Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  He pushed open the door to the men’s room. Two, pee-stained urinals that hadn’t had a decent cleaning in a decade lined the wall, one crisscrossed with yellow tape and a handwritten sign reading “Do Not Use.” A single, handicapped-sized stall with flaking green army paint and the standard, carved bathroom graffiti stood next to the urinals. Jake squatted. Two, beat-up steel-toed boots with a jumble of pants resting on top of them. The smell was all kinds of foul, and Jake wondered what the hell the guy ate.

  Jake engaged the lock on the bathroom door and crossed to the stall. He contemplated waiting the guy out before a newspaper rustled. The guy was going to be camped for a while. He thought of Snell’s watch. Tick tock. Tick tock. He dug the Glock from his waistband, held it in front of him and kicked in the door to the stall. The oversized door whipped open and banged against the concrete wall.

  Jake swung the gun up, pointing it at the old man. He was in his sixties with a gnarly, long, white beard and wire-rim glasses sitting under slicked-back, ivory hair. Jake resisted the urge to burst out laughing. He looked like Santa Claus taking a dump on his day off while reading the newspaper. For being covered with a gun while in the most vulnerable of positions, the old man was calm, though his rheumy eyes were wide with surprise.

  “I don’t have any money,” the old man said.

  “I didn’t ask for any,” Jake replied.

  “Drugs?”

  “Don’t touch ’em.”

  The old man set his mouth in a hard line. “So, you just bust in bathrooms and point guns at people for fun?”

  “I was going to wait until you were done, but it looked like you were going to be here awhile.”

  “I got an enlarged prostate. I don’t do nothing fast when it comes to the bathroom.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Jake said.

  “Not as sorry as I am. So, you don’t want money?”

  “Nope. Just your keys.”

  The old man’s brows drew together. “My keys?”

  “To your truck,” Jake said.

  “What for? Ain’t nothing in it.”

  “Government business.”

  The old man chuckled. “Yeah, right. As you can see, sonny, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Jake fished out Snell’s FBI badge, flipped it open and covered Snell’s picture with his thumb. “FBI. I need to borrow your truck.”

  The old man studied the badge, and Jake flipped it closed before he saw a woman’s name.

  “I guess I’m supposed to believe that’s real,” the old man said.

  “It’s real. What’s your name?”

  “Everett. Everett Schroer.”

  “Well, Everett, I don’t have time for twenty fucking questions right now. The United States Government needs your truck. Give me the keys.”

  Everett’s eyes narrowed. “This have to do with Blue Heron across the street?”

  An involuntary grin crept up. “What makes you say that?”

  “Saw you and a lady sitting in the car talking and pointing at the building across the road. Guess you’re looking at Blue Heron for something.”

  “You’re pretty observant.”

  “Not according to my wife.”

  “The keys?” Jake asked.

  Everett didn’t move. “If it’s a government operation, why do you want my truck? Why don’t you sweep in with a big-ass convoy of flashing lights and sirens?”

  “It’s classified.”

  Everett crafted a grin, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Bullshit.”

  Jake liked him and lowered the gun. “Let’s say we’re operating under the radar on this one and have to get inside.”

  “They doin’ some crooked shit in there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you’re going to bust them?”

  “Maybe.”

  Everett raised his bushy eyebrows. “Whet my taste buds.”

  “They’re holding a young girl against her will. I want to get her out.”

  “Well,” Everett said, folding up the newspaper and tucking it under his arm. “Those crooked sons of bitches have shorted me payment on my last three trips. If you’ll step out and let me wipe my ass, I’ll drive you in there myself. I know the guard, and he won’t think twice about waving me through. You can hide in the back of the cab.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Beats getting shot while sitting on a crapper in a shady gas station.”

  “You’re doing your country a great service, Everett.”

  “Always happy to help the FBI, Agent Victoria Snell.”

  Jake’s face flushed as he stepped out of the stall and pulled the door shut. Apparently, old Everett had a better look at the badge than he thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bear was seconds away from telling the nosy Truman Medical Center doctor where he could stick his recommendations concerning his friend Logan’s care when the man with the gun came down the hall. He and the doc argued in an alcove outside Logan’s room. The snot-nosed kid should be graduating from high school, not playing doctor.

  “Calm down, Mr. Parley,” the doc said. “I’m simply trying to convey to you the imperative nature of Mr. Logan’s precarious condition…”

  “And I’m trying to tell you, Doc,” Bear replied, poking the kid in the chest with a meaty finger and towering over him, “if you don’t start speaking English and stop making me feel like a stupid asshole, I’m going to squash you vertical into the floor like an aluminum can.”

  The young doctor stumbled back into a wall, chapped lips opening and closing like a fish as words failed him. The elevator doors dinged behind Bear. Two chattering nurses strolled in front of a male nurse in pale blue scrubs who pushed an empty gurney. Behind the male nurse, a dense man with clipped, brown hair in a wrinkled, grey suit minced steps, trying to look casual and failing. He took in door numbers, swinging his head to his right and left. As he turned, Bear noticed the bulge on his left side. When the man approached Logan’s room, Bear slipped his hand inside his jacket, resting it on his gun. If the guy made any attempt to open the door, Bear would drop him.

  “So the only real course of treatment,” the doctor babbled, “would be to…”

  “Shut up for a minute,” Bear said, taking a half-step into the hallway. The cop who was supposed to be outside Logan’s door was parked at the nurse’s station twenty feet down the hall, flirting.

  Bear sidled into the hallway. The cop looked up from the nurse’s chest and met Bear’s eyes. Bear nodded at the man in the suit. They closed on him—the cop slow and casual as he faced the guy, Bear quicker as he came up from behind. Bear’s hand tightened on his pistol grip as he closed the gap.

  The man with the gun stopped at Logan’s door and shoved one hand inside his suit while reaching for the door with the other. Bear closed within fifteen feet and was drawing his gun free from his jacket when a passing woman squealed with joy and wrapped the suited man in a tight hug.

  “Pastor Adam,” she said, near tears. She took the man by the hand seconds before Bear would have clubbed him over the head with the butt of his pistol. “I’m glad you could make it. Betty’s over here.”

  The woman towed the pastor by his free hand while he freed the pocket-sized Bible from the inside of his suit coat with his other. Bear and the cop headed back to their posts on either side of the hall. Bear had no more settled into the chair when the young doctor returned.

  The adrenaline of the potential close call and movement of the shoulder sent waves of pain radiating through Bear’s frame as he leaned against the wall. The chattering chipmunk of a doctor wasn’t helping. Once again, Bear wished Jake were here to punch.

  * * *

  Devaroux pretended to read a magazine in the waiting area of the emergency room. It was a three-year-old issue of Good Housekeeping and held nothing of interest unless he wanted to learn how to serve a better brunch of crepes and kolaches—whatever the hell kolaches were. Instead, he spent the time eyeballing the walking wounded
waiting to be treated.

  Two dozen mismatched upholstered chairs crowded the walls. A wobbly wooden coffee table held buckets of Legos to keep the kids busy. No telling how many varieties of bacteria and viruses those toys contained. It made Devaroux want to douse himself in Lysol disinfectant just looking at them. Stark white walls covered with cheap paintings and the overpowering smell of antiseptic brought back painful memories of sitting in a hospital waiting for his mother to die. Massive head trauma from a head-on collision with a drunk driver. He hated hospitals.

  A young, black male clasped a bloody, white t-shirt to his shoulder three chairs over. Every few minutes, a gurney would roll through the front door from an ambulance, and a troop of doctors and nurses would escort the patient inside the magnetic locked doors for treatment.

  He checked his cell phone for the thirtieth time to ensure he hadn’t missed a call from Stanton. Nothing. Logan’s room was two floors up, and Devaroux could be there in less than sixty seconds. Once he received the word from Stanton, it would be one quick call to dismiss the guard at Logan’s door, two flights of stairs, and a double tap into Logan from the silenced pistol in his jacket, and he’d be on his way. He wished the word would come sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  Siddiq Barakat pressed his moist palms on his knees to keep them from bouncing with the nervous energy coursing through his slight frame. He hunkered in the back of the Kansas City living room watching CNN with the rest of his Middle Eastern counterparts. Breaking news flashed across the screen of a suicide bombing at a restaurant in Paris, and the announcers suspected ties to Al Qaida or ISIS. Three people were dead, and half a dozen wounded.

  “Amateurs,” Alim scoffed from an overstuffed armchair the color of brown mustard, scratching what remained of his right ear. He’d told Siddiq the other half was in the hands of the American CIA. The Butcher scared the hell out of him.

  On the couch, next to Fareeq, Jalal sharpened a six-inch knife with a whetstone. Siddiq moved to the window ledge, alternating his gaze between the television and the street.

  “We should go soon,” Husam said as he edged into the living room, wringing his hands like he tried to squeeze water from them. “It is a twenty-minute drive which will leave us ample time to prepare.”

  “Are you nervous, Husam?” Alim asked, glancing at his handler’s hands. Jalal stopped sharpening his knife, his eyes flitting between his leader and their handler.

  “Not at all. I am happy to be of service.”

  “Will you die with us if it comes to that?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Alim regarded Husam with narrowed eyes. “Siddiq, take the gear to our kind host’s vehicle. We leave in five minutes.”

  Siddiq hopped from the window ledge. He hustled to the back bedroom and hoisted the heavy bag over his shoulder. In the garage, he popped the back-hatch lid of the Suburban and loaded the bags. Siddiq took a quick glance toward the empty doorway and typed a message into his phone. He hit send and stuffed the cell phone into his side pocket as the rest of the crew emerged through the door. Without a word, Husam dropped behind the wheel and the four terrorists assumed the same positions as their ride from the airport.

  Alim tapped Husam on the arm, and the car rolled out of the driveway and into the Kansas City night. Two blocks from Husam’s house, fat raindrops splattered on the windshield. A storm approached.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Just before eleven in the evening, Stanton walked out of the police station, weathering the brisk evening breeze. Black thunderclouds loomed overhead and emitted the musty smell of impending rain. Tawny confirmed the identity of Jake Caldwell, and Stanton admired her swinging backside as she trudged down the sidewalk from the police station. His cell phone dinged. A text message.

  It gave an address, a time of midnight, and the word Ares. His covert work overseas while he was in the military finally paid off, proving the old adage: it’s not what you know, but who you know. If Ares was being delivered, Caldwell was bringing it, and Stanton no longer worried about finding him. He’d be right where Stanton wanted him. Stanton knew the general area and had an hour to scope out a good vantage point for the optimal sniping spot.

  He scanned his speed dial and called Drabek as he made his way to his car. “Our friends from the Middle East are in town. Ares will be delivered at midnight. I’ll be there.”

  “Where is the meet?”

  Stanton gave him the address.

  “That’s Keats’s territory, which makes me nervous. Where is the package now?”

  “Best guess is in the hands of Caldwell. According to the girl, he was last seen with Voleski.”

  “Why would Caldwell deliver the package?” Drabek asked. “If he has it as your contact says, what’s in it for him?”

  Stanton unlocked his car and climbed inside. “Gotta be the money.”

  “Caldwell is working with my ex-wife. They could be together, a trap.”

  “Is it a possibility?”

  “She’s in the FBI,” Drabek said. “What do you think?”

  “If she’s with Caldwell and he shows, there could be collateral damage. I have to know how careful you want me to be if I find them.”

  Stanton waited for Drabek to respond. He knew his boss held no love in his heart for his ex-wife and wasn’t sure how much love he held for his daughter. After ten seconds of silence, Drabek spoke again.

  “If my ex shows with Caldwell, leave her alone, if possible. I don’t want my daughter to grow up motherless, and I sure as hell don’t want to raise her. First priority is to make sure the Middle Easterners get Ares. As long as they get the case, we get the money and get to keep our body limbs.”

  “But what if he doesn’t show? We’re screwed.”

  “I’ll bring the rest of I what have,” Drabek said. “It’s not the full shipment, but maybe it’ll placate them until we find Caldwell. You’re there either way to cover my ass.”

  “Understood.”

  “Don’t fuck this up, Stanton, or we’re both dead.”

  * * *

  Jake and Everett exited the convenience store and headed into the misty evening toward Snell’s car. The temperature dipped, and the wind picked up, spelling the impending rain promised by the dark clouds above.

  “She going to be good with this plan?” Everett asked.

  Jake slowed his stride and matched the man’s waddle. “Don’t know why not. She wanted to steal your truck. At least I had the decency to ask you for the keys.”

  “At gunpoint.”

  “I wanted to get your attention.”

  “It worked,” Everett huffed. He wasn’t in the best physical shape. “Helped move my slow-ass bowels, anyway.”

  “Staring down the dark barrel of a pistol works better than any laxative.”

  “Amen to that.”

  They approached Snell’s car, and Jake stopped. “I still can’t figure out why you’re willing to help a guy who showed you someone else’s FBI badge, pointed a gun in your face, and demanded the keys to your truck.”

  “I’m an excellent judge of character,” Everett said. “It’s one of my few redeeming qualities. You have an honest face.”

  Jake smiled thinly. “First time I’ve heard that but thank you.”

  Snell got out from the driver’s side; her face scrunched at the duo. “Not exactly what we planned.”

  “The best laid plans of mice and men oft go astray,” Jake said. “Turns out Everett here is an upstanding citizen and wants to help his government. I explained our off-the-books operation to recover a kidnapped girl.”

  “And you believed him?” Snell asked the old man.

  “As long as you’re Agent Victoria Snell. You look like a federal agent. He doesn’t.”

  “I am, but you didn’t see me.”

  “See who?” Everett winked. “And neither of you look like terrorists. Who is the damsel in distress?”

  Snell’s eyes shimmered, the mere thought of what was at
stake choking her up. “My daughter.”

  “And she’s in there?” Everett glanced across the street at the Blue Heron building, a blurry shape in the evening mist. “Well, I had a daughter once too. Died at sixteen. I couldn’t help her, but I can help you. Let’s go get her.”

  Snell’s face flushed. “You’re a trusting soul. Especially in this day and age.”

  “A little excitement keeps me young. Plus, I get the bonus of screwing over those dishonest bastards at Blue Heron.”

  Snell regarded him for a moment. “Are you picking up or delivering?”

  “Picking up. Either way, should give you plenty of time to get in. Those morons on the dock move like molasses in winter at this time of night.”

  “Okay,” Snell said. “You get us in the gate, do your business, and get out of there. Agreed?”

  Everett’s eyes twinkled. “Do I get a gun?”

  Jake and Snell spoke simultaneously. “No.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Got one under the seat anyway. You can’t trust people these days.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  After stashing the briefcase in the trunk of Snell’s car, Snell and Jake squeezed into the back of Everett’s semi cab, legs pressed together as they sat on what served as the old man’s bed. The cab smelled like stale whiskey and dirty socks.

  The truck bounced over potholes in the convenience store parking lot, and they rocked back and forth as Everett maneuvered the semi onto the road. The drive would be short, and they hoped their entry into the Blue Heron gates would be uneventful.

  “We got nothing to worry about in terms of getting you two inside the property,” Everett called from the front. “Herschel at the gate barely wants to leave his guard shack.”