opened.

“They were Russian, right?”

“I don’t think so.” Either he was a far better actor than he looked, or my question had truly come out of the blue. “Russian? They were as American as you and me. We talked about the playoffs. One guy had a Carnegie Mellon ring.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. If secretive and mysterious Russians weren’t trying to buy Clay Micro’s seismographic technology . . . then why were secretive and mysterious Russians trying to kill me?

“Are you sure?”

Nabors must have sensed my uncertainty, for his own self-assurance began to return. “Yes, I’m sure. When we were finishing up, one said something like, hurry up, we’ve got a long drive back. And the other was like, just throw everything in the briefcase, we can sort it out on the road, Cheryl’s gonna be pissed if I’m late again.”

“Cheryl?”

“Whatever. His girlfriend.” Nabors shrugged.

Zeke and I had come to Pittsburgh by car, but we had reason to avoid airplanes. Anyone else would fly—unless they were within a hundred miles.

Maybe a hundred fifty.

“Were they independent?” I asked.

“Huh?”

I raised the pistol to his nose—just a little reminder. Nabors swallowed hard.

“Were they company employees? Or outside accountants, hired for one task?”

“I don’t know! We just talked about the statements, they asked some questions.”

“But they
were
CPAs?”

“They knew what they were talking about, sure.”

Another ten minutes, but I couldn’t get anything else useful out of him. Deliberately or not, Brinker’s fault or otherwise, Nabors really was a mushroom.

My hand had tired, holding the pistol. The Aveo’s interior smelled of Nabors’s sweat. Time to move on.

“Give me your phone,” I said.

“Wha—?”

“Now.” I prodded him in the sternum. He quickly reached inside his jacket and handed over a smartphone of some sort. I glanced down long enough to power it off and put it in my own pocket. “Can’t have you calling 911 two seconds after you get out of the truck, that’s all.”

He breathed out abruptly, relief obvious. “You’re letting me go?”

“Sure.” I switched the pistol to my left hand again and shifted into drive. “I’m even going to take you back.”

Yes, it would have been better to leave him behind as quickly as possible, but wandering down the avenue on foot he might attract attention. As carefully as before, I turned out of the car wash and drove back to the strip mall. Inside the parking lot I stayed at the edge, near the exit, ready to depart.

“Out you go.” I watched Nabors scrabble for the door handle, not looking away from my face as he pushed the door open and scooted onto the pavement. The pile of dry cleaning fell in a tangled mess to the ground. “Nabors!”

He paused, about to slam the door and, probably, run.

“Go back to one of these stores,” I said. “Borrow a phone, call a cab. Keep it simple.”

“Yeah, right, good idea.”

“Keep me
out
of it.” I paused. “Or we’ll be talking again. In person. Understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

I put the Sig away, finally. Nabors swung the door closed and bent to pick up his shirts. I put the car in gear, and when Nabors stood up, the clothing a heap over both arms, I looked through the window.

“I really don’t want to see you again,” I said.

“No sir.”

I exited onto the avenue. Nabors stood and watched me go. His plastic dry cleaning bags reflected the streetlights, flickering in my rearview mirror.

S
omeone else
was
watching the Clay Micro offices.

I’d driven back, the same route Nabors had led me out on, figuring I’d give it one more try. Maybe Brinker would have returned. I could do one more interview and still get dinner before midnight.

The parking lot was emptier now, maybe five vehicles left. Security lights were on at the corners of the building. Small floodlights illuminated the sign at the lot’s entrance. I continued along the canal, past the lot, headed for my spot opposite the iron bridge. With the windows down, I could smell the canal’s dank, brackish water.

But the spot was occupied.

I didn’t notice until I was almost there—the new vehicle was as small as the Aveo, and concealed behind the half wall. Four doors, light-colored, not too old. Only one person visible inside, a shadow in the driver’s seat.

I kept the car’s speed steady and drove past. At the end of the industrial row, where windows were broken and dock bays boarded over, their renovation still long in the future, the canal road ended in a T with another street. I stopped, signaled and turned right, around the corner and out of sight.

Now what?

Whoever was in the sedan had chosen the spot same as I had—for covert surveillance. They couldn’t be responding to a report from Nabors. It was too soon, and in any event he didn’t know I’d picked him up here. So whoever it was, they were watching Clay Micro for some other reason.

It wasn’t the Russian’s panel van. Odds were running strong on Harmony’s team.

No reason they’d have recognized the Aveo, which Dave and I had bought six hours ago, and I’d kept my face turned away after the first glimpse. Their attention would have been on the Clay Micro doors anyway. I could assume I was unnoticed.

No reason to go rushing in. I turned the car around, crossed a bridge farther down and drove back on a parallel road, one block away from the canal. Low buildings—empty garages, deserted warehouses, decrepit light industry—blocked my view across to Clay Micro’s mill block. When it felt like the right place I parked, rolled the windows up and locked the car, then continued on foot.

I came to the canal’s edge between a chain-link fence and a blank cinderblock wall, dark and unlit. The iron bridge was in front of me. Two hundred yards right, Clay Micro’s few lit windows shone over the lot. Across the bridge I could just make out the mystery car, sitting still and quiet in its own shadows.

Not perfect, mostly because I’d had to leave the Aveo. But I couldn’t see anywhere else to park that the new stakeout wouldn’t notice—the canal’s service roads were empty, the parking lot lit. I was confident of my own invisibility, and if either Brinker or the sedan drove away, I could probably get back to my own car quickly enough to follow.

The night had cooled and dampness drifted off the canal. Grime crusted the rough brick wall beside me. I checked my handgun once more, kept it out and sat on a rusted metal box at the base of the fence. It might have housed a transformer or some electrical connection once, for two heavy conduits ran from it into the ground. But that was decades ago.

A flash of light in the sedan caught my eye. Behind the windshield, something glowed before the driver’s face, then winked out.

A phone?

I stood up. A minute passed, then another. A tractor trailer drove past, somewhere behind us, its diesel engine echoing off the deserted buildings.

Brinker walked out, pushing through both glass doors and letting them swing shut behind him.

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.”

“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.