by Gina LaManna
“Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “There’s nothing in there except cloth. I plan on using it to wipe up any accidental messes we might have here.”
“Well, I don’t plan on making any messes,” Meg said. “Speak for yourself.”
“I think he meant that we won’t have a choice,” I said as I approached Meg slowly, holding my hands out so Grease Ball could see my every action. I didn’t want him to perceive any suspicious movement, or any reason to shoot us, for that matter. At least not before we’d tried to escape.
“What messes are you talking abou—oh...” she trailed off, looking up at our captor. “Blood.”
“Your blood, specifically,” he said. “Either one. Like I said, I don’t discriminate.”
I felt Meg’s arm muscles tense as she held her hands behind her back for me to tie her up.
“Turn around so I can see,” he instructed. “And if the knot’s loose enough for her to wiggle a centimeter, I’m firing. And I haven’t decided who I’m starting with.”
I gulped, holding the rope up bluntly before Meg and making meaningful eye contact. “Got it.”
“Why you got that bag of guns over there?” Meg asked. She nodded towards the far corner. Grease Ball whipped his head in the opposite direction, which gave me all the time I needed to set the plan in action – the last minute plan I’d rapidly devised on the walk back from the box of rags.
I’d tried to convey my plan to Meg via a combination of glances and gestures, and apparently it worked. She, too, was ready.
Slipping the rope into the waistband of my yoga pants – the bulge covered by my loose tank top – I quickly switched it out for the rope candy from Meg’s back pocket. When Grease Ball had instructed I tie her up, I’d used the opportunity to poke around at her pockets and feel around for the right one. When I finally landed on the stash containing the roll of licorice rope, she’d created the diversion I needed in order to do the switcheroo.
Thankfully, most of the rope was still intact. I ripped off the bite mark on the end and quickly surveyed the candy. Upon close inspection, it certainly wouldn’t hold up. The licorice was made to look like real rope, but it was sticky and a bit flimsy and overall, quite clearly a piece of candy.
However, it wasn’t meant to hold up in a court of law. Its purpose was as a temporary placeholder – neither Meg nor I were planning to wait until Grease Ball got close enough to smell the sugar. We wanted to escape, and if we accurately balanced proactivity and patience, maybe this little trick could give us the tiniest advantage. Sometimes, it was the little things that made the biggest differences.
When Grease Ball turned back, the only thing he saw was me dutifully tying up my friend. Meg had provided the perfect distraction.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, referencing the perfectly empty corner of the room. Aside from the box of mess rags, there was nothing else in the place. “Guns?”
Meg’s distraction had the additional benefit of partially confirming our suspicions that Grease Ball had been carrying the guns into the shack the other day. If he hadn’t been, he would have just looked confused at Meg’s accusation. However, the alarm in his eyes and the unintentional way he’d started at the word was telling. Not to mention, he’d been waiting for us to come back to his land. Watching for us. We hadn’t even made it into his front yard before he’d attacked us. My mind flicked to Fede’s request during the stakeout for Anthony’s help with the firearms case. Could our captor possibly be involved?
“What are you talking about, guns?” he asked, taking a step closer to Meg.
I finished tying a knot with the licorice rope. It wasn’t an incredibly loose knot. From far away, it could pass for the real deal. But for up close, it wouldn’t get past anyone.
Meg shifted so her hands were hidden, as I took a step away. I kept my hands raised next to my chin.
“I was mistaken,” Meg said. “No guns. In fact, this place is empty. Really, you could do with some decoration in here. If you let us go, I could set you up with a friend. She’s a fabulous interior designer—”
“Where’d you get the idea I had more guns?” he asked, not taking the bait.
“I made it up,” Meg said. “Probably all this stress from being tied up is playing tricks on my mind. Plus, I got the cat to worry about in the car. Not to mention, I was really looking forward to eating some sauce right about now. Do you got anything to eat?”
“I’ll give you one more chance to answer,” he said, the metal in his hand glinting beneath a ray of sunlight peeking through the cracks.
Meg rolled her eyes. “We saw you with a sack of ‘em the other day, genius.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You couldn’t have – I had them...” he trailed off, staring at the ceiling as if retracing his steps back to the first time we’d stumbled on the place.
He didn’t need to finish his sentence. He’d essentially confirmed that a sack of guns was in his possession. “It’s no use lying about it now,” I said. “You thought far too long for me to believe any excuse you come up with.”
“I – no,” he said.
Taking a big step towards us, he tilted the nose of the gun at my forehead. He barely glanced at Meg, which meant our little trick was working. He assumed her hands were tied behind her back, and focused his attention on me.
He stopped his forward march only a few feet from us. “Fine,” he said, with a slight bow. “Have it your way. Yes, I have a bag full of guns. They’re not in here at the moment, but be well aware they’re around.”
“Where are they?” Meg asked.
My eyes, meanwhile, had been scanning the floor. “In the cellar,” I said, pointing towards a hatch that’d been partially hidden under the table in the center of the room. “Am I right?”
“This isn’t twenty-nine questions,” the man growled. “But, since we’re playing this game, you’ll be happy to know I always win. Now you’ve so kindly given me no choice but to kill you, because you couldn’t keep your noses out of business that wasn’t yours.”
“First, it’s twenty-one questions. Second, why do you have the weapons?” I asked. “What are you doing with them?”
“I’m not an amateur. You think I’m going to tell you? Forget it.” He shook his head. “And show me her hands. I need to make sure you actually tied her up.”
No! I wasn’t ready yet. My palms were sweating like mad, my underarms were no better, and a line of perspiration even beaded my forehead. To top it all off, I could’ve used another layer of deodorant.
One escape plan after another flashed through my brain. I’d been hoping Grease Ball would walk over to inspect Meg’s hands; then, we could rush him and try to get the gun. Because he stood so far back, it was too dangerous to make a run for him – he’d shoot us seven times before we could reach him.
Meg slowly turned around, her hands wrapped in licorice rope behind her back.
“Decent knot,” he said from afar, his eyes glancing at her wrists. “But I want to see you test it. Try to get out. Try hard.”
“Why don’t you look at it up close?” I pressed. “My dad taught me how to tie the knot. I’m actually pretty proud of it.”
He didn’t even blink at the reference to my father, which told me he most likely had no idea who I was. I didn’t have a dad. Or not one I knew about, at least. And if he was familiar with my Luzzi family name, I imagined he would’ve brought up the whole mobster thing.
Chances were slim he’d even tried to figure out my identity after our first visit. Not everyone had a facial recognition system next to the laying desk in their living room.
“I’m not falling for your tricks,” he said. “You, girl, try to get out of the knot.”
Meg put on a valiant display of attempting to fake-maneuver her hands free of the rope. I held my breath; struggle too much, and she’d snap her bindings. Struggle too little, and he’d know we’d cheated.
My heart pumped hard, and I was sure he’d be able to hear my
shallow breathing as Meg put on a believable display of grunts and sharp inhalations as she “attempted” to slide her wrists from the bindings. I reminded myself to buy an Oscar trophy and gift it to her on her next birthday. Her performance was stellar.
“Wait a second,” Grease Ball said, standing up and taking a step towards us.
My breath caught in my throat. I watched, the blood pulsing in my ears, as he took one step after another.
“I want to see you pull,” he hissed to Meg, his body still out of reach.
Meg’s eye twitched as she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. We were trapped.
Reluctantly, Meg separated her arms from one another, straining the rope.
“Either test it or don’t,” I said, blurting out the instructions. I didn’t think about it. All I knew was that our guy was squinting too closely at the rope while standing too far away. He was ruining all of my escape plans, which was really starting to bum me out. It was my birthday; I didn’t want to die today.
“Why so eager?” he asked, his gaze shifting towards me.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, which was that I needed to draw his attention away from scrutinizing Meg’s wrists.
“Because I tied a really freaking good knot, and I want you to either look at it or get that gun off my friend’s back,” I said. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
His expression reflected surprise, as if taken aback by my stubborn tone. When he finally gathered his thoughts, he shook his head again, as if reminding himself he was in charge. “I can make her feel uncomfortable as much as I damn please.”
“Listen, I get it,” I said on a whim. “We’re both low men on the totem pole. I work for someone, you work for someone – why are we fighting over other people’s requests? Shouldn’t we decide for ourselves who we kill and which decisions we make?”
Grease Ball paused, a flash of understanding in his eyes.
I was right in thinking he was a pawn. Unlike Anthony or Carlos, who wore the aura of power and leadership like an expensive suit, this guy operated a bit rough around the edges, a bit unsure of his next move. He wasn’t used to being in charge. The question remained, however: who was playing him?
“No,” he said. “I’m not just a cog in the wheel. I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re important. You’re not one in a million. I’ve been there, buddy,” I said. “In fact, quite recently. You know what happened? My partners solved the case without me. Yeah – they didn’t even bother to tell me.” I shook my head in disgust. “Doesn’t feel very nice, does it?”
Grease Ball neither confirmed nor denied it, but I crossed my fingers that I’d struck a nerve. If he were at all human, he could most likely relate. And if I could hit the right nerve and bond with him...
“No, it doesn’t feel very nice,” he said, appearing to have come out of a fog. “Which is why I’m taking control. And my first – my very first personal decision – is to get rid of you.”
“No!” I raised my hands and took a step back, but I was too late. He raised the rifle, pointed it at me, and fired.
Chapter 12
MY LITTLE RANT TO GREASE Ball had served a purpose. Besides the fact that it felt therapeutic to yell about my co-workers, it’d given Meg time to make her move. Unbeknownst to Grease Ball, she’d snapped her bindings and had inched slowly towards our captor. The more irate Grease Ball had become, the closer he had moved towards me. And the less attention he paid to Meg’s advances.
By the time he’d raised his rifle to fire, Meg had been within arm’s reach. But as soon as Grease Ball’s promise to kill me had left his mouth, Meg leapt forward, knocking him to the floor as he fired the gun.
I dove out of the way, my eardrums ringing from the shot. The world flew upside down; a voice screamed; someone else groaned.
I didn’t feel any searing pain, and no blood gushed from my body.
My ears weren’t yet working, but a flash of movement from the corner of my eye drew my attention towards the center of the room.
“I’ve been shot!” Meg screamed, rolling in circles over the floor. “Man down. Man down – I’ve been shot!”
Splatters of a shiny red liquid smeared across the cabin’s freshly laid floor, the metallic scent mixing with the sweetness of the pine. It took my brain a lot longer than it should have to register that the red stains were blood. When my brain put two and two together, the lightheadedness came in a hurry.
I really didn’t like blood.
My breakfast threatened to evacuate my stomach and my knees were on the verge of collapse.
Meg’s wails of pain pierced my brain and I stumbled about, trying to pull myself together. My body recoiled against the shock, revolting against the scene unfolding before me.
It wasn’t until I tripped over someone’s arm that I remembered another person was in the room.
Grease Ball reached for the gun, which had been knocked from his hands by one of Meg’s flailing appendages. I stomped down hard on the outstretched fingers without a second thought. My instincts took over, and when he withdrew his hand in pain, I surged towards the gun.
Picking it up, I pointed it at Grease Ball, who cradled his hand close to his chest. I tried to give off my best confident vibe, though it was difficult. The buzzing in my ears felt like a posse of mosquitoes had arrived, ready for a party in my brain, and Grease Ball’s whimpers coupled with Meg’s screams twisted together in a cacophony that made me want to shoot him just so he’d be quiet.
I took big, careful steps toward my friend. Getting to her as quickly as possible was difficult because I was afraid to take my gun off of Grease Ball for too long. I hoped the threat of violence would be enough, because if he made a move towards me, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to pull the trigger.
I’d never shot anyone before. I had accidentally kidnapped someone, however. Even though I let the man go unhurt, the whole situation didn’t give me the warm fuzzies. I couldn’t imagine shooting someone would feel much better, even if he deserved it.
“You won’t shoot me,” he growled at me as I reached Meg.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, flicking my eyes back and forth as quickly as possible.
“No,” she said. “He shot me in the cheek.”
I glanced in alarm at her face.
“Not that one,” she said.
My level of alarm decreased slightly, now that Meg lay still on the ground. Her face was a bit pale, but she was able to talk and string together logical sentences, which counted for something. Despite trying to not look at the blood splatters on the floor, I also couldn’t help but notice they weren’t deep, thick pools of the stuff. The marks were more of a light dusting, probably caused my Meg’s extensive wriggling.
It was a mistake to take my eyes off Grease Ball for even the briefest of moments.
By the time I turned my gaze back to him, he was already on his feet and taking steps towards us. His gaze didn’t show fear. His eyes held a quiet confidence, probably thinking I wouldn’t shoot him.
And even though I knew we were in danger, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger.
“You won’t shoot me,” he said again, now only a few short steps away.
“No, she won’t,” Meg said, pulling herself to her feet with a guttural scream. She yanked the gun from my hand and expertly trained it at him, looking more comfortable behind the trigger than I’d ever be. “But I will.”
Meg’s scream had stopped the man in his tracks. I felt so sorry for my friend, so sad she’d been injured while trying to save me. Still, I had to push those thoughts away for the moment, and deal with the situation at hand. There’d be time to talk later.
“Uh, I believe you’ll shoot me,” Grease Ball said, slowly raising his hands and for the first time looking deeply frightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I wasn’t aiming for you. If you hadn’t jumped in front—”
“You’re stuttering,” Meg interrupted. “So what, you didn’t mean to
hit my buns? You were aiming to murder my friend.”
Suddenly realizing his argument lacked sustenance, Grease Ball shrugged. “Uh, well – I suppose...”
I watched his eyes glance towards the door of the shack and then to the cellar beneath the table. I moved over and stood on top of the cellar, just in case. “He’s looking to—” I started.
“Oooh yeah, I see him looking,” Meg said. “And I’m looking at him with the barrel of a gun. One false move and I’ll give him a new butt-hole to match mine.”
“Uh, Meg – I might not call it that,” I said, craning around to look behind her. “It doesn’t sound that great.”
“How does it look?” she asked.
I wasn’t particularly eager to take a peek at Meg’s rear end, but after all she’d done, it was a simple favor for her to ask.
I lifted up her vest with hesitation. Her jeans were torn just above the spot where her leg connected with her pelvis. Peeling the torn opening back a bit, I could see the place where the bullet had nicked her. I certainly wasn’t a doctor or a paramedic – heck, I couldn’t even remember how many breaths to give during CPR – but even I could tell it was only a flesh wound. The bleeding had already stopped, and except for a stain on her jeans and a bit of a mess on the floor, she’d be fine with a little antiseptic and a Band-Aid.
“It’s not actually a hole,” I said, letting her vest fall back down to its normal position. “It’s more of a scratch. You’ll be okay.”
“I know I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m a mother-freakin’ tough cookie, so I’ll be okay. But this guy gave me a butt-scratch. I don’t like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, waving his hands above his head. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t try to give you a, er...”
“Call it what it is,” Meg said. “A butt-scratch. Now I gotta go to the doctor, and I don’t like doctors much.”