Susan Kearney - The Hidden Years

He’d waited so long. She couldn’t believe he didn’t intend to pick up the phone and just call, even if only to hear their voices. Jake also had extraordinary composure. In his place, she would have dialed, too excited to consider the consequences. While Jake had never forgotten his boyhood promise to his father, hadn’t given up his search all these years, he was methodical, careful. But she just couldn’t comprehend how he could bear to wait until they contacted him now that he’d found them. However, Cassidy realized this decision had to be his. She had no right to try to change his mind.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, and he suddenly stood and tossed money on the table. “Let’s go.”

Alarmed by his sudden reversal of tone and demeanor, Cassidy looked past Jake toward the parking lot. Her stomach tightened.

Two men had just pulled up in a four-door sedan. She watched them exit the vehicle. Each man sported a suit and tie.

Jake grabbed Cassidy’s hand. “The bulges beneath their armpits indicate they’re carrying.”

“Carrying?”

“Guns.”

Jake shouldered his way past customers eating with enjoyment, waitresses carrying plates of lobster tails, crab claws and grouper sandwiches, and headed for the rear of the restaurant. Without hesitation she followed, allowing him to pull her into the kitchen.

They hurried past gleaming stainless-steel countertops, a stove with a huge cauldron of soup and a kid sweeping the floor. Jake swiped a bottle of wine off a wire rack and tossed the chef a twenty-dollar bill. The surprised cook shook his head at their crazy antics.

Fear lodged in her throat, Cassidy hurried to keep up with Jake’s long strides. She took a moment to look over her shoulder for their pursuers and slammed into Jake’s broad back. “Sorry.”

He’d halted to open the back door. “Hurry.”

She scooted through the door, realizing now was not the time to ask questions. But Jake had parked his vehicle out front. They’d have to go around the building to reach it, and they’d likely be seen by the men in suits. Cassidy wondered if they were FBI, the mob, hired guns or if one of them was the same man who had tied her to her kitchen chair. She didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.

She slipped behind the restaurant, next to a Dumpster, and the scent of rotting fish slapped her in the face. The empty lot behind the restaurant provided extra parking for weekend overflow, but she saw no place to hide. Before she could turn and ask Jake where to head next, he’d whacked the neck off the wine bottle, stuffed a handkerchief into the now-open neck and down into the red wine, then urged her around the corner.

“Be ready to run to my car on my signal.” He spoke as calmly as he’d previously ordered their dinner.

How could he remain so calm when her pulse was beating so hard that she had trouble hearing him? Breathless, she inhaled deeply and frowned. “What signal?”

“I’ll tell you. Just be ready.”

When the men in suits reached the back door, Jake lit the handkerchief with a lighter and tossed it toward the Dumpster.

“Now! Go.”

Cassidy raced along the side of the restaurant toward the parking lot and Jake’s car.

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