Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (20 page)

“You haven’t been keeping me in the loop,” he admonished.

“Haven’t had time. Pittsburgh’s more exciting than you might think.”

“That’s okay. She brought me up to date.”

“Good. So did you track down Dagger Light’s real owners?”

“No. I don’t think so. But there’s a connection—you know how these things work, fifty-one-percent ownership by a law firm in the Caymans, which is in a joint investment with another brass plate in the Bahamas, which has nonvoting stock in an Isle of Man SIV that controls sixty percent of Dagger Light’s other primary investor, and that’s just getting started. The ownership diagram already looks like a plate of spaghetti.”

Typical money laundering—nothing complicated in concept, just layer upon layer of interlocking relationships, impossible to pull together coherently. “Okay.”

“So that Bahamas nominee company? I found the incorporation papers. There are more entities in between, but ultimately one of the beneficial owners seems to be Sweetwater Institutional Investors.”

That took a moment to sink in.

“Holy batfuck.” I couldn’t believe it.

“That’s right.”

“Sweetwater owns Clayco. Sweetwater also owns Dagger Light. Wilbur Markson is selling Clay Micro to
himself
. ”

“Looks that way.”

“That’s just . . . fucked up.”

“It explains one thing.” Johnny paused a moment, then came back. “Sorry, had a message there. What was I—? Clayco, right. With Markson involved on both sides, you can see why they’re desperate to clean up a mucky spot on the books.”

“By clean up, you mean obliterate.” A few reversed journal entries wouldn’t do it. The beauty of double-entry bookkeeping—properly done—is that everything is transparent, all history right out in plain sight, even after you’ve swept up. Clayco had taken more extreme measures—Ryan and me and maybe Harmony—because they wanted the dirt
gone
.

“They’re going after this problem with an acid bath,” I said.

“I’ve seen Sweetwater at work. They’re altar boys. No, priests. No, wait, not like that—you know what I mean.”

The Catholic Church isn’t exactly a good metaphor for moral behavior anymore, but I followed Johnny’s point. “Sweetwater can’t allow even the slightest hint of impropriety to slip out.”

“Of course, the whole deal feels improper. If nothing else it’s self-dealing, but the way they’re trying to keep it secret—something’s wronger than that.”

I walked away from the truck, pacing along the fence.

“Unbelievable.”

“I’ve got to go, but one other thing to think about.”

“Yeah?”

“The Russians.”

Oh. Indeed, them. “How do they fit in?”

“If they’re mixed up in Dagger Light somehow . . .” Johnny’s voice trailed off. “I can’t see it. Markson wouldn’t ever get in bed with the mafiya.”

“If he’s pulling shit like this with Clayco, he might be doing anything. He could certainly be working with Russian money. It’s nice and clean and legitimate, up in the stratosphere. Hell, they own the Nets.”

“All the more reason they’ll want to sweep everything under the rug.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Everything,” said Johnny. “Including you.”

“Good point.”

“I’ll keep my guy on the research.”

“You know, it may not matter.” I ran my hand along the chain-link, looking up at the night sky. “They’re Russian. I don’t know what they want but they’re sure as hell motivated, judging by the number of firefights they’ve started out here. I don’t think I care exactly
which
Russian oligarch is involved, I just want to get out.”

“Firefights?”

“Put a Google alert on ‘Pittsburgh’ plus ‘unexplained shooting.’ I don’t think it’s over.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll say it again, Johnny—stay away. I really appreciate the research, but you don’t want to be transacting
anything
with this crew.”

“I got it.”

We hung up. I finished my dinner, brushed my teeth at the creek and unrolled the sleeping bag in the bed of the truck.

The night was perfectly clear overhead. I looked up again, noticing how many stars there were in the sky away from the city. I could even make out the Milky Way.

It was like the sky when I was a kid.

Comforting to think about all the other worlds out there, all the distance, the impossible light-years. Some people are disquieted by the realization of earth’s ultimate insignificance, our vanishingly small place in the universe. But I’ve always liked it.

We’re so damn petty down here—maybe somewhere else they’ve gotten it right.

I
slept in. Birdsong woke me long after the sun had come up. In the daylight I could see trash on the ground and blown into the chain-link, but the trees rustled gently in the breeze. Best night I’d had yet—there’s nothing like open air for sleeping.

I spent a half hour cleaning the weapons.

Breakfast came from a catering truck, of all things. Several miles down the road I came across a fracking site: a barren acre of mud with a fifty-foot derrick in the middle, lopsided construction trailers and a dark, shiny, plastic-lined flowback pond. Stained shipping containers near the road were labeled
RESIDUAL WASTE.
A row of pickups sat parked along the verge. At the end, an old Chevy with a stamped-aluminum silver shell had pulled in, awning flaps up to display racks of packaged sandwiches and soda. Laborers stood around, waiting for hamburgers and chicken from a propane grill set in the rear. Others sat here and there, on barrels and the fence, eating from paper plates. The proprietor looked like he’d retired from the oil fields, a good-sized belly under his red apron and a Pirates cap on his graying head.

Several of the workers wore white hazmat outfits, hoods back and respirators dangling from their necks.

I stopped at the end of the row, my battered vehicle fitting right in. The men looked at me with some wariness as I walked up.

“Morning.” I nodded in a general way.

One of the men standing nodded back. “They’re not hiring here,” he said. “Got a full crew.”

“I’m not looking.” I ordered a chicken sandwich and the proprietor pulled a frozen cutlet from a cooler. He’d rigged up a deep fryer next to the grill, which seemed awfully dangerous to be driving around with. “Not for work, not here. Just breakfast.”

“Come to the right place, then.”

“Really?” I glanced at the hazmat suits.

The supervisor laughed. “Bobby’s food ain’t the problem.”

“Good to know.”

They took me for one of them, like everyone else seemed to. Sleeping rough hadn’t left me looking sharp—I needed a shave and some clean clothes—but that was hardly an issue. Some of the drillers were muddy to their waists, and all were stained from oil and those toxic fracturing fluids.

When I was done I thanked the caterer, started to leave, then turned back. “Hey, I just realized something. Where are the tanks?”

“Tanks?”

“For the gas. That’s what you’re doing, right? Bringing natural gas up? Where does it go?”

The supervisor grinned. “You really ain’t a rigger, are you?”

“Like I said. Just driving past.”

“We’re still drilling. If we hit a good pocket, we’ll install a permanent wellhead. Then they can run a pipeline, or just truck it away. There’s a compressor station ten miles from here.”

“Oh.” All this mess and just for a test bore?

“The carpenters might have work.” The supervisor seemed like a nice guy. “I heard something. Try the union hall.”

“Thanks. You all have a good day.”

“You too.” I walked back to my truck, past the flowback pond and the sealed containers. The frack water gleamed evilly in the morning sun. It was driven in clean and fresh, deep into the earth, then came out saturated with a toxic stew of hydrocarbons, heavy metals and radioactive minerals.

Way I felt this morning, it seemed like an exact metaphor for my line of work.

As I was climbing into the cab, my phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Silas Cade.” A woman’s voice.

“Who’s calling?”

“I think we should talk.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Harmony?”

“Right.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Dave gave it to me.”

A cold feeling spread from my stomach. “Don’t—”

“He’s here with me right now, in fact.”

I had to force myself to ease my grip on the phone before it broke. “Put him on.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Put him on the line!”

A pause. Scratchy thumping, indistinct background noise for a moment.

“Silas?”

I breathed again. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. We’re having lunch. You ought to come over.”

Wait, what? “Having
lunch
?”

“At Sully’s. Hey, you didn’t
tell
me you had friends in town. Harmony—” his voice lowered, and the background faded, like he’d covered the lower part of the phone with his hand. “She’s
hot,
man.”

I’d mentioned the people looking for me, but not her name. “How did she find you?”

“I dunno. Just walked in and saw us here and introduced herself. Listen, I understand maybe you didn’t want to let on, but I got to say—”

“Who’s Sully?”

“Sully? Don’t know if it’s anyone, not anymore. Just the name of the pool hall. Right across from the monument, you know, on the Clabbton green?”

“Stay there.”

“Well, okay—”

“I mean it. I’ll be there soon as I can.” What could I say—
she’s a fucking contract assassin
? “Harmony isn’t . . . what she seems.”

“She seems okay to me.”

Jesus Christ. I put the phone in my shirt pocket and slammed the truck door.

Rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-click
.

Rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-click
.

And then it caught, coughing to life. I tore out as fast as the old truck would go.

—

They were just sitting there. Talking. Eating. Laughing even, now and then.

I got to Clabbton in less than thirty minutes, drove across the railroad bridge and parked by the green. Sully’s was a first-floor storefront on the other side, facing the statue, just as Dave had said. A bank on the left, a vacant space to the right. The broken sign above it read
SHOES
.

Dave had given me back the binoculars when we got the truck. I pulled them out and focused on the windows. They were dusty but large, and I could see some booths, a twenty-foot bar and the billiards tables farther back. Each had a light with a broad conical shade hanging directly above. Hazy smoke drifted among the tables. Racks on the walls held dozens of cues.

Dave, Harmony, Elsie and Brendt sat in the front-most booth, near the plate-glass window by the door. A couple of pitchers, some stuff on the table I couldn’t make out—dishes, probably.

I could have shot Harmony from here. Double tap right through the window. Traumatic for the other three, yes. But she had made no defensive arrangements at all that I could see—both hands were in the open, one holding a mug.

Of course she
knew
all that. It was an invitation, or a trap.

Or both.

I considered the MP5, but dismissed the idea. Too many innocents around, waiting to be caught in a crossfire. They always stand up at exactly the wrong moment.

Finally I just checked the pistol, seated it back in the holster and walked over to join the party.

“Hey.”

“Silas!”

The booth was an L-shape, Dave inside, Harmony at the end—back to the wall, naturally, with a clear view of both entrance and windows. Brendt and Elsie were across the table, his bulk taking up most of the space, leaving a chair for me. I stood looking down.

“Good to see you again, Harmony.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Plates on the table held the crust ends of sandwiches and leftover curly fries. The pitcher seemed to be soda. Harmony sat still, hands flat on the table, smiling a little.

“Pull up a chair.”

“Outside.” I saw Dave start to speak. “Business,” I said to him. “Boring. We’ll be right back.”

Elsie tipped her head with a knowing smile. Brendt had a hamburger half stuffed into his face, watching the television over the bar.

Harmony shrugged a little. “Sure.”

I stepped back as she slid out, keeping my jacket loose. She wore an unstructured vest over a white shirt and dark pants that narrowed at the ankle. Running shoes.

The handgun was probably in an IWB holster at her back, with a backup or a knife on the other side. No purse. She paused in a way that I had to go first or look like an idiot, so I looked like an idiot and waved her forward. In the end we walked to the door side by side. I held it open and she stepped through.

“Over there.” I pointed to the Civil War cavalryman, on his plinth in the patch of green lawn across the street. As she stepped off the curb I took her arm, gentleman that I am, assisting the lady through dangerous traffic.

She twisted slightly, bent her elbow and broke the come-along in an instant.

“Oops,” she said, pretending to stumble, and made to grasp my hand instead. I was a second late, and she almost had my thumb in a pain lock before I clenched my fist hard to prevent it. As we moved another step I came down sharply, trying to kick her inside foot, but she was too quick.

God knows what we looked like from the window. Halfway across the street we separated, about two feet, then came back together as I tried to hook her elbow again, to walk arm in arm like old friends. She let me, then reached across with her other hand and caught my wrist. As she started to twist I did the same with my right hand.

We were now inseparable: arms intertwined, all four hands seized together, muscles straining as we shifted for advantage—all the while trying not to be so obvious.

She was strong and almost my height, but come on, I have the Y chromosome.

“Stay calm,” I said through clenched teeth. “Around back of the monument. I’m sure they’re watching us.”

“Your lead.” Harmony’s voice displayed no hint of stress.

We shuffled around to the rear of the granite base. Sully’s was out of sight, but we were still in the open, visible to passing cars, pedestrians and old farts on benches in every direction. For a small town, Clabbton sure seemed to have a lot of people with time on their hands.

“You can let go,” she said.

“You first.”

Neither of us moved. We’d pulled close enough together it was almost an embrace. I slipped my shoulder slightly, and now my face was about six inches from hers.

We looked at each other.

“Feeling kind of stupid?” I said.

“Not exactly.” That damn half smile again.

“How about . . . on three.”

“Sure.” Her hands were warm, tight on mine.

“One two three!” I said, fast—but she was faster, already letting go and twisting forward. A little off-balance, I went right an instant sooner than I’d planned. Harmony caught me, one arm around my torso, enough to shove me into the fall. I went with it, down to one knee and immediately back up, spinning back to face her.

I stopped cold. She held my Sig Sauer in one hand, at her waist, pointed down. It was good placement—she stood close to the monument, the pistol shielded from view but ready for use.

Long pause. A church bell started to ring—it sounded like a real carillon, a few blocks away.

The sun was overhead, casting almost no shadow.

“That’s mine,” I said.

“You can have it back when we’re done.”

“You assumed I’d be carrying, figured out where it had to be and guessed that I’d have loosed it in the holster on the way in.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Harmony laughed. “You men are so
easy
.”

Ha-ha. “Maybe I underestimated you a little.”

She moved suddenly, two hands on the pistol, ejecting the magazine and glancing inside.

“At least you didn’t leave a round chambered.” She tossed me the magazine. “Put that away.”

I caught it automatically, like a cat that can’t control its reactions. It would have been the obvious moment for her to steamroll me, but she just stood there. I rolled my eyes and put the magazine into my jacket’s slash pocket.

“I’ll hand you the gun but keep it discreet, okay?” She held it forward slightly. I stepped up and took it with my left hand.

That would have been the obvious moment for
me
to steamroll
her
. But I just holstered the now-empty weapon and stepped back.

“I’m off the contract,” Harmony said.

“What?”

“Got the call last night. All done, thank you, the payment’s wired, fuck off.”

I stayed sideways to her, rear leg grounded, front leg bent just a bit, hands at my side. “Is Brinker dead?”

“Of course not.” She shrugged. “Unless he swallowed some of that canal water.”

“You let him go.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re letting me go.”

“The parameters changed.”

“So why are you still here?”

“Ah,” she said. “That’s why we need to talk.”