Deadly Silence (Silence Jones Action Thrillers Series) Page 3

  He’d said it affably, as was his manner, and his deep, chuckling voice echoed off the brick walls.

  Glover didn’t respond. His back remained to the other men. He took a drag from his cigarette. Smoke drifted away into the night.

  Jake returned his attention to Charlie and kept the smile on his face as he gave the younger man a reassuring nod that said he fully believed that everything would turn out all right. But Jake wasn’t at all certain. Something about this situation felt bad. Off. Wrong.

  Charlie motioned with his head toward Glover then raised his eyebrows, said nothing. But Jake knew what he was imparting. Of the three-man contingent sent to New Orleans, Jake and Charlie were on one side of the schism that was forming within the Farone organization. Glover was on the other side. And over the last few days, the divide was manifesting itself in more and more ways, to the point where now, with Glover several feet away, there was a literal, physical gap between them.

  Jake took another glance at his wayward companion, and when he did, Glover looked up, down the alley entranceway into the parking lot.

  “They’re here,” he said, pointing. He flicked his cigarette into the night and walked back toward Jake and Charlie.

  A late model Honda Civic sedan creeped toward them, headlights flooding the decayed parking lot, revealing its secrets. The car stopped about twenty feet away. A few moments later, the headlights extinguished. The engine continued to run.

  The front doors opened. From the driver side came a man in his fifties, standing tall but relying on a cane. A homely but kind face. Short-cut, graying hair.

  A younger man emerged from the passenger side, twenties, tall and long, five o’clock shadow, squinting eyes, wide chin, vacant expression. There was a large scrape on his right cheekbone, scabbing over, accompanied by some bruising—the remnants of the last time Jake’s trio had met with the Bowmans two nights prior.

  As Pete Hudson, Jake was not supposed to know who these men were, only that they were from the Bowman family. But as an undercover police officer, he did know. They were Kip Bowman, fifty-six, owner of a hardware store, and his son Wesley, twenty-four, part-time college student and part-time employee of the family business.

  The men approached Jake’s trio. Glover slid forward a couple of feet, positioning himself in front of Jake and Charlie. He ran a hand over his hair, which was worn combed back, pompadour style. He then shoved both hands in his pockets and bounced his weight through his heels, shifted his muscular shoulders, a man preparing for confrontation.

  “Ten thousand, Mr. Bowman,” Glover said. “Plus interest brings the total to twelve grand.”

  Kip looked toward Glover but kept his gaze away from his eyes, at chest level. The cane trembled in his hand.

  “We … We don’t—”

  “Oh, of course. You don’t have the money. Again. It was stolen again, is that right?”

  The man clenched harder onto his cane.

  “Yes! That’s right! We even went to a different bank this time, and somehow they found us. They must be following us, and—”

  Glover stepped closer, within inches of the older man, who shrunk back. “Bullshit! That’ll be another twenty percent interest. Tomorrow.”

  “Please!” Kip said, nearly shouting, voice cracking. “We have no more money! Everything else I have is tied up in my store. This will destroy my family.”

  “Another twenty percent,” Glover repeated in a growl. “Plus we’re gonna take another collateral payment right now.” Without taking his eyes off Kip, he motioned for Charlie to step forward. “Charlie, grab the nerd.”

  A half an hour earlier, Glover, who had been designated the head of the threesome prior to leaving Florida, had established what Charlie’s role would be in the event that the Bowmans failed to pay again.

  Charlie snapped forward at the command, grabbed the younger Bowman, quickly wrangled his limbs, putting him into a full nelson.

  Glover stepped into Kip’s face. “The last time we took blood from your son. This time it’s gonna be yours.”

  Glover kicked the cane out from under Kip, who fell to the ground hard.

  Jake sucked in a breath, repressed the instinct to bolt forward, to grab Glover, to stop what was about to happen. But he had to remain in character. He had to stay put.

  Glover bared his teeth and pulled his leg back, like a punter about to kick off the game. His boot smashed into Kip’s side. The solid impact echoed off the brick, paired with the man’s scream.

  Jake’s head tried to pivot. He wanted to look away, forced himself not too.

  “Get us the money, you fat piece of shit!” Glover threw another vicious kick, sweaty rage smeared over his face. “Get us the goddamn money!”

  He stopped, turned to face Jake. Panting. Smiling. A long strand of dark blond hair had fallen from its combed-back position.

  “Get you some of this, Loudmouth.”

  Jake shook his head. “No. That’s enough.”

  Glover was handsome in a rough, bruiser sort of way, but he had a collection of truly ugly expressions, especially those of disgust. He’d been flashing those looks at Jake a lot lately, and he gave him one now.

  “You pussy.”

  He leaned down, hovering over Kip. He raised an open hand across his body, way back over his shoulder. The hand tensed…

  And Jake caught it by the wrist.

  Energy, power quivered through Glover’s taught arm. His faced snapped around to face Jake, pivoting on his neck with machine precision and speed. Eyes fire. Lips curled back.

  Jake looked right back into the hate, through Glover’s eyes and deep inside him. “I said that’s enough.”

  Glover glared. The furled lips quivered, began to form silent words. A moment passed. Then he yanked his arm free.

  Another moment, still staring Jake down, not breaking their visual showdown.

  Then Glover shoved him. Two open palms to Jake’s chest, two spots of pain. Jake had seen Glover’s slightly compact frame in action many times, and he’d been impressed by how strong the man was, but he hadn’t experienced his strength firsthand. It was enough to bend him over, steal his breath for half a moment.

  Jake stumbled backward.

  But he didn’t retaliate.

  Just as he’d had to maintain his character a few moments earlier, now he had to maintain his poise. Resisting his instincts for the betterment of this investigation. Resisting the desire to collide with Glover.

  Glover lunged for him. Jake caught his arm, twisted. After his training at the police academy, Jake knew several ways to use a person’s weight and momentum against them, and he allowed Glover’s stocky frame to breeze past his right side, then yanked his arm behind his back and bent him over at the hip.

  Glover grunted, tried to pull away. Couldn’t. Thoroughly pinned. Jake twisted the arm back farther. Glover grunted again and stopped squirming.

  Jake leaned into his ear and spoke quietly but sternly. “That’s enough.”

  He shoved Glover between the shoulder blades, and Glover shuffled away, hunched over, arms swimming before he regained his balance and whipped around to face Jake. He stood up. Panting. A seething stare locked in on Jake. A deep breath.

  Then he stepped away, back to Kip who was still on the ground, watching everything with stunned confusion, body shaking with pain and fright.

  “Tomorrow night,” Glover said. “Another two thousand in interest.”

  Glover’s eyes flicked back to Jake then to Charlie, who was still restraining Wesley in a full nelson. Glover gave a motion of his hand, and Charlie released the younger Bowman.

  The three of them walked off, a reluctant team once more. Glover cut in front of the other two, storming away.

  “Don’t ever try to undercut me like that again,” he said without turning around.

  Charlie gave Jake another one of his frightened, desperate looks.

  Chapter Five

  The Vortex—an upscale cocktail lounge, downtown New Orl
eans, with three-hundred-sixty degree views of the sparkling nighttime skyline via floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around an entire floor of a well-placed high-rise. Polished woods. Muted, golden lighting accented by flashes of neon blue. A long, highly polished bar with overstuffed tufted leather stools. A bustling crowd of well-dressed patrons.

  As presentable as the surroundings were, Jake was in an uncomfortable seating arrangement, one that had been purposefully designed to put him, Glover, and Charlie in a compromised position. They were squeezed together on one side of a half-circle booth, and sitting across from them was Nick Moretti, a fifty-something-year-old bull in human form, wearing an expensive gray suit, the man who’d arranged the seating. It was his club, his private booth, and he wanted them to know who had the power.

  There was no mistaking it. Moretti had read their body language, knew what they were about to tell him. So he was languidly finishing his meal while the other three men sat pressed against each other, not speaking. Two large, tough-looking, dumb-looking guys in flashy suits stood at each end of the half-circle, like sentries. Chatter, laughter, European techno music, Moretti’s silverware clanking on his plate.

  Muscles twitched all over Moretti’s head—shaved perfectly clean, on top and on his face—as he chewed his steak. His hands dwarfed his utensils, and he hovered over his plate, staring down upon his food, his pace steady, consistent, something that might have appeared uncouth on a normal person, especially within the sophisticated environment, but seemed powerful and fitting of him.

  Finally he finished, and he looked up, blue eyes under thick, gray-white eyebrows, appraising each of the three men facing him, a couple of seconds a piece, moving left to right. He wiped his mouth with a white cloth napkin. A waiter appeared, removed his plate.

  Without taking his eyes off Jake’s trio, Moretti handed the napkin to the waiter, who left. “Let me guess. Another non-payment.”

  Glover leaned forward on the table, getting himself physically in front of Jake and Charlie as he had at the warehouse. “Bowman tells us they were intercepted again.”

  There was a brief moment as Moretti processed what Glover had said, his tongue bulging his lip as he cleaned a tooth, eyes on Glover.

  Jake seized the chance to interject. “Bowman was telling the truth.”

  Moretti’s stare shifted to Jake. “What makes you so sure?”

  “I could see it in his eyes.”

  Glover scoffed loudly. “Goddamnit, Hudson…”

  Moretti’s attention returned to Glover, narrowing his gaze at Glover’s display, before going to Jake again. “I can respect that. A man’s face says more than his words.” And then he was back to Glover. “You’re the one in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Burton’s top man, correct?”

  Glover nodded, shifted. He leaned back, retreating to his original position aligned with Jake and Charlie. “That’s right.”

  “Then I’m wondering why you’re letting this get so out of hand. It was two weeks ago that I reached out to Sylvester Farone in Pensacola, son of the man I once trusted, admired. My request was simple enough—I had a family who’d been struggling to make their protection payments. My resources have been running a bit thin. I wondered if Sylvester could spare a few men, a professional courtesy, and he agreed to send you three.”

  Moretti stopped then, eyes scanning over Glover, Jake, and Charlie, a dark grin on his lips, daring any of them to speak. None of them did.

  Moretti continued. “Then I get a call from one Lukas Burton, tells me he’s an up-and-comer within the Farone syndicate, the next best thing, that I’m gonna be glad to know him. I could smell the stink of his ego through the phone. He tells me that the Farone family is splitting, that he’s heading one of the halves, the half that would end up on top. He further tells me that the man who was heading the three-man team coming to New Orleans to assist me was one of his contingent, his top man.”

  He paused again, staring at Glover.

  “Burton told me you’d have no problem handling this situation, Mr. Glover, and so far you’ve only made it worse.”

  “The thing is—”

  Moretti held up a hand, instantly silencing him. “I long ago lost faith in Joey Farone, even before he went mad, and the only reason I do business with his psychotic son was out of respect for the man I once loved. Make no mistake, I have zero respect for Sylvester Farone. But this upstart Burton fellow, the way he spoke—it had me believing, maybe there would be strength coming from Pensacola once more. But if you’re representing him, Mr. Glover, I’m beginning to believe my confidence in Lukas Burton was unfounded.”

  “You won’t be disappointed. I swear it.”

  Moretti looked him over. The slight smirk returned to his lips. “See that I’m not. One more chance. That’s all you get. Now get out of my face.”

  Outside. The city air was still thick with humidity, and in downtown it was seasoned with vehicle exhaust. There was the quiet buzz of foot traffic on the sidewalk. Car horns. The distant rumble of evening revelry on Bourbon Street several blocks away.

  Glover stormed down the three steps, headed for the street. Jake stopped short, remaining under the brightly lit port cochère. Charlie did the same, staying at Jake’s side

  Glover went to the curb, shoved his hands in his pockets, spun around, made eye contact with Jake. Then he stormed back to the steps, jabbing a finger.

  “You’re screwing this up, Hudson. And Burton’s going to hear about it.”

  He glared at Jake, who stared right back. The drum of bass rolled past, hip-hop blaring from an old Cadillac’s open windows. A drunken cluster of high-heeled young women stumbled by on the sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously. Glover whipped back around, raced down the steps, and threw open the door of one of the yellow cabs idling at the curb. A few seconds later, the cab signaled and merged onto the street.

  “Well, isn’t this going just splendidly?” Jake said, watching the car turn the corner and disappear.

  Beside him, Charlie shuffled, pacing back and forth on the granite step. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m telling you, Pete. This is just the beginning. Glover is Burton’s right-hand man. Burton’s planning something. Something big. I just … I…” He trailed off.

  Jake wanted to help Charlie. He’d spent enough time around him to know that although Charlie was a criminal, he was, at his core, decent. But as an undercover officer, the best Jake could do for Charlie was to get him out of this life before his list of punishable offenses continued to grow.

  Or before he got himself hurt. Or killed.

  Jake could easily see a guy like Charlie Marsh getting himself in too deep. There was a naïveté about the guy. A simplicity.

  Jake would have him arrested, yes. But before that, he would get him out of this existence.

  “You’re scared,” Jake said.

  Charlie’s head went down, the long mess of hair dropping from the top of his head, dangling. He nodded slowly.

  Jake put a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t the life for you, Charlie. I don’t know how you got in, but now’s the time to get out. I think you’re right—something big is about to happen.”

  Charlie had always taken seriously the advice he’d gotten from Pete Hudson, and he looked up at him for a moment with big, ponderous eyes. “But what would I do? Where am I gonna go?”

  “Do something. Go anywhere. But now’s the perfect time for you to get out. Before we’re supposed to go back to Pensacola.”

  Charlie looked off. “Okay. I trust you, Pete. But what about you?”

  Charlie’s question made Jake consider the thought that had been bothering him immensely, the choice that he had been delaying. There was something he needed to do. It was something he questioned. But he couldn’t think of another option given the situation he was in.

  And he couldn’t tell Charlie what the idea was. So he just said, “I’m gonna take care of things here.”

  Chapter Six

&nb
sp; A two-story, blocky, side-street house with mint green-painted brick walls; decorative filigree iron ornamentation and railing on the second-floor balcony; tall wooden shutters. All of it very New Orleans.

  Jake pulled back to rap a knuckle on the door. And stopped. He felt eyes upon him. Turned.

  A block away, past several more quintessentially New Orleans homes, one of them canary yellow, a man watched him, an outline of a figure hidden in the shadows bounding a pool of streetlight. The moment Jake’s eyes found him, the man darted away, around a corner.

  Jake gave a half moment of consideration to running after him. He could be with Moretti’s gang. Or, worse, he could be one of the mystery assailants who’d been intercepting the Bowmans’ payments.

  Or it could just be someone from the neighborhood and Jake’s imagination was running wild with him again.

  He faced the door again and knocked. It was his second attempt, as he’d also tried before spotting the man and had waited several long moments with no reply. But this time, as soon as his hand retracted from the knock, the door opened. He already knew someone was standing behind it; he’d seen a shadow move across the glass of the peephole.

  The door opened, slowly, tentatively. Kip Bowman’s pleasantly uncomely face peered out, fright in his eyes. “You said we had until tomorrow! You said that not two hours ago!”

  “We need to talk,” Jake said.

  “Please, you promised you’d never come here. My family! We have until tomorrow. Tomorrow!”

  The door opened a fraction farther, and Kip peered outside, eyes darting left and right, scanning for Jake’s partners.

  “You don’t understand,” Jake said, pausing before his next words, the revelation he’d been debating, the only way to avert a disaster.

  He could delay no longer. He was out of both options and time.

  So he said it.

  “I’m an undercover cop.”

  Inside, there was plenty of oak furniture along with oak trim and an oak bookshelf, all of it stained the same dark brown, matching perfectly. The sofa that Jake was seated upon was modern but homey, with a floral pattern that was subtle, classy. A lived-in feeling emanated from the home, its nooks and crannies, the warm scent, all of it bearing the comfortable weight of family memories.