Scorched Earth Read online

  SCORCHED EARTH

  Ian Quarry

  Contents

  SCORCHED EARTH

  FREE JOHN RADER BOOK OFFER: READ THE PREQUEL

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  Free Book

  Ian Quarry novels, all featuring JOHN RADER:

  About the Author

  Copyright

  SCORCHED EARTH

  When Rader accompanies his latest client, Joe Markham, to a business meeting with some men from Sage County, Arizona, the last thing he expects is an attack that leaves Markham dead, and his own name at the top of a syndicate hit list. For Rader, getting out alive is only half of it. The rest is finding out why somebody wanted him taking a dirt nap before the day got old.

  That somebody is mob boss Lou Scarano. Down in the desert wastes of Sage County, it’s always a bad idea to annoy Scarano. Rader’s client was just another irritation for him—a small-time business guy who wouldn’t do what he was told. Rader, though, is a loose end Scarano can’t afford—better not take the chance.

  FREE JOHN RADER BOOK OFFER: READ THE PREQUEL

  The saga begins in BLACKOUT, set in the weeks before the events of Book 1, when John Rader walked into Brink City, planning to stay for only one night… until he found trouble.

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  (The following novel, SCORCHED EARTH, contains violence and occasional strong language.)

  1

  The window panel opened six inches in his hand, sunlight hitting the room before the first shot blasted the frosted glass. The deal was no gun, but John Rader brought one anyway, the lower window shattering as he ducked towards the concrete and racked the slide on the .38 semi-automatic. Shell casings and glass littered the floor as he kept tight against the wall. Returning fire served no purpose. Not yet. So Rader waited while more bullets drilled the ground, and looked across at the only viable exit, a door leading to a stairwell in the empty nine-story office building. Empty except for Rader, and the dead guy he passed on the way up.

  Three more blasts, rapid, and then it stopped. Maybe they were watching for Rader to make his move—the men shooting at him had to be across in the next building, and there was no way over to the door without being seen. But he had to take the chance. Before they had any more time to reload, he got up into the gun smoke and ran low towards the handle, hauling the door wide as another cannon-blast plugged the frame.

  He lashed the door shut behind him, and made for the stairs. It was quiet out here, no more shots. This building, like all the others on the street, was closed on Sunday. Located out of town, there was no traffic, no reason to come here. Getting out meant two things. Finding the car keys, and reaching the car, and right now both of those presented risks.

  Rader, gripping the .38, headed for the stairwell. Still no more shooting. So they were moving inside, splitting up and looking for him, or else they had all exits covered. Either way it was bad. He didn’t know the layout, he barely knew the streets. Making it to the car was going to take some luck, but he couldn’t stay here any longer. He could hole up, and try to pick them off; but they would just send in more men. They wanted him dead, no mistake—what Rader didn’t know was why. He didn’t think about that right now, though. He just hurried down the stairs, keeping close to the wall, gun primed.

  Heading for the second floor he saw the dead guy sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, legs jamming open a door. Rader waited a few seconds, thinking that they already knew he arrived here in the man’s car, and that he’d need the keys. Then he started back down the stairs towards the body, and began rifling the pockets. There were the keys beside a wallet. Rader took them both. The dead man was Rader’s client. The building was near a business park north of Phoenix, Arizona, and John Rader, a PI, was here because the client, Joe Markham, had been having some concerns for his safety. It was Markham’s brother, back in Pittsburgh, who’d asked Rader to fly west to the desert and attend an air-clearing business meeting with some local men. This was easy work, the brother said. Easy money for a day’s effort. Rader had heard it all before. Now getting out of here alive was only half of it. The rest was finding out why somebody wanted him taking a dirt nap before the day got old.

  Rader pulled the door past Markham’s waist, stepping over his feet on the way out. Through here was a gray corridor of office suites. To his right the late-morning sun was burning against a high window. There were more buildings at this side, and Rader made a slow move towards the ledge until he could see the narrow street. Markham’s car was down there, half parked on the empty sidewalk, some distance beyond the building. In the morning shadows he saw a vague shape down the block. The only traffic he could see was in the distance. Rader stepped away from the window now. He didn’t know if they’d seen him from an adjacent building. He didn’t know how many of them there were. The meeting was set for ten-thirty. Rader and his client arrived a few minutes early, and found the lobby door unlocked. Markham disliked elevators, so they trotted up the stairs, Rader in front. The first shot caught Markham in the head. The second missed Rader by an inch.

  They had to be watching the car. Heading to the first floor was dangerous from this side of the building, though. Too obvious, even if these guys were no better than dumb amateurs. So now Rader hurried down this corridor, hoping for a stairwell at the far end. The carpet muffling his steps. He glanced back as he ran, and kept low. First he passed an elevator, and then a door marked STAIRS.

  Leveling the .38, Rader stayed to the side and pulled the handle. The door was wide and solid. He hauled it open a few inches, hearing only silence out there in the stairwell. Now Rader opened up. There was no creak from the hinges as he moved past, letting it close at his back. Down below was a small white lobby, and standing here he could see artificial plants and chairs. Then Rader heard a sound and looked straight up towards the third floor. The man staring down at him reached out with his pistol and fired.

  2

  The bullet slammed the banister at Rader’s shoulder as the man charged down the stairs, blasting twice more towards the doorway. Rader hurried on the stairs, keeping low, and grabbed the rail halfway, firing back over his shoulder. One random shot hit the door. Another drilled the wall. Jumping the last six steps, Rader scrambled on the floor, stayed down and blasted once more towards the center of the stairway. This one caught the man’s chest. He roared, gun loose as he toppled forwards and clattered into a bundle on the landing.

  For a few seconds Rader didn’t move. On one knee, arm across the rail, he stared at the man, and listened for anyone else who might be in there looking for him. Then he got up and walked over and kicked the man’s gun across to the wall. The man was face down and panting. An eye swiveled towards Rader’s boot.

  ‘Don’t... Don’t kill... me...’ he said. It sounded like those words. But it was all muffled into the floor as he groaned.

  Rader crouched and grasped his stringy dark hair, yank
ing his face towards him. ‘Why did you shoot?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t... Don’t kill me, please...’ Then a shallow breath came out of the man’s lips. He was about thirty, heavily pock-marked, with a small scar on his cheek below the eye. His gaze was distant, already half dead. Rader didn’t know if he saw much of him or not. He still clutched his hair, as the man’s face hatched sweat beads and turned gray. Another shallow breath, another. That gaze more distant now, even than a moment before.

  ‘Why did you shoot at me?’ Rader said.

  Another shallow breath.

  ‘You work for someone,’ Rader said. ‘Better tell me who it is.’

  The man’s lips quivered, started to form a letter as his gaze retreated from that far distant place where he would soon be a permanent resident, and found Rader. He blinked, once. Then his head hung limp, and Rader let go.

  Wiping his hands, Rader turned the man onto his back and checked the pockets of his jeans. A few dollars, crushed and dirty. A few quarters and pennies. He flipped him back, trying his other pockets. Not a thing. Somewhere between a sap and a patsy there’s a lot of men who can be bought. No purpose, no money, no liquor. Whatever it is they want, there’s jobs like this. And when they fall and they don’t get back up, the boys back in what they used to call juvie don’t even notice. Because they didn’t get up either. Or if they did they’re in the joint now, trying to make it through the day without being a snitch.

  Rader wiped his hands again. The same problem, but now one down. That wasn’t the way to handle this, though. Instinct told him there were a lot of men on these streets, maybe in this building, all looking for him. Something he did without knowing it, something connected to his client, had bought him a death sentence. Getting out of the state might solve it—he’d find that out. But first he had to get out of this building.

  Stepping over his second corpse of the morning, Rader moved towards the stairs. That this guy had come from above made him stop guessing; they could be anywhere. So he moved down a few stairs until he began to see the artificial plants and chairs again, and now a drinks machine across the white linoleum. Slowing, his gun primed, he stooped until he was looking at a row of glass doors. Beyond was the street, where Joe Markham’s car was parked just out of sight.

  Now Rader continued down the stairs, taking slow steps, keeping the gun raised as he reached the lobby. Straight ahead, no more than ten paces, was a row of glass doors on the corner of the building. The sidewalk and pavement were deep in shadow. Rader listened and heard nothing. He took one more step, away from the stairs, and glanced around the small seating area. There were no other doors here; only the glass entranceway. He started walking, moving to the side until he could see more of the street. Then he froze. Two suited men stood on the curb to the far left. One of them turned as Rader backed away. No good trying to blast his way out of there onto the sidewalk. No good at all. But there was another approach. Something he remembered from the way in, when Markham left the car in the street. An adjacent parking garage, its roof abutting the side of this building, could lead him close enough to the car to get inside. He ran to the stairs now, bounding back up, only this time he didn’t stop at the second floor. Or the third. He just kept going. The gun still primed for any targets. But he saw no one. Heard nothing beyond the slap of his own boots off the floor.

  Reaching the fifth floor Rader turned to one of those wide, heavy doors and pulled it open. Not an inch or two, but all the way, ready to blast anyone who might fire at him. The corridor was empty though. He hurried, trying a few doors halfway along. These doors, all belonging to businesses, were secure. And blasting the lock wasn’t ideal because it would warn anyone close by of his presence. Then he found a storage area, the door a half inch from the frame. Rader pushed inside, past carts and mops, towards a row of grubby windows.

  Outside was a short ledge, no more than three feet wide, leading to a parapet at the corner of a flat black roof. But these windows had no locks or handles; they weren’t designed to be opened. So Rader closed the door and rummaged on the cart, finding a set of eight-inch pliers. He swung them twice at the window closest to the end of the ledge, smashing the glass shards from the frame with a mop handle. Then he stepped up onto the sill and gazed down at the street. No cars, no one on the sidewalk, fifty feet below.

  The parapet on his left was just a few steps away. Rader ducked out through the frame, keeping his gaze clear of that drop to the ground, and moved towards the wall, clambering across. There was no breeze at all, and no clouds. The air had the suffocating warmth of a steam room, but oppressively dry. Rader stood there on the roof, looking around. He was big and broad and deep-chested, his thick dark hair styled without effort above a chiseled face. His narrow eyes had the cold, hungry look of the patient night predator. Rader squinted in the sunlight as he hurried across the parking garage roof. He was alone, but in the silence, he almost expected to hear another gunshot. Buildings towered on three sides, leaving him vulnerable to attack. In the wide open spaces, punctuated by lines of raised air vents, he saw the heat shimmer rippling above the tar.

  Towards the center of the roof was a maintenance shack. Rader gulped another lungful of hot, dry air as he approached. A dead bird, almost molded to the base of the structure, lay there among a rosary of black feathers. There were no windows, just a slatted vent on two sides, and a metal door. Rader placed a fingertip on the handle, removing it fast. Clutching the inside of his black polo top, he grasped the handle and twisted. Better than having to fire his gun again, it turned and he looked into a dark space, perhaps no bigger than an outhouse. Sweat beaded his skin, dripping as he swallowed some more air before moving inside. One step in front was a plunge through murky light, a fixed ladder leading down. Rader put his gun inside his ankle holster, and stepped onto the ladder. For a few seconds he felt as though he were breathing into a hot, musty fabric. But he didn’t gasp; didn’t want to think about lack of oxygen. Not now. He descended, hands tight on the rungs, until his boot kicked the ground.

  It was dark down here too, but he could just about make out a door. Rader drew his gun and moved across there, opening up on a warm corridor of gray slabs and fluorescent lights. He passed a door marked STORAGE. Another door was blank, and locked. He kept going until the corridor turned towards the vast, empty interior of the garage. Twenty paces on his left was an illuminated sign pointing vehicles downwards to the street. Now Rader hurried, following the road as it wound down to the fourth floor, and on, until he reached street level. He moved towards the exit, looking out again into those morning shadows.

  The street remained empty, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. Rader reckoned that some of the men, maybe most of them, would now be hunting for him inside the office building. Others would be posted outside too, but he had to take the risk. Staying put was no tactic at all. Gripping the .38, he ran left, down the block, seeing Markham’s car, a black Hyundai. Just left of this, in a shadow-drenched doorway, a figure was looming. A big man, he stood with his back turned, looking farther down the street. Rader froze, peering into the shadows for anybody else; but the man was alone.

  Moving again, more slowly now, Rader leveled the .38 and thrust it against the man’s kidneys.

  ‘One move,’ Rader said, low, towards his ear, ‘one sound, and I kill you.’

  The man didn’t move. Didn’t say a thing. Rader saw that his hands were empty. His arms were slick with perspiration, shirt clinging to him. A quick pat-down, and he drew the man’s revolver from his waistband. Then Rader dug into his own pocket for the car key, aiming it across his chest at the Hyundai and hitting the button.

  ‘The car,’ Rader said, jabbing harder with the gun. ‘We’re getting inside. Go.’

  ‘Now, you wait a minute—’

  But Rader gripped down on his shoulder, pushing the gun hard against his kidneys again, and shoving him towards the passenger door. ‘Shut up and get inside or I’ll blow holes in you.’

  The man did as
he said, without a word. Rader walked to the door now and opened up, pulling a reflector from the windshield and aiming the gun at his head.

  ‘Get down low,’ Rader said, starting the engine, ‘and stay there.’

  When the man hesitated, Rader grabbed the back of his head and slammed him towards the dash, chopping his back twice with the side of his hand. ‘Down low.’

  The man was breathing hard, sweat dripping off his neck. ‘This is a big mistake. You shouldn’t have done that. They’re not gonna like it.’

  ‘That’s the last thing you’re going to say for a while,’ Rader said, and drove off.

  The man was panting, and dripping more sweat. Rader kept the windows closed, the AC hissing as he rode away from the office building. He rummaged in the glove box above the man’s back for a pair of shades, and slipped them on. The streets were empty all the way, no traffic. The man was gasping now.

  ‘I can’t breathe. You hear me? I can’t fuckin’ breathe in here, man.’

  Rader ignored it. He didn’t know the city at all; he’d only arrived in Phoenix the night before, after accepting the job on the phone from Markham’s brother. He’d seen the home of Markham’s business partner, and heard a little about Markham’s girlfriend, but that was it. In the distance was a mountain range, and a lot of buildings and houses.

  ‘Where are we?’ Rader said. ‘I want the quickest route out of town.’

  The man’s voice was muffled, weak. ‘Can I get up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you can get up.’

  ‘You’re killing me, man.’

  ‘That’s what you were trying to do to me.’

  ‘Forget all that.’

  ‘Sure,’ Rader said.

  ‘Will you give me a break? The heat is just killing me. And you’re gonna try to make me talk. I know you are.’