Then she knelt beside Olga and rifled through the white cotton clutch. She haphazardly threw out a set of knitting needles, some balls of wool yarn, a tube of ruby red lipstick, random crumpled receipts, butterscotch candies, a notepad with a kitten on the front, and a pen from Minnie’s Pet Salon. With the useless contents strewn around the old woman, she found the change purse.
“Nothin’ here but this,” she said, holding it up to show the kid.
“Open it.”
Holly clicked it open and her face lit up. She reached in and with two fingers pulled out a folded one-hundred dollar bill.
“Jackpot,” she said, snapping it between her fingers.
“Aw, hell,” the kid said. “Ain’t she got more than that? Check the dude.”
She shoved Denny back onto his stomach and reached into his back pocket. She pulled out a bulging wallet. “This looks promising.”
Denny groaned she flung business cards and random papers out on his back.
“Hey, wait,” the kid said, pointing the gun at a rectangular piece of paper next to the man’s leg. “What’s that?”
Holly reached over and picked it up. Her eyes went wide. “It’s a check.”
“Hmm, maybe I can forge a signature. Who’s it made out to?”
She turned the paper around so he could see the front of it. “Cash. It’s a cashier’s check.”
Troy remembered Denny talking about his investment and he groaned when the digits on the amount line came into view.
“Dangit,” Troy muttered.
“Twenty-five,” the kid paused, “thousand … dollars? Hot damn!”
Denny groaned again, watching his Doozie Koozie seed money settling into the hostage-taker’s hand.
7
Poker In The Rear
“Alright. Play time’s over. Back into the box.”
The shotgun was now firmly shoved into Troy’s back, and the kid—now wearing Troy’s cowboy hat—was guiding him out the door along with Holly.
“Why are we going back in there?” She asked.
“Need to contain the situation and I ain’t got any more rope.” He shrugged. “I can handle the two of them, but you two, you need corralling.”
Troy scanned the parched landscape. Nothing miles and miles of scraggly, flat land, the sparkling, green ocean, and a deserted highway in between. He considered bolting away from the kid, counting on the effective range of the shotgun to be about twenty yards. He might get hit, but it likely wouldn’t do much damage. But there was the girl. The imposter Earl Heskett held her by the ponytail again and at that range, the shot would tear her apart.
He pushed them past the open bathroom door. Troy could still see the real Earl’s feet sticking out from under the stall. The second room turned out to be their final destination. The kid led them into a nearly pitch black room and again, Troy thought about making a move while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
As if their captor suspected this, he said, “Don’t try anything stupid. At this range, I don’t even need to see you to blow you to smithereens.”
He led them into the center of the room, dragged two wooden chairs out into the center, and pulled a bag of large zip ties out.
“Tie her to the chair, dude,” he said, handing the bag to Troy.
“Nope.”
The kid pointed the shotgun at her legs. “Do it now, or she won’t walk ever again, much less out of here.”
Tears streamed down Holly’s face. Troy gave in and proceeded to strap her to the chair by the wrists and feet.
“Get ’em tight, now. And then yours. Do your legs.”
With the kid still pointing the gun at Holly, he had no choice. He tied his ankles to the chair like hers. Then the kid pulled his wrists together behind his back and zipped them together and through the top of the chair. They were stuck. The sound of duct tape being pulled told Troy what was coming next. Much to her protest, he taped Holly’s mouth shut first, and then Troy’s.
“Sit tight. I’m gonna go get you some company.”
The door slammed shut, leaving them in total darkness. The room stank, but not like the bathroom had. Troy pulled and twisted on the zip ties, but they held fast. He cursed the makers. He jumped his chair a few times, thinking he might be able to tip it over and break himself loose. But it was heavier and more well-built than he thought.
He pushed hard again and the chair tipped. He thought if he could get it to fall, he might be able to scoot around the room. What that would accomplish, he didn’t know, but he guessed he might have a minute or two before the kid came back with Olga and Denny.
He leaned as far back as he could and threw his head back. It worked, he flew backward and his head slammed against Holly’s chair and then the sticky, stale, barely carpeted floor. His last thought before he passed out was that he heard someone screaming. Olga. Olga was screaming.
He had to get loose and help—
A gunshot interrupted his thoughts.
And then he was out.
He woke—unsure of how long he’d been unconscious—to Holly grunting frantically through the tape on her mouth. The sound of her chair thumping across the room seemed a bit farther away now. And then, without warning, the light came on and blinded him. He kept his eyes closed until the spots faded and slowly opened his eyes. As he did, Holly was standing there over him. She pulled the tape away as gently as she could, but he was certain he was losing a good bit of his stubble—nothing like a good wax job to sooth the delicate skin on your face.
“How did you get free?” Troy asked when the tape was gone.
“I’m very flexible,” she said, grinning. “And double jointed.”
“You’ll make a fine dancer one day, darlin’.”
“Sit tight.” She patted his knee. “I’m gonna find something to cut you loose.”
She rummaged through a steel desk, but quickly gave up. The days of the letter opener were long gone and the only mechanical thing on the desk was a stapler. Beyond that, there wasn’t much in the room: a round, red felt-covered table with various stacks of gambling chips, a few more random chairs, and a couch that might have come from a college dorm room. On the wall over the table, in all its kitschy glory, hung the famous painting of dogs playing poker.
“I don’t see anything here that would help. Just papers, paperclips, and a stapler.”
“Check behind that picture,” Troy said. “Might be a nail or a hook or somethin’.”
Her face brightened. “Good idea.”
She pulled the picture down and laid it aside on the couch. Behind it, a small, black safe the size of a checkerboard was built into the wall.
“Ooh,” she hummed. “What have we here?”
She pulled on the handle, but it didn’t open. She spun the combination dial a couple of times and pulled again. Nothing.
“It’s locked.”
“I see that,” Troy said. “But, how’s about we get that nail out of there and get me loose.”
“Right.”
She climbed up on the couch and reached above the safe. “Actually, it’s a screw.”
“Even better. The grooves oughta saw right through these things.”
She tugged on the screw and looked over her shoulder. “I can’t get it. It must be in a stud or something.”
Troy thought for a second. “Is it a flathead screw?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Get a paperclip, biggest on you can find. That might do it.”
She jumped down and reached into the desk drawer. She came back and started working on the screw again. “It’s coming out.”
“Sweet.”
For what seemed like an eternity, the only sound in the room was Holly grunting and moaning in ways that made Troy feel a little guilty for what he was thinking.
And then, the gunshots and screaming started on the other side of the wall.
8
Heck Of A Dancer
“I don’t mean to pressure you, hun,” Troy said. “But can
you move a little faster?”
“I’m trying. It’s a long, frickin’ screw.”
Too many jokes, too little time, Troy thought.
“Got it!” she exclaimed.
She ran over and began to work on the zip ties on his wrists. She only gouged him once, but not too bad. Soon, his wrists were slick with sweat and blood. He felt the zip tie pop and he jerked his hands free.
“Here. Let me finish. You get the door.”
She handed him the screw and in three quick swipes, he had his ankles free.
“Crap,” she said. “It’s locked.”
Troy ran over to see she had the door open a few inches. Outside it, a thick chain dangled across the opening with a heavy padlock holding it together.
“Back up,” Troy said.
She moved back and he lifted his foot to kick the door. There were only a few times in Troy’s life that he ever regretted wearing flip-flops—this was one of those times. He couldn’t get much force on the door, but he was sure that it wasn’t going to help anyway. He turned back to the room, scanning for anything that might pry it open.
“Dangit,” he muttered. “Where’s a crowbar when you need one?”
Holly squatted down by the door, “Hey, I think I might be able to squeeze through here.”
She poked her head through and twisted and turned and pulled until she had the top half of her body through.
“A little help?” she asked. “I’m stuck.”
Troy ran over and laid his shoulder on the door below the knob. He pushed with all his might and she was able to gyrate her hips through. Heck of a dancer, indeed. She climbed out and tugged on the chain.
“It’s not gonna give. Let me go get some help.”
“No. Don’t worry ’bout me. Go find a phone. Call the police.”
“I’ll be back,” she called, and ran out of sight around the building.
Troy desperately hoped she’d take his advice and call for help, but having known her for just a few hours, he thought that was highly unlikely.
The sounds he could hear through the wall were muffled and sounded like someone moving furniture around. And then another loud bang. This time the scream was higher.
“Dangit, Holly.”
He knew he’d have to find his own way out of the room now. He ran to the desk, pulling out the drawers and emptying them onto the desk. Under the files of the hanging folder drawer, he found a small, folding umbrella, a half-empty bottle of Evan Williams bourbon, and a short, stubby screwdriver. He jogged back to the door, jerked the central metal post out of the handle and stuck it into the chain. He twisted the post until it bent and finally broke, having no effect on the chain. He tried the same thing with the screwdriver, but it was too short to fit into the chain links. Frustrated, he turned around and flung the broken pieces of the umbrella against the wall. They clanged into the metal door of the safe.
The safe. Maybe something inside that’ll get me out.
And then he realized that all had gone quiet. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign … or bad. He was sure he needed out of here and fast.
He stepped up onto the couch and the odor of cat urine filled the air. With one hand over his mouth and nose, he pulled on the safe handle again.
Nothing happened. He spun the dial a few times, but the safe remained locked. Like anyone who has ever had to remember a combination, Troy was sure the owner would have the number written down somewhere—probably in this room. He glanced over at the desk.
The papers were typical invoices, receipts, orders, and inventory reports. None of which had any numbers that might be the combination. He turned over the stapler, looked at the bottom of the bourbon bottle, and looked under the drawers for any sign of the missing numbers. Still nothing.
And then the screaming started up on the other side of the wall again. Without thinking, he turned and ran at the door. His first attempt nearly dislocated his left shoulder. Cradling it with his right hand, he took a couple of steps back and kicked the door hard with his foot. His leg folded and a sharp dagger of white hot pain shot into his bad knee. He fell to the floor, massaging what he was sure was a torn ACL. The screaming was Holly. Stupid girl didn’t take my advice and run. He imagined she was paying a high price for being stubborn. They would all likely pay the same price as poor Earl before this was over. The familiar waves of anxiety began to wash over him and flashes of his fallen friend, Ned began playing like a slideshow in his mind.
“Not a good time, Ned,” he said to himself, rubbing his temples and trying to send the old ghost away.
He propped his back against the door and slowed his breathing. He didn’t suffer from some of the debilitating effects that war veterans often did, but sometimes stress triggered what he guessed was PTSD. The terrible scene back in Afghanistan was still with him, but he hadn’t had an episode in quite a while. He wondered if it would ever fully disappear. Probably not.
He opened his eyes and stared at the wall—through which he imagined someone would eventually find the bodies of Holly, Denny, Olga, and then his and Earl’s. His eyes drifted to the painting sitting on the reeking, ammonia-soaked couch. Dogs playing poker. Why in the hell would anyone like that painting?
Bulldog thinks he’s gonna win, Troy thought. The dog had an ace tucked away in his paw. But old yellow dog there has a four and two deuces. But the Aussie down there, he’s the smart one. He ain’t showin’ his cards. He’s probably got ’em all bea—
He stopped short, ticking off the numbers on the cards in his head: 4, 2, 2, 1.
“Nah,” he said. “Couldn’t be.”
9
Chain Breaker
He hobbled to the desk and grabbed a piece of paper and the pen from the Third National Bank and scratched the possible numbers out in different groups.
42-2-1
4-2-21
4-22-1
He limped to the safe and whirled the dial around a few times to reset it. He tried each set of numbers once, but nothing happened. He spun the dial again and tried them again. On his final try, he grabbed the handle, turned it, and yanked it open.
A musty smell drifted out. Stacks of hundred dollar bills stared at him—a lot of them. He whistled as he did a quick inventory. If the stacks were complete, there was a hundred thousand dollars in the safe. He pushed it to the side and found a folder with a life insurance policy. He glanced at it, noting that there was a Mrs. Norma Jean Heskett and he felt a twinge of sadness for the woman who had lost her husband, but didn’t know it yet.
And behind the pile of treasures, he hit the jackpot, a nickel-plated .44 magnum Desert Eagle. He picked up the gun carefully and checked the clip. Two bullets. Not much, but it’ll have to do. He pushed the safe door until it was nearly closed, but didn’t lock it.
He had never before tried what he was considering doing with the gun, but this was the only tool he had and he was going to give it a shot—literally. He walked to the door, pushed it open until the chain was taut, and pointed the gun at the center link. He angled his body so that he was against the wall, just in case there was a ricochet or shrapnel. He closed his eyes, turned his head away, and squeezed the trigger.
The bang was excruciatingly loud and the kick was harder than he’d expected. He liked this gun. He opened his eyes, the chain still held, but there was a huge chunk taken out of the link he’d shot. He shoved on the door, but the chain still held.
“Dangit.” He pushed and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. With nearly half of the link gone, it still held. “Of all the dad-gum chains, Earl had to buy the good one.”
He looked at the gun, knowing it was now holding only one more bullet. Shoot it again? The shouting from the front of the store had gone quiet and Troy wondered if he was too late. If the others were gone, maybe he could just wait for the kid to come back and then shoot him with the last round. He had just about resigned himself to that option when he heard shouting. Maybe Denny? And then a scream that might have been Olga. They were still
alive. He had to get out and help them.
He aimed at the center of the chain, hoping to take out the remaining, broken portion of the damaged link. He closed his eyes, and fired. When he opened them, he saw that he had done it. The link was now completely broken on one side.
He shoved against the door, but nothing happened. The link was broken, but still held tight to the other pieces of the chain. He needed to pry the link apart and then he could pull the chain apart. Screwdriver. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the stubby screwdriver. It was tiny and not much of a lever, but he jammed it into the broken link.
For what seemed like an eternity, he twisted and turned and worked the screwdriver back and forth and up and down on the link. He was sweaty and his fingers started to cramp and he’d made almost no progress. The link had separated slightly, but not enough. In frustration he grabbed the chain with his hands and pulled hard. Without warning, the chain let go. The link fell to the ground and the two ends of the chain dangled away. The door swung open. Troy picked up the gun and verified that, yes, he had emptied it, but the kid wouldn’t know that.
He eased around the corner of the building and realized that the front half of the store was made of tall glass windows. The kid would see him coming.
Time for a good old-fashioned army crawl, he thought. Everything hurt as he laid down on the ground and began to inch his way toward the front and then around the corner. When he got to the door, he figured he’d try to get in quick and quiet and take cover behind the standee he’d noticed of Charlie Tingle promoting the new strawberry, and lime-flavored gin from Tanqueray. He hoped maybe the kid would be distracted and not see him come in.
He was near the door when the mint-green Buick Regal pulled into the first handicap parking space. A man with white hair and pale skin who might have been a hundred years old, slowly ambled up to the door. He wore a blue pin-striped jumpsuit with his name—Maury—embroidered under a patch that proclaimed he worked at Krazy Kevin’s Auto Repair Shop.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 132