Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  Jake floated the idea of someone driving the truck from Oklahoma City to Warsaw. One of Bear’s guys would pose as the driver making the delivery to The Asylum, but instead of drugs, guns, and girls, it would be full of weapons-packing law enforcement agents. Bear seemed to like the idea but wanted to mull it over.

  Jake paced Bear’s office. “Klages spy anything yet at The Asylum?”

  Bear rubbed his eyes. “Nothing yet. Have the new drone flying overhead with night vision. Lot of Blood Devils and other locals going in and out of the bar and out back, but no Shane yet.”

  “And the warrant?”

  Bear craned his neck to check the wall clock which approached eleven o’clock. “Should be here any time now. Have a half dozen guys ready to suit up and another six Missouri State Troopers.”

  Jake’s stomach ached from excess adrenaline, and his legs tingled, wanting to take off and run to The Asylum to burn off the energy. He forced himself to take a seat, conserving energy for later if things went sideways.

  Bear’s cell rang and he snatched it up, mumbled something, and turned to Jake. “Truck’s here. We’re staging it at the Tomahawk Manufacturing building off Highway 65. Place is closed and off the road so we can park cars on the backside, and nobody will notice.”

  “Who’s going to drive the truck in?”

  “I thought Emmit McCrainey could do it, but Klages told me he broke his foot yesterday falling off a ladder cleaning his gutters.” Bear’s brows arched. “I think you should do it.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “You know how to drive a rig.”

  “Barely. Haven’t driven one in a decade.”

  Bear waved him off. “Bah, it’s like riding a bike or screwing. You don’t forget how.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to raise all kinds of alarms when I swing into The Asylum parking lot grinding the shit out of the gears.”

  “You’ll have it figured out by then.”

  The ache in Jake’s stomach turned into a full-fledged ball of lead. “Plus, they know who I am. They recognize me and it’s game over.”

  “It’s dark and we’ll throw a hat on you. Get the truck in the lot, draw a few guys out, and open the back doors to the truck Trojan Horse style. Once you pull in, we’ll send some guys up through the woods to cover the back and squeeze ’em.”

  “Sounds like a shitty plan.”

  “It’ll work. Trust me. Hell, it was your idea, you big baby.”

  Jake opened his mouth to protest further when a deputy popped in and said the state troopers were close and the judge called—the warrant was signed and ready to go.

  Klages rang Bear’s cell, and he put it on speaker while he gathered his stuff together. She sounded excited, a rarity for her. “Shane Langston is in the house. Bastard popped out on the back porch for a smoke.”

  Bear bounced on his toes. “Out-fucking-standing. Hold your position. We’re gearing up and will be there in forty-five minutes.” He disconnected and turned to Jake. “You ready?”

  Jake gave a thumbs-up, relieved at the future prospect of Maggie and Halle’s safety. “Let’s go end this.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Tomahawk Manufacturing crafted custom-built furniture from a non-descript, waffled, steel-sided expanse off Highway 65. The building nestled among a grove of oak trees a quarter mile from the highway, barely visible from the road. Conrad Dixon owned the place. He was one of Bear’s strongest allies in town, so it felt like a perfect spot to stage the assault on The Asylum.

  Jake and Bear sped along the access road and turned down the drive to the building, gravel popping beneath the tires of Jake’s truck. The semi from Heartstone idled along the building’s side, maroon cab and a white trailer streaked with road dirt. Jake wondered how many bullet holes would riddle the side of the trailer before all was said and done tonight.

  “Hey, Bear. What’s going to happen to your Trojan Horse plan if the guys at The Asylum get word we’re coming?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jake pointed to the trailer. “What happens if those bikers light up the trailer with your guys inside?”

  Bear’s eyes narrowed. “That would imply someone leaked our plan.”

  “The world is an imperfect place.”

  Bear blew out his cheeks. “Shit, you’re right. I’ll get Conrad to reinforce the right side of the trailer. I’m sure he has some supplies in the building.”

  They climbed out of the truck and strode across the lot to the building. A couple more cars pulled in behind them. Bear staggered the arrivals. One or two cars at a time wouldn’t draw attention, but a caravan would.

  Bear introduced Jake to Conrad Dixon. Jake had seen him around town but hadn’t met the guy. He stood tall and lanky with a hard stare and a strong grip. The second coming of Clint Eastwood.

  “Appreciate you letting us use the lot, Conrad.”

  Conrad dipped his head. “Anything I can do to help. Wish Bear would let me join the party. That shithead Langston hooked my nephew on meth two years ago. The kid’s a waste of oxygen now.”

  “Shane has that effect on a lot of people.”

  Bear took Conrad by the elbow. “We should re-enforce the side of the trailer.”

  While Bear and Conrad headed toward the shop, Jake drifted to the trailer and the group of men gathering at the back. He recognized a half-dozen of them. They huddled around a clean-cut kid named Harper showing off his Colt Special Combat Government 1911 pistol. Blue steel finish, .45 caliber. A nice piece if you felt like dropping over two grand for a gun. Harper grinned like a kid who just opened the best Christmas gift ever. Jake wondered if the kid had even fired the damn thing.

  They finished exchanging handshakes when another SUV pulled into the lot. The Missouri State Troopers piled out of the new arrival, like the result of a casting call in an action movie—professionals, buzzed hair and set jaws beneath the light flung from the LEDs attached to the building. They opened the back of the SUV and pulled out tactical gear, including bulletproof vests. Jake should get one of those.

  A few minutes later, Bear and Conrad emerged from the building, and Jake made a quick call to Kansas City to check in with Mac. “How’s my girls?”

  “Safe and sound. Gotta be honest, I’m ready to get the hell out of the house. There’s a whole lot of estrogen going around. I’ve watched more Keeping Up with the Kardashians than I ever wanted to see. Hell, your daughter wanted to paint my nails.”

  Jake let Mac know what they were up to. Mac asked if he wanted to talk to Maggie, but Jake declined. She’d just worry, and the girls had enough on their plate. He disconnected the call and shoved the phone in his pocket.

  Bear approached. “Conrad has some steel plating he can layer against the side of the trailer. Won’t be perfect but should provide enough cover in the event a fire fight bursts out.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Bear waved the men into the building and Jake followed. Lathes and drill presses dotted the clean-swept concrete floor, the sweet smell of sawdust gracing the air. Fifty yards to the other end of the building sat darkened offices. The men introduced themselves with handshakes and murmured greetings, the air tense with pending action. Of the dozen extras in attendance, six represented local law enforcement, and the other six were Missouri State Troopers.

  Bear gave them a synopsis of the situation, beginning with Langston’s escape, the drugs, guns, and girl trafficking, and culminated with the plan of attack. Conrad pulled a whiteboard on rollers over from the office, and Bear drew a diagram of the parking lot and a rough sketch of The Asylum.

  Bear slapped up mugshots of Langston and Garvan Connelly. “Shane Langston and Garvan Connelly are our number one priority. We can’t leave there without those two slippery pricks. The rest of the Blood Devils are just icing on the cake. Now, Jake’s driving the truck into the lot. We don’t anticipate any trouble with the truck since the Blood Devils should be expecting it. I’ll lead a team up the
ass end of The Asylum from the river to drop anyone running out the back of the bar. One of my deputies, Ronda Klages, is nearby and has eyes on the place with a drone, but she did verify Langston’s in there. The rest of you will be in the back of the truck ready to spring forth when Jake toots the truck horn. Any questions?”

  A blond guy built like a fireplug spoke up. “How many people in the bar?”

  “Klages and the guy with her are estimating maybe twenty but could be as high as thirty. There appears to be a handful of locals going in, but the vast majority looks like Blood Devils. Keep your eyes peeled for civilians. We’re hoping we can take the bar without a firefight, but it’s doubtful.”

  The blond guy grinned. “Hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up first.”

  Bear rubbed his hands together. “Exactly.” He spent another few minutes wrapping up the tactical positions and plan of attack before turning back to the group. “Any other questions? All right, let’s get this reinforcement up on the right side of the trailer and suit up. Plan on pulling out in thirty.”

  As the men filed out the door, Jake approached Bear. “You sure this plan is going to work?”

  “Hell, yes. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “A lot of things. Wear a vest.”

  “Screw that. I’m wearing two. No way my fat ass is getting shot again.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The state troopers eyed the locals warily, like a varsity starter would a freshman in a football game. Bear took two of the troopers and one of the locals with him in Jake’s truck, and they rolled out of the lot headed toward Forthview. They’d find a place to hide the truck and make their way to a position at the backside of The Asylum. Once in place, Bear would call Jake and give him the signal to drive the truck into the lot.

  Max Shapiro, the head of the troopers, hopped in the passenger seat of the semi. He wiped a hand over his trimmed, dark beard and took in Jake studying the gears. “You know how to drive one of these, right?”

  The ball of lead settled in Jake’s gut again. “It’s been a while. You?”

  “Nope. I mean, I can drive a stick. Had a three-speed Mustang growing up, but nothing this big.”

  Jake placed his hand on the gear shift. “It’s been ten years and I wasn’t good with them to begin with. The guys on the loading docks used to call me Grinder.”

  Shapiro laughed. “Guess there’s worse nicknames to have. I got stuck with Quick Draw in college.”

  “That mean what I think it means?”

  “Don’t ask. Just relax. You only have to get the truck in the lot. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “You done this before? Stormed the castle walls?”

  Shapiro shoved magazines of ammo into his tactical vest. “A few times. Used to be with Kansas City SWAT. Mostly drug houses. An abandoned warehouse once with a bunch of gang members inside. Never a bar, though. Your buddy Bear must have some friends in high places.”

  “Bear has friends everywhere. You nervous?”

  “Always. If you aren’t nervous during this kinda deal, something’s wrong with you. I don’t trust a man who isn’t afraid of taking a bullet.”

  Jake turned the key and the semi’s engine roared to life. “Based on that criteria, you can trust the shit outta me.”

  * * *

  Jake maneuvered the truck back to Highway 65 and snaked it along Wildcat Drive toward Poor Boy Road, waiting for Bear to give the signal that his guys were in place. When it didn’t come, he pulled into the Ozark Disposal lot, idling in front of the bay door of the green roofed, white building. Shapiro relayed the news to the crew in the back, one of the locals asking if they had time to hit Mary’s Restaurant.

  Shapiro barked a no into his handset, then grunted. “Idiot wants a snack.”

  “You like catfish?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly. I eat there once a week and would’ve stopped if they weren’t already closed. Their catfish is the bomb.”

  Five minutes later, Jake’s cell rang. Bear and his crew were ready. Jake slipped the semi into gear and edged from the lot onto asphalt.

  Shapiro gave him a thumbs-up. “Nice. You’ll lose your Grinder nickname yet.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  Jake followed his headlights and swung a left on Poor Boy Road, nervous as hell he would bury the swinging back end of the trailer into a ditch. He straightened out and rolled down the road. Glancing to the left at his darkened house hiding behind the trees, he wished he was snuggled on the couch with Maggie. His hands tingled with anticipation, adrenaline leaking into his system at the prospect of getting closer to Langston.

  Images flickered of Shane with the knife on Halle’s leg, Shane sitting on the ground helpless while Jake hovered over him with a finger tight on the trigger, and the purple rings from Shane’s hands around Ulyana’s neck. It didn’t relieve the adrenaline, but instead made his foot heavier on the gas pedal.

  After twenty minutes, Shapiro leaned toward the windshield, squinting into the darkness. “Where is this place? You sure we’re not lost?”

  “Trust me. It’s right up ahead. You’d better get in back.”

  Two minutes later, with Shapiro stowed in the cab behind him, Boone Branch Creek landed in the headlights, and Jake called over his shoulder for Shapiro to get his team ready. Asylum Road, the gravel drive to the bar, crept up on his right, and Jake cranked the wheel, maneuvering the truck around a handful of jalopies parked in the lot. He resisted the urge to channel the Snowman from Smokey and the Bandit and plow over the row of twenty motorcycles parked in front of The Asylum.

  Jake winced. “Twenty bikes and five…no six vehicles. A lot more people than we have, Shapiro.”

  “Then we move fast and hard, catch ’em by surprise.”

  Jake slowed to a stop, leaving the back end of the trailer as close to the front door as it would get. He wasn’t a religious man, but he closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to whoever listened that he’d get to see Maggie and Halle again. He shook out his hands and threw on the baseball hat Bear gave him.

  He watched the side mirror as two bikers in their Blood Devil vests emerged from the bar, eyeballed the truck, and swaggered toward it, devoid of any body language to suggest they suspected anything. They disappeared around the back end, and Jake swung his gaze to the driver’s side mirror, rolling down his window as they approached. In the dim light of the parking lot, they appeared younger than the bikers in the bar earlier that week, and thankfully he didn’t recognize them. But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t. As they drew closer to the door, Jake swung his Sig Sauer over his lap and pointed the barrel toward the door.

  While the tail guy stopped to take a piss on the side of a rusted out El Camino, the first biker stepped to the door, eyes narrowing at Jake’s darkened image in the cab. He was in his thirties, with lazy eyes and sunken cheeks under a scraggly beard. “You ain’t Marlo.”

  “Nope. I work for Fancy at Xtreme.”

  Lines cracked around the man’s eyes, like he tried to get Jake to pull into focus. “Where the hell is Marlo?”

  “Beats me. Fancy woke my ass up and told me to get to Xtreme and drive the truck up here.”

  The man’s nostrils flared like he smelled something bad in the air and dropped his hand to his waist. Jake tightened his grip on his pistol and slid his finger closer to the trigger. “Garvan didn’t say anything about anyone other than Marlo driving the truck up.”

  The biker pissing on the El Camino zipped up and sauntered over, head wobbly like he’d guzzled alcohol since the sun rose. Bare chested under his Blood Devil vest, tattoos running along his taut arms, and hair which hadn’t seen shampoo or a barber in months. “What’s goin’ on, Kenny? Hey, that ain’t Marlo.”

  Over their shoulder, Jake spotted a black-clad figure sweeping around in the darkness behind the row of jalopies, coming up behind the bikers. Silver hair glinting in the moonlight. “I know I’m not M
arlo. Fancy told to drive this truck to The Asylum and hand it over to Garvan Connelly. That’s all I know.”

  Kenny tipped his head to the right, his hand closing around the butt of a revolver sticking from his jeans, and Jake slipped his right finger over the trigger and his left hand on the door handle to the cab. The black-clad figure looped around the back of a pickup with broken taillights, raising a pistol as he crept forward.

  Kenny kept his eye on Jake but spoke toward the pisser. “Ace, go get Garvan.”

  As Ace turned, he found himself gaping down the barrel of .45 with one of the grim-faced state troopers. The guy’s last name was Thomas, but Jake couldn’t remember his first.

  Ace stiffened. “What the f—”

  Kenny turned his head and pulled his weapon halfway out of his waistband when Jake flung the door open and cracked him in the skull. The resounding thunk sent him sprawling to the gravel as Thomas cracked Ace across the head with his pistol. Jake pounced from the cab and landed on top of Kenny, the air expelling from the biker’s lungs with a whoof. With a hard elbow, he cracked Kenny across the face twice and pried the gun from his unconscious fingers as Shapiro scrambled out of the truck.

  Jake dipped his head at Thomas. “Thanks, man. At least we kept the element of surprise.”

  A flurry of shots rang out, one whizzing by Jake’s head close enough to part his hair. Another struck Thomas in the chest and he collapsed on top of Ace. Jake rolled to the side and drew a bead on the darkened figure at the other end of the truck. He and Shapiro squeezed off a flurry of rounds and dropped the figure where he stood.

  Footsteps pounded inside the trailer and the doors clanged open. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about signaling to the crew that the battle started. As Shapiro ran to check on the shooter, Jake rolled a gasping Thomas over.

  “Jesus, that hurts,” Thomas grunted.