by Kailin Gow
It fit.
Don’t rush, a little voice in my head called out.
Okay, think this through. Turn the key, put it in gear, step on the gas pedal and hope the garage door gives way. Sounds easy enough, but…
There were still too many things that could go wrong. Getting out of the car, I went to check the garage door. Though solidly set in its track, the wood was old and worn. It was even frayed and shredded in the lower corners where water had worked its way through the cracked paint. The car was only ten feet or so from the door, but I was certain the car would easily shatter the door into millions of pieces.
And once outside… what direction did I have to take. I had no idea what awaited me outside the garage door. For all I knew there could be a brick wall only twenty feet away, or even another car blocking the door from the outside.
Biting my lip, I considered the possibilities, but ultimately, I knew I had no other choice. I had to try.
Finally, there was Horace. He was right outside the door, attentive to every sound I made. Once he heard the motor roar, how long would it take before he burst into the room to stop me?
I looked around for something to block the door. Then, just left of the door, my gaze came back to the long hose that fed compressed air to the paint gun. It was long, and definitely sturdy enough. It would have to do. Feeling a suddenly urgent need to get out before any of the men decided to check up on me, I ran to the hose, grabbed the head and pulled. The hose wheel turned easily, letting me unravel the hose as I hurried back past the door where a series of hooks held rolls of tape and large rolls of brown paper in various sizes.
I pulled the rolls of tape off the first hook and wound the hose around it then went back to the hose wheel where I hooked it to a handle on the air compressor, effectively stringing the hose in front of the door. Fearful it wouldn’t hold enough, I repeated the process, pulling the hose tight as I fed it again into the handle of the compressor.
All I could do then was pray it would hold them off long enough for me to get away. My heart pounding. I slowly and carefully peeled back the brown paper that obstructed the windshield… just enough to allow me to see my way out. I returned to the car and eased the door shut. As I put my fingers to the key, a rush of adrenaline spurred me on.
“This is it,” I whispered.
I turned the key and the motor roared like a beast awakened from a long slumber. Without hesitation, I put the car in gear and settled all my weight on the gas pedal.
For a second the car didn’t advance, though I could hear the wheels spinning. The room was soon filled with black smoke and the stench of burning rubber. I released the gas pedal, and in the momentary silence, heard Horace shouting as he pounded at the door.
Fumbling for a second, my hands fluttered here and there as panic threatened to take over. I finally found the hand brake and shoved it down. Once again, I set my weight on the gas pedal and this time the car jolted forward and crashed through the door with ease as I let out a yelp of excitement and joy.
Outside, the glare of the sunlight blinded me, but my eyes quickly adjusted, allowing me a split second assessment of the situation. The parking lot was relatively small, but was fenced in. When I turned the car to the open gate that opened onto the gravel road, I realized with disheartening despair how ill-timed my escape was. Godfrey stood by the waiting limo, his surprise turning to a murderous scowl which he directed at me. Constantine, who’d been heading to the limo, stopped, his eyes wide with shock as he stared at my oncoming car and went for his gun. I veered to the left to avoid him, but nicked the front bumper of the limo.
After an unstable moment, I directed the car to the gate that seemed suddenly so far away. A shot rang out, and I stopped breathing for a second. Forging on, I accelerated, but another shot rang out and the car suddenly refused to do as I demanded as a back tire blew out. I regained control and managed to get past the main gate. Amidst Godfrey’s cries not to kill me, another shot hit the front tire as I turned onto the road. This time all my efforts to maintain control failed and the car continued on its right handed turn, effectively bringing me back to plow head on into the fence that surrounded the shop and parking area.
“Don’t even think of running,” Constantine said as he reached the car before I could even open the door and consider that option. Pulling the door open, he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me out. “You stupid bitch. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
With a firm hold of my hair, he pulled me back to the parking lot and stopped in front of Godfrey.
“What do you want me to do with her now?”
“Where the hell is Horace?”
“I’m here,” Horace muttered as he emerged from the main entrance. “She barred the door.”
“And who’s the idiot who didn’t check to see if the keys to that car were there?”
Constantine and Horace remained silent.
“Never mind,” Godfrey said. “Find a place she won’t be able to get out of. No windows, no vents… and no fucking cars.”
Constantine dragged me to the office door.
“There’s a small room at the back,” Horace said as he passed us and led the way. “It’s usually used to paint small parts. You know, a fender, a door… shit like that. It’s only got one heavy door and a four inch ventilation duct. There’s no way she can get out of there.”
Never loosening his grip, Constantine brought me to the little room and tossed me inside like a ragdoll then slammed the door with a reverberating thud. The room was dark, absolutely pitch black, and cold. The stench of paint was overwhelming, leaving me dizzy and gasping for breath. I felt around hoping to find a light switch, but other than the four walls of the room that was barely six by six feet, there was nothing.
Defeated, I crumbled to the floor, my cheek to the cold concrete as I curled up into a ball and cried. It seemed like hours before the slightest sign of life came in the way of Godfrey barking orders at Horace just outside the door.
I couldn’t make out a word he said, but he sounded angry and unhappy. Just as suddenly as he’d arrived, I heard him stomp away.
The door opened. “Come on,” Horace said as he flicked the switch just outside the door, flooding the tiny room with intense light. “Change of plans.”
“What do you mean? Where…?” I barely had time to get to my feet that he grabbed the collar of my dress and dragged me out of the small enclosure and down the hall.
At the main office in the front of the building, Godfrey and Constantine waited.
“It seems your father isn’t all too eager to get his precious little girl back. He wasn’t able to get the money on time. Isn’t it just like him? He never could keep his word,” Godfrey said as he waved my phone at me as if it was a representation of my father.
“But we have other plans for you.”
“Shut up, Horace. You talk too much.” Godfrey tossed him a cloth bag. “Put this over her head, and for God’s sake, don’t screw up again.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who left that key there,” Horace grumbled as he tried to pull the bag over my head.
“And bind her hands, too,” Constantine added.
“With what?”
“What the fuck do I care with what?” He grabbed a handful of elastic bands from the desk and shoved it into Horace’s chest. “Here. Use these.”
Horace managed to get the bands around my wrists while I stared into space in shock, but when he tried to set the bag over my head, I broke from my stupor. Certain I was being led to my death, and overtaken by panic and hysteria, I struggled to break free. “No,” I screamed as I pulled away from Horace.
“Get over here.” He shook me, his fist a vice on my arm, but my hysteria only intensified.
“No, please. No.”
My struggles were in vain. He pulled me out of the room and led me to the car. Once sandwiched between him and Constantine, he finally managed to get the bag over my head and pulled the tie around my neck, giving it
an extra little tugged that momentarily choked me.
Godfrey got in behind us and the car pulled away. We didn’t go far. Barely five minutes passed before the car stopped once again.
“Home, sweet home,” Horace grumbled.
They led me into another building, one that smelled vaguely of food; food that had been sitting around for a long while.
“Seeing how your dear old papa didn’t come through, we decided to cash in on you instead.”
I couldn’t fathom what that meant.
Someone pulled the bag off my head. The sun pierced through the lattes over the windows and dimly lit what appeared to be an old industrial kitchen. Two counters stretched out for at least ten feet on either side, with a huge refrigerator and service sink set at the far end of the room. A large island in the middle housed two industrial ovens with a large cook top that almost covered the entire island. Hanging overhead was a motley crew of pots and pans that had seen better days.
“Get to work.” Horace pulled the rubber bands off my wrists and gave me a shove.
Frowning, I looked back at the men. “What do you want? Dinner?”
Godfrey laughed, a loud, raucous and devilishly sinister laugh. “Dinner, indeed. It’s come to our attention that you’ve made quite a bit of money for Errol King.”
“A butt load of money,” Horace said with a greedy clap of his hands. “We can make more money selling your products than what you dad owes us. You're a real cash cow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sauces. Your sauces sell.”
“And with a surprisingly high profit margin.”
“You make simple and inexpensive ingredients sound hoity toity and people are prepared to pay big bucks for them.” Horace took on an aristocratic air.
“You can’t possibly think that I could…”
“Oh, yes. You will.”
“But it can take months to develop a new product. It’s weeks and weeks of preparation, of trial and error, of…”
“You’ve got one week.”
“One week?”
“And don’t give me no bullshit about how long it takes.” Godfrey slapped a magazine onto the counter. Errol’s handsome face was on the cover. “The interview Errol gave says you were on the verge of finalizing two different sauces; a spicy Italian cheese sauce with dried tomatoes and a white wine sauce.”
“I still have a lot of fine tuning on both those sauces. Besides, I need a ton of ingredients to make any sauce.”
Constantine found the light switch and several overhead lamps came on. He pointed to the pile of boxes in the left corner. “That’s what you’ve got to work with.”
Horace came up to me and stood facing me, his nose six inches from mine. “I knew I’d seen your face somewhere before; on the back of a jar of bolognaise sauce. Was good. You got good taste.”
“And a knack for knowing what the public wants,” Godfrey added. He clasped his hands together and pivoted as he took in the surroundings. “The windows have bars on them, the back door is rusted shut and Horace will stand at this entrance at all times. He has orders to shoot if you get out of hand, not to kill, mind you, but to maim.”
“Yeah, I’ll shoot your foot off if you so much as try anything funny.”
“But…” I wanted to argue at the insanity of it all. I could take weeks before I came up with something worthy of putting on store shelves, and even if I had two sauces in the final stages of development, it could take months before it was approved and more months before it actually reached the shelves… and without Errol’s backing there was a possibility they never made it to the shelves at all.
Staring at the kitchen, I stayed quiet. If nothing else, it gave me time to think of my next move. For the moment, I was content with the knowledge that they intended to keep me alive.
Godfrey reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen, and set them on the counter. “Write down whatever you need; ingredients, equipment… whatever, but get to work fast. I’ll come in to check on you periodically.”
They left me and shut the door. From the outside, I heard the clink of a chain and the click of a padlock.
Overkill, I thought. I wasn’t about to run out with Horace right there prepared to shoot at me. I examined the old kitchen more closely. In the worn wooden drawers I found cooking utensils, measuring cups and a few pie tins. At the far back, under the counter I found mixers, blenders, a large scale and a box of cake decorating paraphernalia.
This had to be an old bakery. I tried to glimpse outside to see if I could find a sign, anything that would give me a clue as to where I was. All I could see was an old, faded sign. So faded, it was impossible to read.
I turned my attention to the stack of boxes in the corner. What kind of ingredients had they thought to provide me with? While I knew their plan was seriously flawed, I thought the least I could do was fix myself something to eat. They hadn’t fed me a shred of food and I suddenly realized how famished I was.
The first boxes contained dry ingredients; flour, sugar, salt. Others held a variety of canned goods; diced tomatoes, mushrooms, lentils.
“Are they nuts?” I said aloud. How did they expect me to make high quality foods while they supplied me with inferior ingredients? I needed fresh tomatoes, fresh mushrooms, not these canned goods.
My search brought me to a box of spices and herbs, none of which were fresh, and in the refrigerator I found eggs, milk, butter and a few other items. For starters, I decided to make myself an omelet. If nothing else, at least I would restore my much depleted energy.
Chapter 3
It was growing dark by the time the door opened and Godfrey came in to check on me.
“So, how are things coming along? It certainly smells good in here.” He took in a long, satisfactory whiff of the air.
After eating my omelet, I’d opened a few cans of diced tomatoes, poured them into a pot and had thrown in some oregano, thyme and bay leaves. The old kitchen smelled great, and it gave the impression I was seriously working on something.
“That’s the list of things I need.” I pointed to the small notepad that had eight pages worth of items.
He frowned as he started to read the first page. “We already got you tomatoes,” he said pointing to the boxes.
“Fresh. You can’t make a world class sauce without fresh ingredients. I’ll make do for now as I do some testing, but, ultimately, I’ll need the fresh stuff.”
“What the hell is leek?”
My brow shot up in surprise. “It’s a vegetable. Like a green onion, only bigger.”
“Sounds like a slug.”
I grimaced.
As he continued to grumble his way through the pages, a loud clamor came from outside the kitchen. Angry shouts filled the air and I quickly recognized Errol’s voice.
“Where is she?” That was Bobby.
Elated, I headed for the door, but Godfrey quickly seized me by the scruff of the neck and yanked me back in. With his hand to the gun at his belt, he walked out.
“Lock her in,” he barked at Horace. “And hurry.”
I couldn’t let him. I couldn’t be locked inside this kitchen while the men in my life were out there fighting for me. Taking a head run, I put all my weight into my shoulder and shoved the door open before Horace could string the chain into the door handle.
“Fucking bitch,” he cried as he stumbled back and tripped over the chair he’d been sitting on.
I ran toward the sound of the fighting.
“Get back here,” Horace shouted.
I came to a large room with a wall of industrial ovens, long tables filled with baking pans and cake molds and, to my right, racks upon racks of packing boxes. Before Horace could race in behind me, I armed myself with a large cast iron pancake griddle and backed up into the corner beside the racks of boxes.
Errol already had Constantine in a headlock while Rial and Bobby were trying to corner Godfrey who kept just out of their reach as he
ran around one table then the next.
“Stop running away, you weasel,” Bobby said.
“Coming out here was a grave mistake,” Godfrey said. Stopping at the head of the table, he turned to Bobby and pulled his gun out.
Before he could take aim, a man I’d never seen before came out and kicked the gun from his hand. He jumped on him just as Horace ran in and tackled Bobby.
For a long moment, my eyes were riveted to the stranger in the melee. There was something familiar about him, but in a distant sort of way. Someone I might have seen somewhere, but that I had never actually met.
He fought with agility, his movements liquid but strong. Clearly a master of martial arts, he quickly overtook Godfrey who grunted his displeasure.
Then it hit me; Leopold. Yes, I was certain it was him; Leopold Lee. In a moment as surreal as when I’d initially been kidnapped, I stared at the muscular, handsome man who had made a name for himself in a series of martial arts action films. He certainly had the good looks of a movie star, with sultry lips and wickedly dark eyes that now gleamed with ferocity, though he’d often played the romantic lead in several movies and was known for his smoldering and irresistible gaze. His straight, black hair, cut in jagged chunks, flew about his head, much like an animae character I’d once seen on television.
As agile as any jungle cat, he turned and pounced on Constantine who’d just broken free of Errol’s hold.
I had no idea how he’d come to be in the presence of my men, but I was happy to see that he was. With one swift kick in the gut, he had Constantine on his knees begging for mercy.
Star struck, I stared at him, and when Rial and Bobby lost their grip on Horace, Leopold saved the day once again by simply grasping Horace by the throat and applying just enough pressure to send the man falling to the floor, his face red, then frighteningly white.
“Have you guys had enough?” Leopold asked the worn and weary men.
Constantine, Godfrey and Horace grumbled and groan.
“I’m glad I brought you along, Leo,” Errol said. “I knew you’d be useful. Your visit to your French villa could not have been better timed.”
