“If you can figure out a way to put that asshat on the other side of the JCCC bars, I’ll do it for free. My buddy still doesn’t walk right.”
“Thanks, Cat.” Jake hit the speaker button to end the call. “Now what?”
“You okay? You still look like you’re ready to rip out somebody’s throat with your teeth.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I did when you called me, and it wasn’t even my house. But, you’re my brother. What happens to you happens to me.”
Jake pointed to a photo on Bear’s desk of his family. “You check your house?”
Bear blew out his cheeks as he picked up a hefty manila folder bulging with a chaos of paper. “Sent a couple of guys over there and all is quiet. You must be special. Now I get to have a conference call with the surrounding counties and the state police about Langston, which should be as much fun as plucking my ball hairs out one at a time.”
Jake slipped toward the door. “If you talk to Maggie, don’t say a thing about the picture. She’s freaked out enough as it is.”
“My bacon-smeared lips are sealed.”
“Thanks. I’m going to stop at Casey’s, grab a drink, and head to Kansas City to check on Heartstone. I’ll call you if I find out anything else.”
Bear’s lip rose as he glared at the file. “You want to switch? Your to-do list sounds a lot more exciting than mine.”
“No thanks. I’ll leave you to your ball hairs and tweezers.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shane lounged atop a barstool on the back deck behind the Asylum, smoking and running his fingertip in circles along the top of his sweating Budweiser longneck bottle, glimpses of the moon-kissed river visible through the outstretched fingers of the thinning trees. He poured the last third of the beer down his throat and rapped his knuckles against the wall behind him. Setting the empty bottle against its five fallen brethren, he took a deep drag from his cigarette and let the smoke blow through his nose while thinking about loose ends. He’d been mere feet away from both Caldwell and Bear when they showed up, but it wasn’t the right time. It’d be like eating dessert before the appetizer even showed up.
When he was seven and crammed in the crappy two-bedroom Chicago apartment with his three brothers, he owned two prized possessions: a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle and a Corona shirt. Both were birthday presents from his old man on the day he left. Even as a kid, Shane knew the baseball was a fake. If it had been worth anything, his dad would have hocked it for beer money.
One of the Blood Devils emerged with a fresh bottle, lid popped off and dripping with ice crystals. “Bennett pulled in.”
Shane flicked his cigarette butt into a sand-filled bucket on the floor. “Thanks. Send him back.”
The Corona shirt was nothing special, probably a freebie given out at Lou’s Tavern, his dad’s favorite hangout around the corner. Still, his dad gave Shane both on the last day they laid eyes on each other. He hid the baseball in the back of his closet and wore the Corona shirt every day until the ends began to fray. He’d wait on the stoop and pull at those threads, wondering why his father wanted to be anywhere but home. He’d tugged the shirt apart, a few threads at a time, until there was nothing left. And he learned to keep things together; you had to watch out for those frayed ends. Left unchecked, they’d unravel even the tightest knit item.
Bennett emerged through the backdoor, feet moving slow as if trying to avoid stepping on a landmine. He stopped ten feet away and sat on an empty beer keg. “Hey, Shane. Good to have you back in the real world.”
“It’s good to be back. Would be better without every cop in the county chasin’ me, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
“No, sir.” Bennett’s shoe tip drew a circle in the dust covering the back deck, hands shoved in his pockets, elbows crushing against his ribs. “How’d you get out?”
Shane sang, “I get by with a little help from my friends. You have any friends now that Willie’s gone?”
Bennett’s scrawny shoulders rose and fell. “Not in particular, especially since Howie’s dead.”
Shane smirked at the spit of fire from Bennett’s eyes at the mention of his brother, since they both knew Shane had him killed in a Benton County jail cell. You couldn’t trust a man with an axe to grind. All the more reason to do what he had to do.
Shane let the dangling front legs of the bar stool thump against the floor, the momentum springing him to his feet. “Is that why you talked to the cops? Because I had Howie killed?”
Bennett jumped off the beer keg and pushed the back of his legs against the worn wood porch railing. “I didn’t tell them shit.”
“You told them something.”
Bennett played with a Zippo lighter, waiting too long to answer. “Nah, that was Willie, Shane. Swear to God. I didn’t tell them a thing. Even after you killed my brother, I kept my mouth shut.”
Shane slipped the knife from the sheath at his back. Bennett’s eyes locked on the eight inches of serrated steel gleaming in the moonlight slicing through the Ozark trees.
Shane stepped forward and Bennett slid to the left toward an opening in the railing. “I know you didn’t say anything directly to them, Bennett. But you are every bit as culpable in me getting caught than anything that traitorous Willie ever said in court.”
“What’s culpable?”
The corners of Shane’s mouth rose closer to his ears as he took another step. “Accountable. Responsible. To blame. You led Bear and Caldwell to the house.”
Bennett’s lower lip trembled. “But I didn’t know they was tracking me, Shane. You gotta believe me.”
Shane twirled the knife in his hand. “I do. And that’s why I’m going to give you a head start.”
“A what?”
“A head start. You know, to make it fair.”
Bennett clasped his hands together, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Shane. I swear I—”
Shane blocked Bennett’s path to the bar. “I’ll give you to the count of ten.”
“Come on, man.”
“One.”
Bennett stumbled to his right, hand sliding along the splintered railing of the porch. “Shane—”
“Two. Better get moving.”
Bennett’s head swept to take in his surroundings, searching for an exit. “Jesus Christ, I won’t tell anyone—”
“Three.”
Bennett stumbled backward down the steps, crashing to the ground on his ass. At his back, thick woods led to his chance at salvation.
“Four.”
He scrambled to his feet, turned, and took off at a run for the woods.
Shane raised the knife and flung the blade, the razor-sharp tip twirling end over end, the steel catching the moonlight with each rotation. It buried itself between Bennett’s shoulder blades, and the man dropped like a bag of bricks in a pond.
“Ten.”
Shane sauntered to Bennett’s twitching body and slid the bloody blade from his back. He placed the edge against Bennett’s throat. “Loose ends. Can’t have ’em. Sorry, Bennett.”
He drew the blade across Bennett’s unshaven neck and watched his coppery life blood melt into the dirt.
“You’re next, Willie.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A couple of trucks and a rusty Buick, its back window covered in a wallpaper of bumper stickers, graced the gas pumps at the Casey’s General Store at the intersection of Highway 7 and Main Street. Jake slid his truck to a stop at the far-right end of the sidewalk leading to the front door, spotlights along the building blasting back the night. Casey’s trademark was the absence of marked parking slots in front of their stores, giving its customers the freedom to park however they wanted. Jake parked at the end to be on the safe side.
Inside, he hit the restroom and grabbed a Gatorade for the trip to Kansas City. He dwelled at the donut and pizza displays, counting calories and grams of fat he shouldn’t consume, and instead chose a tasteless granola bar. He strolled out
side, thinking Heartstone Trucking was already closed and he could spend the night snuggled up with Maggie but the grin on his face melted when he spied the conglomeration of four Harleys surrounding his truck. Four matching Blood Devils members rested against the bikes, trying to look tough. Bruno, whose teeth he knocked out, took the point in front of two guys he recognized from the poker game at The Asylum, both tall and lean. The fourth member of the quartet gave Jake a moment of concern. About Jake’s height, but fifty pounds heavier, he limbered up his shoulders and neck. Readying for battle.
Jake stopped ten feet from the group, wishing his Sig Sauer sat in the holster on his waist instead of under the seat in his truck. The only weapon available was the Gatorade bottle swinging in the plastic bag at his side. He could handle two of them without an issue, but four presented logistical challenges. “Can I help you boys with something?”
“You owe me two teeth, asshole,” Bruno lisped.
“I know a great dentist I can hook you up with.”
“Maybe I’ll take yours.”
Jake spat on the ground. “Mine are too white. The color will be off, and you’ll look ridiculous when you smile.”
The giant guy on the end spoke, a snarl popping through his thick black beard. “You got a big mouth.”
“You gonna close it for me?”
“Maybe.”
Jake twirled the bag to tighten it around the bottle. The impact of the bottle against Big Boy’s skull would crush his poor granola bar to powder but might buy him enough time to wade through the other guys. Dumb shits like this seemed to wade in one or two at a time instead of the four of them bum-rushing their prey. Their mistake. The two guys from The Aslyum slid tire irons out from behind the bikes, letting them hang at their sides. Big Boy produced a pair of brass knuckles from his back pocket and slipped them over his meaty digits. Those things would put Jake in a coma. If he connected with them.
Jake ticked his head toward Big Boy’s hand. “You know those are illegal in the State of Missouri, right? Class D felony.”
“You a fucking lawyer? Like I give a shit.”
Jake cranked his head to Bruno. “No weapon for you?”
“Don’t need one. I got these.” Bruno held up two fists.
It was like a bad line from a bad movie. “How’d that work out for you last time we met?”
But his curiosity piqued. Why would they try to beat his ass now when they had ample numbers to take out both he and Bear at The Asylum? Maybe because he stood alone without police protection.
Jake wound the bag tighter. “This payback for the ass-whupping in your house? No way Garvan authorized you four thumping my skull.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because Garvan wants me to do him a favor.” Jake closed the distance between them by half, Big Boy within swinging distance of the Gatorade bottle. It wasn’t the cheap, crinkly kind of plastic bottle in his bag either. It was the thirty-two-ounce size with a thicker shell. Maybe two pounds, but a two-pound weight swung with sufficient force would hurt. “He’s smart and probably knows I’m the type of guy who wouldn’t do favors for people who send their goons out to beat me up. I’m guessing you asswipes came up with this plan on your own.”
Big Boy held up the brass knuckles. “Don’t matter much to me either way. You’re gettin’ the shit beat out of you. It’s four against one.”
“Four against two. You left out Sheriff Parley over there.” Jake jerked his head toward his truck. Like an idiot, Big Boy cranked his head over his shoulder to check for Bear, and Jake swung the Gatorade bottle with everything he had. The Casey’s bag held and the bottle connected with Big Boy’s temple, knocking him toward the truck. Jake lunged forward and cracked one of the tire iron boys across the jaw with an elbow and sent him toppling over his bike. The second tire iron man drew his weapon back on a flat plane with his shoulder, telegraphing he would swing for Jake’s head. Jake ducked, and the overswing caught Big Boy square in the mouth. Big Boy wobbled and dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his head, before smacking the asphalt with his face. Jake punched the second tire iron boy in the back of the head and drove him to the ground. The tire iron clanged to the asphalt at his feet.
Stars lit up Jake’s vision like pulsating Christmas tree lights as Bruno cracked him on the side of the head, and Jake sprawled to the ground, landing on top of the dropped tire iron. Bruno would be moving in for the kill shot, so Jake rolled, grabbed the end of the iron and swung up. His spotty vision cleared enough to witness the curved end of the iron whack into Bruno’s crotch. A force of air expelled from Bruno’s lungs, and the cross-eyed whimper leaving his lips made the punch Jake took worth it.
Jake jumped to his feet as the first tire iron biker staggered to a wobbling fighting stance. But seeing his three compatriots on the asphalt in front of him, he took the wisest course of action possible, dropping the metal bar and disappeared behind Casey’s. Jake touched the spot on his cheekbone where Bruno tagged him. No blood, but a damn good punch.
As Bruno writhed on the ground in agony, hands glued to his crotch, Jake stepped around him to Big Boy. The man’s eyelids fluttered as he tried to stay conscious. As Jake slid the brass knuckles off his punching hand, he noticed two white chicklets amid the blood puddle dripping from Big Boy’s shattered mouth. Jake pulled a napkin from his Casey’s bag and used it to pick up the white chunks. He took them to Bruno and squatted down, holding them in front of the biker’s watering eyes.
“You said I owe you two teeth? Here, take two of your partner’s. Now we’re even. Come at me again and you’ll end up in a body bag. You feel me, Bruno? I get that words might be hard to come by given your balls have probably swollen to the size of grapefruits, so grunt if you get me.”
Bruno managed a groan, which Jake counted as close enough. Jake clipped to his truck and pulled a folding knife from the side panel, and then pounded the blade into all six tires of the three motorcycles. Climbing into the cab, he fired up the truck and threw it into reverse. Flooring it, he bounced over the fourth bike at the rear of the vehicle, the crunch of glass and metal like music to his ears.
The wide-eyed patrons at the gas pumps stretched their jaws in wonder as Jake drove out of the Casey’s parking lot. He felt like the Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset. Turning left on Highway 7, he headed toward Kansas City, slowing over the bridge long enough to chuck the brass knuckles into the water below. He cracked open the Gatorade and picked up the remnants of the granola bar. Just as he thought—nothing but powder. Shit.
He dialed Bear on his cell. “Hey, you might want to send a car to the Casey’s off Main Street. Four Blood Devils tried to jump me.”
“Should I send over a squad car or an ambulance?”
“Squad car will be fine.”
“You going to file charges?”
“No. But they owe me one granola bar.” He hung up before Bear could reply, envisioning his best friend’s confused face.
Two encounters in one day with the Blood Devils. Did these assholes act on their own, or were they sent by Shane? Probably the former. Shane wouldn’t go to the trouble of the cat and mouse game with the picture at the house if he wanted Jake roughed up. Hell, maybe they were supposed to kidnap him and take him to Shane. But if that was the case, they wouldn’t do it in such a public setting. He doubted Garvan sent them considering the man wanted Jake to do him a favor. In any case, though he won both encounters rather handily, he decided carrying his pistol would be a good idea. The next time, if there was one, the bad guys would bring deadlier weapons than tire irons.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The clock in his dash neared midnight as Jake approached Kansas City. He thought of dropping by Keats’s warehouse, but decided a call might be better. Though late, Jake knew Keats was a night owl and would be awake. After working his way through one of Keats’s lackeys of marginal intelligence, he reached his old boss and relayed Garvan’s request for a meeting.
Keats wasn’t one
to mince words. “I know who the guy is, but why would I want to meet with him?”
“I have no idea, Jason. He’s supposedly running a network of guns and Shane Langston’s meth network in his absence. Might be lucrative for you.”
“But Langston’s out and from what I hear, he was in charge. Not Garvan. You shoulda killed him when you had the chance—like I asked you.”
Jake poked his tongue into his cheek, inhaling a long breath, sick of people telling him what he already knew. “I was trying to become a better man.”
“But you don’t stop a rattlesnake from biting you in the ass by letting it go so you’ll feel better about yourself. You chop its damn head off.”
“Like I said, Garvan gave me a little info in exchange for relaying his desire to meet with you so consider the message delivered. I could care less if you follow through with it.”
The sound of ice cubes rattled over the speaker followed by ice crushing between Keats’s teeth. “Anything else?”
The dead girl from the trailer, her twin from The Asylum, and the hookers at the truck stop popped to mind. “You have your fingers in an outfit called Heartstone Trucking?”
The chewing stopped. “Why?”
Jake gunned his truck around a semi and hit the on-ramp to 71 Highway, Kansas City thirty minutes away. “Because I keep sticking my nose in your business, and I’d rather avoid it again if I can help it.”
“Nice of you to be so considerate this time.”
“Well? Heartstone?”
“What’s your angle?”
Jake chewed his upper lip, wondering how much he should tell Keats. “Girls. I think they’re using the trucking company to traffic them across the country.”
“They’re shipping more than girls.”
“If you know that, you have a stake in them.”
Keats blew through the receiver. “Not enough of one to get worried. I get some product from them on rare occasion, but I don’t mess with trafficking girls. That shit is wrong.”
Jake Caldwell Thrillers Page 90