Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover Read Online Free

thought.
    Enough fucking around. I’d whacked the hornet’s nest, and now it was time to shoo them away.
    I took off my jacket and let it fall over my right hand; the pistol was concealed, and I could drop the jacket in an instant if necessary. I left the key on the nightstand.
    I waited until the lights turned, up the road, so traffic dropped to nothing—what I could see from the room, at least. Then I opened the door, let it close behind me and walked directly across the motel’s parking lot.
    No reaction from the car. I wasn’t going toward them, but toward the front of the restaurant. I hopped the grassy ditch between the motel and the road, jogged across its four lanes and fell in behind two couples, older folks, probably here for an AARP discount.
    A warm Fryalator smell drifted from the rear of the building. My shoes scuffed pebbles and grit on the asphalt. The senior citizens shielded me from my pursuers’ sight lines until we approached the door, and then the car was blocked completely by the corner of the restaurant.
    I immediately took off, going right, along the front window glass. Diners inside glanced up from their booths as I passed, so I kept the pistol low down, still covered by my jacket. Around the corner, moving faster now, then across the back of the building. A busboy in dirty whites stood at a dumpster, tossing plastic bags of garbage over the lip. He looked at me running past, started to say something.
    Around the last corner, and the rear of the dark car was dead in front of me. I dodged a Lincoln and an SUV. Two people, front seat. No brake lights, no exhaust visible. The driver’s window was rolled down—that was convenient, I wouldn’t have to smash it out.
    “Don’t move. Don’t
move
.” I stopped four feet from the vehicle, outside the door’s radius, with the pistol raised but only the barrel end visible. The jacket was still draped over my forearm.
    “Put your hands behind your neck.” I kept my voice just loud enough to carry, quiet enough not to attract attention. “Do it. Now.”
    Both glared at me, motionless. About my age. One was huge—his seat was all the way back, and his head brushed the car’s roof. He had sunglasses on, the other was stubbly, both had very short hair and broad shoulders. I couldn’t see much else.
    “The early bird ends at five-thirty,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”
    The giant driver slowly shook his head. He muttered something I couldn’t catch.
    “Open your door. Just you—driver’s side.” I gestured with the pistol.
    A long moment, and then he put one hand down, pulled the latch, and pushed the door halfway open. I stepped up, standing just behind the roof pillar on his side, gun at my side.
    Now he couldn’t hit me with the door. Trying to reach back and grab the pistol would be awkward. It was a risk, coming in this close, but the situation was as much in my favor as I could expect. Main thing, I wasn’t presenting an OK Corral tableau to all the elderly busybodies in the restaurant.
    The car was a Nissan—I could see a logo. I smelled exhaust, and now that I was next to it, I could hear the faint thrum of the car’s engine. They’d left it running after all.
    “Who are you?” I said, trying to watch both heads and all four hands.
    “You make a mistake.” Strong accent there, something from Eastern Europe.
    “That’s my line.”
    “Go away.”
    “Shit, that’s my line
too
.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Okay, I was holding that one back—”
    He stamped the accelerator and the engine roared, wheels suddenly screaming on the pavement. The Nissan surged forward. I jumped out of the way. The open door swung wildly as the vehicle banged over the lot’s curb and into the street. The driver fought the wheel, hand over hand. He kept his foot on the gas, though. The skid was out of control—one eighty, then all the way around. Horns blared as two passing cars veered out of the way, almost hitting each other.
    Another slew