Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1) (21 page)

“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.

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 about 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.”

Willie pulled the collar of his shirt low. Half a dozen bloody little slits cut into Willie’s skin. Not the first time she’d seen him hurt. When she was younger, he’d show up in town with cuts and bruises all over him. Mom said he used to be a sweet kid. Halle almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Then,” Willie continued, “he said if I didn’t do it, he would be the one doing the raping and the cutting. He said, ‘Better if it comes from you, Willie. She might take it better coming from you.’ What a mess.”

Halle got up from the bed, full blown panic surging through her. Escape. She had to. She ran her eyes over the window panes to the ground below. Maybe if she flung herself through the glass she’d break her neck on the patio. If not, maybe she could slash her wrists with the broken glass. Both options sounded better than what Shane planned for her.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be, Halle,” Willie continued. “I wasn’t plannin’ on making a career out of selling meth and being stuck in this town. Just tryin’ to make a little cash and get the hell out of dodge. Make a legit life somewhere. I even thought for a bit I could do it with you. Pretty stupid, huh?”

A figure came up the steps from the dock, and it wasn’t the mullet-head that had been there all day leering at her. The new guy limped a bit, big with cropped hair, jeans and a plain dark T-shirt. He slowed as he approached the patio, scanning for anyone nearby, a pistol aimed, ready to shoot. When he broke the plane of the patio's light, he looked up to her. His face broke into a smile, not a creepy one like the mullet-head’s, but a genuine one. She recognized something familiar about it even though she’d never seen him before.

“Tried to get Shane to let you come with me to Kansas City. I said I’d keep you under control, but he knew that wasn’t gonna work.”

The man outside checked his watch, pointed to it and raised two fingers in the air. He mouthed the words “two minutes,” exaggerating so she saw it. This guy wasn’t part of Shane’s crew, but there to help her. He disappeared below. Two minutes. She didn’t know what in the hell would happen in two minutes, but for the first time since those animals grabbed her, optimism flashed.

“So, I don’t know what the hell to do. I don’t see any way out of this, Halle.”

Halle spun from the window, trying to suppress the smile cropping up on her face. It disappeared at the sight of Willie moving toward her with a knife in his hand.

                                                        #

The back door slid open, and Jake crept into a rec room. A long hallway led to several rooms with closed doors. A wet-bar held several half-empty bottles of Crown Royal and Jack Daniels along with a smattering of crushed beer cans. A long leather couch lay empty in front of a big screen, ironically playing one of his favorite movies of all time:
Unforgiven
. On the screen, the Schofield Kid sat on the ground, knees drawn up in front of him, drinking whiskey from a bottle, contemplating the man he assassinated. As Jake passed the pool table heading for a stairway leading up, the Schofield Kid tried to justify his actions, saying to Clint Eastwood,
“Well, I guess he had it comin’.”
Jake whispered the comeback line along with old Iron Clint. “We all got it comin’, kid.” That’s goddamn right.