Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1)

by James L. Weaver

  “Keep going, don’t stop,” Bear said, attempting to slide low in the truck seat to avoid being seen. His immense size made it an exercise in futility.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jake asked, resisting the urge to laugh.

  “People know me around here. Trying to make my fat ass a little inconspicuous,” Bear said, giving up when they passed the driveway. He checked his phone. “That’s where Bennett went.”

  “What’s up with the security?”

  “Big property company came in years ago and bought up a ton of land to develop lakefront homes. You drive around Benton County and you’ll see their signs all over the place along with these gated communities. Worked in some places but not as well in others.”

  “So that’s the only way in?”

  “Naw, we can slide in anywhere. It’s not like the whole property is fenced off. The gate is just a deterrent. They have security trucks patrolling their properties, though. You can’t wander in and cruise around for very long.” Bear pointed across the cab. “Pull in this driveway.”

  Jake wheeled down a long, asphalt driveway. A well-maintained white rancher sprawled in front of them. There were no cars on the drive or lights on in the house. Bear directed him toward the back of the house and told him to park. A line of maples stood like sentries along the property line. A narrow footpath darted between them leading to the water.

  “Nice place,” Jake said.

  “Belongs to my dipshit brother-in-law. Roy made a nice living selling insurance in St. Louis, and they retired here last year. My wife makes me drag his ass out on the lake fishing once a week. See that ramp by the door? Built it for him on one of my rare days off so he can wheel down to his dock. Smashed the crap outta my thumb with a hammer. Bitter old fart didn’t say thank you or fuck you very much. Just handed me a warm can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and wheeled his crippled ass back inside.”

  “At least you got a beer,” Jake offered.

  “I’d rather drink your luke-warm piss than a PBR. We can park here without raising any suspicion. Come on.”

  Bear dropped out of the truck and Jake followed. Bear reached into the back and unzipped the rifle case. Out came a Savage 30.06 rifle with a scope attached to the stock; Bear slung it over his shoulder. He unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars, ammo for the rifle and a couple of magazines for the Beretta on his hip.

  “You going to war?” Jake asked.

  “Always be prepared. All hail the fucking Boy Scouts of America. You got extra ammo for the Glock?”

  Jake went back to the driver’s side and took the two extra mags he kept under the seat, shoving them into his back pocket. Without thinking, he reached into his front pocket and slid the gold ring on his finger. Bear leaned over the truck rail and retrieved a bulletproof vest. He tossed it over to Jake. Jake peeled off his shirt and donned the vest.

  Bear rubbed his ample belly. “You coulda put it over your shirt. Show off.”

  “How the hell do I know? Haven’t worn one of these things before.”

  “I think you just wanted to show off your six-pack.”

  “Get your eyes checked, old man,” Jake said. “That’s an eight-pack. Maybe we can rekindle our workout routine. I’ll get you back into shape.”

  Bear huffed while Jake slid his T-shirt over the top of the vest. “Dragging my fat ass outta bed every day is my workout.” He pointed back to the trees. “There’s a big-ass house on the other side of these trees, a couple hundred yards through the woods.”

  “Whose house is it?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe your little buddy in Kansas City can tell us.”

  “Smart ass.”

  “I’ve just seen it from the other side of the river when I’ve cruised through Lakeview Heights on a few calls. We’ll do a little reconnaissance through the trees here. See if there’s anything interesting going on.”

  “And if there is?” Jake asked.

  “We call in the dogs. I put some of my DEA task force guys on alert before you got back from Sedalia. Guys I can trust. If Halle’s in there and Shane’s got her, I don’t want to spook him.”

  They entered the tree line, making their own path over brush and twigs. They moved at a quick pace before slowing as they caught glimpses of the house up ahead through the woodland. Bear moved like a cat. Just like their deer hunting days in the backwoods by the old house when they were teenagers.

  Twenty minutes later, the day’s dying sun made it nearly impossible to spot the path in front of them. Every twig they snapped sounded like a shotgun blast. Thankfully, rumbles of boat motors roaring by on the nearby water helped mask the sound of their approach. Thirty yards ahead, the house lit up like a Christmas tree. A spotlight blasted from the front door on to a driveway where a beat-up truck, a couple of black Lincoln Navigators and Bennett’s Mazda were parked.

  “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Bear whispered. “That’s Willie’s truck and I’ll bet dollars to donuts that’s one of Shane’s Navigators.”

  Jake took the binoculars from Bear and scanned the front of the house and the yard. A red ember flared on the far side of the house and faded, tendrils of smoke coiled across the floodlights. He scanned across the front of the house seeing nothing in the windows. Another dark figure hid in the shadows of the front porch, a rifle leaning against the house.

  “Got two scumbags out front,” Jake said, voice low. “One smoking on the far side and another sitting on the porch.”

  “Don’t forget about the guy at the gate.”

  “So, that’s three on the outside we can see.”

  A figure moved to the front window. Jake raised the binoculars. Long, dark hair, ratty jeans, your general scumbag appearance. He handed the glasses to Bear.

  “There’s Willie,” Bear said. “And there’s Antonio coming up behind him. Shane’s bodyguard. Big, black sumbitch. I’d rather shoot him than fight him. Where Antonio goes, Shane goes.”

  They waited. Jake’s knee ached from squatting, so he dropped to a sitting position. Though their eyes adjusted to the dark, it was still a shade short of pitch black in the woods, the only light now coming from the full moon. A snake slithered across his boot and Jake nearly gave away their location with a yelp.

  “City boy,” Bear said in the darkness. Jake hated snakes.

  They alternated turns with the binoculars, quietly shifting up and down the tree line trying to get a different angle. On Jake’s turn, a lean, but muscular guy with jet-black hair and a widow’s peak spoke to the guy Bear identified as Antonio. Was that Shane? He looked like he could scrap and, if he was the one who took Halle, Jake hoped he had the chance to find out. Jake nudged Bear and handed him the glasses.

  “Hell yes,” Bear said. “Will the real Shane Langston please stand up?”

  A minute later, Willie marched out to his truck. He rummaged around for a few seconds then came out carrying a couple of large, clear plastic bags. He said something to the guy on the porch and walked inside.

  “Bingo,” Bear said. “That was a shit ton of Devil Ice little Willie carried inside. We’ve got enough to bust in. Sit tight.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m calling in the dogs. They can be here in thirty minutes. I’ll go meet them back up the road a ways. We’ll stage up and come back with guns drawn.”

  “What about Halle?” Jake asked. “I’m supposed to sit here with my thumb up my ass?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Your keys in the truck?” Jake nodded. “Good. Stay here, out of sight. If you see anything to raise the alarm, call me on my cell. You’re my eyes on the ground.”

  “This sucks,” Jake said, legs twitching and hands clenching. He should be doing something.

  Bear read his mind. “Don’t do anything stupid. Sit tight and keep your head down.”

  Bear clapped him on the back and disappeared. He hoped Bear didn’t unlock the toolbox on Jake’s truck. Should've moved the money. Jake settled
back and waited.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jake managed to follow Bear’s order for a whole ten minutes. Fuck this. He worked his way toward the water to a spot where he could get a clear view of the back of the house. Following the trees, he crept to a large boathouse hanging out over the water and peered in a window at a white forty-two foot Regal Sport Coupé with a price tag of a half million dollars. Very nice. Did Keats have one of those? He made his way back toward the house, hugging the boathouse wall. He glanced at the bright lights on the back of the house and saw his daughter for the first time.

  Her hands and forehead were pressed against the second-story window; what looked like a ceiling fan spun lazily in the background. He raised the binoculars. His breath caught, stunned by the beauty shining through the fear on her face, like she was the damsel in distress at the top of the bell tower waiting for her knight in shining armor. On a patio below, a bulky sentry with a bad mullet leaned against a stone column smoking, alternating his gaze between Halle at the window and the water behind the house.

  Jake couldn’t help but smile. He’d been in relationships over the years, some good, most bad. Some of the women had children with whom he’d become friendly. He never connected to the kids or really wanted one of his own. But now, marveling at something he created, he found that connection warm and inviting. She was scared, but he could see her strength, Maggie as she looked sixteen years ago but with the trademark Caldwell nose, narrow and hooked. His chest ached as he stared at her, at his daughter.

  Jake opened his cell and shot Bear a text. Halle in house—in back room on second floor. A minute later, his cell vibrated. How can you see back of house if ur sitting in woods? Don’t move. Staging now. 10 minutes. Jake stuck the phone back in his pocket. He dipped into the shadows of the boathouse to dutifully wait, when his foot knocked into a metal pail. He froze, imagining how the reverberating clang must have sounded to the man on the patio.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered. He snuck a peek over his shoulder. The guy on the porch peered into the darkness and edged toward the stairs leading to the dock. Jake pressed himself against the wall and slid back. His hands found a door knob and twisted it open. The door creaked, the sound carrying over the August evening breeze. He slipped inside, leaving the door ajar.

  A minute later, hard-heeled boots clomped across the wood deck surrounding the boat house.

  “Emmit?” the man called. “If Shane catches you jacking around with his boat he’s gonna skin your ass alive.”

  Scant light shined through the window from one of the nearby dock lights. Jake used it to inch deeper into the boathouse, ignoring the copper smell in the air and trying to find some measure of cover. With Halle held captive and Bear ten minutes out, sounding the alarm was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. With the area surrounding the boat providing no cover, he climbed on to the boat and crept to the captain’s seat. Seconds later the boot falls reached the door and the guard pushed it open.

  “Emmit?” The man hesitated before flipping the light switch. Overhead fluorescents blasted the boathouse and Jake felt as conspicuous as a naked whore in church. Thankfully, his perch placed him above the guard who slowly walked the length of the boat. Jake shifted slightly, and his knee popped. The boots paused, then circled the rest of the boat back to the door.

  “Duane,” a voice said from a radio.

  “Yo,” Duane replied, his voice dull and nasally.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Boathouse. Thought I heard something.”

  “Get your ass back to your post.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The hinges creaked as the door shut. Jake silently counted five Mississippi and rose to jump to the deck.

  Shit. Duane pointed a gun at him, the barrel wide and dark, like an open mouth waiting to swallow him whole.

  “Oops,” Jake said. Could he get to the Glock tucked into his waistband at his back? Doubtful. Even this dumb asshole could drop him before he would clear it. Duane motioned for Jake to climb down. Jake just had to stall long enough for Bear and company to arrive.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Duane asked.

  “Steve with Boats R Us. Shane said he had a leak on the bow.”

  “What?” Duane’s brow furrowed in confusion. Jake didn’t need Duane to believe him, but provide a moment of pause and an opening he could exploit.

  Jake walked closer and ran his hand along the side of the boat. “Yeah, Shane called yesterday and said he had a leak in the bow he wanted us to look at.”

  “Bullshit, and don’t take another step forward. You clamberin’ around in the dark to find a leak?”

  “I couldn’t find the light switch.”

  “You mean the one by the door where every other light switch in the world is?” Duane asked. The gun never wavered. “I’ll ask again. Who the fuck are you? You got five seconds to answer before I drop you like a bad habit.”

  Jake’s mind raced. The guy stood too far away to make a move at him and the boat repair guy shtick hadn’t given him the opening he wanted. The gun pointing at his chest didn’t move a millimeter. He figured another five minutes until the cavalry arrived. The best course of action was to tell Duane the truth, in a way.

  “I’m Jake Smith with the Drug Enforcement Administration. This whole place is going to be swarming with federal agents in less than five minutes. Give me the gun and you can walk out of here alive.”

  “Bullshit,” Duane said. But, despite his statement of disbelief, Jake spotted a crack in his demeanor. He raised his radio to his lips.

  “Don’t do it,” Jake said. “You raise the alarm and a whole lot of people are going to die here today, including you. Let my people swarm the house and take everyone there down. Hell, technically you haven’t done anything yet. You could walk out of here alive and a free man, Duane.”

  “How do I know you’re for real?”

  “Inside the house is the drug dealer, Shane Langston, and his big black bodyguard, Antonio. Also inside is a drug dealer named Willie Banks and his errand boy Bennett. They brought in a new shipment of a new meth product they call Devil Ice. There’s also a kidnapped girl named Halle Holden being held hostage here. Now how would I know that if I’m not who I say I am?”

  “I don’t know nothing about the girl,” Duane said. Duane’s gun dropped a hair as his brain chugged to process the information.

  “My turn to call bullshit, Duane. You’ve been ogling her in the window from your little perch all day. We’ve had this place under watch by satellite for weeks now. Give it up and I’ll make sure you get a walk.”

  Duane’s mouse in the wheel worked overtime. “A full and complete walk?”

  “Hand me the gun and you won’t do a minute of time.”

  The mouse wheel finished spinning and Duane held out the gun out by the barrel. Jake stepped forward and gently took it from his hands. It had worked. “You made the right move, Duane. I gotta cuff you for now. Turn around.”

  When Duane turned, Jake slammed the piece into the back of his head. The body crumpled to the deck. Jake found a reel of fishing line, some duct tape and a knife on a workbench. After ensuring Duane still had a pulse, Jake wrapped Duane's hands behind his back with the line and did the same with his feet. He slapped a couple of strips of duct tape across his mouth and dragged him to the back of the boat, out of sight.

  As he walked back toward the door, Jake noticed a bulging, blue tarp on the ground against the wall. He lifted the tarp and jumped back. He’d seen some crazy shit in his time, but nothing like this.

  The remains of Bub, the guy he pounded by the Community Center downtown, lay under the tarp, a horrified expression pasted under his glassy, dead eyes. Clutched in either one of his fat, dead hands were his legs stumps, a macabre mess of crimson and bone. Jake suppressed the urge to puke before backing away. When he reached the door, he killed the light and stared up the hill toward the house. Langston mutilated his own guy. What kind of psycho were they a
bout to deal with?

  #

  The guard posted below Halle’s window stood at the edge of the patio and peered toward the water. He yelled out something Halle couldn’t make out, waited a moment and walked down the steps. The light in the boathouse had turned on when the door to her room opened. Willie entered, his complexion a whiter shade than normal, like he was about to vomit. He closed the door behind him. Not good news.

  “Willie? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Willie didn’t answer. He sat on the bed and patted the space next to him. As much as it made her skin crawl, Halle obliged. Muffled laughs and shouts came from down the hall. Willie’s gaze locked on his feet, as if he couldn't raise his greasy head to look her in the eye.

  “I stalled as long as I could and racked my brain trying to figure out another way, but I’m supposed to kill you now,” he said, his voice flat and monotone, like a shock victim telling someone about their traumatic experience.

  Her optimistic thoughts of surviving this ordeal fell away. The panic she’d managed to hold in check leapt forward and she slammed her back into the headboard of the bed, pressing into the wood as far from Willie as she could get.

  “Shane said for me to rape you first. He said it the way someone would say you should try a new restaurant or you should go check out the new George Clooney movie. Like it was a friendly little suggestion.”

  “What did you say?” Halle whispered, her voice trembling. Images flooded her brain of Willie raping her, Shane over his shoulder cheering. Shane with his knife, running it up and down her leg again before plunging it into her.

  “I told him I didn’t think I could do it. I was happy to run his meth for him, but Bub’s the muscle of my operation and when Shane killed him, he cut the legs out from under me. Shane started laughing his ass off telling me what a great pun that was, but I don’t know what the hell a pun is so I didn’t laugh. Next thing I know, Shane has the big knife out and he’s pointing it at me and prodding my chest with the tip of it.”