It’s going on nine PM, and Jaime’s been gone for almost seven hours. In my mind, that’s six hours and fifty-nine minutes too long. I’m frustrated we’re still sitting around this conference room table making plans.
“Enough,” I yell, bringing my fist down on the table and getting everyone’s attention. Six people turn their eyes to me—Jackson, Kynan, Bebe, Malik, Clay, and Ladd. “Enough with talking this to death. We have a solid plan. Let’s go do it.”
Kynan’s eyes aren’t warm with empathy for my plight, despite the fact he knows a little something about what I’m going through. Not all that long ago, his wife was being hunted by a stalker and he lost her for a time, too.
Instead, his expression is hard. It says, I’m the boss, and we’re doing this my way.
“We’re being thorough,” Kynan says in a warning tone. “A lot of lives are going to be at stake when we move in to rescue her.”
“Yeah, Jaime’s life,” I snarl. “It’s in peril right now.”
“Calm down, brother,” Jackson says quietly from my left. “We know she’s not been hurt.”
We’ve been told that, but do we really know that? Once I got back to headquarters, and after Clay interviewed Brian, we had him contact the kidnappers. They were indeed a semi-legit, lower-level Irish gang working under a larger mob-controlled organization. If there’s any credit to be given to Brian, it’s that he didn’t hold back any information, spilling everything he knew without even asking for protection or immunity in exchange. I’ll grudgingly admit he seems to feel horrible about Jaime’s current plight, and he’s willing to do anything to fix it.
We have their names, their addresses, and their regular haunts. Brian provided information on how weaponized they were and their skill level in using the guns they’d brandished. They are all young, stupid kids who don’t know their asses from their heads.
Mainly, what we learned is these guys aren’t very smart. They truly thought this would be an easy little kidnapping, which would knock Brian back in line and force him to get the money by whatever means possible.
Clay carefully coached Brian what to say in a text response to the man known as Glen Boyle, the leader of their little ring. He got Boyle to spell out exactly what he wanted, which was the money plus a moderate amount of interest. Clay then instructed Brian to buy some time by telling him it would take a few hours to get the cash.
Most importantly, Brian asked where they could meet, and Boyle gave him an address.
Kynan immediately deployed Malik, Ladd, and Jackson to do reconnaissance on the address. It was an abandoned ice warehouse, ironically not all that far from Jameson, which is in a very sketchy area of Pittsburgh. Using high-speed infrared scopes, they were able to confirm five people in the building, one sitting on a lone chair, presumably Jaime. It was a classic brick construct, two stories high with a row of dusty paned windows with rotten wooden frames. It was in serious disrepair, and it made the perfect hiding spot for these morons.
Three of the men sat at a table and appeared to be playing cards, and the fourth paced back and forth.
Armed with that information, plus photos of the building from every angle, they came back to Jameson for us to make our plan.
Twenty minutes ago, Clay had Brian call Boyle and demand to talk to Jaime to ensure she was okay. While we didn’t want him to put it on speakerphone, which might alert Boyle others could be listening, Bebe had tapped the signal. It had allowed all of us to sit around the conference room and listen on ear mics.
The relief upon hearing her voice was overpowering, and I had to restrain myself from not grabbing the phone from Brian to tell her I was coming to get her.
“Jaime,” Brian had said when her voice came on the line. His own voice quavered, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was clipped and angry. Boy, she’d sounded pissed at her brother.
“I’ve got the money,” he told her, which he didn’t. There was no way these scumbags were going to get anything other than handcuffs. “I’ll be bringing it soon.”
Jaime didn’t express relief or gratitude over her brother’s proclamation. Instead, she asked, “Have you seen Cage? Do you know if he’s okay? He was with me when these assholes took me.”
Brian’s eyes flew to mine, and I shook my head in the negative. We’d prepared him for this, but he looked panicked over the question. Eventually, he answered the right way. “No, sorry. I’ve just been dealing with the men who have you. They contacted me.”
“Oh, God,” Jaime moaned, then turned hysterical. “He might be dead right now. You’ve got to go over there right now and check—”