Seattle On Ice

By Mike Attebery

Someone is killing trial witnesses in the midst of a blizzard, and rookie cop Brick Ransom must fight his way through a city paralyzed by ice and snow, as he races to save as many people as possible.

Seattle wasn’t built for snow, and a freak storm on the eve of a blockbuster criminal trial has brought the city to a standstill. Now Brick Ransom must protect three key witnesses – a bookkeeper, a stripper, and a deadly assassin – all of whom are set to testify against Seattle crime boss Frank Mason the next morning. When a gunman ambushes the first witness, and Brick’s partner is killed in the crossfire, it’s revealed that moles within the police force are leaking the whereabouts of each witness, in a last-ditch effort to keep the criminal kingpin from ever standing trial.

As Brick faces killers, crooked cops, and an ever-worsening storm, he doesn’t know whom he can trust, or when his luck will run out...

With its signature blend of humor and page-turning action, Seattle On Ice is Brick Ransom’s most exciting adventure yet!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Attebery
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301146925

Mike Attebery

Mike Attebery is the author of ten novels, including The Grimwood Trilogy, Chokecherry Canyon, Firepower, Seattle On Ice, Bloody Pulp, and Rosé in Saint Tropez. He lives with his family on an island off the coast of Washington State.

Book preview

Seattle On Ice

A Brick Ransom Adventure

By

Mike Attebery

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Books by Mike Attebery

On/Off

Billionaires, Bullets, Exploding Monkeys

Seattle On Ice

Bloody Pulp

Rosé in Saint Tropez

Chokecherry Canyon

Seattle On Ice

Cryptic Bindings

http://www.mikeattebery.com.

Seattle On Ice

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Michael Attebery

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Cryptic Bindings, LLC.

Visit our website: www.crypticbindings.com

Read Mike Attebery’s blog: http://mikeattebery.com/

First Edition: November 2011

ISBN: 978-0-615-54285-0

Publisher’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

For my friends in Seattle

& everyone at 165 Perkins

Table of Contents

Seattle On Ice

First Witness

Second Witness

Final Witness

Seattle On Ice

The snow was blinding as they slid through the ice-glazed intersection, completely out of control. Their SUV launched into the air at the summit of the next street, sailed aloft for a good ten feet, and slammed down on the surface of the roadway, the undercarriage tearing into the concrete as the vehicle resumed its whirling descent.

So far, they’d managed to stay upright and in the middle of the roadway, but after crossing the next avenue at a terrifying 60 degree angle, the front of their vehicle tore into a row of parked cars, sending shards of glass and a volley of sparks into the frozen winter air. The sounds of grinding metal and shattering glass were deafening. And yet, their own vehicle seemed all but unscathed as it picked up speed for the final stretch, moving faster and faster toward the two-way traffic of First Avenue, until they were square in the middle of the intersection, with Brick Ransom’s back turned partially away from the on-coming southbound traffic.

Lights filled the cab and a horn blared behind them as Brick Ransom spun around to look over his shoulder, just as a Seattle DOT snowplow smashed into the front driver’s side fender. The SUV’s engine blew apart from the impact. The plow’s blade ripped through the giant vehicle’s metal skin. Steam, metal, and wreckage exploded around them in a cloud of debris.

And still the plow drove forward, propelling them through the intersection and straight into the corner of a large Pioneer Square office building, where the SUV buckled against the fortress-like stone structure. The plow blade ground further and further into the twisted metal wreckage, before finally gasping to a halt.

Then everything went quiet, and the world blinked to black.

First Witness

The TV over the grill was tuned to the KING-5 afternoon news. The mayor was onscreen, holding court at the city maintenance headquarters, where row after row of plows and trucks sat noticeably idle behind him, despite the news-ticker at the bottom of the screen that flashed ‘WINTER STORM ALERT – PERIODS OF HEAVY SNOWFALL!’

With a big belly, scruffy beard, and eternally mussed hair, Nicholas McGuinness was the quintessential Northwest Mayor McCheese-type. He was forever clad in an ill-fitting brown suit, the waistband of which was continually rolled over from the accumulation of one too many executive dinners at The Palace Kitchen, revealing a swath of white lining that resembled either a shamefully small cummerbund or a hammock saddled with a 200 pound meatball wrapped in an Oxford shirt. When the guy had first been elected, Brick Ransom had found his unwavering arrogance and impeccable ability to come down on the wrong side of every issue almost charming. Now, two years on, McGuinness had long since become unbearable.

Brick rested his square jaw on his fist, leaned his elbow on the counter, and stared out the diner’s window, where the color was draining from the outside light, casting everything an icy gray. The temperature had been falling throughout the day, and the sensation in his knees and hips, the well-worn joints of the former high school football star that he was, were sending every wince-inducing signal that snow was on the way. A lot of snow. When the barometer fell, Ransom’s connective tissue invariably seized tighter than the grout in an old brick wall. It never failed. He’d been a hard-hitter back in his prime, and while giving 120 percent had won championships, and helped him score many an awestruck cheerleader, it had aged his body far beyond his years. Nowadays, the former Brick offensive was a solid but occasionally off-balance monolith of muscle. Unlike many a former high school athlete, and despite his passion for food, he’d managed to keep the weight off and maintain his sharp features. It was just the skeletal framework below the surface that was deteriorating ever so slightly from within.

A schlurping noise snarfled in from Ransom’s right, and he glanced over to see his partner, Loren Kamen – a slovenly, 46 year-old, 22-year veteran of the Seattle Police Department – slurping up a mouthful of chili.

Chili!

You might politely slurp tomato soup or fine bisque, hell, you probably ought to, if only to scatter the flavorful subtleties of those dishes across the full landscape of your palate. But chili? Chile called for small, tastefully modulated spoonfuls. That was just common sense. Common decency. Then again, sense and decency weren’t terms his partner was likely familiar with, or able to pronounce.

Kamen was a real piece of work. A condescending, sardonic little nit who bore more than a passing resemblance to a young David Letterman (albeit a Letterman devoid of all wit), who was forever leering at women, dodging investigations from Internal Affairs, or hunched over his little smartphone, typing out missives with his bloated, grubby fingers.

Brick loathed the man in a way he’d heretofore thought impossible. His lip curled slightly as he watched Kamen scrolling through the messages on his phone, a speckle of chili meat dappled in the middle of the screen.

Ransom turned back to the television, disgusted.

Mr. Mayor, the on-screen reporter, a 20-something string bean with a too-close buzz cut, inquired. If the current storm converges with the system moving in from the west, are road crews prepared to employ salt in order to help prevent the dangerous buildup of ice on the roadways this time?

First of all, I believe there’s a .001 percent chance of these storm systems colliding, McGuinness proclaimed through a pursed grin.

The reporter leaned partially into the Mayor’s space, turning to the camera as he added, For the record, meteorologist Jeff Renner places the chances of these storms merging at around 98 percent—

McGuinness took a half step forward, heaved a muffin-topped hip to his left, and dismissively bopped the interviewer out of frame before he continued his response -and second of all, absolutely not. When I entered office two years ago, one of my strongest stances addressed this very issue. McGuinness is the friend of the finses.

Finses? The camera turned back to the reporter, who looked puzzled. Help me out here—

"Finses," the mayor repeated.

Still the reporter looked stone-faced.

Fins! The fish! McGuinness blurted out. We don’t salt the roads cause it kills the fish.

Oh, the reporter mouthed before throwing the broadcast back to the anchors in the studio, who then cut to commercial.

Ransom scoffed at McCheese’s latest performance. That fat-ass might think the city was gonna dodge snowstorm Armageddon, but Brick’s ululating cartilage told him otherwise. Summer solstice, blackberry season, and major storm fronts, the throbbing pain in his joints never let him down when it came to predicting the approach of all three. He looked out the window as scattered flakes fluttered past. Judging from the current conditions and his infallible organic gauges, Seattle was in for one hell of a long night, especially if their fearless leader refused to prep the plows and sprinkle the Morton’s to keep the roadways in check.

The distraction of the TV broadcast momentarily gone, Brick picked up a saltshaker and turned his attention to the considerable shortcomings of the dish before him. As usual, Kamen had insisted on eating at Sunnyside’s, a particularly grimy, uniquely charmless greasy spoon that served as a regular cop hangout, and served up some of the worst food Ransom had encountered in all of his 29 years. He had ordered a dish he’d hoped might signal a culinary come-to-Jesus moment for the chef, a dish whose appearance on the menu was almost as startling as the final product eventually placed before him. Alas, what the cook dubbed a ‘Scotch ale stew’ Brick would have felt guilty feeding to his dog. Much like the cold cans of gelatinous Alpo he scooped out for Mister Snagglechomp, this dish was encased in what appeared to be chilled pony fat. As for the quality of the meat, he couldn’t bring himself to consider what kind of animal this had once been.

The bell at the front door jangled and Brick looked up, grateful for the distraction. He was even more relieved to see who was walking in: John Gridley was his late father’s old buddy on the force. Gridley had since become Brick’s unofficial mentor now that he was a cop in his own right. Gridley was a throwback, as far as officers were concerned. Less Blackberry than Billy club, his hair was etched with sweeping veins of silver that accented his massive, gray handlebar moustache. The moustache was the icing on the cake, making him appear both older than his 57 years and far more imposing. Very few perps had been known to take a swing at the guy, and no one on the force would dare mess with him. Having someone like Gridley on his side for the past three years had made an incalculable difference in helping Ransom establish some level of credibility as a rookie officer.

Gridley stopped at the door to brush a few snowflakes from his coat. He scanned the room, unconsciously tweaking the end of his moustache before setting his sights on Brick and heading over.

It’s starting to come down out there, Gridley said as he walked past, nodding at Kamen and patting Brick on the shoulder. How we doing, fellas?

Kamen grunted, but didn’t look up from his phone.

Brick met Gridley’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

I’m good, he said, then nodded toward his plate. Could be a bit better.

Gridley looked at Sunny, the diner’s namesake owner, who was watching a Vern Fonk Insurance commercial, spatula in fist, arms crossed over his sizable belly. The corner of Gridley’s mouth curled ever so slightly – he was no fan of the Sunnyside menu either.

The commercial ended with a grating ‘Honk for Fonk’ horn blast, and Sunny headed over to take Gridley’s order.

Coffee and toast, Gridley said. His eyes went to the TV as the news broadcast resumed.

A tall, thin man, with a thick head of silver hair, all decked out in a pinstripe suit, was seen walking into the King County Courthouse, a team of lawyers and security personnel at his sides.

The trial of Mercer Island resident Frank Mason, local commercial developer and alleged crime boss, is set to begin tomorrow morning, A reporter announced over grainy, slow-motion footage of Mason entering and leaving a strip club in Seattle’s Lake City neighborhood. A fixture of the Eastside social circuit, and scion of substantial real estate holdings, including two of the area’s largest shopping malls, it’s Mason’s alleged control of more than a half-dozen Seattle strip clubs and a series of related criminal charges that has triggered continual troubles for the twice-married father of two. The footage now cut to a hectic scene on the steps of the courthouse, as a red-faced Mason took a swing at a man with a video camera. Now facing charges of tax evasion, money laundering, racketeering, attempting to influence a public officer, and conspiracy to commit murder, Mason has had a long and occasionally bumpy ride from the country club to the courtroom, and that journey takes another important turn tomorrow, as what is expected to be a long and likely devastating trial commences in King County Court.

The broadcast then cut to the studio, where the station’s lead anchor added her final thoughts as she tapped a bundle of papers on the edge of the news desk. Security at the trial is tight, and with the stakes so high, authorities aren’t taking any chances.

For the first time, Kamen lifted his head and watched the TV.

The anchor continued, Even lead-prosecutor Daniel Brooks doesn’t know where his star witnesses will be staying as they filter into the city this evening.

The conversation between the anchors and the reporter in the field continued for a moment, then the broadcast came to a close.

Kamen stood and let out a bemused harrumph, before slipping his phone into his uniform’s breast pocket, and heading for the bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder as he trudged away. I gotta drop a deuce, then we better get going.

A deuce.

Fucking heathen.

Brick slid the stew away, the last of his appetite annihilated.

How long did you say before I can apply to work alone?

Long enough that you might as well try not to think about it, Gridley said. Kamen’s an idiot, but you’re probably gonna be stuck with him for a long while yet.

"Okay, then at least explain one thing to me. Why is it that his comments always leave me feeling like the jerk?" Brick asked.

Cause the guy knows all the angles, and he’s usually got his fingers in all the right pies.

Brick blinked. I don’t know what the hell that means, but now you have me thinking of pies. Maybe a nice pizza.

Gridley laughed.

I’m serious! Why does it always have to be this shi-, Brick caught himself and lowered his voice as Sunny stumbled past. "Why can’t we ever eat at Serious Pie? Tom Douglas’ place is right around the corner! Who wouldn’t want some delicious pizza now and then? Why does it always have to be this place?"

You know Kamen. He’s probably trying to make some kind of point.

Or pull rank, Brick mused.

Gridley’s expression turned serious as he tilted his head in the direction of the news broadcast. You mean like tonight? You guys are picking up one of those witnesses, right?

Brick nodded. "Yep. But I have no idea which one. Our friend keeps getting updates on that little phone of his, but he tells me everything will be announced on a ‘need to know basis.’ Guy’s plane will be on the ground within the hour! I kinda think I need to know right about now so I can start figuring the route out in my head. I have no idea what hotel we’re taking this guy to, or what the roads are gonna be like by the time we get out there."

With that, Brick turned to the front window, where snow was now coming down in a veil of cold, hard flakes.

Jesus. Is that snow or hail?

It seems to be alternating off and on, but whatever it is, it’s definitely picking up.

Great, Brick muttered under his breath, just as he saw Kamen coming out of the men’s room. And of course ‘David Letterman – Mall Cop’ over there can’t drive in the snow.

Be thankful for that, Gridley answered as he reached

Reviews for Seattle On Ice

[anissaannalise-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's snowing in Seattle, there's corruption at every turn & Ransom needs a good meal. This was a fun read for a weekend. A cop trying to keep witnesses safe for a big trial the next day is difficult enough but our cop, Ransom is having to do so in a snow storm of epic proportions not knowing who he can trust & on a very tense run. The action was vivd & very much like watching a movie (especially the library & market chases). The characters were well drawn & honestly, I was very much a fan of all the food references. I wanted a bowl of Mrs. Ransom's beef stew with warm bread (no offense to the divine osso bucco or onion tartlet). When your cop is channelling Martha Stewart-isms to get him through his travails, I think that's pretty special. This isn't going to change your life or anything but it is darned entertaining. I suggest having good food & wine nearby.

[therestlessmouse · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The events depicted were a bit over the top, but a fun read.