Black Pawn (Michael Cailen Book 1)

by Mel LeBrun

  Chapter 3

  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.r />
  “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.

  When she came out of the bathroom, she saw he had pulled out the futon into a bed. There was a pillow and blanket on it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, leery of his intentions.

  “Relax. I just figured you would be more comfortable if you could lie down. There's a pillow and blanket in case you get cold. I might not be back until the middle of the night.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “You could let me go.”

  “Come on.” He gestured toward the handcuffs.

  Knowing she didn't much have a choice, she let him cuff her, nervous about what he might do once she was restrained. To her relief he just grabbed his jacket and left. It was more comfortable now that she could lie down. He left the remote on the futon for her. That was thoughtful, she mused. She felt silly for feeling grateful for that. On the table next to the futon sat another Vicodin pill and a glass of water. For a man who was so gruff and cold, he sure was thoughtful, she thought.

  Chapter 4

  The TV served as a good temporary distraction until fatigue took over. Around 2:30 a.m., her eyes became heavy and she turned off the TV. It was a mistake. The silence was frightening. She started thinking she would have felt safer if Michael were there. With no way to defend herself, she felt vulnerable cuffed to the pipe. Wild thoughts ran through her mind and suddenly she was wide awake again. Her heart raced. She felt as though she was going to have a panic attack. Every sound outside seemed so loud. She could hear the water lapping at the dock. Were there footsteps? No. Just then, she heard a car in the distance. It was getting closer. Was it Michael? Maybe it was someone coming to rescue her. Maybe it was someone worse.

  Her heart was pounding as the door unlocked. It must be Michael. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep as he walked in. She heard his footsteps as he approached her. What was he doing? Too scared to open her eyes, she felt his fingers touch her wrist.

  “Why are you so scared?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

  She wanted to answer, but couldn't find her voice. How did he know? She looked up, his silhouette in the moonlight hovering over her. Still holding her wrist, she realized he was checking her pulse. She pulled her arm away.

  “Get some sleep. Everything's fine.”

  He retreated to his bedroom and she imagined he'd have no trouble getting to sleep. She on the other hand, wasn't sure she would ever sleep. Although kn
owing he was there made her feel oddly safer. After a few minutes, she was more relaxed and her eyes became heavy.

  She awoke to a sharp pinch in her arm, but within seconds felt like she was dreaming again.

  Making sure she never saw the syringe, Michael held her face and looked into her eyes. “Jessica ... Jessica, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you,” she mumbled.

  He checked her pulse again. “What's your name?”

  “Jessica.”

  “Your last name.”

  “Nickoli,” she answered in her foggy, dream-like state.

  “Where do you live, Jessica?”

  “92 Carter Road, Apartment 6.”

  “Do you live with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.” Her eyes closed.

  “Jessica, wake up.” He lightly tapped her face.

  “Huh?” Her eyes opened.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Home. I work for myself,” she drifted off.

  That was all he needed to know. The rest he could find on his own. He had drugged people many times to extract information. It was one of the easiest ways to get someone to talk. Having received interrogation training from the military, he knew all the tricks of the trade. He waited for her to fall asleep before drugging her though. Drugging her while she was fully awake and aware of what was happening would've been too traumatic for her. She was so out of it, there was a good chance she would never remember telling him anything. He let her drift back to sleep, then crawled into bed himself. With a lot of work to do tomorrow, he needed a few hours of sleep.