Athens Ambuscade

by Kristen Joy Wilks

  The man didn’t look angry. He was calm and efficient as he turned me toward the house and whispered near my ear. “Where is the cat, Miss Gianakos?”

  The cat? Chrysanthemum? What on earth would three muscle-bound men want with Ya-Yá’s dead cat? And how did they know my name?

  I looked around the garden. The grass was soft beneath my feet; the tang of juniper bushes and the honey-sweet smell of jasmine scented the air. The rough bark on the twisty old cypress tree seemed real enough.

  Had my tea gone bad and caused a hallucination? Maybe if I was really quiet and closed my eyes, all the insanity would evaporate around me. I tried not to choke on the gag, sucked a deep breath through my nose, and shut my eyes.

  5

  Plan A

  I opened my eyes. I was still in Ya-Yá’s garden.

  Two of the masked men were gone, but one remained. The weight of his grip on my shoulder kept me from running toward the street. The scratch of his callused hand on my skin and the stifling presence of the gag made me suspect that the unlikely scenario was all too real.

  I turned my head to look one more time and make sure. The villain was still there. One of his gigantic arms was inked with the likeness of a scowling Greek goddess. My guess was Athena since she had an owl on her shoulder and wore running shoes of the brand named after one of her temples.

  Hmmm, I would never populate my dreams with such a creative tattoo. I swallowed the sudden lump that tightened my throat.

  OK, then, masked bandits of questionable origin had invaded my childhood sanctuary. They wanted Ya-Yá’s cat. The same cat that I needed to stuff and set upon the mantel in order to claim my new home and prevent said home’s acquisition by the bank. I tried to grit my teeth around the gag. As much as I would love to hand these maniacs Chrysanthemum’s carcass and wish them on their way, I could not. I needed that frozen cat.

  Shane stumbled through the door. He was flanked by two of the masked men, who dragged him forward as he staggered between them. Blood ran down his jaw from a cut on his cheekbone.

  “The plaster on the mold isn’t dry, and the skin is not properly cured. You cannot move that cat!” Shane glowered at the cat-nappers, but they had him outnumbered. It was nice to know that he took his work so seriously.

  Ya-Yá apparently had better instincts about taxidermy professionals than I had given her credit for.

  One of the men ducked back inside the house while another crammed a gag into Shane’s mouth. My own personal villain snapped a cuff on my right wrist and clipped the other onto Shane’s left. Oh, just great!

  Shane smelled like dead cat, and chemicals, and flannel.

  The handcuffs would definitely not aid our escape from this unlikely attack.

  I mean really, who outside of movie stars and mafia hit men had to deal with actual masked bandits? It still could be a dream. An incredibly vivid dream where my subconscious was giving a last feeble shot at dealing with my latent…hmmm…latent fear of black vans? Masked men? Dead cats? Flannel!

  My villain yanked me forward. The cuff pinched my wrist.

  Shane stepped closer to ease the tension.

  Inside, I had complained about the scent of taxidermy chemicals. But Shane also smelled of leather, and horses, and a forested hillside on a sunlit day. I turned toward him, surprised that those vague, distant scents could paint such clear images in my churning mind.

  The third intruder returned with a large cardboard box.

  I averted my eyes.

  The new wave of chemical odors told me exactly what was inside. At least the cat-napper was carrying it himself. I shuddered at the thought of them needing information or something and making me carry the cat box as some kind of terrible torture. Ugh.

  Shane craned to look. He groaned from behind his gag.

  Apparently, they were not giving Chrysanthemum the “kid glove treatment” that an animal in her tender state of transition required.

  Cat in hand, the bandits hustled us toward the black van.

  I looked around trying to appear desperate and in need of a few dozen calls to the police station.

  They were stuffing us into a black van, for goodness sake. It had no plates, tinted windows, and a bullet hole above the left front tire. It was not as if this looked suspicious or anything.

  The street was strangely quiet. Where were the hordes of tourists and their smart phones?

  I looked up toward the Monastiraki flea market.

  Crowds milled at the front of the closest booth.

  Time slowed as I squinted to decipher a large, brightly painted sign. My Greek wasn’t fabulous, and the sign was quite a ways away.

  They stuffed Shane inside the van, and then I had it.

  Free Frappés For Every Third Customer!

  The fiends! They had cleared the street using sweet coffee goodness.

  My stomach clenched as I looked back down the street one last time before they shoved me inside next to Shane.

  That little trick with the frappés gave a grim glimpse into the mind and resources of our mystery foe.

  I thought of the long line that had snaked down the sidewalk. That was a lot of frappés.

  Who on earth wanted Chrysanthemum this badly?

  Whatever their identity, my plan of action was clear. Sit quiet and be helpful. The kidnappers would not appreciate any rough and rowdy escape attempts. Such actions would only incite them to violence and quite probably ruin my fresh manicure right before the meeting with my new boss. If we remained clear-headed and calm, everything would work out in the end.

  The van was empty, no seats, no boxes, nothing but dark blue carpet and a spare set of handcuffs.

  I looked around one more time confirming that my plan was the best one. Considering our marked lack of random bolt cutters and handy acetylene torches, it was. I pulled in as deep a breath as my gag allowed and began relaxing my body. I used a little trick I’d learned in college. I imagined that a friendly squad of squid were massaging every muscle on the bottoms of my feet; the tension began to drain.

  Shane scooted closer across the rough blue carpet. “Start a diversion.” He wiggled his eyebrows toward our captors and scooted toward the front.

  My arm yanked forward as he moved. What? What diversion? This could not be happening. Aaargh! This taxidermy cowboy would ruin my perfect plan. I wriggled forward a few inches and then stopped when Shane lay down behind the passenger seat.

  No, I would not be a part of his foolishness. I absolutely refused to antagonize the kidnappers and risk my appearance and health at such an important juncture in my career. I leaned back against the side of the van and sent calm and helpful thoughts toward our kidnappers before shooting a prayer heavenward.

  Lord, You have read my life goals chart. Being kidnapped was not featured. This is highly irregular. I’m not sure what You think of all this, but I do not approve. Shane is being ridiculous. Please talk some sense into him and make the cat-nappers realize that I am a kind and helpful individual. I don’t care what it takes to make it happen, but I absolutely must get Chrysanthemum stuffed no matter the cost! As always, I acquiesce to Your will. Amen.

  P.S.—I noticed that despite my earlier petition, Shane is most definitely wearing flannel. You owe me, Lord. Now is the perfect time to make up Your debt.

  The third kidnapper yanked the sliding door open and tossed Shane’s bag of equipment inside.

  Lamplight from the darkening street fell on Shane’s face as he drew back his booted foot and aimed for our driver’s temple.

  Just as Shane kicked, the driver turned to address the third kidnapper.

  Shane’s blow was only a glancing one.

  It knocked the masked man back but did not take him down.

  The third kidnapper’s response was swift and violent.

  Three brutal blows and Shane slumped beside me. The third kidnapper slid into the back and tapped the side of the van twice with his knuckles. The vehicle lurched forward.

  I leaned over
Shane keeping one eye on the kidnapper. I could see the taxidermist’s chest rising and falling in a slow regular rhythm.

  But blood soaked his hair, and the cut beneath his eye had reopened.

  I bit my lip and looked up at the kidnapper.

  The eyes behind his mask were dark and cold. But something else within them made me hold my breath. Boredom. The man had just beaten another human until he couldn’t move, and he was bored.

  A little catch in my breath made his eyes narrow.

  He gave me a slow nod acknowledging all that I only now understood.

  They weren’t letting us go.

  No amount of good behavior on my part would fix this. I tore my gaze away from the man’s dark, mocking eyes. I thought of the cluster of missing persons photos at the post office back home.

  No, I would not be the latest addition. Plan A was nothing more than an exercise in naivety.

  Shane and I needed out of this van before we arrived wherever they were taking us.

  And Chrysanthemum.

  I had to rescue Chrysanthemum, as well. The house was my Ya-Yá’s last legacy. I was not going anywhere without that cat.

  OK, Plan B. I needed a Plan B.

  6

  Plan B

  I looked around the interior of the van. Blue carpet, stern and masked kidnappers, well-muscled but unconscious taxidermist, Shane’s bag, and a box full of dead cat. My prospects did not comprise a glittering array of possibilities.

  The third kidnapper turned to chat with the guys up front.

  I tugged Shane’s taxidermy bag closer. His terrible photo book sat on top. I used my free hand to nudge his collection of “Resurrection Cases” aside and dug deeper. Some knives, several bottles of chemicals, and a few furry examples. I couldn’t imagine myself wielding the sharp blades with any sort of success.

  If only he’d brought a large, stuffed grizzly, then maybe I could have scared the driver and dragged us all to safety during the ensuing panic. But only small creatures fit inside the bag. I pushed past a stuffed guinea pig, a parrot attached to a small perch, and a ferret with bared teeth and a bristled tail. The ferret was kind of frightening.

  I recalled a moment driving down Highway 101 when a spider had slid down an invisible strand of web to hang suspended just above the steering wheel. My ensuing panic had come at the price of one right front fender, a new paintjob, two new guardrails, and a small green mile marker sign.

  I reached into the bag and pulled out the ferret. It took me about ten minutes, but scooting forward an inch or so whenever the third kidnapper turned his head, I eased closer to the driver’s seat.

  When the van stopped at an intersection, the kidnapper across from me followed a passing police officer’s car with his eyes.

  I leapt forward and curled up right behind the driver’s seat. My right wrist yanked back toward Shane, but I pulled against the handcuff and pressed against the back of the seat.

  As the van rolled forward once more, I made the ferret creep up the driver’s armrest. The beady black eyes glinted in the lamplight, and the animal’s tail bristled menacingly. I twitched the ferret a little and waited.

  The driver glanced down, looked back at the road, and then snapped his gaze back down toward the ferret.

  I jerked the stuffed woodland creature toward his leg and dug my fingernails into the man’s thigh.

  The results were spectacular.

  The kidnapper let out an un-manly squeal and swatted at his lap completely ignoring the road, the steering wheel, and all the traffic laws that kept Athens’s citizens from being smashed with wild abandon.

  Wild abandon perfectly described the rest of our short drive. The black van roared through the next two intersections swerving and skidding and leaving strips of rubber on the pavement behind us.

  I clutched the driver’s leg with digging fingernails, twitched the ferret nearer, and made a low growling sound in the back of my throat.

  The driver’s foot must have convulsed in sudden fear, for we shot forward straight into a telephone pole.

  It was a good thing I sat crouched behind the driver’s seat clinging for my life.

  Shane was flung forward, his boots hitting the third kidnapper in the face.

  The two men up front had apparently forgotten to buckle up. They smashed into the windshield. One of them groaned and cursed softly while the other lay still.

  The side door busted open and stuck, halfway ajar.

  Oh, yeah. Plan B was a smashing success. No pun intended.

  I yanked at the handcuffs hoping to rouse Shane.

  He only groaned and flopped over.

  Great. I stared at the dreaded box. Was I willing to actually pick up the wretched box without some guy holding a gun to my head? Um…I took a deep breath and caught the scent of leaking fuel. Time to go. Ya-Yá’s home was on the line. I could do this, right? I gulped and snatched up the box of Chrysanthemum’s remains.

  If the kidnappers had been indifferent and cruel before, I didn’t want to find out what new emotions my actions might inspire.

  We needed to get out of here posthaste. But what if I apologized, forty-seven times, and made them a cake? No, it was too late for that.

  I slapped Shane across the face careful not to break a nail.

  He groaned and sat up bracing himself against the side of the van.

  With the sound of sirens approaching, I stuffed Chrysanthemum’s box under my arm, hoisted Shane’s bag over my shoulder, and helped him from the van.

  We stumbled down the street.

  I staggered under the weight of the bag and the awkward bulk of Chrysanthemum’s box. Just don’t think about it. It is only a box of new shoes or oatmeal cookies. However, my senses did not lie. The box did not smell like either new shoes or oatmeal cookies.

  But Shane was barely moving. I couldn’t transfer the terrible bundle to him until he at least stopped staggering. I turned us toward the approaching sirens.

  The third kidnapper emerged from the crumpled van and stood between us and our would-be rescuers. He turned slowly, scanning the street, his hands balled up into huge, clenched fists.

  OK, then! I yanked Shane toward a dark little alley and started to run.

  7

  The Police Station

  After running down about thirty-seven dimly lit side streets, I was finally able to flag a taxi. Though I could understand Greek, speaking it was another matter altogether. I mumbled through a couple of badly accented requests about the police station and helpful officers and needing the cavalry to ride down from the Acropolis and rescue us from cat-thieving maniacs.

  Shane finally pulled his still-oozing head away from the ally wall where he’d been leaning and poked some buttons on his phone. Ah, he had an app. With his phone to guide me, I requested that we visit Athens’s friendly local police station.

  I had a few bills sewn inside my scarf. Hey, it never hurts to be prepared.

  And even with Shane’s obvious head-trauma and a dead cat in the box, the cabbie gave us a ride.

  We did have to sit on a pair of towels in the back. No one likes cat hair or random taxidermy chemicals in their vehicle. I could empathize. Finally, I was able to set down the terrible box. I put it on Shane’s side and then scooted as far away from them both as possible.

  We pulled up in front of the police station.

  As I reached for the door, Shane put a hand on my arm.

  A handsome Greek man in an immaculate business suit was shaking hands with a detective on the steps. A silver flash drew my attention to the fact that he was wearing two or three rings on each hand. Such a large quantity of adornments was pretty unique among businessmen.

  Two men stood beside him. They were recently bandaged, and an attractive lady officer handed them cold sodas.

  Shane pointed at the guy closest to the Greek business man. “Look at his arm.”

  A distinctive tattoo greeted my gaze. The Greek goddess Athena wearing jogging shoes, with an owl on her
shoulder and a fierce glower on her beautiful face. What on earth? I had been about to open my door, but when Shane pointed out that ridiculous tattoo, I yanked my hand back from the handle so fast, you guessed it, I totally shredded two fingernails in my haste.

  I had called the police as soon as we’d escaped. It simply took us awhile to find the station.

  Regardless of our tardiness, these men should have been in a cell. They were most definitely two of our three kidnappers.

  An out-of-breath underling rushed from the station and approached the detective. The detective snatched a sketch out of the underling’s hands and handed it to the Greek gentleman. The suit looked over the sketch, obviously asked our kidnappers to peruse the paper, and then gave his nod of approval.

  The men said their farewells, and the suit led our kidnappers down the long stretch of steps toward a waiting limousine.

  Our cabby tapped the number on his dash that indicated our fare and reminded me that we had yet to pay.

  But the suited gentleman stopped right outside my window.

  I caught a glimpse of the police sketch. The page showed a slim woman in her mid-twenties. She had long hair, large eyes, and a good-sized aquiline nose. Except for the fact that I’m pretty sure my nose isn’t quite that impressive, it was the face that had been staring back at me from the mirror for the past twenty-seven years. And apparently, that sketch had only been a copy, because now several officers held their own pages with my face emblazoned across the top.

  Perhaps the police station was not our best option.

  8

  The Marbles

  A quick drive down Ya-Yá’s street revealed two dark sedans parked beside the garden. Home was not an option, either.

  It was late, Shane and I were battered and bedraggled and cuffed at the wrist.

  The police thought I was some sort of cat-thieving villainess. And the taxi fare was nearing the amount I had sewed in my scarf. Things were not looking rosy. I glanced out the window and saw that we had neared the Acropolis.

  “Take a left here.” I told our driver. A few turns later, we parked beneath the rustling fronds of twin palm trees.