Jake Caldwell Thrillers by James Weaver
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 3.7 MB
ONCE YOU START RUNNING, IT’S HARD TO STOP.
Mob enforcer, Jake Caldwell is in the dark business of breaking kneecaps and snapping bones. But each job sends him one step closer to turning into the man he swore he’d never become–his violent and abusive father. Leaving the mob is easier said than done, so when his boss offers a bloody way out, Jake has no choice but to take it, even if it means confronting old ghosts.
While seeking redemption from a violent upbringing Jake learns he can’t turn his back on those who need him…it’s in his blood. But Jake needs to stay one step ahead of the bad guys if he is to have any future at all.
The apartment door was a cheap, brown, six-panel hollow core with a grimy peephole and colorfully articulated graffiti—enough to make a priest blush. But Jake Caldwell was no priest. The door would splinter off its hinges with a swift kick from his boot like the previous dozen he’d blasted in over the years. But bashing in doors was noisy and drew the wrong kind of attention. It’d be easier if Carlos simply opened it, so Jake knocked—again.
He waited, listening for sounds of movement over barking dogs and crying babies in the units behind him. He felt conspicuous in the littered hallway with the Glock at his side, the sun shining on his head through a hole in the building’s roof like a spotlight. Even in this shitty neighborhood, a guy his size with a gun would warrant an eventual call to the cops. Shadows flickered across the bottom of the door—Carlos staring out the peephole. A stupid move. If Jake was here to whack the guy, he could shoot him through the door. The worst he planned to do was break Carlos’ kneecaps.
“Open the door, Carlos,” Jake said, pounding the door twice. No answer, but the shadow wavered as if its owner was uncertain if it should stay or run.
Jake sighed and stepped back. With his good leg, he exploded forward, driving his heel above the knob. The lock assembly collapsed against the splintered wood and the door burst open. Carlos cried out as the door cracked his face, his wiry frame collapsing to the floor. He landed on his ass, holding his nose. Blood poured through his fingers and on to his stained, white T-shirt. Jake entered the apartment to the stench of cigarettes and fried onions and shut the remains of the door behind him. Carlos pushed back toward a kitchen stacked with crusted plates and glasses, his wide eyes fearful.
With the gun trained on Carlos, Jake strode to the kitchen, grabbed a grungy dish towel and dropped it in the bleeding man’s lap. Carlos whimpered as he pressed the towel against his shattered nose. The late morning sun peeked through the blinds, highlighting his greasy hair that dangled across sunken cheeks. Jake tucked the Glock in his waistband and picked up a dented baseball bat leaning against a bookcase covered with dead plants. He held it with both hands, testing the weight. Thirty-two-ounce aluminum fat barrel. He walked to Carlos and tapped him on the leg with it.
“Where’s your daughter?” Jake asked. The last thing he wanted was a little girl to run in screaming. It happened before.