by Harper Cole
No Need For Heroes: Third Blow
Harper Cole
Text copyright 2015 Harper Cole
All rights reserved
Chapter One
The hood over her face smelled utterly disgusting but after a while, it was as if her senses began to shut down. She only noticed the rank stench if she moved her head, and a fresh wave of stink was released.
So she kept perfectly still.
Rochelle could not move much, anyway. She was tied by the ankles and wrists to what seemed like a plain wooden kitchen chair.
There was a strip of material wrapped around her face and forced into her mouth to act as a gag. She had screamed – of course she had, who wouldn’t?
Mostly, she screamed his name. It wasn’t as if Rafe had made any secret about the fact it was him who had taken her. He didn’t creep up behind in secret, disguising his voice. He’d simply pounced on her at the gas station, kicked her beautiful dog under the chin, and dragged her into his car. And then he gagged her.
She hoped and prayed that Brucie was all right, and that he had the sense to run for freedom. She was about three miles from the bar that she owned. Did German Shepherd dogs have that much homing instinct? She willed that it was so.
He’d roped her legs and arms together as she flailed and fought him, until he struck her hard on the head and the shock of the pain had made her throw up a little, a deeply unpleasant experience when you were gagged. Exhausted and terrified, she lay limply as he drove, deciding it was better to keep her strength and use it more wisely than simply lashing out, pointlessly. Rafe had driven fast, the lurching corners throwing her around in the back seat.
And now she was here. She guessed she was in an outbuilding behind his motorcycle garage, because she could hear distant passing traffic, and it was chilly. He’d struggled to get her out of the car – she played dead, and he’d had to winkle her out of the back seat like a snail from its shell.
Once out of the car, she’d had to walk because it became painful to be dragged over the concrete. He had unroped her legs and she thought if she flopped down, he’d carry her, but he didn’t. His curses filled the air.
So she had walked unwillingly and blindly, and been thrust onto the chair and tied firmly to it. She heard the hiss of plastic zip ties. Was that more secure than rope? Probably, she thought in disappointment. Fat-fingered muscle-bound Rafe probably couldn’t tie a decent knot.
Once she was securely in place, there had been an eerie silence for a while. She could hear his breathing, but feel nothing. She imagined that he was watching her, and it unnerved her. She wanted to yell, “fuck you, you creepy fucking fuckhead,” but the gag was effective and she could only groan and snarl.
She even started to wish that he’d taunt her, and clearly he had been watching too many movies, because he eventually said, “I would strip you and fuck you, but I want to wait until your boyfriend gets here.”
She rolled her eyes, and was glad that he couldn’t see that. She did not think, for one minute, that Rafe was going to rape her in front of Trent. Whatever his motives, he wasn’t out for revenge.
Unlike Nathan. Thinking of him made her shiver. Everything she’d seen of him, and heard about from his ex-boyfriend Will, made her realize that she was dealing with a very special and rare kind of psycho. One that seemed motivated by the sheer lust for revenge and power.
Or was he? She wished she could talk, just to taunt Rafe herself, and maybe get the answers to a whole lot of questions that she had.
“Did you hear me?” Rafe insisted.
She did not move or make any kind of sound. Fuck you, she said in her head. All he wanted was a reaction. Well, that was kinda hard when you were gagged and tied to a chair. Somehow, Rafe struck her as the least likely kidnapper in the world. He clearly hadn’t planned any of it; he had seen her by chance when she’d pulled in at the gas station, and then parked up near it, to walk to a burger place for a snack.
He’d grabbed her right off the street, but in that part of town, people tended to turn away, and it happened so fast. She guessed that people would prefer to think it was “just a domestic incident.” Maybe she shouldn’t have shouted his name, she reflected. People would have realized that she knew him, and not wanted to get involved.
Well, fuck you all.
“You think you’re so–” Rafe began to speak but was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. Rochelle rolled her eyes again; at least it would stop him trying to be intimidating.
“Nathan. Hi.”
She heard his footsteps scuff on the floor, and his voice faded and rose again; he was walking around whatever building they were in. And she listened hard. What was Nathan doing by phoning Rafe? Nathan had the drugs that Rafe thought were his. Was Nathan now calling Rafe to taunt him? The circularity pleased her.
“Yeah I thought about it. But I don’t trust you.”
That didn’t sound like taunting. That sounded like what someone said when they were offered a deal. She strained to think. What could tempt Nathan and Rafe to strike up together? Nathan had Rafe’s drugs. Rafe had …
Well, a growing gangland empire. That meant opportunity and protection. After all, she herself had been tempted by it.
“Maybe,” Rafe was saying. “Yeah. Neutral ground. And you gotta hand me my merch first.”
Then there was a long silence. Rochelle couldn’t even guess what Nathan was telling Rafe. Then he grunted a farewell, and the footsteps drew closer to her once more.
“Gotta go out,” he said, and a heavy hand rested briefly on her head. “Don’t go anywhere, now, will you?” He laughed, and she remained still and tense for a long time after she had guessed that he had left.
* * * *
Now what. She pulled against the ties on her ankles and her wrists; her arms were behind her, zip-tied together.
Then she laughed, which quickly turned to choking with the gag still cutting into the corners of her mouth. Oh, Rafe. You are a fucking idiot. It only took a bit of thigh-straining to lift the front legs of the chair while pressing her legs hard against the wood, and flexing. She worked at the zip tie, moving it down the wooden chair leg. She found she had to lean to one side, on the front left leg of the chair, and almost swivel the right leg upwards – it wasn’t easy but she managed to slide the zip tie right down, and pop it free of the chair leg. If he had put the zip ties around her knees, it would not have been possible. But ankles? Yup. With one leg free, and able to be thrust out for balance, getting the other leg clear was straightforward.
She tried to stand up but found that her wrists were not just tied together; they were attached to the back of the chair, most likely with another zip tie through one of the struts of the back of the chair.
So she hopped, by painful degrees, in what she hoped was a straight line. The ties cut into her wrists but she kept going, fuelled by adrenalin which overrode any discomfort she was feeling. Her knee hit a wall, and she stopped. She had to get the hood off her head. So she pressed her head forward, tentatively. It was simply a bag placed over her, and not tied as far as she could remember. She just needed to find something to catch the fabric and she would be able to hook it away.
The wall was flat and bare. She hopped along the edge, brushing her head against the wall, hoping to find a nail that would snag. Her forehead connected unexpectedly with something hard that jutted out further than she expected, but she ignored the sudden flash of pain, and began to jerk her head up and down against the ledge until the bag caught against something. She was hampered in her movements by her arms being attached to the chair, until eventually in desperation she flung herself sideways, trying to duck her head down, and the hood was ripped clear.
/> She lay on the floor for a moment, on her side and winded, but delighted. Now she could see that she was in a brick-built shed that was about twenty feet square, and empty. The window was so thick with dirt that little light came in, and the door was rough, and closed.
Now she had to get her hands clear. She gathered her breath and her thoughts. She was surprised to discover that she wasn’t feeling panicked; she wasn’t enjoying this, exactly, but her successes had given her a confidence. This was now a challenge.
And she didn’t know when Rafe was going to come back, so she couldn’t spend too long lying on the floor congratulating herself.
She remained lying down and worked at her hands, experimentally. Nothing was giving.
She rocked and wriggled, with the aim of getting the chair standing upright again. It was slightly easier now her legs were free, and she could see what she was doing. As she maneuvered around, she felt something give way in the chair.
Aha. This could be it. She got to her feet and stood, bending forward awkwardly with the chair thrust out behind her now.
And then she launched herself backward at the brick wall, trying to catch the chair diagonally where she thought it might be weakest. Something broke, but it took three more bashes against the wall before she was able to wrench her hands free.
Her wrists were red and bleeding, but she ignored it. She’d made a lot of noise. She ripped the disgusting rag from her mouth, picked up a jagged piece of wood from the broken chair so she could use it as some kind of weapon, and ran to the door. She opened it a crack, just enough to peep out and assess her surroundings.
There was another building nearby, but it was ramshackle and wooden, and clearly empty, the door standing ajar. The ground was scrubby, all packed dirt and weeds and litter. About forty yards away was the rear of a garage, and she guessed it was Rafe’s motorcycle business. She could hear a distant radio but there was no one around. Night was falling, now, and lights shone in the far building, but there was still enough light to see well. It would not be long until full dark.
She wondered if she ought to wait until night would hide her. The thought, though, of Rafe coming back soon was a frightening one. The panic began to rise again.
Where was Brucie, her dog? Where exactly was she? She knew about Rafe’s garage but had only the haziest idea where it was in the city. She had to get moving.
She crept out, her senses straining and fizzing, her heart hammering so loud she was afraid she wouldn’t hear danger approaching.
She slid around the back of the brick building she’d been kept in, still clutching the wood with a slippery, sweaty hand. There was a fence at the perimeter of the property but it was a simple wooden one, and only four feet high. She climbed it easily, and found herself in a patch of wasteland with low bushes and piles of discarded beer cans. She bent double and ran along the fence line, following it until she came across a path that developed into a track and deposited her on the road.
If she turned right, she’d head towards the garage. She turned left, dropped the broken wood, and walked briskly into the gathering shadows.
Chapter Two
Trent had no choice but to steal another car. The pickup truck he’d hotwired some days previously wasn’t around – it was probably in the repair shop. He needed an older vehicle without all the security systems that newer cars had, and he was soon lucky. Rochelle’s business, Candy’s Bar, was on the edge of the rougher side of town. People around here didn’t upgrade their cars every six months.
This time he was in a long, low Ford Mustang. He didn’t know much about cars, but this was a Mach 1 and likely had some heritage value; it had the air of the sixties or seventies about it. It was a noisy thing but strangely fun to drive. If he wasn’t so worried about Rochelle, he’d be whooping out of the window.
Officer Dellacroce had reluctantly gone, heading back to the police station to dig up whatever he could about Nathan. The man was known, but unknown; there was a list of potential addresses, but nothing definite. Dellacroce was going to look at the last few, and see what he could discover.
Trent couldn’t wait around for the law to kick in. Since the anonymous text message, he’d been throbbing with the need to simply act.
Who else would have Nathan’s details?
His ex-lover, Will, of course. Trent drove as fast as he dared.
* * * *
“It sure sounds like Nathan,” Will said sadly as Trent told him what had been happening.
They were in Will’s adapted single-story house. Trent refused to sit down. He paced around while Will watched him from his wheelchair.
“I am confused about the money, though,” Will added. “He’s never lacked for cash. He has always found ways of making money. He’s one of nature’s businessmen.”
“It’s just what you do when you have a hostage, surely? It’s about the power. It’s about making me do one more thing. He wants to make me into a criminal.”
“Yeah, sounds about right.”
“So come on. Where is he?”
“I told you. Until you showed up again, I hadn’t seen him for ten years.”
“Fuck!” Trent slammed his fist onto the table. He stood over it, half-bent at the waist. All the furniture in Will’s place was lower than usual, and made Trent feel like he was in Gulliver’s Travels. “So what do I do?”
“Wait till Dellacroce finds something?”
“He’s as crooked as they come and in league with Antony Hooley.”
“Dellacroce seems like an okay guy to me.”
Trent sighed. “Yeah. He is okay. But he has his own loyalties, and I know how that works. It doesn’t matter how nice he is, he has to keep himself safe, however he does that.”
“What about we go to the warehouse?”
“I guess.” Trent was unconvinced. “Do you have a gun?”
“Hell, no!” Will sounded shocked.
“I was only asking. Shit. I would feel a whole heap better with a gun. I was going to buy one from Hooley but I never got the money together. I don’t suppose…”
“No. I am not lending you money for a gun.”
“Rochelle had a shotgun.” Trent straightened up. “Right. I’m going back to the bar to get her shotgun. Then I’m going to the warehouse…”
“We are going to the warehouse.”
Trent stared at Will. “You won’t even buy me a gun,” he said, knowing he sounded immature and petulant.
Will just raised one eye brow.
Suddenly they both laughed; the situation was too ridiculous for any other reaction. “Come on, then,” Trent said. “But … uh … I don’t know how to say this, but, um, there might be difficulties.”
“Because I’m in a chair?”
“Because I’m in a Ford Mustang.” Trent led the way out onto the front yard and Will rolled up behind, and they stopped, side by side, to eye the car.
“I do like a challenge,” Will said, and pushed forward along the path. “My chair folds up. You can sling it in the back. Somehow.”
* * * *
Trent’s cell phone began ringing as they sped back along the highway. He wrestled it one-handed out of his pocket, and put it to his ear, hoping that no cops would see him.
“Change of plan, fuckhole,” the voice said with a laugh.
“Say what?”
The voice on the other end of the line was familiar. The caller was trying to disguise it, but it pulled at Trent’s remembrance. He fumbled with the phone, trying to keep the car in a straight line, until he got it on speakerphone. Will was sure to recognize Nathan. They’d dated for a while.
“Change of plan,” the caller said. “I guess you tipped off the police, right? That warehouse is crawling with feds. You need to come to Gino’s on the corner of East and 21st, midnight. With the cash.”
“Rafe!” Trent exploded, letting the car swerve wildly. Gino’s was Rafe’s barely-legitimate restaurant business. “Rafe, you fucker.”
The line went dead an
d Trent thumped the steering wheel.
“That was not Nathan,” Will said.
“And the prize for stating the fucking obvious…”
“Hold on, there. You told me it was Nathan.”
“I guessed it was Nathan. He’s the one who wants me dead.”
“Apparently not just Nathan.”
“Shit,” Trent said. He pulled over into the parking lot of Home Depot. “Hooley has put a price on my head, too.”
“What?”
“Hang on.” He called Dellacroce but there was no reply. He flung his phone into Will’s lap. “Shit. Okay. I still need that shotgun; I’ll tell you as we drive.”
* * * *
It was full night now. Trent had no more plan than to simply go get Rochelle’s shotgun and blaze his way into Gino’s, grab Rochelle and blaze his way out. He was done with complicated plans. Get in, kill the fuckers, get out. It was going to be that easy.
And that difficult.
He stepped on the gas and Will had to cling on to the dash as he was hurled about. “I am paralyzed from the waist down, you know,” he said crossly.
“I’m not asking you to walk.”
“Asshole. I don’t have the balance that you have; all those micro movements in the legs to help you stay upright. I had to learn how to sit again, after the accident.”
Trent grimaced. “Shit. I am sorry, dude.”
“I know, you said. Don’t be sorry. Just drive a bit better, okay?”
Trent eased off slightly, and his phone began ringing again. “Is it that fucker Rafe?”
Will checked the caller ID. “Anonymous.”
“Answer it!” Trent yelled, trying to look at Will and keep his eyes on the road.
“Hello? Oh my God it’s Rochelle – no, sorry, this is Will. Yeah, Trent’s here. He’s driving. Hang on – oh, okay. Right. Where was that?”
Trent thought he was in danger of crushing the steering wheel in his hands. Will made um and ah noises.