Heat Vol. 5 (Heat: Master Chefs #5) (2 page)

Rushing
to it, my blood pounded in my ears and I felt a sense of elation for the first
time since leaving the restaurant the night before.  I grabbed the key and
hurried back to the car.  With a small, silent prayer on my lips, I slipped it
into the ignition.

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.