Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2) Read online

  He paused, staring at the mound of skis and boards atop the Volvo. When the car’s owner sped off in the morning, the excitement of hitting the slopes in his frontal lobe, the skis would fall off the roof like a National Lampoon Vacation movie. Always cognizant of karma, Ramage took one of the smaller skis off the roof and propped it against the driver’s door where it would be seen. The guy would be angry someone stole his cords, but at least his gear wouldn’t be sprinkled along RT-6 like trash.

  With his bounty of rope, cords and the license plate under an arm, Ramage headed back to the picnic area, staying in darkness, avoiding the eyes that appeared between his room’s curtains every thirty seconds.

  Using the least rotted picnic table, Ramage folded and bent the license plate, paint flaking off, the metal getting hot as he bent the plate as fast as he could. It took ten minutes of working the metal, folding and unfolding, but finally the metal got hot and soft enough to rip the plate in half. He dropped one half on the table, and bent the other over double, leaving him with a thin piece of metal three inches wide by five inches long.

  He looped around the building again and set the bungie cords and rope on the plastic chair next to the office entrance. The porchlight mounted next to the door was on, and Ramage stayed out of its yellow cone of light as he slipped the remnants of the license plate between the strike plate and the latch plate. He pulled the doorknob back and forth, working the thin metal downward, between the latch pin and the strike plate. Usually done with a credit card, the metal was too thick and inflexible.

  Ramage eased the metal out, scanning the interior of the office through the window. Everything was dark, no signs of life. He unbent the piece of metal and flattened it with his palms. It was now twice the size, but half the thickness. He worked the metal back into place, using the indentation of a letter Z in the plate to work the metal between the strike plate and the latch bolt.

  Ramage’s inner clock squawked. He was taking too long, and he was making too much noise. Metal scraped on metal, light knifing from room six every thirty seconds like a lighthouse.

  He felt the metal slip into position, and froze. There was a bell attached to the top of the door on a spring, and once the door opened an inch or two the bell would chime. The lock clicked and Ramage opened the door a hair, just enough to get a couple of fingers through. He ran his hand along the doorjamb, reaching up, the door squeaking as it inched open.

  His fingers found the bell, and he worked his index finger into the bell housing, silencing the clapper. Ramage eased through the door, quickly closing it behind him without taking his hand off the bell. There was a stand of tourist brochures next to the entrance and Ramage grabbed a coupon for a free ride at Price’s FunZone and stuffed it into the bell housing.

  Ramage waited, letting his eyes adjust, the scent of monkey urine filling the room, the red glow from the emergency exit sign spreading through the darkness like steam. Faint snoring echoed through the office from the managers quarters, the door behind the reception desk open, a narrow hallway running into darkness beyond. The white alarm panel next to the door was off, its panel dark.

  Like a wraith sneaking up on a ghost, Ramage dropped to the floor and crawled to the base of the reception desk, the dust in the old carpet tickling his nose. He lifted his head above the rim of the desk, carefully lifted the phone from its cradle, tapped call, then the number six, and slipped back down to the floor behind the reception desk.

  The phone rang four times, and Ramage was starting to think the thugs had been told not to answer the phone, when a voice trying too hard to sound tough came on the line.

  “Yeah,” the voice said.

  “Hi,” Ramage said, doing his best old lady impression. It was bad, really bad, and when he tried to recover, he thought he sounded worse. “This is…” Ramage panicked. He couldn’t remember the name of the manager, receptionist, concierge and cleaning supervisor’s name. “…this is the front office. You have an urgent call, but I can’t seem to patch it through to you.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Every time I try and transfer the call it gets cut off. Can you take the call here in the office? It sounds important.” Ramage held his breath. He could see the guy in his mind’s eye, probably staring at a partner with wide eyes, unsure what to do.

  “Who is it? A little late to be taking calls, isn’t it?” the man said.

  Ramage did his best female fake laugh. “That’s what I thought. Woke me up. The man didn’t give his name, but he sounded very angry.”

  The guy harrumphed and said, “I’ll be right down.”

  Ramage stood and placed the phone back in its cradle. He waited a thirty count, breathing softly, making sure he hadn’t woken the motel’s manager, but all was silent. He moved around the counter and gently pulled the hallway door almost all the way closed. The sound of snoring dulled, the tinkle of a baseboard heater coming to life echoing through the room.

  He flicked on the lights, positioned himself between the window and the entrance door, and waited. When the guy came in, Ramage would be hidden by the open door. The seconds seemed like minutes, Ramage’s gaze constantly shifting from the entrance door’s handle to the hallway door. He expected the manager to show up at any moment, rubbing sleep from her eyes. He doubted she’d buy the excuse he was looking for excursion information, in the middle of the night, and the office door happened to be open.

  There was a scuffling outside, then a dark shadow fell across the window as someone peered into the office. Ramage pressed to the wall, holding his breath. If the stranger came in shooting, he was screwed.

  The guy didn’t come in shooting, but he was holding a gun.

  The door swung inward, the faint thwack of the spring pushing the clapper into the jammed bell housing causing the man to look up.

  Ramage pounced, throwing himself on the man’s back and clamping a hand over the guy’s mouth. He used his leverage and weight to drive the man into the carpet, pressing the arm with the pistol at its end to the floor. The stranger bucked and heaved, squeaking as Ramage drove his face into the rug, pressing a knee into the man’s back as he snatched the pistol. It was a Colt .357 Magnum with a dark wood grip. A cannon.

  Ramage pulled the Colt’s hammer back and jammed the gun in the guy’s ear. “Make a sound. Please, and they’ll be pieces of your brain all across Utah’s top tourist attractions.” The guy didn’t look like he’d gotten the joke, so Ramage turned his head so he could see the brochure and map stand behind him. Ramage jerked the guy to his feet, flicked off the lights, and put the .357 to the dude’s back. If the commotion had woken the manager, there was no sign yet.

  Using the Colt’s barrel as motivation, Ramage urged the guy out the door, picking up the rope and bungie cords he’d left on the chair next to the entrance. He tied the man up, bound his mouth, and took his phone. The night symphony buzzed, cold air driving away Ramage’s weariness as he worked.

  The lights in the motel office came on.

  Ramage rolled the bound guy under a Ford pickup, put the gun to his temple, and said, “You from Prairie Home?”

  He nodded yes.

  “Don’t move,” Ramage said as he crouched beside the Ford and waited for dumbass number two.

  Chapter Six

  Dumbass number two wasn’t that dumb, and it took her twenty minutes to get her nose broken.

  Ramage stayed hidden behind the Ford, the guy under the truck starting to squirm and choke, his face going pink, his eyes bloodshot, face slack. His cellphone, which Ramage had in his jacket, hadn’t stopped vibrating.

  The manager’s round face peered out from the office window, then the office went dark.

  Seconds dripped away, a minute, two, three… ten.

  “Shit,” Ramage muttered. He’d had enough, and as his adrenaline ebbed and his edge dulled, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The second dipshit could be calling the boss and waiting for reinforcements.

  Room number six’s curtains flic
ked apart, then closed.

  Ramage bounded forward, Magnum out before him, eyes locked on the #6 mounted above the tiny peephole. He was going through the door, and as he crossed the apron of the breezeway he coiled, pulling back his shoulders, tightening his muscles as he prepared to use his body as a battering ram.

  The door to number six opened, and a skinny woman who looked like crack was her detox drug stood in the open door, a rifle held at her side, straw-like blonde hair covering half her face. Her mouth formed an O, and she took a step back, realized what was happening, and brought up the gun.

  Ramage lowered his shoulder and took the woman down, swinging his pistol like a club, knocking the lady back with a colossal blow that shattered her nose. A loud snap reverberated through the room, blood splattered the ugly orange carpet, and the lady wailed and screamed as she dropped the rifle and covered her face.

  Snake lady, Maverix, and Spencer sat on one of the double beds, and two men, one of which he assumed was Butch, sat on the other. All five of them stared at Ramage.

  The snake around Marie’s neck hissed at Ramage as he stepped into the room and closed the door.

  The blonde on the floor was still wailing and crying and Ramage drew back his leg, fully intending to kick her in the stomach, but he put his foot back on the ground. He couldn’t let this happen again, he’d come too far. He had to leave violence behind, yet that was difficult to do when folks were trying to kill you.

  Ramage swung the Magnum toward Spencer and Maverix. “Help her. Now.”

  The boys did nothing. They stared at each other, then looked to Marie, who was petting her snake and watching Ramage with an odd smirk running across her face.

  “What part of that didn’t you understand?” Ramage said as he scooped up the rifle and hung it over his shoulder.

  “What do you want us to do?” said one of the men sitting on the opposite bed.

  Ramage pointed the Colt at the guy, and said, “Who the hell are you?” The man started to speak, but Ramage put up a hand. “Don’t tell me. You’re Marie’s husband?”

  The guy’s eyes fluttered. “Why, yes. How did you…” He glanced at Maverix and Spencer, his face twisting like he’d sucked down spoiled milk.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Ramage said.

  A dark pool of blood spread around the woman on the floor, and her wails and cries had shifted to gurgling sobs and wet intakes of breath as she struggled to pull air through her broken nose.

  Ramage looked up at the stained dropped ceiling, eyeing the tile he’d removed when he hid his laptop. The tile looked undisturbed. He angled the tip of the Magnum toward the volunteer with a flick of his wrist and said, “Go get some towels and shut her up.”

  The guy got up and headed toward the bathroom and alarm klaxons chimed in Ramage’s head.

  “Wait,” he said as he sighted the pistol on the man.

  The guy froze, arms out, as if playing a game.

  Ramage pushed by him, opened the bathroom door, and did a fast search, gun thrust out at the gang through the open door. He scooped up two dirty towels and tossed them to the guy.

  “Those might have dirt on them. That might cause an infection and…” The guy’s voice petered out as he realized he was lecturing Ramage about the health of a person who’d taken his wife and her menagerie hostage.

  Outside an armadillo screamed alarm, and Ramage remembered the guy under the pickup, then thought of the boss. He looked through the drapes. All was quiet. The main office lights were still dark, the manager having most likely chalked the disturbance up to night sounds.

  The lady with the broken nose propped herself against one of the beds, holding a towel to her face.

  Ramage dropped into a catcher’s stance before her, elbows on knees, the pistol hanging casually in his right hand. He tossed the Colt’s barrel up and down as he spoke. “Did you call the boss?”

  The woman said nothing.

  Anger surged through him. The rage that had brought him down so many times before. Ramage cracked his neck and asked again. When the blonde didn’t answer, he smacked her hard across the face.

  The woman yelped, and shook her head no.

  Ramage searched the blonde and her purse. He took the woman’s phone, and a bottle of Ride, a surfer riding a cloud on the label. “You take this shit?” he asked. “Where did you get it?” Ramage was told he’d stomped the shit out.

  The blonde stared at him with defiance, but said nothing.

  “All the proof I need,” Ramage said.

  “Proof of what?” the guy Ramage guessed was Butch said. He was the odd man out; unshaven, dirty clothes, drunk red eyes with a nose and cheeks to match.

  Ramage figured the blonde and her partner had searched Marie and crew, but better safe than sorry. “Lift your arms,” he said to Butch, who complied. As Ramage searched the man, he said, “Proof that these morons, not Mormons, are from back home. They’re angry with me because I took out their criminal boss and brought down his operation, isn’t that right?”

  Blondie said nothing, a snotty blood bubble forming above the towel she held to her face.

  Ramage frisked the rest of the group, confiscating phones and snacks, but no weapons. He said, “Where are the chimps?”

  “Sleeping in our room,” Spencer said, his voice cracking. He squinted, pleading with his eyes, and Ramage realized Marie didn’t know Maverix and Spencer had been flying the coop.

  “Good. Good,” Ramage said. He raised the Magnum. “Nobody move. I’ll be right back. Try anything, and well, I don’t make threats, just promises, and…” He realized he sounded like an ass.

  Ramage threw open the door and ran from the room, the rifle falling off his shoulder and dangling off his arm and almost tripping him up. He darted between two parked cars and pulled his prisoner out from under the truck. He stuffed the pistol in his pants behind his back, freed the man’s legs, and jerked him to his feet. The guy staggered and almost went down, but Ramage pulled his gun with one hand and pushed the guy through room six’s open door with his other. The thug hit the carpet with a thud, and Ramage shut the door. The entire operation had taken thirty seconds.

  The boys and their wife hadn’t moved, and even the snake looked startled, its obsidian eyes watching Ramage, tongue flicking.

  Ramage grabbed the new arrival by the collar and propped him up next to the blonde. “I’m going to take your gag off. Make a sound and it goes back on and… well, no threats.”

  “Who the hell are these people?” Marie asked.

  Ramage pulled the muzzle from his prisoner’s mouth, the guy struggling for breath as the redness faded from his face and eyes.

  “When I get loose, I’m—”

  Ramage punched the man, hard, and the guy’s head snapped back, blood flying. “Now what did I say about threats? Look around, ass-wipe. Does it look like you’re in a position to tell me anything?”

  “When Rolly gets here you’ll wish you were long gone,” the guy said.

  Rolly. That name rolled around inside Ramage’s head, but it escaped between his mental pinball flippers.

  “Let’s start with your names?” Ramage said.

  The guy Ramage had pegged as Butch got up. “This has got nothing to do with us. We’re leaving.”

  Ramage spun and planted a foot in the man’s chest, knocking him back onto the bed. When the man pressed his hands to the mattress, preparing to try again, Ramage pointed the pistol at him, and he deflated like a balloon. “What’s your name?” Ramage jabbed a finger at the guy who’d help clean up the blonde.

  “I’m Noah,” the man said, and he held out a hand.

  Marie and the three boys stared at Noah.

  Ramage looked at Noah’s hand, then shook it. “How did you end up with this bunch?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “I bet.”

  No TVs played, no children were getting yelled at yet, but Ramage heard the stirrings of hardcore skiers getting ready to head off to the mou
ntains. Wind and sand pelted the motel, the old building whispering and sighing.

  “You four are all married to Marie here?” Ramage said, jerking the gun toward the lady and her snake.

  Noah nodded.

  Marie cleared her throat. “Look, I’m sorry about your situation, but do we need to be here?”

  Ramage looked at her and said nothing. It was a good question. “These fools have no beef with you folks that I know of.”

  “So we can leave?” Marie asked, and her snake hissed at Ramage. “We’ve got some business to attend to.”

  “I bet you do. Thing is, we’re not done yet. For all I know you could be in with this crew,” Ramage lied as he pointed the gun at the strangers.

  “I hadn’t realized we’d started,” Marie said as she flashed him an alluring smile.

  Butch harrumphed and Noah said, “What can we do to help things along?” The manager of the group.

  Ramage locked eyes with Maverix, then tried to get a read on Spencer, but the man stared at the dirty carpet.

  He lifted the pistol, aimed it at the blonde and her partner, and said, “You two. When will Mr. Rolly get back?” Then it hit Ramage like a visit to Sarasota to see his mom. Rolly Pepper. He’d been one of the Sandman’s guys. The one that tried to stop Anna from seeing him when he’d been arrested at the diner. Ramage wondered how and why the man was walking free.

  The blonde looked at the floor, but the guy smiled.

  Ramage punched smiley in the jaw, a tooth rattling blow that sent two of the guy’s chiclets flying across the room. “Did you know Chic?” he said.

  The guy looked at the floor.

  “Yeah, you did, didn’t you?”

  The man nodded ever so slightly.

  “What made you stay loyal to those pieces of shit? I mean, I get why you’re angry now. I took the wheels off the gravy train, but before that? You stuck with wimps like the Carls? That was the best you could do?”

  The guy said nothing.

  Ramage examined the confiscated phones. One had a pink case with the name Shelly bedazzled on its back. He tapped the screen and a ten-digit keyboard appeared. He looked at the woman, but didn’t ask. What was the point? The guy’s phone wasn’t labeled, but he had his driver’s license and cash in his wallet. It was a Missouri license with the name Jack Thompson printed on it. Ramage said, “You go by Tom or Jackass?”