The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  Yerik seems to be the most hot-headed of the three. He wants to storm Tagliente’s house, guns blazing, so we can kill everyone we encounter.

  Baruch’s voice is full of scorn as he rounds on his brother. ‘What about innocents? There may well be servants, or other people there who’re nothing to do with the mafia. What do you think will happen if we do as you say? Do you think the police will arrive? Or the guys we’re shooting at will start shooting back?’

  He gets nothing but a harrumph for an answer.

  I leave them to stew for a moment then continue explaining how the attack will take place. I’m more about infiltration than frontal assault and, should things go as planned there will be a lot of guns waved around, but very few, if any, shots fired. Tagliente may well have mafia connections, but it’s a fair bet that his neighbours don’t. Gunshots may go unreported in certain areas of New York, but it’s a racing certainty that out here they would have the locals instructing their servants to call the police at once.

  Ike gets us to Tagliente’s street without incident, but when he nears his house, I tell him to make sure that he keeps his eyes on the road and his speed consistent. The last thing I want is to raise the suspicions of an observant guard.

  He does as I’ve instructed, while the two in the back crane their necks to look through the blacked-out windows. I get a good look at the house through the open gates as a pizza delivery scooter leaves.

  A low whistle emanates from the back seat, followed by Baruch’s sonorous voice. ‘Man, that’s some place he’s got there. Did you see them cars?’

  If they are the sports cars I saw earlier, there’s no point Baruch, or either of his brothers, getting all wistful. It was a struggle to get them in the SUV, there’s no way they could squeeze themselves into a sports car.

  ‘Describe the cars, please?’

  Baruch replies and I let out a sigh of relief. None of them are a small Ford. Therefore, The Mortician isn’t here. It’s one thing to lure him into a trap, quite another to walk into his.

  As per my instructions, Ike parks a quarter mile along the street, in a cul-de-sac. None of us are carrying anything that identifies us, and if we should fall, we are to be left behind.

  We’re all wearing ski masks, although I know them by the British term of balaclavas, and there’s a generous coating of the rigid collodion on our fingertips.

  I roll my balaclava into a hat and walk up the street towards Tagliente’s house.

  There’s nothing underhand or sneaky about my movements: I’m just a guy walking along the sidewalk. I have a pair of earbuds in. They’re not connected to anything, but they do make it look as if I’m enjoying a pleasant dusk stroll. My pace is leisurely without being a dawdle. To anyone who’s watching, or just sees me as they drive past, I’m not worthy of a second look – at least, that’s what I’m hoping they’ll think.

  When I’m fifty yards from Tagliente’s gate, I point across the street and listen for the roar of an engine that my signal should generate.

  It comes at once.

  I duck against the large hedge of a neighbour and make my way towards Tagliente’s medieval gates. As I get closer, I press my back against the privet and look to my left, so I can watch proceedings as I inch closer towards the gates.

  As planned, the SUV gets there at the same time I do. There is music emanating from it, but not so loud as to be of nuisance value. Yerik’s head pops out of the passenger window and he lifts a pair of shades to better look at the guard who pokes his head round one of the gates. ‘Yo, man. Open up and let us in, Jase is expecting us. We got him a real nice present. She’s blonde and in possession of the prettiest little ass you ever did see.’

  The guard hesitates, looks at Yerik and then back at the little guardhouse.

  From the guard’s actions, I’ve learned two things: the first is that people turning up unexpected is nothing unusual to him; the second is that he appears to have company in the guardhouse.

  I plant my right foot hard on the ground and get ready to move.

  The guard licks his lips, casts another look at the guardhouse, and gives a nod. He steps back so the opening gates don’t catch him.

  I use the SUV as cover and, just as it passes the guard, I take three rapid steps and throw a hard punch to his temple.

  Before an alarm can be raised I continue my run and head for the guardhouse.

  A second guard is on his way out of the door and he’s raising a gun.

  I knock his gun hand skyward with my left hand and bury my right into his gut. He’s still doubling over when my knee crashes into his face. It’s not enough to knock him unconscious, but it doesn’t need to be.

  The SUV stops and Yerik gets out.

  With his help, I bundle both guards into the guardhouse. I leave them there with Yerik and a roll of duct tape.

  Not only will he be able to delay any would-be rescuers for Tagliente, he’ll also be able to warn us of any law enforcement that comes our way.

  I jog behind the SUV as Ike steers it up to the house.

  Tagliente’s home is all Georgian uniformity and Grecian pillars. It might not look so bad if it wasn’t for the concrete lions flanking the front door.

  Either the lions are new, or the gardener has a special trick that prevents them from growing the layer of algae that coats most stone items this close to the ocean.

  Baruch and Ike take up station beside a lion’s ass and wait for me to open the door. I can’t speak for them but my heart is pounding, and I’m feeling a rush of adrenaline as my body prepares itself for what is on the other side of the door.

  Whatever it is, we have the element of surprise and all three of us have guns in our hands.

  82

  I twist the doorknob with my left hand and push hard enough to make the door swing back. My eyes are flicking everywhere and the gun in my hand is the briefest of seconds behind them.

  There’s a hallway containing the usual hallway furniture. It’s just this hallway furniture looks more expensive than my entire apartment.

  I see a stairway, three doors, and no human beings. Loud music is coming from upstairs, and there’s a rhythmic thumping from an overemphasis on the bass levels.

  With a wave, I direct Ike left and Baruch right, and I head to the far door. Upstairs can wait – I’ve already been ambushed with near fatal consequences, and as I’m still pissing blood from that mistake, I don’t plan to repeat it.

  The two brothers have their brief. Shots are only to be fired if guns are pulled by those we encounter. It’s not that I care about the deaths of mafia men, more that I don’t want innocents harmed.

  There’s also the issue of guns being rather noisy things when they’re fired indoors. The music upstairs may well be booming but I doubt it’s loud enough to cover gunfire.

  Ike has an automatic pistol like me and Baruch has a sawn-off shotgun that looks like a child’s toy in his huge hand. If he pulls his trigger, all attempts at subterfuge will be over before his shots hit their target.

  The three of us stand in front of our respective doors, and I count down from three using my fingers.

  When I get to one, I drop my hand and reach for the door handle.

  The room I enter is a study – not the man-caves Alfonse and I have, a proper study – with a teak bookcase filled with what looks like first editions, a desk that has been polished to such a level of glossiness it wouldn’t go amiss in a Ferrari showroom, and the ubiquitous pair of Chesterfield wingbacks.

  A quick scan of the room reveals no human life. Neither does a proper, albeit rapid, search.

  So far, so good.

  At least it is until I hear a shout, a slap, and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

  I set off running, wondering which brother needs my help.

  A muffled scream comes from the door Baruch had opened so I go that way first. I see him with one of his huge arms wrapped around a girl, and his gun trained on a man sprawled on the floor.


  There are groans coming from the guy but very little sign of movement.

  I glance at Baruch who shrugs. ‘I only slapped him.’

  The guy got off lucky. If this is what one of Baruch’s slaps does, there’s no telling what damage would be caused by a full-blooded punch.

  I drag the moaning guy to the middle of the floor and use some duct tape to gag him. I do the same with the girl and, with Baruch’s help, bind the two of them together.

  Rather than risk them being able to move in unified co-ordination, I put them back to back and head to toe. The guy’s arms are taped to the girl’s legs and vice versa. For them to be able to move, they’ll have to be either Olympic gymnasts or circus freaks. Judging by the girl’s muffin top and the guy’s spare tyre, it’s a fair bet they’re neither.

  With them secured I check for other doors and find none. This room is a drawing room or lounge. It has more floor space than my whole apartment and the TV fixed above the fireplace is only inches smaller than the bookcase that covers an entire wall of my lounge.

  Baruch and I head out of the room and follow Ike’s footsteps.

  There’s a dining room and there’s no sign of life. Or death. Just one mahogany table with eight chairs, a dresser, and some fancy paintings on the wall.

  There is another door.

  A dime gets you a dollar there is a kitchen on the other side of that door.

  I push it open and win my dollar.

  Ike has his gun trained on two women and a man, who are cowering against the units. Each looks to have Hispanic blood and they all look terrified.

  My best guess is that he’s startled the help, and there are too many of them for him to have risked tying them up without one of them being able to get away, or, at the very least, letting out a warning shout. Rather than panic, he’s shown the guts and gumption to stand his ground and wait for our arrival.

  We bind the three of them into a top and tail sandwich, with the guy in the middle, and then we head back towards the stairs.

  As we’re about to exit the dining room I hear footsteps. The brisk, fast footsteps of someone walking with a purpose.

  83

  The footsteps come our way. Ike and I take one side of the door into the hallway, and Baruch takes the other.

  As it opens, Baruch’s left hand snakes out and drags a man into his right fist.

  The man drops in a heap with a rustle of clothing. He’s dressed like a prep school student, which is enough reason for me not to care about the damage Baruch’s punch may have done to his face.

  I have nothing personal against the prep school type, it’s more a general dislike of rich people who have life’s opportunities fed to them with a silver spoon. Those who are self-made get my respect, because they’ve created their own success.

  I guess my feelings stem from a lingering resentment of some of the high school jocks I was educated alongside. They had behaved in a way that spoke of entitlement and assumed superiority. I hadn’t been liked by them and the feeling was mutual.

  Ike and Baruch hog-tie and gag the unconscious man while I take a few tentative steps towards the staircase.

  Like everything else in this house its opulence is hard to ignore. The treads look to be marble and the four-foot-wide strips of carpet are plush and thick.

  I take slow steps up with my gun in front of me. I’m watching for any sign of movement, listening for any out of place noise, and sniffing, hoping a waft of cologne or perfume will give me warning.

  While the carpet’s plushness will hide our footsteps, it will also mask those of anyone on the upper floor.

  The three of us crest the stairway and find a long corridor. To the right, are four closed doors.

  On our left there are three closed doors and an open one.

  Through the open door I can see shadows on the far wall of people dancing.

  It’s logical to assume that’s where Tagliente and his guests are, so it’s my first target.

  Baruch and I pad our way across the corridor and position ourselves by the door. Ike is left behind to cover our rear in case anyone comes out of the rooms on our right.

  I hear women’s laughter and the jokey tones of horny males, as the music segues from one dance track to another. So far as I’m concerned, Tagliente deserves everything I’m about to do to him for his taste in music alone.

  ‘Freeze. Nobody move!’

  Somebody tries reaching for a jacket until Baruch’s shotgun, which blasts a hole in the middle of the TV, makes him think that becoming a statue would be an excellent idea.

  Baruch takes a swipe at the stereo system, causing it to career halfway across the room.

  With the room silent, I waggle my gun at the five women and three men. ‘On the floor, everyone.’

  ‘I have money. There’s a safe behind the picture. The number is 57-98-43-82. Take everything, but please don’t hurt us.’

  I kick Tagliente in the ribs and tell him to shut up.

  As everyone is congregating in the middle of the floor, I pay attention to the women. They are all beautiful, which, considering Tagliente’s money, is a given. They’re all wearing slutty clothes, which tells me they’re either wisteria girls – who are, by nature, fragrant, decorative and ferocious climbers – or they’re hookers.

  My money is on hookers because of one simple fact.

  None of the women have a full complement of arms and legs.

  Each one of them is missing at least one part of a limb, and when the redhead cranes her head to look my way, I see the left side of her face is covered with scar tissue that only a third-degree burn would leave. The eye on that side of her face is a glass one. Sure, it looks expensive, and the colour is a close, if not exact, match for her right eye, but it’s still a glass eye.

  Something inside me chills my already arctic blood several more degrees. People living with disabilities should have the same lifestyle choices as anyone else; the fact that Tagliente has found five, beautiful, disfigured women and got them all round to his place, has a deeper meaning.

  His actions are not philanthropic or charitable. To me this exposes his desire to feel superior in every way, to those he’s rutting on top of.

  It’s all I can do not to put my gun against Tagliente’s balls and pull the trigger.

  I plant a boot into his groin as a salve to my temper, and bind the other men together as best I can while Baruch covers me.

  I guess my anger stems from the fact that all the girls have a disability. Had there been only one of them with a limb missing, I dare say I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.

  ‘Hey, Mister. You let us girls go, and we’ll give you and your buddies the best night you ever had. Ain’t that right, girls?’ It’s the redhead who speaks and her accent is pure New York.

  The other girls echo her sentiments.

  ‘Thanks, ladies, but lovely as you all are, I’m spoken for. If you don’t cause us any trouble, no harm will come to you.’

  I place a strip of tape over each girl’s mouth and smooth it with a gentleness I hope they recognise. A slow wink from the redhead tells me she understands.

  With the others bound and safe, I tie Tagliente’s hands behind his back and bind his body three times until his arms are taped to his torso. A quick pat down of his pockets locates his cell. I stuff it in my pocket and start believing that my plan will work.

  Ike joins us as Baruch grabs one of Tagliente’s feet and drags him to the next room.

  I police the room, gather up all the cell phones from the folk on the floor, and make sure I have ripped the telephone from its socket. The cells get tossed along the corridor out of harm’s way, and I make sure anything that could be used as a weapon, or a tool to cut their bindings, joins the cell phones.

  When I join Baruch and Tagliente, I find the latter has been tossed into the middle of a huge bed, which has black, silk sheets and a mattress that is sprung better than an Olympic trampoline.

  ‘Please, please don’t hurt me. What
ever you want, I can get you.’

  Tagliente looks at Baruch, which is typical of his kind of small man thinking. Baruch may be the largest of us, but it’s me who’s in charge. In Tagliente’s narrow mind, size is in direct proportion to authority. It’s the commonly held belief of the small man.

  ‘I only want one thing.’ I waggle his cell at him. ‘I want you to call The Mortician and get him over here. If you do that for me, you’ll be alive when I leave.’

  For the first time since we appeared, his eyes show fear. I can tell he was expecting us to be thieves. Now he knows our real purpose, he’s scared.

  I don’t suppose my threatening to kill him will have given him a lot of reassurance.

  Tagliente’s head shakes back and forth as he babbles a series of denials about knowing The Mortician.

  Rather than wasting time making empty threats, I use a knife to slice away his shorts, and retrieve the blowtorch from my backpack.

  I press the ignition button and sweep it over his legs. Not quite close enough to burn, yet near enough to singe the hairs on his legs. His yelp is driven more by fear than pain, but I’m cool with that.

  Much as I despise him and everything he stands for, I’d rather not have to resort to torture in front of Baruch and Ike.

  Tagliente doesn’t need to know that though.

  I hold the unlit blowtorch above his singed pubes. ‘Do you want a moment to think whether or not you know him, or should I jog your memory?’

  ‘I know him, I know him. Please; if you make me call him, he’ll kill you and then he’ll kill me.’

  ‘It’s your choice: either you call him, and gamble what you say isn’t true, or, I kill you right now and find another way to get to him.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t come?’

  I waggle the blowtorch. ‘I’ll burn as many parts of your body as it takes to make you beg me to put a bullet in your brain.’

  Tagliente thrashes on the bed but achieves nothing except a bouncing motion.

  I hold up the cell and he nods.

  ‘Good man. Do I need to tell you what will happen to you if you try and warn him?’