Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (17 page)

W
e could see the plant before we arrived, stained smokestacks and a massive, rusting gantry rising above the wooded hill. The mill had been built on a fork of the Kiskiminetas River, near where it enters the Allegheny. A double-tracked rail line led in along the banks. On a rise overlooking the site I turned off the blacktop, following a dirt road marked
PRIVATE—NO HUNTING.
Once we were hidden from traffic I killed the engine and we both got out.

Dave pulled in right behind us, bouncing the Charger over the rocky trail.

We’d met for a brief lunch after he finally called me later in the morning. Packaged burritos and bottles of juice from a convenience store, eaten off the road outside Clabbton. Zeke and I didn’t need any more public face time. Surprisingly, he and Dave got along like peas and carrots. At heart, perhaps, their life philosophies weren’t that different—
live for the moment, the hell with the rest
.

Unlike me, always worrying.

“You stay here,” I said as Dave stepped from his car. “That’s the deal, right? Zeke and I have years of experience in this sort of thing.”

“Sure, whatever.”

We were next to a stream picking its way down the hollow. The water was stained dark red, striking against the green leaves around it.

“Iron in the water,” Dave said, noticing me looking. “Maybe some oil, too. See the sheen? This is mineral country.”

“Guess we can’t drink it, then.”

“No.”

Zeke glanced at it. “I’ve had worse.”

No doubt.

Dave watched with open curiosity as Zeke opened his satchel, withdrew two handguns and checked the magazines and action. Laying the weapons on the hood, he removed his belt and rethreaded it with two holsters, one behind each hip.

We both preferred thigh holsters, but even in NRA heartland, it wasn’t a good idea to go running through the woods looking all Ghost Recon. Zeke’s jacket covered up the weapons well enough.

“You should load up, too,” he said. He took out an M500 combat shotgun—it had a fourteen-inch barrel, the shortest stock model—broke it open and started pushing in shells. A yellow one, a red one, another yellow. Six, altogether.

“Sabot rounds?” I asked.

“Fléchettes alternating with unjacketed slugs.”

I nodded. He wasn’t fucking around—that was a seriously illegal, seriously room-clearing load.

“That’s awesome, man,” Dave said. Zeke rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, I’d opened my own bag and removed the MP5.

“Maybe you should take this,” I said. “I don’t want to scare Brinker, walking up with it.”

“He’ll expect you to show up armed.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re going to be drawing fire, not me. You should have it.” Zeke added a combat knife to his belt. “What I’d really like is a long gun.”

“Sorry.”

“They
will
be in ambush, you know.”

“Of course.”

The forest smelled of new growth and dampness. Leaves rustled in the trees.

The Sig was still at my back. I pocketed some extra magazines. Zeke put on a pair of shooting glasses—clear lenses and metal frames.

“Give me a quarter hour,” he said. To Dave: “You
stay
here, right? I’m not kidding.”

“Sure.”

“Have a drink before you go.” I handed him a water bottle from a crate we’d picked up the same time I filled the car’s tank on the way here. I’d also bought some blueberry energy bars and, finally, a toothbrush.

“Right.” He drank, tossed the bottle back into the car and left. No wave, no goodbye.

No need. We’d done this before.

Dave and I waited, not saying much, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest. A bird called in the distance. Cars drove past, not frequently. An airplane buzzed overhead, then faded away.

Half an hour. No need to rush Zeke, and showing up exactly on time would only empower Brinker.

At two-twenty I policed the area, finding a paper insert that had fallen from one of the ammo boxes and a Mylar wrapper I’d dropped during snack time.

“Is it really a trap?” said Dave.

“Probably.” I checked the weapons once more. “Can’t think of any other reason he wants to meet way out here. But even if not, best to prepare like it is.”

“I’ll be watching.”

“Use these.” I ducked down to reach through the Aveo’s window and handed him the binoculars. “You should take them back anyway—they came from your friend’s cabin.”

“Okay.”

A moment’s awkwardness, not looking at each other. Finally I kind of tapped him on the arm. “Something goes wrong, find Chief Gator and tell him everything. Do that before you talk to anyone else—especially any federal agent.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“That’s why.” I got in the car. “See you back here in a few.”

I put the MP5 in my lap and drove down to the mill.

—

I crossed a small, heavy bridge that led to the Kiskiminetas, then turned onto a gravel road that led around the perimeter of the plant.

A chain-link fence encircled the site, newer than the decades-old buildings inside, with coils of razor wire along the top. Probably put up when it closed, to keep people out—or to demonstrate a good faith effort, at least. No fence would deter the metal thieves and thrill seekers, but leaving the place wide open would only invite lawsuits.

I paused at the main entrance, pulling up to look through the gate. It was secured with a heavy chain wrapped around the galvanized posts, held tight by a huge padlock. Weeds had grown up through the pavement, including shoots where the gate would scrape along when opened.

No one had come in this way for weeks.

The service road continued around the side, following railroad tracks. These too were long out of use, overgrown and rusty. A switch point had been tagged with an illegible spray of dirty paint, the red-green signal light smashed years ago. A few wrecked train cars sat abandoned on the sidings—two tankers, a sagging boxcar near the next gate. The boxcar’s doors hung open, and I could see scorch marks on its walls.

The side entrance was where Brinker had said: a single gate big enough for only one vehicle, entering between a metal-walled outbuilding and a huge gantry crane. The gate was pushed open wide enough for someone to walk through, but there it had jammed, stuck against rubble inside.

I wished we had tactical radios. Once the shooting started—if it started—constant contact was critical. But cellphones would have to do. We’d turned off the ringers.

I dialed, listened to it buzz once and then heard nothing.

“Zeke?” I whispered.

Two loud clicks.
Yes
. He tapped his phone’s case, not talking.

“You see me?”

One click.

“Okay, I’m at the gate, I assume that big shed’s in the way. You in position?”

Two clicks.

“Good. I’m going in now, unless you say different.”

Three clicks, pause, one more. The security phrase we’d set, thirty minutes ago. A one-off. Impossible to imagine that this simple communication could be compromised, but one last redundancy always makes you feel better.

“Okay. See you inside.”

Click click, then silence. I replaced the phone in my pocket.

I looked at the debris that had blocked the chain-link gate. Chunks of concrete, some metal scrap.

If someone wanted me to
walk
in, unprotected, they might have rigged it that way.

The car was still running, the engine humming quietly. Pootie really had tuned it up. I backed up, diagonally across the service road, until its rear bumper tapped the boxcar’s frame. About fifteen feet, nose to gate—good enough.

I engaged the clutch, moved the shift from reverse to first and put the accelerator all the way to the mat. The engine redlined, suddenly screaming loud, and I let the clutch go.

The Aveo jolted, rear wheels spinning and throwing dirt before catching traction. Then they caught. The vehicle exploded forward.

SMASH!

The gate flew out of the way, slammed aside. The car bucked as it hit the rubble, almost grounding before banging over. A long scrape on the underside. I lost some control and skidded sideways, striking the metal shed. For an instant I was out of focus, bouncing around, head whipsawed from one side to the other at impact.

No airbags. Pootie had skipped something after all.

I seized back the wheel, which had been yanked from my grip, and swerved back onto the pavement.

A horn blared behind me. I twisted around—

Dave’s Charger was on the service road, roaring up at a hundred miles an hour. Just as I looked he turned
right,
away from the gate, and an instant later his front wheel clipped the railroad track.

The car immediately spun, 180 degrees in a half second of flying dirt and screaming metal. Coming around, the spin halted abruptly when the same right wheel slammed into the fence curb. The Charger bounced violently, now skidding straight backward, the rotational velocity somehow exactly canceled by the two collisions.

“Noooo!” Dave yelled through his window. “Don’t!” He continued to slide, finally coming to a halt mostly behind the boxcar.

And that’s when the ambushers engaged.

Gunfire hammered into the Aveo. Both forward tires immediately blew—I could feel the front sag and rims grind into the paving. Holes appeared in the hood, dozens all at once. The windshield starred across its entire surface. I ducked, abandoning the wheel to put my arms over my face, and shoved myself down.

The car crashed into something and slewed to a halt. I lay over the central hump, legs driver’s side and my torso under the passenger’s dash. The gearshift stabbed my abdomen painfully. Bullets tore into the entire car body, an unremitting fusillade. Through half-open eyes I felt the light increase—so many holes were drilled into the roof and side panels, it was like new windows.

The car was a death trap. I had a little protection, the engine block and the firewall between me and the ambushers, but that wouldn’t last long. Meanwhile I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t fire back, couldn’t do anything but huddle on the floor.

I somehow got my phone out, stabbed the buttons blindly. Redial.

“Silas!” Zeke’s voice, barely audible over the waterfall roar of incoming fire. I guess we didn’t need the tap code anymore.

“Which way?” I yelled back.

“Out the right side.
Starboard
. On three, okay?”

“Go!”

He counted it off. I reached up, twisting like a contortionist to pull the door handle, and shoved forward with both feet. My head, a battering ram, forced the door open in a squeal of ruined metal. I kept moving, rolling out, dragging the MP5 by its shoulder strap.

The hail of fire slowed. Now that I was outside, in the open air, I got a quick placement—gunshots from left and front, in the foundry, other shots from somewhere right. Zeke was doing his best to put down suppressing fire, though he’d now exposed his own position.

I got out and half ran, half dove for the side of the shed. I collided with the dark wall, hitting my head again, and collapsed behind a metal drum holed with rust.

BL-A-A-MM!

An explosion rocked the Aveo, punching it into the air, then dropping it back. A cloud of dust bloomed. Debris battered my face and the wall behind me.

RPG? A planted charge? It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be driving away.

Manic laughter. For a moment I couldn’t tell from where, then realized it was Zeke, yelling incomprehensibly, coming through the cellphone, which apparently I hadn’t switched off.

Dave’s horn blared again. I turned around to see him through the chain-link—he’d backed fully into the lee of the railcar, sheltered from the attack.

“Come on, get out of there!” Dave yelled through the boxcar’s open doors, from the other side. I could just see his head, and nothing of the Charger. He had to be standing right outside it.

“Zeke?” I spoke directly into the phone. “
Fuck
this. Time to go.”

“Who’s in the car? Good guy? Bad guy?”

“It’s Dave. Didn’t you see him?”

“Other things happening.
Your
car’s wrecked.”

“I know. We’ll take the Charger.”

I finally got my shit together. Lots of scrapes and bangs, no serious injuries. I untwisted the MP5’s strap, cleared the Sig in its holster and stood up.

“Where are you?”

“Up on the gantry.”

I went to the other end of the shed, knelt to put my head at ground level and looked around the corner. The traveling crane’s near end rose from a pad of cracked concrete about ten yards away, up into the air and then stretched across the ground, a massive frame of rusting girders and drooping cable. Three rail spurs ran underneath, their connection to the main line now interrupted by the chain-link fence.

A small controller’s compartment was bolted onto the middle of the gantry—a little steel shed, empty window frames. Through the door, which faced back toward my way, I could see someone’s dim form.

Gunfire had picked up from the foundry. Shots banged into the shed, puffing dirt on both sides. I heard a bullet crack past my head, then another. I ducked back.

“How you getting
down
?” I yelled into the phone.

“Hang on.” Two shots—I heard them in slight echo, both through the air and the phone, as Zeke fired at someone. “They’re not showing themselves.”

“Silas!” Dave, calling again. I glanced over. He made a
let’s-go
gesture, beckoning with his arm. I waved back, then held up one finger.

“Ten seconds,” said Zeke.

“Ready.” I raised the submachine gun. “You call it.”

A long pause. The ambushers’ fire slackened. I smelled dirt and sweat and gunsmoke.

“Now!”

I kicked the oil drum just past the corner, dove behind it, and fired the MP5. Three-round bursts, placing them into the windows I thought our attackers might be hiding behind.

Return fire immediately blasted my way, tearing into the barrel and the shed and the ground. Bullets and metal shards and dust everywhere.

From the corner of my vision I saw Zeke emerge from the control house and run along the topmost beam of the gantry. A hundred feet in the air, the beam maybe six inches wide. Jesus. Something loose—his jacket?—flapped from one hand.