by Graham Smith
Past Echoes
A Jake Boulder Thriller
Graham Smith
Copyright © 2018 Graham Smith
The right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Contents
Also By Graham Smith
Praise For Watching The Bodies :
Praise For The Kindred Killers :
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Coming Soon
Watching The Bodies
The Kindred Killers
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Also By Graham Smith
Jake Boulder Series
* * *
Watching The Bodies ( Jake Boulder Book 1)
* * *
The Kindred Killers ( Jake Boulder Book 2) .
* * *
Die Cold ( Jake Boulder Book 4)
Praise For Watching The Bodies :
“Watching the Bodies is a storming addition to the action thriller genre, and Jake Boulder a new tough guy to root for. Be under no illusion, Boulder is no Jack Reacher or Joe Hunter clone- He is his own man and readers will delight in getting to know a hero who is as sharp with his wits, and his tongue, as he is with his fists.” Matt Hilton – Bestselling author of the Joe Hunterthrillers
* * *
"Watching the Bodies is one of the best crime fiction thrillers I’ve ever read and a brilliant start to a new series." Eva Merckx - Novel Deelights
* * *
"I love, love, LOVED this book! I’ve always been a fan of serial killer novels and this one absolutely nailed it." Ellen Devonport - Guest Reviewer Bibliopihile Book Club
* * *
"'Watching the Bodies' is an exciting, fantastic start to a fab new series and I can't wait to join Boulder again on his next adventure." Joseph Calleja - Relax And Read Book Reviews
* * *
"If you like a dark and twisty serial killer story then Watching the Bodies is a book you simply must read." Gordon Mcghie - Grab This Book
* * *
"Fast paced, suspenseful, action packed and led by a stellar, brooding protagonist (Jake Boulder), I found myself unable to put this novel down." Samantha Ellen - Clues And Reviews
Praise For The Kindred Killers :
"Smith is such a unique storyteller with a strong voice, I cannot wait to see what happens in book three!!" Amy Sullivan - Novelgossip
* * *
"OMFG what an emotive, thrilling and utterly compelling read that has made me ever so excited!!!" Noelle Holten - Crimebookjunkie
* * *
"This is a brilliant read. Brutally fast paced, socially relevant and full of gripping plot twists." Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree
* * *
"This is only the second outing for Jake Boulder, but it has all the hallmarks of a great, long-running series." Clair Boor - Have Books Will Read
* * *
"This is Graham Smith at his magnificent best...I absolutely love his Jake Boulder series.... Magnificent..." Livia Sbarbaro - Goodreads Reviewer
To Daniel, for being the kind of son who makes a father proud to share his life.
‘History rarely repeats itself, but its echoes never go away.’ – Tariq Ali
1
The four guys who surround me are all holding weapons. The ones to the north and east have baseball bats, South holds a bike chain, and West a police baton. I could make a run for it, but I’d like to know who they are and why they think attacking me is a good way to spend their evening.
I don’t dwell on the thought, but I’m happy their weapons have been chosen to inflict pain rather than end life. Had they held knives or guns, I’d be more worried. The problem is, I’d rather not feel any of their intended pain.
As they advance on me I assess the various threat levels. North and East are the biggest danger, followed by South. The police baton held by West could inflict a lot of pain in the right hands, but he’s twirling it around as if he’s leading a marching band, when he should have it grasped by the handle; ready to use in either attack or defence.
The streetlights are throwing orange glows into the night sky and weird shadows on the ground. There’s the sound of late-night traffic in the distance, but there’s nobody else in sight. That doesn’t bother me as I’ve always fought my own battles, and there’s no way these bozos are intimidating enough to see me run, or to shout for help.
I keep rotating so I can watch all four of them as they inch forward. It could be my reputation as a fighter that’s making them cautious, or maybe they’re just biding their time until their leader instigates the attack.
I don’t think
it’s prudent to wait for them to strike first; I take a step towards the gap between North and East, spin, and run at West. He’s too busy acting like a majorette to get any menace into the blow he flaps at me.
His baton thumps against my ribs. There’s enough force behind it to cause me to grunt, but not so much that I feel or hear any bones breaking. This changes when my elbow slams against his jaw.
As he wheels away, clutching at his shattered mandible, I stoop to pick up the police baton and spin to face his buddies. When I see they are still a couple of paces away, I drive the baton’s short point into West’s right kidney.
He drops to one knee with an anguished howl. I’m confident he won’t trouble me anymore tonight.
When I look behind me, North and South are fanning round to fill the gap left by West’s departure. There’s an extra level of caution in their eyes, but none of them have woken up to the fact they’re about to get their asses kicked.
East looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Now isn’t the time to worry about who they are. That can be learned once this is over.
I now have the baton’s handle gripped in my right hand with its shaft running along the outside of my forearm. So long as I can use the baton to protect my arm, I can offer a form of defence against the baseball bats.
The bike chain is another matter though. Should that wrap itself around my arm I’ll be in trouble. Not only will it nullify my weapon, it could be used to imbalance me. If I hit the ground in front of these three guys, I’ll be lucky to get to my feet before one of them lands a game-changing blow.
North is holding his bat over his left shoulder, which suggests he’s left-handed. East has his bat in front of him like it’s a sword.
I take three quick steps towards North.
He’s slow to react and, when he does swing, I’ve got my right arm extended to deflect his blow. The bat only travels a couple of feet at most, but North’s swing is powerful enough to send juddering vibrations throughout my right arm. Had I not held the baton at an oblique angle to deflect the impact, my arm would have been numbed to the point of uselessness.
The punch I throw at him with my left hand crashes against his cheek, but it does little more than turn his head.
Me driving the point of the baton into his solar plexus has a rather more impressive outcome. He falls to his knees gasping for air.
I’m about to reposition myself, so I can bury a foot in his groin, when I feel something slam across my shoulders that causes me to stagger forward.
I recover my balance and whirl round to confront whoever hit me. East’s bearded face wears a nasty grin, topped by a confident expression.
His denim jacket is covered with various badges that have been sewn on in a haphazard fashion. Some represent liquor brands and others are the logos of rock groups. Right about now, I’d like to hit him in the Rolling Stones.
He comes forward, the baseball bat making whooshing noises as he puts his not inconsiderable muscle into swinging it time and again.
His aim changes as he swings at my body, head and knees.
I move back and wait for him to make a mistake. He doesn’t make one.
I can see South circling round to East’s right.
When my back touches metal, I realise they’ve been driving me into a corner formed by a pair of stationary pickup trucks.
South and East are too close to afford me time to clamber over the pickups; which means I’m trapped.
I keep going until I can retreat no further.
South pushes his buddy to one side. ‘You’re mine now.’
He swings the chain at my head. I duck below it, but it’s close enough for me to feel the air move with its passing.
My lowered stance has given me an opportunity I can’t refuse. I spin the baton around in my hand and sweep it up towards South’s groin.
The half step he takes back means I miss his balls. The baton still collides with his bulging gut but it doesn’t impact hard enough to elicit more than a slight “oof” from him.
He swings the chain at my head a second time, but he’s gone from the horizontal to the vertical.
I throw my right hand up and yelp as the chain encircles my arm, trapping the baton.
In one move I yank the chain from South’s hand as I whip round and launch a backhanded blow at his chin.
South ducks to avoid the blow and my chain-wrapped arm crashes into his temple.
The thudding footsteps of East running away can be heard before South has finished falling.
North is trying to get back to his feet but he’s still gasping like a landed fish, so I revisit my earlier plan and bury the toe of my boot into his squishy bits.
I don’t want to hurt him too much. South is unconscious and West’s jaw isn’t in what anyone would describe as a natural position. If I want to get answers, North is the only one who’ll be able to speak to me.
A look up and down the street shows we’re alone so I unwind the chain from my arm, and use the baton to prod North’s shoulder.
‘Want to tell me who you guys are and why you’ve attacked me?’
The answer he gives me isn’t anatomically possible.
I put a different edge to my voice as I repeat my questions.
He gives me the same answer with a few extra curses thrown in for good measure.
It’s a shame for him that he’s more tough than he is smart.
The police baton catches him with enough force to stun him a little. If I have to persuade him to talk, I’d rather move him somewhere more private.
2
Lunk scratches at his scouring pad beard and wipes his hands on oil-blackened overalls. He doesn’t look happy about me turning up with a semi-conscious stranger and throwing him out of his workshop, but he has the good sense not to argue.
I lead North past the sedan with its engine in pieces, and steer him towards Lunk’s anvil. As I pass a cluttered workbench I grab a length of electrical wire.
Two minutes later I’ve got North exactly where I want him and I’m looking around for some water to throw in his face.
It’s late, I’m tired, and I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I’ve never tortured anyone before, and I can’t say I’m terribly pleased about having to do it now.
I find a tap and pour a half gallon of water into a dirty bucket.
North lets out a string of profanities when he regains his senses.
I let him swear and writhe as he tries to pull his hand free.
He can’t. I’ve fed some of the wire up through the square hole in the anvil that was designed to locate different sets of dies and moulds. The wire holds North’s left forefinger tight against the oil-stained anvil. I’ve also tied his right hand to his left ankle to prevent him taking any more swings at me.
North realises he’s not going to escape without my help, and looks up at me. ‘You better let me go, Boulder. You don’t know who you’re messing with.’
‘You’re right, I don’t.’ I lay three hammers of varying sizes on the anvil. ‘But I’m about to find out.’
Everything I know about torture comes from the thrillers I’ve read and the movies I’ve seen. I’m working on instinct, as plan A is nothing more than make-it-up-as-I-go-along.
One passage I read has particularly stuck with me. I’m sketchy on the exact details, but I’m three parts convinced that the story was written by an ex-CIA operative. He floated the idea that the most important tool to any torturer, is the mind. Once your victim fears the pain you’re about to inflict, you can multiply their fear until they divulge what they know with relatively little physical torture.
It’s this psychological effect that I’m gambling on, as I’m not sure I can bring myself to hurt someone beyond what can be classed as self-defence.
I pick up the smallest of the three hammers and touch it against the nail of North’s trapped forefinger. It’s not heavy in any way and is the kind of hammer that’s used for fine, delicate work.
‘This is what’s going to happen to you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’ I raise the hammer a half inch and let it drop on his fingernail. North flinches but stays silent. ‘I will hit your finger hard enough to blacken your nail. If you haven’t told me who you are, and why you were attacking me, by the time I get to ten, I will hit your nail again. If you still haven’t told me by the time I’ve hit you three times, I’ll move on to the next hammer.’ I rest my hand on a two-pound lump hammer and caress the wooden handle of a twelve-pound sledge. ‘Do I need to explain what happens if you don’t tell me after three hits from the lump hammer?’
