Kidnapped Hearts

by Cait Jarrod

  Puzzled, Pamela looked over her shoulder at Jake, and then saw Nicholas. His hands flitted nervously over his body while remaining silent.

  “That’s what I thought. We’ll be talking, Nicholas.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Jake, do you really think my stepfather has anything to do with the threats I’ve been getting?”

  Jake opened his Chevelle’s car door for Pamela. “Everyone is a suspect.” Jake nodded his thanks to the nurse that accompanied them out of the hospital as he gave her the wheelchair.

  Pamela buckled her seatbelt, and Jake settled into the seat beside her. Over her shoulder, she spotted agents piling into two other vehicles. Pamela was overwhelmed by the things that needed to be done at the café. Her dad told her the windows had been repaired, and that McDowell Construction would be repairing the walls today. She had given Panama Jack a key ages ago. With that taken care of, she needed to concentrate on hiring another chef. Marge had been pushing this idea on her for some time, saying that Pamela needed to have time off, so she could find a man. Now, Marge was the one needing time.

  “Jake, I need to stop by The Memory Café.”

  “I figured as much.” He touched his earpiece and spoke to someone she couldn’t see. “Destination, Memory Café.”

  The two vehicles proceeded to follow them. “I think an agent driving a dark Suburban is a little cliché. I mean, in all the police movies the authorities are driving them. Everyone knows a dark Suburban indicates a policeman, nothing undercover about them.”

  Jake grunted.

  Pamela faced forward. Fine, if he didn’t want to talk to her, then no skin off her back.

  In no time, they pulled up in front of the café. Pamela climbed out of the car and paused. Moisture dampened her eyes as she took in the yellow tape across the new windows. The café door swung open. “Panama Jack,” Pamela whispered.

  “Pam, how are you, sweetie?”

  She easily fell into his arms. “I’m okay.”

  He lifted his eyes. “Jake, man, it’s been a long time.”

  Another person Jake knew. She eased away.

  “So, you’re Panama Jack?” Jake smiled.

  Mark withdrew his hand from Jake’s and glanced over his shoulder at Pamela. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”

  Pamela coughed. “Sue. She named you that because of the hat you wear.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ve been called worse.”

  “Now, I have a name to go with the face, I won’t have to bring you in for questioning.”

  Mark’s bark of laughter pulled Pamela’s attention from the thought of walking into the café for the first time after the shooting.

  “Good one.” Mark patted Jake’s arm and opened the door. In return, Jake glared at him. Clearly, Mark knew Jake’s true intentions.

  Pamela shook her head. She couldn’t think about what was going on between those two. She studied the door. As if something might jump out at her, she cautiously crept inside the café and scanned the interior. New walls had been erected and were in need of a coat of paint. The wall behind the bar, housing the liquor, was sparse. A few tables were missing, but overall, the café looked good. “Mark, thanks for working so fast on the café.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Pamela paused. At her feet, blood stained the white and black tile.

  “Pamela,” Mark stretched his arm around her, moving her away. “We’re getting ready to strip the floors. I didn’t think you would be here until we had finished.”

  “I need to get something from my office.” Pamela ran into her office and locked the door behind her. The red stain … Marge’s blood … it was too much for her to take. Her stomach felt woozy. She collapsed in the chair. Elbows propped on the desk, she caught her head in her hands. “Ouch.” Her fingers touched the bump. Other than being a little sore, the lump had reduced in size.

  A yellow piece of paper Marge had given her the day before the shooting caught her attention. She picked it up and called the number scrawled across it. Marge had already done the legwork by checking out Charlene Smith’s references. Now, Pamela only had to set up an interview. A few minutes later, she hung up the phone. Ms. Smith would be here within the hour.

  A knock, then, “Pamela.”

  Hearing Jake’s voice, she grimaced. “Can I have a few more moments?”

  “Pamela, we need to talk.”

  She needed time alone. “Jake,” she squeaked, then paused.

  The door slowly opened. “Pamela.” Jake strolled inside. “Hey, everything okay?”

  She blinked away the tears. “How’d you open the door?”

  He held up a thingamajig. “You’re gonna want to see what Mark found.”

  His gentle voice lured him into following him. In the kitchen, her stomach flipped. A dent the size of a softball was in one of her stainless steel islands, and yellow tape stretched across the windowpanes along the back wall. The same window the intruder stood at a few days ago. “I didn’t know the kitchen had been shot into.”

  “Actually, bullets didn’t do this.” Jake lifted a brick from the nearby counter. “And it didn’t happen the night of the shooting. FBI and local law enforcement scoured the premises that night. The window was intact.”

  Pamela bit her lip. Her eyes implored Jake, the silent message that she cried to him in the hospital passing between them: Please, make it stop.

  He closed his eyes, and his jaw twitched. When he opened them, his face had lost all expression. “Pamela, Mark found this picture of your mother and stepfather behind the back counter under the window. Someone had to place it there within the last few hours. At the bottom, in red ink, are the words: Blame him.” He picked up a plastic bag containing the image.

  “I’ve seen that picture before. My mother tried to get me to hang it up on my office wall. I refused.”

  Jake pulled his cell out of his pocket as he darted out of the room.

  “Pam, are you okay?” Mark asked.

  One hand was on her hip and the other over her heart. “Mark, I don’t know.”

  He sidled up to her and drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Sweetie.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Over Mark’s shoulder, Pamela locked eyes with Jake. A sullen look crossed his face, and his fist clenched. “I need to go to the office. Agent Lever will be here any second.”

  Mark backed away. “I’ll finish up here.”

  “Mark.” Pamela grabbed his arm. “I have a potential employee—”

  “Who?” Jake interrupted.

  “Charlene Smith. She’ll be arriving in a few minutes.”

  Mark raised his hand. “Say no more, I’ll get the floor clean. You should be able to reopen tomorrow.”

  “Reopening tomorrow is not possible. Pamela, you can’t be here,” Jake demanded.

  “My dad and head waitress, Sue, will be here. It’ll be like old times for them.”

  “Okay, then.” Jake left without another word.

  A few minutes later, Agent Lever appeared. She noted his jeans and button down shirt. A more relaxed look than his usual attire, but his facial expression said he felt differently. “Charlene Smith is here. I directed her to the back of the café away from the construction. If you’re ready, an agent will bring her to your office.”

  Pamela nodded and rubbed her forehead. “She’s going to be scared before I even interview her.”

  Agent Lever spoke into a radio, then said, “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  A small, petite blonde rushed around the corner, meeting Pamela at the entrance to her office. “Ms. Young, I’m Charlene Smith.” She stretched out her hand, but that was the only thing friendly about Ms. Smith. The corners of her mouth turned downward almost into a frown, and she diverted her eyes away from Pamela.

  “Come in. Have a seat.” Charlene’s outward persona didn’t matter as long as she could cook.

  ****

  Jake ambled out into the August sun and muggy Virginia air. Anything was bet
ter than standing by while Mark made a play for Pamela. When Mark laughed, he had wanted to pound him into the ground. More than likely, Mark knew Jake's real reasons for wanting to question him, which had had nothing to do with Jake being suspicious of Mark, but had everything to do with Mark's interest in Pamela.

  The sound of a motor piqued his attention. He stopped beside his car. A Harley-Davidson motored toward him. Jake spotted the brown jacket, his eyes landing on the name Yasin stitched into the leather. Alongside Jake, the man grinned, held out his hand like a gun, then moved his thumb, mimicking firing.

  “Damn.” Jake unlocked the car door and glided inside. Turning the key, the Chevelle’s massive motor roared. No way was another Black Scorpion getting away without being questioned. He accelerated out of the parking space, then sailed down the road.

  Yasin turned down a side street, heading deeper into downtown Fredericksburg. Jake glimpsed the clock. Rush hour. Not the best time for a chase.

  Jake bypassed the road the motorcycle fled down and made a sharp right a few streets later. Another block and he turned, his tires squealing. Maneuvering past a few cars, he spotted an intersection ahead. He hoped traffic would be too heavy for Yasin to make decent time, and with any luck, he would arrive at the intersection the exact moment as Yasin.

  The Chevelle ate the space and reached the intersection in seconds. The instant Yasin saw the Chevelle, he darted his motorcycle to the right. A stopped delivery truck blocked the Harley’s path.

  Jake skidded to a stop and cut off the path to the left. He threw the lever in park, leaped out of the car, and chased Yasin on foot. On autopilot, he reached for his badge on his belt. “FBI, stop.” As soon as the words left his mouth and his hand came up empty handed, he grimaced.

  Yasin left the bike and dashed across the street.

  Jake slid across a hood of a car, cutting the distance to Yasin in half.

  A car horn blared as it screeched to a stop. Yasin’s fingers touched the side of the car, and he stopped short. The car missed his toes by inches.

  Jake dove. Yasin threw two solid punches, making contact with his face before Jake could grasp Yasin’s neck. Jake propelled Yasin against the car’s hood. The Scorpion slumped to the ground. Just perfect, apprehending a perpetrator without a badge. Jake reached for his cell phone, gone.

  Sirens blared. Jake jerked the Black Scorpion, now coherent, by his jacket to a standing position.

  “Fucking pig.” Yasin nostrils flared as he spit in Jake’s face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” Jake pulled Yasin’s hands behind him and reached into his pocket for twist ties, he never left home without them. With the man’s hands locked together, he waited.

  “Jake.”

  Sergeant Harrison, the officer who came to The Memory Café the night someone tried to break in, appeared. “Dispatch told me a black Chevelle was racing down the streets. There’s only one person who owns a car fitting that description.”

  Jake arched his eyebrows and shoved Yasin toward him. “Read him his rights, would ya?”

  “No problem.”

  Jake retraced his steps, searching for his phone. No luck. He reached his car. He had left the door wide open, and of course, the engine was running. “Damn.” He raked his fingers through his hair.

  “You’re lucky this time. Next time, someone’s gonna drive off with it,” Sergeant Harrison remarked as he walked with Yasin toward his police cruiser.

  “Stating the obvious.”

  Harrison chuckled and shoved Yasin in the back of the police car.

  Jake closed his door, put the car into gear, and pushed the gas pedal. It didn’t move. He ran his hand along the floorboard, then behind the pedal, and touched the missing phone. He called Agent Dennis.

  “I’m here.”

  A half an hour later, Jake trailed Agent Dennis dragging a furious Yasin into the FBI offices. Special Agent Larry Newman met Jake in the outer office of the interrogation room while Agent Dennis yanked Yasin into the small room with no windows. “What do we have?”

  “A Black Scorpion looking for a fight.” Jake scratched his jaw. “We need to find out who’s behind the threatening notes. From the events of the last few days, I don’t believe Sanjar is behind it. Not his normal MO.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.” Larry looked through the two-way mirror at Agent Dennis pushing Yasin into a chair. “Let’s do this.”

  Jake and Larry stared down the wiggly gang member as Agent Dennis leaned against the wall, his arms folded. Bracing his hands on the table, Jake glared at the beady-eyed, olive-skinned man.

  “What’s your name?”

  No response.

  “Not cooperating will make life harder on you.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “Stating facts. Go to jail. I don’t care.” Jake fixed his eyes on the stitching on the jacket. “What kind of name is Yasin?”

  Yasin leaned back, but his hands prevented him from getting too comfortable. “Take these things off.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Then I ain’t telling you anything.”

  “Your choice, have fun in jail. I’m sure the boys there will like a pretty boy.” Jake started for the door.

  Yasin flinched. “Okay, if I cooperate, you’ll go easier on me?”

  “It can’t hurt you, but I’m not making any promises.”

  Yasin measured Jake. “Yasin is my gang name.”

  Jake wiped a hand down his face. “What’s your birth name?”

  “Muhammad Ali.”

  Jake sat in the chair. “Give it to me straight.”

  “Hey man, can’t you remove these cuffs? They’re cutting into my skin.”

  “Answer my questions,” Jake barked.

  “Muhammad Ali is my birth name. Ali’s my momma’s hero, so she named me after him.”

  Finally, getting somewhere.

  Yasin’s eyes darted between Larry and Jake. “You wannabe cops done?”

  Larry joined in the interrogation. “Don’t be dumb. You’ve done well so far. Answer the questions.”

  Yasin watched Jake. The disgust on Yasin’s face was formidable.

  “What’s the name of your gang?” Jake demanded, knowing the answer.

  “What? You dumb or something?” Yasin spat.

  Jake stood and slammed his hand down on the table. Yasin jumped. “Don’t toy with me,” Jake snapped.

  “Black Scorpions,” Yasin snarled.

  “Why are you in Fredericksburg?”

  “Don’t know. The boss told me to watch someone.”

  Clearly, Yasin wasn’t giving up any information easily. “Who?”

  Yasin diverted his eyes.

  “A woman?” Larry probed.

  “It would have to be a woman. This punk isn’t tough enough to watch anyone else,” Jake sneered, trying to make Yasin mad enough to spill.

  Yasin scoffed, and his eyes darkened. “The man who shot my leader.”

  Jake recoiled. Crap, not the direction he wanted this line of questioning to go.

  “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you, wannabe? You ain’t got nothing to fucking to say now, do ya?”

  Larry cleared his throat. “Who’s your boss?”

  Yasin eyed Larry standing near the door. “Why don’t you ask me again who I’m watching? Ask me who I’m taking down as soon as I get the word.” He leaned forward. “I’ll tell ya, The Warrior!” Hands tied behind his back, Yasin jumped out of his chair and charged Jake. “You’re dead, mother fucker!”

  Jake sidestepped Yasin. If he moved a second slower, Yasin would have body slammed him. Balance lost, Yasin fell into the empty chair before hitting the floor.

  The reason to hold Yasin fell at Jake’s feet, literally.

  Agent Dennis barged inside, carrying ankle cuffs. He locked them in place.

  Yasin lay on the floor, yelling profanities.

  “Lock him in the holding cell, Agent Dennis.” Larry followe
d Jake out of the interrogation room.

  Jake crossed to the conference room located at the back of the department. The door slammed shut behind him as he stood across the conference table from his former boss.

  With the phone attached to his ear, Hal moved his eyes from his note pad and met Jake’s scowl.

  Hal slammed down the phone and reared back in his chair. “We have problems.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Jake rammed his fingers through his hair. “I have a huge problem.”

  “I heard.”

  Jake stopped and gaped at Hal.

  “Intel came in, confirming what we expected. Sanjar isn’t in the middle of the case with Pamela, but he is behind the Scorpions searching for The Warrior. Word leaked out that The Warrior is alive and well and working with the FBI.”

  Jake raised his hands. “Well, they found him.”

  “Jake, sit down,” Hal commanded. “Your pacing won’t help us figure this out any faster.”

  Agent Dennis came into the room.

  “I do my best thinking when I’m moving.” Still, Jake pulled out a chair and sat. “Who’d compromised The Warrior’s position?”

  “I don’t know. We’re moving you to a safe house.”

  “The hell you are,” Jake rebutted, pacing again. “I can’t leave Pamela alone.”

  “You could cause her more problems by staying near her,” Hal argued.

  “I’m her best bet. I know the Black Scorpions’ behavior. I lived their life. I know how they think.”

  “It’s not a gamble I’m willing to take.”

  “No gamble. My house is secure.”

  “I know you have all the latest toys.” Hal tapped his finger on the table, then addressed Agent Dennis. “IA got anything yet?”

  “A few leads, but nothing concrete. Without more facts, I can’t speculate.”

  “Well, I hope you can find out who in the hell is our mole before someone else gets hurt,” Hal growled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Outside of us four, I don’t want anyone else knowing Pamela’s whereabouts or Jake’s. As far as anyone knows, Pamela and you are staying at your house, Jake. I’m moving you to a safe house we just acquired on the eastern shore.”

  Jake groaned.

  “Deal with it, Gibson,” Hal ordered.