The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  My anger has robbed me of my instinct for self-preservation. I’m not suicidal; I have a mission to carry out, and I’m not afraid for my well-being so long as the mission is a success.

  65

  When I hear a series of car doors slamming, followed by the sound of engines purring and the crunching whisper of tyres on fine gravel, I shin up the first few branches of a tree and peer over the wall.

  There’s little sign of life from Kingston’s house. The drapes are pulled and only half of the rooms that were previously illuminated now show lights.

  With just a few guests left, I figure I should get myself over the wall before he switches on any electronic security.

  I drop from the tree to the ground, and leap up and grab the top of the wall with my hands. It takes a little scrabbling with my feet, but I manage to haul myself up and over the wall.

  My feet land in the soft soil of a flowerbed, as I intended, and I pad over to the house’s outer wall, pressing myself flat against the stonework.

  A quick check reassures me that I still have all my weapons in place, so I creep towards the rear of the house – taking care to duck below any lit windows. When I near the corner, I inch myself forward so I don’t walk right into someone’s view, and so I can observe each new part of the garden as it is revealed.

  There’s a swimming pool, which is lit with underwater lights; while it may be too late in the year for swimming, I guess Kingston has made sure his pool is lit up to impress his guests. Like every other part of the garden, the area around the pool is manicured and sculpted to perfection.

  I press forward a little further and see an empty sunroom attached to the back of the house.

  As I round the corner, and crawl towards the sunroom on my hands and knees, I adopt caution as a middle name.

  A quick bob of my head confirms it’s still empty, so I manoeuvre myself to the door and tease the handle down. The door opens without a sound.

  I get inside the sunroom and crouch beneath a rattan couch that sports cream cushions. From here, I can see the sunroom is connected to the house by a hallway, which has openings left and right and runs through the main building.

  This is bad. Whichever way I choose I’ll be leaving myself open to an ambush from a minimum of two directions.

  On the other hand, should I need them, I’ll have three escape routes.

  A more immediate worry is that the door from the sunroom to the hall could be locked. I get up and move towards it with a blend of speed and silence.

  This handle is stiffer than the other, but it opens with the faintest of noises when I put a bit more weight behind my hand. Before I step into the hallway, I crane my head left and right while listening for movement.

  Of the three doors leading from the hall, only the one to my left has light showing beneath it.

  As a precaution against ambush I open the door straight ahead, and the one to my right, but find a large empty lounge and a deserted kitchen that looks more like a showroom than the heart of a home.

  With Kingston’s money, it’s probable that he dines out most nights, and for an event like tonight’s he would hire caterers.

  I pull both guns from the small of my back and make sure their safety catches are off. I tuck one under my right armpit, while I grasp the door handle, and with a deep exhale I throw the door open and stride into the room.

  ‘Nobody move.’ My voice is raised, and I have both guns pointing at the men sitting round a large dining table.

  One of the men disobeys my command and rises from his seat. As he stands, his right hand dives beneath his jacket. I pull both my triggers twice, and see a spurt of red leap from the side of his neck. As he falls to the floor a thick geyser of arterial blood sprays the guy next to him.

  I keep my face stern and try not to show relief that I’ve hit him. I’d aimed at the centre of the guy’s stomach; therefore, I’d missed my target by between fourteen and eighteen inches. Another inch to the right and it would have missed him altogether.

  With four bullets gone I have eleven left. A quick head count shows there are six men seated around the table.

  The air hangs with expectancy and cigar smoke.

  I lay down the gun in my left hand, and cover the men with the one in my right, as I fish the roll of duct tape from my pocket.

  ‘You.’ I point at the nearest man – a thin streak of nothing with a greasy ponytail – as the roll of tape flies towards him. ‘Bind your buddies. If any of them manage to escape, I’ll shoot you first. Understand?’

  He goes to work, and the man I’ve recognised as Kingston slowly rises to his feet with his hands above his head. He looks a little older than he does in the only picture that Alfonse was able to find of him on the internet. His jowls hang lower and there’s less hair surrounding his baldpate.

  ‘You’ve made a grave mistake, Buster.’

  I point one gun at him while keeping the rest of them covered with the other gun in my right hand. ‘Really? I could say the same about you. You are behind the death of someone very dear to me. That’s something I take exception to.’

  The calmness I felt earlier is still there and I have to fight my amazement at it. To me, this feels right. I’m here to deliver justice and to make sure Kingston pays for his part in Taylor’s death.

  I glance at the men and see that Ponytail has secured three of them and is working on the fourth. Once he’s finished the next guy, he’ll only have Kingston left. My plan is to knock Ponytail out and bind him myself.

  I’ll have plenty of time to persuade Kingston to tell me the name of the man who pulled the trigger. I am certain that, while he may have instructed the man to shoot, there is no way he did it himself. To do that would implicate him in ways that are undeniable to law enforcers.

  ‘FREEZE!’

  If the shout doesn’t make me obey, the gun pressed against the back of my neck makes it a no-brainer. I have no option but to allow Ponytail and Kingston to take my weapons from me.

  When the gun is removed from my neck, I see a woman whose face is a rigid mask; it’s either Botox, or Kingston’s wife is more than a little miffed with me for getting blood on her carpet.

  66

  Credit where it’s due, neither Kingston nor his men do anything to harm me as they drag me to an ornamental steel pillar, which supports an ornate staircase, wrap my arms around it and bind my hands with duct tape.

  I’d expected a few cheap shots on account of the man I’d killed, but not only are they professional, they’re obedient, and follow Kingston’s quiet commands without question.

  They’ve positioned me so that my back is to the room and they have me at their mercy – the only defence I can mount is mule kicks.

  A fist slams into my kidneys and sends spasms of pain throughout me.

  ‘Okay, boys. You all get one punch each, and then we’ll see what Buster has to say for himself.’

  It’s not Kingston’s words that scare me, it’s the matter-of-fact tone they’re delivered in. This is all in a day’s work for him. A man has been shot dead at his dining table, by a gun-toting stranger, and he’s speaking in the calm, measured fashion that I used when I met Taylor’s parents for the first time.

  Four more blows land on my kidneys, but it’s the final punch that does the most damage. It lands on the back of my head and drives my forehead against the ornamental pillar. I hang on the edge of consciousness with my arms supporting me where the duct tape has snagged on a decorative feature. The sudden halt as I fell was akin to having my arms yanked upwards.

  It could be worse. The clock had struck twelve long ago, and there are enough whisky fumes in the air to suggest that these men have all had a good drink. Therefore, they’re not at their peak when it comes to punching. Even if their target is bound and unmissable. Had they been sober, I dare say I’d be on my knees by now.

  I force myself to my feet, as much to relieve the ache in my arms as to show defiance.

  Two goons turn me so Kingston can
see my face.

  ‘So, Buster. Who are you, and why are you here?’

  ‘I’m a friend of a friend. I heard you were looking for staff.’

  My answer is a shock to me, but there’s no way I plan to tell him the truth.

  ‘So, instead of applying for a job, like any normal person, you sneak in here and kill one of my associates?’

  ‘He killed himself when he didn’t listen. It’s not my fault you hired a moron.’

  There’s a curse, followed by rapid footsteps. I brace myself for the blow, but a word from Kingston is enough to make the aggressor stop.

  ‘Forgive William. The man you killed was his brother, so it’s only natural he’s rather upset with you.’

  I don’t say anything. William may be controlled by Kingston, but there’s no point in pushing him further. Should I say the wrong the thing, William may just ignore his boss and kill me.

  ‘So then, Buster, do you have a name?’

  There an oddness about Kingston calling me Buster, and his polite tones. It’s like he’s either struggling to shake off his roots, or is dumbing himself down so his men don’t feel inadequate at his superior intelligence.

  ‘Buster is as good a name as any.’

  Kingston looks over my shoulder and does the peace sign. ‘William, if you’d do the honours, please?’

  Unsure of where the blows will land, I tense my body and make sure my head can’t be knocked against the pillar for a second time. William’s fists collide with my kidneys.

  My right kidney has taken more damage than the left one, but I can tell that William is left handed from the power of his punches. It’s a fact that may or may not come in useful.

  ‘I think William would rather like it if you don’t tell me your name. Do you want to make him happy, or do you want to tell me your name?’

  I’ve held on to this minor detail for long enough. While I’m taking a pounding they’re not killing me. The longer I can draw this out, the better my chances are of finding a way to escape, or at least killing Kingston before his goons kill me.

  By the same token, I don’t want to stretch credibility by not giving up a fact as inconsequential as my name. So long as I seem to give them each piece of information they want with a grudge, it will add a layer of validity to the lies I tell.

  ‘My name is Brian Johnson.’

  I’m not sure if they’re fans of AC/DC. In a lot of ways, I don’t care. Even if they do recognise the singer’s name, Brian Johnson is the kind of everyday name that is believable. Had I told them my name was Mick Jagger, or Axl Rose, I would have given them such grounds for disbelief that I may as well beat myself up.

  ‘So, Brian, you said you came here looking for a position within my organisation; perhaps you can enlighten me as to your qualifications? Also, tell me, who is this friend of mine who suggested you come and see me?’

  The way Kingston says “Brian” suggests he doesn’t believe it’s my real name. He doesn’t push it though. I suppose in his line of work, false names are given more often than real ones.

  A bigger issue is that he wants to know who has sent me. Cameron’s name will get me a bullet in the back of the head, and I don’t know any of Kingston’s friends who might have made a genuine recommendation.

  However, I’d always known this moment may arise, and I’ve taken a few steps in preparation.

  I give him the name of the man who controls the southern half of Staten Island.

  Kingston purses his lips and takes a seat as he thinks about the name I’ve given him. He keeps his head down so his face can’t be seen.

  Federico Peccia is not a name to be said without reverence. I only know about him because I had Alfonse dig into the files of the NYPD to find the three-letter agency that deals with organised crime, and get me their most wanted list. I might never have been a boy scout, but their motto of “be prepared” is a good one.

  Peccia is known to be one of the most ruthless of the various crime lords. His signature punishment is to flay his victims, roll them in salt, and dispatch them with a bullet to the back of the head when he tires of hearing their screams.

  Kingston may, or may not, have met Peccia, but the two men will be aware of each other. They’re far enough apart territorially for there to be no encroaching of boundaries, but while Kingston may be a big fish in his own area, compared to Peccia he’s little more than a shrimp.

  He’ll now be thinking about his life expectancy and trying to work out if my presence here is enemy action, along the lines of infiltration, or if my story is genuine.

  I let him think for as long as he needs. If he’s thinking, nobody is punching me.

  His goons are silent and there’s no noise other than the faint echo of music. I can’t say I know anything about classical music, but the tune I hear is dark and brooding, and I can tell it’s building its way towards a thundering crescendo. I hope it isn’t symbolism at work.

  Kingston lifts his head and licks his lips. His expression is grave when he addresses me. ‘Buster, you don’t know much about Peccia if you thought you could come here saying he sent you. He doesn’t do favours. Not for you, not for me.’

  ‘I didn’t come here because of a favour.’ I make sure there’s plenty of scorn in my voice. ‘I’m here because I get around and I hear things. A lot of what I’ve heard is not good news. At least, not for you.’

  ‘So, what have you heard?’ Kingston picks up one of my guns and points it in my face.

  I try not to show fear. ‘Shooting me won’t get you the information that will save your life. It might be Peccia that’s coming for you, it may well be someone else.’

  ‘Gentlemen, we are saved. Brian here, has come to rescue us from our enemies.’ Kingston turns to his goons and laughs until they join in, like the good little sycophants they are. It’s a false laugh, derived from fear and uncertainty.

  ‘You made a mistake killing the girl on the yacht. That’s brought you a lot of attention. Trust me, it’s the wrong kind of attention.’

  Kingston’s laughter stops dead and his eyes narrow. ‘What do you know about the yacht?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate, or do I have to ask William to encourage you?’

  ‘You got shafted by one of your own. Gave chase, killed the wrong person, and became a laughing stock when the guy you were after disappeared.’

  Kingston puts the gun on an occasional table, three feet to my right, and returns to his chair. ‘You seem well-informed, but only to a point. We didn’t make it public knowledge, but we got the guy we were after, and his buddy. Therefore, your information is wrong.’

  I’d laugh if my life wasn’t in imminent danger. Kingston is bluffing and his face says he believes the lie. Perhaps he’s been told it as a truth, by men who’re afraid to give him bad news.

  It’s time for me to ramp up the tension. ‘What about the girl? My sources tell me she was the daughter of a senator. I shouldn’t think the police will be allowed to not solve her murder.’

  ‘She’s a senator’s daughter, is she?’ His face changes. ‘It would appear to me that your sources are less than accurate. Either that, or you’re being economical with the truth. William, if you’d care to go first, I think two blows each this time.’

  I hear footsteps approach me and I tense myself, ready for the pain that may well be coming my way.

  67

  I’m not looking forward to getting hit ten times, so I attempt to make a bid for freedom. I lift my hands as high as possible, and drive them down with as much force as possible while tucking my elbows into my sides as they descend.

  Just like the books I’ve read suggested, the motion is enough to free my hands from the duct tape binding them.

  I feel William’s fist collide with my left kidney. Now I’m free of the restraint provided by the pillar, the blow is enough to send me staggering.

  This is a good thing, as it propels me towards the gun that Kingston laid on the occasio
nal table.

  As I snatch it up I look at it and assess which one it is. It’s the one I got from the mugger in the alleyway. That means it has three bullets.

  Six opponents, three bullets and one bad shot: me.

  Those aren’t good odds, but they are better than the ones I was facing when bound to the pillar.

  As I whirl round to face them, I bring the gun to bear and pull the trigger.

  Three deafening shots ring out and three of the men fall to the floor. Not that I hit them with a careful aim: they were so close to me it would have been harder to miss.

  I don’t waste time checking the severity of their injuries. Instead, I point the gun at the nearest man, who is stumbling over his buddies.

  Momentum is carrying him forward, so I slip my finger from the gun’s trigger guard, and use the palm of my hand as a hammer to smash it into his face. I follow up with a left cross to the temple.

  As he’s falling, I weigh up my last two aggressors.

  One of them is Kingston. Like the hero he is, he lets his goon come at me first. I can see the snarl on the goon’s face, as Kingston heads towards the dining table where my other gun still rests.

  The goon has to go down quick if I’m to stand any chance of catching Kingston. Because of the bodies on the floor, he takes a circuitous route to get to me.

  I use the time he wastes to grab a chair and throw it at Kingston. The chair hits the back of his legs and he stumbles to his knees.

  The chance is too good to waste, so I launch myself forward and plant the toe of my boot in Kingston’s unmentionables.

  As I take a step towards the gun, a strong arm wraps itself around my throat and hauls backwards to exert maximum pressure on my larynx.

  I throw my elbows back, but the guy holding me has positioned himself to use my body as a shield.