Jake Caldwell Thrillers

by Weaver, James

  “Where’d he get you?”

  Thomas thumped his chest. “Vest. I’m good. It’ll bruise, but I’m good.”

  Jake helped him to his feet as shouts erupted from the other end of the trailer, the truck obscuring Jake’s view of the entrance to The Asylum. Someone screamed for someone else to drop their weapons. For one hopeful moment, Jake held his breath hoping to hear the clatter of guns smacking the ground. Instead, windows crashed, guns blazed, and all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Fifty

  Time slowed to a crawl, and a burnt smell filled the air as black-coated metal dragons belched fire into the night. The guys spilling from the truck scrambled for cover from the barrage coming from The Asylum. So much for their element of surprise. Bullets plinked off the side of the trailer and the gravel driveway of Asylum Road, one of them tearing the jeans covering Jake’s thigh and leaving a burn mark in its wake. One inch over and he’d be lying on the ground bleeding out.

  He darted around the front of the truck as bullets flew and men shouted. Peering around the front end of the semi toward the front door to The Asylum, he spotted rifle noses poking from jagged glass and muzzle flashes turning the parking lot into a strobe fest. He drew his Sig up and emptied the rest of his magazine at the closest weapon protruding from the building. He must have hit something because a high-pitched scream split the air, and an AK-47 dropped to the concrete walkway.

  Dumping the empty magazine into his palm, he popped a fresh one in and racked a round into the chamber as a door to his left screeched open. He dropped to a knee and swung his muzzle toward the door, finger tight on the trigger. Two scantily clad women and a shirtless man burst into the night, hands clutching their heads as if it would protect them. The man wasn’t Shane, Garvan, or likely a biker, so Jake let them disappear into the cool night. Footsteps pounded the gravel behind him, and Jake jumped to his feet and turned, gun raised. Shapiro.

  Shapiro gulped in air, black lines streaking and dripping across his face. “It’s a bloodbath back there. We’ve took out a few but lost a few. Anything out this door besides the three patrons?”

  The sounds of gunfire lessened a degree on their side of the bar but pierced the night on the other. Bear’s side. Jake hoped they hunkered down under good cover. “Nothing yet. I was heading in.”

  “Mind if I join you? We need to wrap this up in the next thirty minutes.”

  “Why?”

  Shapiro locked eyes with him. “It’s almost midnight. I’m not supposed to work on Saturdays.”

  “You’re Jewish?”

  “Half, on my mother’s side.”

  Jake’s eyebrows shot toward the moon. “I thought you weren’t supposed to work after sundown on Fridays either.”

  Shapiro grinned. “Like I said, half Jewish.”

  “Well, we don’t want to make your mother mad. Let’s go do something about it.”

  Shapiro keyed his mic and told the guys in front to continue firing and that he and Jake were heading inside. “Don’t shoot our asses off.”

  He patted Jake on the shoulder and sprinted toward the open side door. Jake took a deep breath and followed. Shapiro entered the building, checked left and spun right. Two, rapid shots rang out as Jake pulled in behind him. A Blood Devil lay on his back with fading eyes and a shotgun by his side. Keeping his .45 trained on the path ahead, Shapiro knelt, felt for a pulse, and grabbed the shotgun. Jake turned to the side to ensure nobody snuck up behind them in the long hall.

  Shouts and gunfire bounced off the wood-paneled walls, echoing their way from the bar area less than a hundred feet ahead. A couple of Blood Devils darted past the hall opening but didn’t turn their way. Shapiro kept his pace slow and steady before raising a fist signaling a stop. He pointed ahead and ducked into an open door on his right, Jake keeping his Sig Sauer trained on the opening, hoping nobody came running his way. Shapiro emerged seconds later and continued up the hallway.

  Jake cast back to the firefight in the Kansas City Stockyards weeks ago over the Ares briefcase. He’d been pinned behind a car with bullets pouring like rain but sensed some semblance of safety behind the hunk of steel. Here, he was like a rat running through a maze, claustrophobic with the walls squeezing him from the sides. If a mob of bikers came their way, there was nowhere to go.

  Shapiro trained his gun to a door on his left, kicked it open, and squeezed off two more shots. A thump sounded as one of the poker-playing Blood Devils sped down the hall. By the time he turned his sweat-covered bald head and pulled focus, Jake held him in his sights.

  Jake tightened his finger on the trigger. “Drop your—”

  The biker raised a revolver with a snarl and didn’t let Jake finish the sentence. Jake shot him once in the chest and once in the throat. He checked left and took a peek at the hoodlum Shapiro took out. Not Shane or Garvan. They stepped over the body in the hall, the opening to the bar now dead ahead.

  Another biker backing away from the front door crossed in front twenty feet away, squeezing bursts from an AR-15. Shapiro wasted no time and blew him out of his cowboy boots. He reached the opening and peeked around the corner to check the room when splinters exploded in his face, and a stream of bullets bit into the wood wall to Jake’s right, forming a bloody line. Shapiro flew back, and Jake caught him under the armpits, feeling something warm and sticky covering his hand. Another man down and Jake stood in the line of fire.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Shane marveled at how life seemed to turn things upside down at a moment’s notice. In one minute, he went from elation the truck arrived from Oklahoma to shock when the third world war erupted outside the bar. Blood Devil members spilled back inside the front entrance emptying guns at unknown assailants before falling in bloody heaps to the wood planked floor. Not totally unknown, though. Bear and Caldwell. He’d bet the money he would lose on the shipment on that little fact.

  Several bikers sprinted out the back of The Asylum to escape through the woods, but Shane knew a blind run out the back would be pointless. If the cops brought heat from the front of the bar, they had enough brains to cover the back. Seconds later, shouts and sparks of fire spitting from the wooded darkness confirmed his intuition, slugs slamming into the wooded side of the Asylum. Instead of following, he slammed the door shut, threw a wood bar across the threshold, and turned to Garvan.

  “We should get the hell out of here, man.”

  Garvan sneered. “I ain’t leavin’ my bar. I’d rather die here than run.”

  “We can dip out the escape hatch into the woods.”

  “Go if you have to. I’m making a stand here.” Garvan flipped over the table and took a firing position behind it.

  Shane weighed his options. He couldn’t go out the front door and the cops covered the back. Which left the hatch. Hopefully, the tunnel into the woods would drop him behind the line of cops. As much as he would’ve loved nothing better than to go all in and blow a bunch of cops out of their shoes, Shane was smart enough to fold a bad hand. He flung open the heavy wood door in the floor behind the bar and dropped into darkness, the musty air cloying at his lungs.

  After closing the hatch above him, he took a few steps forward. He knocked over something and winced as metal clanged together making too much noise. Moving away from the sound, he clocked his head on a wood beam and dropped to his knees, cursing. Fear gripped his heart, not from the barrage of fire above, but from the dark. His shitbag father etched the fear in his DNA when he locked six-year-old Shane in a rat-infested, lightless cellar for three days for spilling paint in the garage. Three days in the dark and thirty-seven rat bites. Now, Shane told people he slept with a light on so he could spot his enemies coming. Truth be told, it was to keep the rats away.

  His skin grew clammy and he fought for control against a thundering heartbeat, the rodent squeals growing louder. Real or imagined, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t take it any longer and fumbled with his cell phone and turned on the flashlight. The welcoming light blew back the darkne
ss, and his heartrate fell when he discerned he was rat free. Weathered planks walled the ten-by-ten cutout, dirt trickling through the openings and rolling onto the floor. A narrow tunnel opened ahead. Shane held a Beretta in one hand and the phone in the other, creeping low toward it.

  The tunnel walls squeezed in, and the ceiling sloped down, forcing him to his knees. The rough floor scraped the palms of his hands as he crawled forward, the fire fight growing louder as a smidge of moonlight shined a hundred feet ahead like a beacon. He crawled faster, the darkness and thoughts of rats crawling up the legs of his pants from behind pushing him forward.

  When the tunnel exit loomed ahead, he killed the flashlight and slowed his pace, voices near. The shots had slowed in the last minute, and he contemplated waiting until they stopped altogether, but he couldn’t take much more of the tunnel. He wanted to scream at his own weakness and gripped the pistol tighter.

  A close, but unfamiliar voice sounded ahead. “You see any more? I dropped at least two.”

  Another voice answered as a body moved past the tunnel opening, obscured by overgrown vegetation. “Not in the last couple of minutes. You seen Bear?”

  Shane froze. Bear was close?

  “He’s over there somewhere. Fucking dark out here.”

  “No shit, Harper. I’m movin’ up toward the bar. I got the door. Make sure nobody flanks me from the other side of the bar.”

  Footsteps crunched through brush and faded, and Shane edged forward. If he could take this guy Harper out quietly, he might be able to slip back to the river. The canoe should still be there. He could steal across the river and escape to fight another day. Then again, he could also sneak through the woods and find Bear. He’d like nothing better than to slit the fat cop’s throat.

  Shane slipped through the brush-covered opening, sucking in a lungful of the sweet Ozark night. He replaced the cell phone in his hand with a hunting knife from the sheath at his hip and gripped the Beretta in the other hand, prepared for whatever opportunity might befall him. The gun was a last resort as it would draw unwanted attention. Besides, he preferred a knife.

  The Asylum slumped a hundred and fifty feet away in the silvery light. The guy going for the back door was nothing but a shadow, and his partner, Harper, lay on the ground ten feet away, a rifle aimed toward the bar. Shane scanned the woods. No sign of Bear or anyone else. He tucked the Beretta in his waistband and took several noiseless steps toward the man on the ground, his knife blade glinting.

  Shane pounced and drove the blade to the hilt in the back of the cop’s neck. The man’s legs jerked a couple of times and then stilled. Shane grabbed the rifle, an AR-15, and a radio sitting at the side of the cop’s lifeless head. Performing a quick pat down for anything else useful, Shane tugged a stainless-steel pistol from Harper’s holster. The gun weighed heavy in his hand, a nice weapon and, at this point, he couldn’t have too much firepower. He also found a pocket flashlight which he slipped into his jeans.

  He took two steps toward the river when something caught his eye—Bear Parley’s silhouette slinking between the trees thirty yards away. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the shape. The Sheriff’s eyes were locked on The Asylum. Shane shoved the new pistol in his waistband next to the Beretta, took aim along the sight of the AR-15 and trained it on Bear’s darkened figure. Oh, this would be sweet, even if it would bring the pack of dogs upon him. His trigger finger tightened as a grin crossed his face, and he squeezed the metal, fire bursting from the muzzle. Four shots and Bear dropped to the brush without a sound. Heat radiated through Shane’s chest and he felt almost weightless. Hell, that might have been a head shot. One man down, one left to go. He turned and jogged toward the river.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Shapiro groaned as Jake dragged him toward a room on his left, praying a Blood Devil didn’t come down the hall. If one did, both he and Shapiro would join the bodies already littering the bar floor. Shots popped in the air like a string of firecrackers.

  Jake reached the door and pulled Shapiro inside, laying him on the floor next to the dead man Shapiro shot earlier. “You okay?”

  Shapiro gritted his teeth. “Think one missed the vest. Hit me in the armpit.”

  Jake scanned the room: twenty by twenty, shelves along two walls, and a paper-covered desk on another. He grabbed a couple of bar towels from a bundle on a shelf and shoved them under Shapiro’s arm, pressing hard. “Let’s hope they didn’t get your brachial artery.”

  Shapiro grunted. “Axillary. Brachial’s in the arm.”

  Jake added more towels to his pit, took Shapiro’s free hand and clamped it on the bloody mess. “Wasn’t great with anatomy. Either way, you’re screwed if they hit it. Brace your arm and keep pressure on it. I’ll close the door behind me, but be ready if anyone busts in. Won’t do any good for us to call for an ambulance at this point so hang on.”

  Radio chatter spit from Shapiro’s radio, men from the front of the house holding position with at least two dead and three wounded.

  Shapiro grunted their position and status and cranked his head to Jake. “Be careful.”

  Jake patted him on the chest and wiped the blood from his hands the best he could. They remained tacky, but at least his gun wouldn’t slip from his grip. He checked the hallway and crept out the door, closing it behind him. The gunfire had slowed. No longer an unending cacophony of thunder. He reached the opening to the bar and dropped low, wondering if Garvan or Shane waited in there for him to stick his head out.

  Going back to two nights ago when he and Bear met with Garvan, he knew the entrance lay to his right and the bar to his left. Shapiro’s mistake was going in too high. From the way he’d been hit and the way the bullets rode up the wall, whoever shot him hadn’t been behind the bar but would be out by the seating area where the bikers played poker. He remembered a door leading out back from the end of the bar but didn’t think there was one anywhere else. If Bear and his guys held position in the woods and the guys from the trailer maintained the front door, whoever remained in the bar area was trapped.

  When the gunfire took a welcome break, Jake yelled around the corner. “Shane? Give it up, man. You got nowhere to go.”

  A grizzled chuckle bounced across the room. Garvan Connelly’s grated voice followed. “Go fish, Caldwell.”

  “Connelly?”

  Garvan coughed, his voice heavy and weary. “Yeah. You and the overgrown boy scout both here?”

  “Both of us along with a shitload of law enforcement. Time for you to toss your weapons and walk out with your hands up.”

  The laugh came again, slow and laced with pain. “I’m too fuckin’ tired to put my hands up. But why don’t you walk out here and check on me? I got a present for ya.”

  “Where’s Shane?”

  “Hell if I know. All I see is blood. Best Friday night we’ve had here in a while.”

  “Good thing you painted the walls red.”

  Movement from the entrance caught Jake’s eye. Two local cops crept low, both armed with rifles trained ahead of them, blood splattering their tan uniforms. Jake flashed his palm up, signaling for them to stop. He revealed the flash bangs. The two gave a thumbs-up and held their position.

  Jake wanted to stick his head out and get the lay of the land, but he’d grown fond of keeping his brains inside his skull. There could just be Garvan bleeding out on the dust-covered floor, or there could be a dozen Blood Devils lying in wait for them to stick their noses out. He glanced back to the two cops and pointed to his eyes, sweeping out to the bar, trying to get them to give him some intel. One of them was lost by Jake’s gestures, his faced screwed up and cocked to the side like Jake asked him the square root of pi. But the other understood and duckwalked forward a few steps, peering around the corner. He held up four fingers and pointed down, then two fingers and tapped the side of his gun. Four dead and two armed. At least from what he could see.

  A crashing sound emanated through the floorboard. Bear didn’t mention a basemen
t, and Jake wondered who bumbled around down there.

  Garvan coughed. “You still there, Caldwell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re awfully quiet. You wanna bring me over a beer? You’d better hurry, though.”

  “Why?”

  Another round of coughs. “Think I’m fucked, that’s why.”

  “Toss your gun and order your men to stand down. No need for anyone else to die here today. We can call you an ambulance.”

  “Shit. You could start collecting your social security before an ambulance made its way down here.”

  “I’ll settle for your guns.”

  “Nah, I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory. Makes for a better story, don’t you think?”

  A high and tight voice sounded from inside the bar. A familiar voice. A .9 mm Beretta slid across the floor in the open space between Jake and the two local cops. “Screw this. Don’t shoot, Caldwell. I’m coming out and I’m not armed.”

  Jake knew the voice and risked a peek when the footsteps drew closer. Dwayne Tilly. His white button-down shirt remained clean compared to everyone else, though a dark stain covered the crotch of his jeans. He’d been hiding during the fire fight.

  “Don’t shoot me, Jake. It’s just me and Garvan left, and I ain’t dyin’ for him.’

  That helped clear up things, assuming Tilly told the truth. He shuffled into view and Jake tracked him with his piece. Jake opened his mouth to tell Tilly to keep moving toward the front, when a cannon went off. A hole the size of a grapefruit blasted through Tilly’s chest, and the man lurched and fell face down, dead before he hit the floor.

  “Fuckin’ coward,” Garvan spat. “Just you and me now, Jake. Like two gunfighters at the OK Corral. Whaddya say?”

  Jake wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t like Tilly and thought the guy was a major douchebag, but no man deserved to get shot in the back. Garvan wasn’t going in alive, and if someone could take him down to end this standoff, it might as well be Jake. He popped his head around the corner and pulled it back, catching a glimpse of Garvan standing in the middle of the dance floor, a long-barreled revolver hanging by his side, waiting.