Black Pawn (Michael Cailen Book 1) (2 page)

“What the hell happened, Rick?!”

The screaming could be heard four offices down the hall. 

“How could you be so stupid?!  You sent in only three men!
What is wrong with you?” shouted a very angry man.

He was of average height and a little heavyset, dressed in a
plain suit and drab tie.  Clean shaven and almost completely bald with a round
face, he looked to be about in his early fifties.

“They were our best men, we had the advantage, he didn't
know we were coming.  It should have been easy ...” Rick replied weakly.

Short and thin, Rick was losing his hair, which he blamed on
work.  What little brown hair he had left was cut very short, so as not to
stand out against the growing bald spot on his head.

“You sent three men!  Three!  This is Michael Cailen we're
talking about.”  He lowered his voice dramatically when he used Michael's name,
but the anger was still there.  “He could have taken out six of your best men
with a butter knife and a pair of tweezers for God's sake!”  He returned to
screaming.  “You only sent three! You didn't even scratch him!”  His fists
pounded the desk.

With his face bright red and a large vein on the side of his
head bulging through his skin, the man looked like his head might just pop off
in rage.

“You blew our only chance to get him in THREE YEARS!”  he
raged. “He's a ghost! We'll probably never find him again. And how could these
guys mess up so bad?  Ski masks?  Really?  Like he couldn't have seen that
coming.  They might as well of phoned ahead!”

He threw his hands up.

“We're tracking down a possible lead now sir.  He can't be
far, we'll get him.”

“Like hell you will. Get out of my sight!”

Rick scurried away, thankful for the reprieve.  He would be
lucky if he didn't end up dead instead of Michael,

The angry man sat at his desk, trying to calm his breathing
and regain his composure.  He ran his hands over his bald head and then down
his weary face.  He couldn't believe something so perfect went so wrong.  He
knew he should have handled it himself.  To hell with deniability.

THE POLICE
found nothing while combing through the
wreckage at the cafe.  They had no idea what had taken place there.  It was
riddled with bullets.  There was blood everywhere, but aside from the cashier
there were no other bodies. There were no traces that anyone else had been
there, except for the pools of blood from other apparent victims or
perpetrators. DNA on the blood would turn up nothing.  The security footage of
the cafe had mysteriously disappeared, along with Jessica's personal effects. 
There was no evidence she was even there.  The police were left scratching
their heads as to what happened.  Gang violence?

Back in the makeshift apartment/warehouse, Jessica had
stopped crying. 
Get yourself together,
she told herself.
You need to
figure out how to escape.
  Her eyes slowly panned the room looking for
anything that could be a way out or aid in her escape.  The windows were too
high; they were just below the rooftop.  She would never get up there, and if
she did, she would probably hurt herself falling on the other side.  There
wasn't much there she could use, just a few kitchen knives by the sink.  She
thought if she could grab one, she might be able to surprise her captor.  She
got the impression though that he could easily disarm her if she tried that. 
This man had combat experience, she thought.  Maybe ex-military.

As her eyes kept searching the room, she hadn't noticed
Michael was watching her.  He could see the determined look on her face and
knew she would try to escape.  He knew he would have no choice but to restrain
her.  He wasn't happy about it.  He didn't like terrorizing women, but it was
for her own good, he reminded himself.

“I know what you're thinking.” His voice shattered the
silence.

Her eyes darted to where he was sitting and she realized he
had been watching her.  The calm determination she was just feeling was now
being taken over by fear, as she wondered what he was going to do.

“If you try to escape, two things will happen.  Well, three
things.  One, you will fail. Two, I will handcuff you to that pipe behind you. 
Three, I will be very unhappy.” 

His demeanor never changed.  His voice was calm.  His face
showed no emotion.  She wondered, if escaping would make him unhappy, then what
was he feeling now?

“I want to go home,” she pleaded.

“I know.”  He turned away.

After several minutes of silence, she came up with a plan.
“I'm hungry.”   She hoped maybe he didn't have food and that he would have to
leave to get some.

“I can cook you some eggs.”

“I want Chinese.” She tried to think of something he
wouldn't have.

“You're pretty demanding.”

“It's the least you can do,” she spoke with an air of
contempt.

Michael sighed.  “Fine.  You're staying here though. The
door locks from the outside and there's no other way out.  Don't do anything
stupid,” he warned.

“I won't,” she lied.

He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.  She heard
him lock it from the outside.  She followed the sound of his footsteps and the
truck door shutting.  The truck started and she listened as it drove away.

The window was her only hope now.  She moved the table over
to the wall underneath one of the windows.  She put one of the chairs on the
table and gingerly climbed up the precarious ladder she just made.  She was
just barely able to reach the edge of the window. She prayed it would open.  It
didn't.  It was jammed shut.  She repeated this process under another window,
then another.  Crawling through broken glass would be a last resort.  She was
starting to get desperate when the next window creaked open. 
Thank God
,
she thought.  While she had been worried about how she would get down the other
side, she decided even a broken leg would be better than being a prisoner.  She
pulled with all her might until she was half out the window.  Then she brought
one leg up and pushed it out, followed by her other leg.  She was now on the
other side of the window hanging onto the edge.  She looked down at the ground
below and was so thankful it was grass and not concrete.  On the count of three,
she let go and dropped to the ground below.  Pain shot through her left ankle
as she hit the ground.  She stood quickly; the pain was bad, but not
unbearable.  She began hobbling towards the road.  As she rounded the corner of
the building, to her horror, there was Michael casually leaning up against the
side.  He hadn't really left.  He had parked up the road and walked back on
foot, knowing full well she would try to escape.

“What did I tell you?” he asked calmly.

She turned to run, but was in his strong grip before she
could take two steps.  She screamed and kicked as he dragged her back to the rusty
metal door.

“I'm warning you. Stop!” he snarled.

She only fought harder until suddenly she saw a flash of
light and everything seemed to be spinning around her.  She was dazed.  He had hit
her! She heard the squeak of the metal door and felt herself being carried
inside.  As they moved towards the futon and the pipe on the wall she
remembered what he said earlier and started to struggle against his grip.  If
he handcuffed her to that pipe, she was doomed.  Her ankle was throbbing and
now her head hurt, but she still screamed and fought to get away from him.  She
was just no match for him.  Within seconds, it was over.  She was handcuffed to
the pipe, just like he said.

Exhausted, she started to cry.  Michael walked into the
bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.  He felt
terrible about what just happened.  He relived the day's events, trying to
decide if there was anything he could have done differently.  He concluded
there wasn't.  He couldn't have left her to die in the cafe or let her go
without knowing she would be safe.  If she died, it would be his fault.  They
were after him and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong
time.  He couldn't let her die for that.

He came out of the bedroom and walked toward the fridge.  He
opened the freezer, grabbed a couple of ice packs, then picked up a bag off the
floor as he walked towards her on the futon.  He set one of the dining chairs
in front of the futon and sat down.

“You hurt yourself when you jumped.  Where does it hurt?”

“Screw you.”  She was angry now.  Her tears of distress had
turned to tears of frustration and anger.

He ignored her attitude.  “Is it your ankle, leg, foot,
knee?”

“The back of my head,” she snapped.

He sighed and looked down.  For a second, she thought he
looked sorry.  He looked back up at her. “Where are you hurt?”

“My ankle,” she squeezed out through clenched teeth.

“I just want to make sure it's not broken.  I've had some
medical training.  Will you let me take a look at it?”

“If it'll make you happy,” she said with a tone that made
Michael wish he had left her back at the cafe.

He unlaced her sneaker and gently slid it off.  She winced
in pain as he did.  He pulled off her sock and gingerly examined her ankle.  “I
think it's just a minor sprain.  I'll wrap it up and you keep the ice on it.”

He pulled a bandage from the bag and proceeded to wrap her
ankle with it, then placed one of the ice packs on it.  He gave her the other
pack to hold against the knot growing on the back of her head.  “Do you want
something for the pain?  I have the good stuff.”

“What do you mean, 'the good stuff?'”

“Morphine and Vicodin.  Although I think morphine might be
overkill.”

“What are you, a hospital?” she replied snidely.

“No,  but I tend to get injured a lot.  If you're gonna be
snotty about it, I don't have to give you anything.”

“Vicodin is fine,” she said without the attitude.

He reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle, like you
would see in the pharmacy behind the counter.  He showed it to her so she could
see what he was giving her.

“What did you do, rob a pharmacy?” she asked, not really
expecting an answer.

“Yes.” He opened the bottle and handed her a pill.

She was a tad stunned at his admission.

As he brought her a glass of water, she couldn't help think
what a mystery this man was.  One minute he's saving her life, the next he's
kidnapping her.  He treats her like a guest in his place, if you want to call
it that, then cuffs her to a pipe.  One moment he's hitting her in the head,
and the next he's bandaging her ankle and giving her pain killers.  She
couldn't make heads or tails of him.  She took the glass of water and downed
the Vicodin.

He took the empty glass from her hand.  “What's your name?”

She didn't really want to answer him.  She didn't trust him
and still wasn't sure what exactly he wanted with her.

“My name is Michael.  What's yours?” he asked again.

“Jessica,” she reluctantly responded.

“Jessica what?”

“Rollings,” she lied.  She wasn't about to tell him her real
name.

“Jessica Rollings?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow.  He
could tell she was lying.  She was terrible at it.  “Well Jessica Rollings,
where do you live?”

“On Benton Street, not far from the cafe.”  Another lie.

“Well, in a few days you should be back home, Jessica,” he
also lied.  He had no idea if she would be able to go home.  He had to find out
where she really lived and it was clear she wasn't going to tell him.  He'd
have to find out another way.

He stood up. “Do you still want Chinese?” he asked with a
condescending smile.

She clenched her jaw and turned away, frustrated that he had
played her.

“I warned you.”  He walked towards the door. 

“I'll be back in about an hour.  Stay put,” he said
sarcastically.

After he left, she cursed at herself.  She had underestimated
him.  The Vicodin started to kick in and she felt tired.  She wasn't in a very
comfortable position.  The pipe ran behind the futon, so her arm was stuck high
up on the back of it.  It was impossible to lie down and difficult to find even
a comfortable sitting position. Especially while still trying to hold the ice
pack to her head. She was tired though and leaned her head on the back of the
futon.  She closed her eyes and soon drifted off to sleep.

When she came to, Michael was already back, eating the Chinese
food he had brought with him.  She managed to sleep through the squeaky metal
door opening and shutting as well as Michael putting the table and chair back
in place.  The drugs must have really put her out of it, she thought.  He heard
her stir and without even looking, asked if she was hungry.

“Yeah,” she replied.

He grabbed an empty plate from the table, filled it with
food and placed a fork on it.  “If this food ends up anywhere but your mouth,
you will not be offered any other food while you're here. Are we clear?”

“Yes.  I'm a little old to be playing with my food.” 

His tone irritated her.  He had an arrogant and domineering
way about him.

He placed the plate in her lap and went back to his meal on
the table.  She was starving.  She hadn't had anything but coffee in the
morning and with all the shooting and kidnapping she missed lunch.  She looked
at her watch, it was almost 5:00 p.m.  Where had the time gone?  She ate
everything on her plate and asked for a glass of water.  Michael had already finished
eating and put away the leftovers.  He sat next to her on the futon and turned
on the TV.  She felt strange sitting on the futon, watching TV with her
kidnapper.

“So ... how long have you lived here?” she asked, trying to
make small talk.  Thinking maybe if she could gain his trust, he might let her
go.

He didn't answer her.  Didn't even acknowledge the question
or that she had even spoken.

“Do you have a family? Are you from around here?” she
continued, undeterred by his stony demeanor.

“Quiet,” he snapped as he turned up the volume on the TV and
leaned forward.  The news had just come on.

“Our top story tonight.  Police are looking for the
public's help in investigating a shooting at a local cafe that's left at least
one dead and possibly others injured.  Our lead investigator, Matthew Sykes,
has more on the story.”

“Thanks Sheila.  Police still don't know what happened at
the Coffee Bytes cafe.  At around 11:10 a.m., the police started receiving
reports of shots fired in the area.  That's apparently when the gunfight broke
out in this small cafe.  There appear to be no witnesses and it's still unknown
who was involved in the shooting or what the possible motive was.  The only
known fatality is Cara Rice. She was the only employee who was working at the
time the incident occurred.  Police say it appears as though more were severely
injured, but fled the scene.  Police are asking anyone that has information
about this incident to contact them immediately.  We'll have more on this story
as it becomes available. Back to you, Sheila.”

“Thanks, Matthew.  We'll be watching this story closely,
so stay tuned to Channel 10 Eyewitness News for updates.”

Michael lowered the volume and leaned back still staring at
the TV.  Jessica too was staring at the TV.  The sight of the destroyed cafe
and hearing about the dead cashier just made everything too real.

“Why aren't they looking for me?” she asked in a daze, not
even realizing she asked it out loud.

“What?” Michael turned to look at her.

“Why aren't they looking for me?”  She turned to him,
visibly distressed. “My purse, phone, car.  All at the cafe. Why aren't they
looking for me?”

“The police don't tell the press everything. They're
probably holding back that information while they look for you,” he replied
calmly, like he believed it.  He didn't though.  He had a bad feeling he knew
why they didn't mention her in the news.  Her purse, phone, keys and car were
gone before the police ever arrived.  They weren't meant to be looking for
her.  He figured the security footage was toast as well.  No one would ever see
what really happened there.

Jessica thought about it and decided Michael's explanation
made sense.  They must be keeping it quiet until they find her.  Surely they
would have seen the security footage and knew she was there.

He suddenly stood up.

“I have to go out. Won't be back for a while.  Do you need
anything before I go?”

“Could I use the bathroom?”

He uncuffed her and pointed to the bathroom.  She rubbed her
wrist and took her time hobbling across the floor.  She was in no hurry to be
cuffed to the pipe again.