Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  “Well?” Bear asked. “What did he want?”

  “Not exactly sure. My head on a stick for blowing his deal?”

  “That ain’t good.”

  “Tell me about it. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Two weeks later, the late Spring sun beat down, providing an unseasonably warm day of which they took full advantage on Bear’s boat in the middle of Truman Lake. The sun reflected off the smooth water like a million diamonds. Jake and Maggie lazed on the deck, each with a cold beer in hand, watching Halle lounge in an inner tube in the water, her beautiful face given to the sun gods with her arms flopped to the sides, fingers dangling in the cool waters. Toby the baseball douchebag was history, and Jake was thankful.

  “Damn it, James. You were supposed to bring the chips,” Audrey, Bear’s wife, chirped from below deck. It still sounded funny to hear anyone call his best friend by his proper name.

  “I brought the beer,” Bear huffed. “You were in charge of the food. How much do you expect me to carry with one good arm?”

  Bear’s head popped up from below deck. “You guys didn’t want any chips with your sandwiches, did you?”

  “I hate chips,” Maggie said.

  “Me too.” Jake grinned.

  “Out-fucking-standing,” Bear replied, dropping below again. “See, woman? They don’t even want any.”

  “You keep it up,” Audrey said, “and I’m going to have Jake shoot you again.”

  While Bear took on his better half, Jake’s cell phone rang.

  “You’ll have to watch the news tonight,” Snell said. “We’re moving in on Senator Young. Stanton rolled over on Young in exchange for a reduced sentence. Between his testimony, the video we have, the documents in the briefcase Bear found, and some questionable deposits to Young’s bank account, we have enough. He’s done.”

  Jake winked at Maggie. The bad guys dead or going down for their crimes. Except one.

  “What about Keats?” He hadn’t heard a peep since Keats’s cryptic warning the night of the takedown. Maybe he’d cooled off.

  “I think you said it best, the guy is Teflon. We have nothing but circumstantial evidence on him. He’s free as a bird.”

  Jake thought about the envelope with the pictures of Keats with Senator Young. He and Bear had talked about turning them over to Snell, but there was nothing all that incriminating in them. A good lawyer would shred them in a nanosecond. Jake decided to save them for a rainy day. Keats wasn’t going anywhere and if Keats’s implied threat became real, those photos might just save Jake’s ass.

  “Well,” Jake said. “Sometimes winning some of the battle has to be good enough. What about Ares?”

  “Safe and secure. We raided Blue Heron and scoured Ares Road but didn’t find any more. What you and Wyatt had was all there was. They won’t be making any more of it.”

  “That’s good. The world’s a scary enough place without shit like that floating around. Anything else of interest?”

  “One of the dead guys in the courtyard was a CIA operative.”

  “Get outta town. Which one?”

  “Siddiq Barakat. The one Bear shot,” she said.

  “Oh, man. He going to get in any hot water over it?”

  Snell huffed. “Not a chance. They’re still trying to figure out which side Siddiq was really working for, but they won’t share a shred of paper on it. Bear will be fine.”

  “How about Beth? She okay?”

  “She’s doing great and back in school. Nightmares are all but gone. Trying to put this mess behind her. I’ll keep you posted.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before he hung up and filled Maggie in on the developments. Maggie was happy it was over, and they could get back to a normal life. Bear didn’t want any of the money, especially since he was up for re-election in the fall. It wasn’t going to be much of a race, but he didn’t want any appearance of impropriety. In the end, Jake and Maggie decided to keep the money hidden and unused until Halle went to college, minus a small advance to start up Jake’s private investigation business. A still recovering Logan agreed to continue to show him the ropes.

  Bear emerged with the sandwiches, which was enough to pull Halle from the water. They sat in a circle on the boat deck, bobbing in the water, bathed in the sun’s golden light with the laughter of family and friends. It was almost perfect.

  Jake watched Maggie and Halle together. Mother and daughter. Both of them his. His chest swelled with pride and love, tears threatening to burst forth. This was where he wanted to be. This was who he wanted to be with. He felt the lump in his pocket and knew it was the right time.

  Maggie’s eyes crunched together, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze as Jake kneeled in the center of the circle. He slipped out the box and took Maggie’s hands in his. Halle squealed in anticipation. Jake had the perfect speech prepared for this moment, about all they’d been through over the years, the obstacles they’d overcome. But, in the end, those thoughts flitted away as he became lost in Maggie’s doe eyes and the smile cropping up on her face.

  “Jesus, I love you,” he said, flipping open the box, the diamond inside blinding in the sunshine. “Mags, will you marry me?”

  In that moment, he was uncertain. What if she said no? What if she decided his past was too heavy? His future too dangerous and bleak? He’d put her and their daughter in danger. But he’d also rescued them every bit as much as they rescued him.

  Maggie leaned forward and kissed him, lips soft and electric, whispering one word.

  “Yes.”

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is a long journey and a book won’t see the light of day without the right people in place. Thanks to my uber-talented writer friends—Kate, Rebecca and Emma. Your hard work in helping to shape Ares Road is very much appreciated.

  To my beta readers Barry, Jim and Jason—thank you for your awesome feedback to point out the plot holes and ensuring the story turned out as well as it did.

  Finally, to my awesome family and support team. Thanks for putting up with the late nights and encouraging me along the way. Love you all.

  III

  Blackbird Road

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapte
r 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Acknowledgments

  For my dad. Love you, Pop.

  Chapter One

  Borya Sokolov shuffled across the hospital floor, pushing the mop, palms slick with nervousness and anticipation against the worn wooden handle. Nervous someone would realize he was not Carlos, Janitor, as emblazoned on the chest of the uniform he snatched from the laundry room. Anticipation for the death that would bloom from his hands humming through his wiry frame like an electrical current. He paused, fingering the wedding band hanging on a chain from his neck as if the mere act of touching the ring would bring her back.

  The distant hum of overhead aircraft chewing up the clouds was followed by the descending whine of black bombs falling, the ensuing explosions drowning the panicking screams.

  His team told him not to come, that being at the hospital was an unnecessary risk. But he was like the arsonist compelled to watch his masterpiece. Today marked the culmination of months of blood, sweat, and tears, and he wasn’t going to miss it. He released the ring and pressed the mop along the slick tiled floor.

  The doctors and nurses in the intensive care unit bustled about him, none acknowledging his presence as they hurried from room to room, noses buried in charts and folders. He checked his watch—two minutes. He wasn’t sure if he could take much more of the antiseptic smell clinging to his nostrils.

  The explosion blasted him from his feet, hot blood drawn from his face as jagged bricks and splintered wood flew. His vision swam and ears rang, muffling the world around him.

  His cell phone vibrated against his leg, and he checked the message—one minute. He pressed forward with his mop until he reached a vantage point by the nurses’ station, where he could see all three rooms and keep an eye on the monitors feeding the vitals from the patients to the nurses. With their rounds over, they sat in chairs in their bright smocks, chatting with each other while completing paperwork. He’d timed the test perfectly and, if everything went as planned, the patients would be dead, and the hospital wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Marta tried to talk him out of the endeavor at the safe house. With her naked frame wrapped around his, she begged him to abandon the plan and just disappear where Moscow would never find them. Even she didn’t understand the hatred burning through Sokolov for the Americans. They’d taken everything from him, and he was going to make them pay. She said the vengeance would taste bitter and he’d choke on it.

  The flesh on his hands ripped and shredded as he dug through the rubble, screaming their names over and over as frightened tears marked tracks in the blood and dirt coating his face.

  His pulse quickened as he swiped the mop back and forth on the polished floors in rhythm with the countdown. When he reached zero, he spared a glance at the monitors. Everything appeared normal, just beeps and blips of hearts beating, oxygen flowing, and medications dripping. One minute passed, then two. Panic swirled in his stomach. Did the program work or was it all for nothing?

  His grip tightened on the mop handle as he spotted a priest striding down the hall, Bible clutched to his chest with a teary-eyed young woman latched to his arm. Sokolov held his breath as they entered one of the rooms. The woman’s screech pierced the ICU, and he exhaled with a wry smile. As the nurses scrambled from their station toward the wailing woman, Sokolov checked the neon green blips and data on the monitors one last time. Everything appeared normal. He dropped the mop and strode to the stairwell.

  He found them at last. His wife buried under a pile of stone, arms wrapped like a cocoon around their son, their faces blackened and raw. Sokolov would never forget the way their dead eyes stared right through him into the sky above.

  He dialed on his cell as he disappeared down the stairwell. “The Blackbird worked.”

  Marta was wrong. The vengeance tasted sweet. If the deaths of three Americans tasted this good, he wondered what thousands would be like.

  Chapter Two

  Given Jake Caldwell’s extensive experience in seedy, out-of-the-way bars in the middle of nowhere, Rattler’s did not disappoint. On a scale of one to ten, with one being an avoid-at-all-costs-atrocity-of-humanity, Jake scored Rattler’s a zero.

  He slumped at a table in the corner of the smoky bar with his broad back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. A stack of chairs blocked an exit to his right adorned with the illiterate sign “Open this here door and you get your ass kicked. This meens you.” Peeling his arm from the sticky table, he took a drink from a chipped beer mug with hopes the alcohol in the grimy glass killed any lingering parasites. He winced as he swallowed. Might as well be drinking lukewarm piss.

  Dexter Swofford ambled in from the late morning heat, a cloud of Northern Oklahoma parking lot dust trailing him like Pigpen from the old Charlie Brown cartoons. Sunlight ripped away the darkness for a blinding moment, scattering the cigarette smoke above the padded bar. The plywood door slammed shut. Dimness settled like a blanket on the dozen patrons inside Rattler’s, who resumed their drinking with the enthusiasm of someone lashed in a dentist chair getting a root canal. Dexter’s beanpole frame waded through the sea of misaligned tables, bumped fists with a couple of leathernecks playing pool, and settled on a barstool. The anorexic bartender, her cropped locks battling for color dominance between blonde and black, trudged over without a word and placed a fresh mug of the same swill she gave Jake in front of Dexter.

  Even though obscured by a grungy hat reading “Wine ’em, Dine ’Em, 69 ’em”, the guy’s gaunt, pock-marked face and mashed nose matched the picture from Pedro the Bail Man. Dexter didn’t look like a gunrunner. He looked like the type of guy relegated to jobs like selling ice cream from a truck or manning the third shift at some boondocks convenience store. With his certainty at ninety-nine percent that the guy at the end of the bar was Dexter, Jake punched a text into his phone.

  Now for the fun part of actually nabbing the guy. Jake took inventory of the crowd of Oklahoma rednecks. There was a decent probability some of them carried guns, or at least a big ass knife shoved in their back pockets. His phone dinged with a reply. He checked the message and rose to make his move. The timing couldn’t have been better because John Anderson’s “John Deere Green” warbled on the broken speakers of the juke box. Jake hated that fucking song.

  He arched his back and shook out his hands, limbering up. Moving his six-foot-two-inch frame toward the end of the bar, he drew stares from those seated around him. Jake was a stranger, but his bulging arms strained the fabric of his t-shirt, and his stony eyes made the onlookers find something interesting to ponder in the bottom of their beer mugs. Dexter was too busy ogling the bony ass of the heavily tattooed bartender to notice Jake beside him. But Jake got his attention when he slapped the information notice from AAAA Bail Bonds on the bar top.

  “Can I help you, friend?” Dexter asked, snapping his fingers behind his back. Signaling reinforcements. Once he got their attention, Dexter took a long pull from his beer.

  “I’m not your friend.” Jake tapped his finger on Dexter’s mug shot. “You strike a strong resemblance to the guy I’m looking for.”

  Dexter lit a cigarette from a crumpled pack and blew out a stream of smoke through his flat nose. “That ain’t me.”

  “Sure it is, Dexter. Maybe if you’d cut your hair and grown a beard, I might not have recognized you. But you didn’t and I did.”

  “That ain’t me, mister. Now, why don’t you go around back and fuck yourself before you get hurt?”

  The corner of Jake’s mouth curled as the sound of pool balls silenced, followed by the shuffle of feet in his general direction. He turned his body to the side, checking out the two rednecks with rust-stained jeans and sleeves cut out of their flannel shirts. They white-knuckled their pool cues and edged toward the bar, stopping six feet away, far more interested in Dexter’s situation than their game. Other than Pool Boy 1 and Pool Boy 2, only one other guy showed interest—a wiry, weather-beaten red-head who shou
ld have his mullet on the ballot for the Shitty Hair Styles Hall of Fame.

  “I don’t want to make a scene,” Jake said. “You need to come with me.”

  “You already made a scene, dickhead. Too late to back out now unless you waddle your ass out the door.”

  “You threatening me, Dexter?”

  Dexter flashed a grin of stained, mismatched teeth, like someone pulled them from a rotten cadaver and jammed them haphazardly in Dexter’s mouth. “I told you, that ain’t me. You a cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fed?”

  “You aren’t that important.”

  “Then what?”

  Jake tapped the flyer again. “Pedro is kind of pissed you skipped out on your bail. I’m guessing since you were selling illegal guns that you’re hanging him out to dry for a decent sized chunk of change. I’m here to help you get back to Kansas City to rectify the situation. You do this right and I’ll even let you finish your beer.”