Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1) Read online

  Quick Sands

  Edward J. McFadden III

  Copyright © 2021 Edward J. McFadden III

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For more information, go to http://www.edwardmcfadden.com

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  “The rosy clouds float overhead,

  The sun is going down;

  And now the sandman's gentle tread

  Comes stealing through the town.

  'White sand, white sand,' he softly cries,

  And as he shakes his hand,

  Straightway there lies on babies' eyes

  His gift of shining sand.”

  —Margaret Vandegrift, 1890

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Also by Edward J. McFadden III

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Fog rolled over the interstate in thick waves and stray beams of moonlight knifed through the clouds like searchlights. I-35 in southeast Kansas is an unlit desolate stretch of faded blacktop that runs like an arrow through brown pasture. Four lanes; two north and two south, with a yellow-striped notched shoulder and a three-foot molded concrete center divider. In the deep of night blackness presses on the road and there is nothing else in the world. Ramage’s lone headlight beams burn a tunnel through the gloom and mist, the bleak flat terrain like the surface of a far-off lifeless planet. He tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the monotonous beat of the truck’s wheels as they rolled over cracks, stones, and debris.

  Ahead a green road sign appeared out of the deepening fog, white reflective lettering reading “Rest Area 2 Miles” and below in smaller type, “Next Rest Area 59 Miles.” The fuel gauge read a quarter full, but Ramage’s stomach growled and he had time. His cargo of fresh cut Christmas trees couldn’t be unloaded until 8AM, and he’d arrive in Wichita in four hours, which meant he had a couple of hours to kill. He’d have breakfast, fuel up, maybe get Big Blue washed.

  He downshifted and the 565HP diesel engine vibrated and snarled as the Kenworth slowed. If someone’d told him a year ago he’d bet his entire egg on fresh Christmas trees he would’ve laughed, yet here he was. Ramage was a man of shortcuts these days, and he was quick to act when an opportunity smacked him in the face. Fresh Christmas trees sold for big money in the flatlands of middle America, and his home state of Pennsylvania was the largest producer of the green gold. Finding a sales contact in Wichita proved easy, so Ramage invested most of his cash and set off to spread Christmas cheer.

  He braked, downshifted again, and the rig bucked and sputtered. Ramage still wasn’t used to driving the big truck, even though he’d owned Big Blue for three years and had crisscrossed the nation several times without putting any dents in the dark blue Kenworth. He eased the truck onto the off-ramp, checking his mirrors. Piles of Douglas fir and Colorado Blue Spruce lay stacked in their plastic mesh cocoons on his flatbed trailer. He’d spent extra on the blue spruces with the tiny pinecones because his man Rico said people would pay a hundred and fifty dollars for an eight-footer. Who knew fresh Christmas trees were such big business? Six point four million Christmas trees are harvested in Pennsylvania each year, and tree farms nationwide cover more than half a million acres.

  That’s a lot of green.

  Floodlights spilled across an empty parking lot. No trucks lined up at the gas pumps, and the diner attached to the restrooms looked dark, save for a Castle Rock beer sign, half its neon out and the other half blinking spasmodically. The light over the restaurant’s entrance was on, and as he dropped the truck into neutral he saw a We’re Open Twenty-Four-Seven sign tacked to the diner’s front door.

  Big Blue came to a stop by a gas pump, air brakes chirped, and Ramage shut the engine down. High-pressure sodium lights on poles around the perimeter of the rest area pushed back the blackness, and the buzz of the insect night symphony was the only sound. Normally trucks would be lined up like condos, light spilling from their windows, drivers sleeping or eating, the faint murmur of music and televisions, but tonight he was the lone traveler.

  He opened his door and jumped to the ground. Nobody came to greet him, so he slipped his credit card into the digital display and started filling up. Nothing moved along the row of gas pumps. Ramage looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing unusual. He eased back against the truck, making himself small and less exposed. There was a gun under the seat in the cab, and he considered retrieving it.

  The gas pump beeped and rang, and the sounds were like a party in the stillness of the barren depot. Ramage replaced the gas nozzle in its cradle and slipped his credit card in a back pocket. The feeling of unease passed, so he hopped back into the Kenworth and backed it into an end space under the protective stare of the building’s exterior floodlights.

  The diner slash bathroom facility was a sturdy concrete structure similar to those found along highways all over the United States. Cinderblock painted gray, minimal landscaping, state and federal flags on an aluminum pole. Ramage didn’t see anyone moving around inside the restaurant. The front plate glass window was mostly dark, a line of lights above a counter bringing the image of that painting with the dogs at a bar.

  “Hey, mister,” came a raspy voice from the darkness.

  Ramage froze, old lines of communication in his trained body reactivating, muscle memory taking control, adrenaline flowing. He considered backtracking to the truck, but that would be a sign of weakness, and Ramage never showed weakness. It led to other issues.

  “Who’s there? Come out where I can see you,” Ramage said, and to his surprise the person did.

  A slight man with thinning hair and broken glasses stepped into the light. He held his hands up in the universal gesture that said trust me I mean you know harm. He wore jeans, a blue t-shirt, and a heavy leather jacket.

  “How can I help you?” Ramage said. He looked past the man and still nobody was behind the counter at the restaurant.

  “Funny you should ask, cause as it happens, you can help me,” the man said. He put his hands down and took a step forward.

  Ramage said nothing.

  “See, me and my busi… friend, need a ride,” the man sai
d.

  Ramage noted the newcomer still hadn’t given his name, or his destination, and now there was a friend. “I don’t see a friend.”

  “No, you don’t,” came a voice from the shadows. “Chic, go check the truck.”

  The man called Chic headed for Big Blue and Ramage stepped in his way. “You think you’re doing what?”

  “I’ve got a gun on you, genius,” came the voice from the shadows. “Let him pass or you’re bleeding out on the pavement in ten seconds. You follow?”

  If Ramage had a trigger, it was being threatened, but his situation wasn’t good. He was alone, unarmed, in the dark, with at least two strangers, no sign of backup. He stepped aside, and the little man smiled and nudged Ramage with his shoulder as he headed for Big Blue.

  “No need for anyone to…” The voice faltered and was replaced with harsh coughing and hacking. “No need for anyone to die tonight. It’s your call. Listen to what I tell you, and if you’re lucky you’ll see the sunrise.”

  Two minutes dripped away as cricket’s sang and Ramage’s heart pounded. The guy called Chic returned with Ramage’s gun, his first aid kit, and two t-shirts. “Found this,” Chic said. He slipped Ramage’s 9MM Sig Sauer P320 from his waistband. “No family pictures. No books or porn. No computer. What are you, a caveman?” Chic turned to Ramage as if expecting an answer, but he said nothing.

  “No wedding ring,” said shadow man.

  “Nope. Nobody will miss this loser. Found some basic files showing shipments mostly on the up and up. These trees are going to Wichita.”

  “Not anymore,” said the man in the shadows.

  Ramage shifted his weight and eased closer to Chic.

  “Back up,” Chic said. The skinny turd pointed Ramage’s own gun at him.

  Ramage dodged and rolled, closing the space between himself and Chic. He came out of his roll and locked his hand on the man’s wrist. Ramage twisted Chic’s arm, spinning him like a ballerina, placing the squirming man between himself and shadow man. Then he pushed Chic to the ground, bent his wrist and arm for leverage, snatched his gun, and rolled into the shadows. He vaulted to his feet and brought up the Sig Sauer, aiming where he expected the elusive second stranger to be, but there was nobody there.

  Ramage doubled over and dropped the gun, a kidney punch sending shards of pain surging through him.

  “You don’t know who I am, but you’re trying shit with someone you don’t want to mess with.” The second man stumbled into the light. He was round of body with a jaw cut in a permanent scowl. It was a face that said I’m never happy, will never be happy, and have no desire to be happy. With one hand he held his side where a white dress shirt was stained with blood. His other held a pistol.

  Thing was Ramage didn’t know the guy. He could be anybody. “Should I know you? You on some Texas reality show or something? One of those ones where the main guy is in love with his sister.”

  The man started when Ramage said Texas, eyes going wide. The guy’s accent was obvious, but then again, Ramage didn’t think he had any accent when in fact his northeastern drawl was one of the most identifiable in the nation.

  The man sighed, and said, “Chic.”

  Chic pistol-whipped Ramage with his own gun, using the weapon like brass knuckles. Blood leaked down Ramage’s face from a wound above his eye, and he covered up to ward off a flurry of blows.

  Important man said, “I told you to chill and do what I tell you and you might get out of this. But could you do that? No. You think your James Bond or some shit with those moves?”

  “We’ll see when you don’t have a gun pointed at me,” Ramage said. “Soft donut like you, I won’t even break a sweat.”

  Chic hit him again, then kicked him twice in the chest and once in the head. The blow to the skull scrambled Ramage’s brain and his vision was split into four duplicate quadrants. “You’re gonna look funny with your stomach hanging out of your mouth,” Chic said.

  “Piss off,” Ramage said. He spit blood onto the blacktop.

  Chic let air escape his lips like a deflating tire.

  “You’re a bug I could squash under my boot and your talking shit. I’m…” The man paused, tilting his head.

  “Afraid to tell me who you are? Punk,” Ramage said.

  “You wanna know what they call him, dipshit? Piranha,” Chic said. “You know why?”

  “Cause he’s small and ugly?”

  “Chiclet shut the hell up,” said Mr. Important. “He’s baiting you. Bigger fish. How many times…” The man squeaked and coughed.

  Ramage stared at Chic, then laughed. “Your big teeth. Chiclet. That’s pretty funny.”

  “Really?” Chic pointed the Sig Sauer at Ramage’s head.

  “Hey,” said the boss.

  Chic let the gun fall to his side.

  “Teach him how to speak to his betters. I’ll be in the truck.” Piranha paused before Ramage as he shuffled away. “You got stones. I respect that. But if I see you again, you die. Take the insurance money for your truck and load and move on.”

  Ramage knew they weren’t going to shoot him. Both men glanced furtively toward the diner, which meant somebody was in there and a gunshot would bring unwanted attention. He said, “What are you gonna do with my trees? I don’t have insurance on them.”

  “Sounds like poor business practices to me.” The front of Piranha’s white dress shirt was fully covered in blood, and he walked hunched and broken.

  When the boss disappeared into the darkness Chic came forward, fists swinging. The blows came in waves, first his head, then the body, then back to the head. Chic used the Sig Sauer like it had always been his, slamming the butt of the gun into Ramage with a brutality that made him nauseous.

  The Kenworth started, and Ramage recognized the faint tap of Big Blue’s exhaust leak.

  Chic brought his boot down on Ramage’s back, a massive blow that bounced him off the pavement. Stars blinked overhead, and Ramage rolled on his side. It was hard to breathe. Chic quickly padded him down, found nothing, and delivered a savage blow to Ramage’s stomach with his boot.

  Darkness crept in around the edges of Ramage’s vision as he slipped into unconsciousness. Headlights snapped on and air brakes chirped.

  He had nothing. His truck, which was his home, would probably be parts by lunch, and his trees would be sold at discounts on roadsides and in parking lots. Everything he owned was in the Kenworth. Wallet, ID, personals. His entire pathetic life.

  It was all gone.

  Chapter Two

  A pebble bit into Ramage’s cheek as his eyes came into focus. The gray haze of daybreak spread over the rest stop and he heard people chattering, trucks humming, and the whirring of an exhaust fan. He lifted his face from a sticky puddle of blood, rolled onto his side, and vomited. It was mostly dry heaving and bile because he hadn’t eaten since lunch the prior day, but his last two meals refused to be forgotten and a decayed kidney bean from his chili and a piece of ham from breakfast reappeared.

  He’d been dumped behind the cinderblock building with the garbage. Cockroaches scuttled around the dumpster, which bulged with bags of trash, and the scent of waste hung in the air like smoke. Ramage’s head pounded in rhythm with his thumping heart, ears ringing, the light of day coming on and pushing away the darkness. His jeans were speckled with dark blood, his t-shirt torn and stained. Sorrow washed over him, and he felt ill, but didn’t throw up. He pressed his back to the concrete wall, taking deep breaths. He’d be sore for weeks, but he flexed his arms and legs, and everything seemed functional.

  He rested as long as he could—a whole hour, but when the voices in his head reached a fever pitch, he pushed himself up using the wall for support.

  Each minute that passed Chiclet and Piranha got further down the trail. A trail that was already getting cold. Dawn was 7AM, so he’d been out for more than four hours. Assuming Burt and Ernie were pushing the Kenworth and averaging seventy-five miles per hour, Big Blue could be anywhere within a three-h
undred-mile radius, and the area was growing with each tick of the clock. If he had to search every one of those miles, look under every stone and beneath each tree, he would, and when he found Chiclet and the guppy, they’d wish they’d let him have a hamburger and go on his way.

  Turned out Ramage hadn’t lost everything, he had the credit card he’d slipped into a back pocket after paying for gas. Chic had missed it during his search, and Ramage would remind the little shit of the fact when he was done removing some chiclets from his jawbone by way of his fist. Finding the credit card made everything easier. All he needed was a wallet, so he looked natural when he used it. No merchants checked IDs for credit card match anymore because fraud detection was so accurate, and the banks always errored on the side of shutting the account down.

  A bell rang when Ramage opened the diner door and a head popped up from behind the counter. The woman rubbed sleep from her eyes as she lay a menu on the counter, then noticing the blood on his clothes, said, “What the hell happened to you, hon?” She was an attractive middle-aged woman with red straw hair, dark red lipstick, and a nice figure. The name tag pinned to her chest said Dolores. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened?”

  He was going to give his standard reply when he wanted to blow someone off. ‘It’s a long story’ usually generated empathy and an understanding that the conversation would go no further. Problem was, in this case it was a short story. He’d been mugged, his truck stolen, and the lizard part of his brain just wouldn’t let him admit it.