In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (41 page)

The goon closed his cell with a snap. “Don’t go anywhere,” he shouted to Mo and Ross. He stuffed the gun he’d been holding into the back of his waistband. Then, with a laugh, he ran out slamming the metal door closed behind him. She heard clanking like some kind of padlock being applied to the door.

Ross began hopping in his chair. Up and down it went, the legs thumping against the concrete floor. “Hurry," he said. "See if we can get close enough to each other for you to reach in my pocket.”

Mo began an awkward hop scoot motion trying to make her way toward Ross. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and dripped down to her cheek. Her thighs burned with the strain. Finally, their knees were almost touching.

“I’ll try to turn,” Mo said. Her breath chugged out. She gave a hop, twist, and scoot motion. The chair almost toppled over. The pain in her thighs increased as she tightened with all her might to keep from falling. “I knew I should have gone to the gym more in the last six months,” Mo muttered.

When she got herself turned to the side, she could only see Ross if she strained over her shoulder. But with her head in that position she couldn’t hop.

Facing forward Ross guided her. “More to the right. Just a little bit more.” She heard him moving too. “There you have it,” he said triumphantly.

Fortunately, the tape bound her around her forearms and didn’t cover her wrists and hands. The tape tightened and cut into her skin as she moved her hands. Her fingers numbed but she could still feel the denim of Ross’s jeans.

“Up a bit.”

Mo felt the edge of the pocket. She heard Ross adjusting in the chair and he moved down giving her easier access. She strained upward as much as possible to get a better angle. Her fingers inched into the pocket. Would she be able to get to the bottom?

“There should be nail clippers in there if you can reach them.”

“Move toward me,” Mo said trying to dig deeper. She ran into some change. Not much help in the rounded edges of the coins. “Closer.”

“I’m trying,” Ross said.

Mo felt the muscles of his thigh tense under her fingertips. She arched and twisted to the right to get a better angle into the pocket and the ball of her left shoulder burned. The tendons in her triceps felt ready to snap. But, just as she thought she would come up with nothing...Success. The hard edge of the squeeze style clippers met her palm.

Tweezing her index and middle finger, Mo gripped the metal, praying as she drew it out of the pocket, that she wouldn’t lose her tentative grip and drop it to the floor.

“That’s it,” Ross said with a relieved exhale.

The clippers cleared the pocket and, balancing her hand on the top of Ross’s thigh, Mo consolidated her grip.

“Can you get the nail file part to slide out?” Ross asked. “That joker could be back any minute with his wings and beer.”

“I know,” Mo said. “But my fingers feel like their going to come off. I can barely feel my fingers at this point.” She pushed the metal arm of the file with her thumb and it twisted out of the way.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Just a little more.”

Mo knew he was just trying to be encouraging by using the endearment. He didn’t really mean she was his sweetheart. But still the word made her choke-up with tears in her eyes and throat.

When the rough ridges on the nail file lay exposed from beneath the metal arm, she found the point at the tip was more blunt than she would have wanted. But at least it was a point.

The nail file swung out into the opposite direction from the metal arm. Mo dropped her arms down off Ross’s thigh and felt relief in her shoulders.

“That’s it. You’ve got it,” Ross said with triumph. “I’m going to try to move so that my wrists are within reach of the file.”

The legs of Ross’s chair clanged and thumped.

“Careful, don’t knock into my hands. I don’t know if I can hold onto the file.”

“
Righto
.”

Over her shoulder, Mo saw Ross maneuver into place. Mo strained to lift her wrists to feel for the tape of his bindings with the fingers of her left hand, while gripping the nail file in her right. When she made contact, she scooted the chair back to gain more leverage for the cutting motion.

At first the tape seemed too elastic for her to make any headway in breaking through it.

“Try to pull your wrists away from each other so the tape tautens up,” Mo said.

Ross nodded and the nail file had more bite almost immediately. Back and forth, up and down, she dug and slashed in as wide an arc as the limits of her bindings would allow.

“Keep going,” Ross said. “It feels like I can almost break the tape.”

Mo dug forward and missed the tape. She lost her grip on the nail file and the clippers dropped to the ground with a dull clunk.

“Shitake,” she moaned. “Oh, Ross.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Ross said.

A dull snap and Mo saw Ross move to the bindings around his legs. He quickly dispensed with them and she felt him at work on her arms. When they were free, she rubbed her hands together to resume circulation while Ross worked on the tape around her ankles. A sound from outside the building caused them both to pause in the frantic movements.

“He’s back.” Ross bolted toward the door.

“Watch out. You know he has a gun.” Mo finished with the tape, bunched it up into a clump automatically, and then threw it down.

Joining Ross and pressing her ear to the metal, she heard the slam of a car door outside. A few seconds later, the sound of the clang of the lock falling on metal had Mo and Ross jumping back. Clearly audible Russian words were voiced in a tone that sounded like swearing followed by a pounding on the door.

“Idiot. Where is that
byeazoomyets
.
”

“He has be there, boss,” a low voice said.

“Then how did this lock come?”

“
Uhmmm
. I could shoot lock off.”

“No. Maybe I let you shoot
byeazoomyets
.
He must be at the club. Come.”

A few moments later, car doors slammed and the engine was heard to turn over and fade away into the distance.

This door looks like the only way in or out,” Ross said scanning the warehouse. “No windows that I can see.”

Pushing and tugging the door proved futile even though both Ross and Mo participated. It barely gave an inch in either direction. Mo struck at the door with her shoulder.

“French fried fajitas!” Mo exclaimed through chugging breaths. She hit it again and the door didn’t budge.

Ross pulled her into his arms. “Stop it. You’re going to dislocate your shoulder.”

“We have to get out of here before they come back.”

“Obviously,” he said with a quirk to his lips. “But injuring yourself isn’t going to do it. Let me try.”

Ross set her gently aside and then kicked the door forcefully. It bent but didn’t give way. Retrieving the metal chair he’d been tied to, Ross rammed at the door with its legs, which produced nothing more than four round leg-sized dents in the metal.

“Maybe we should try to hide,” Mo said.

“Where? There’s nothing in here to hide in.”

“What about the float?” Mo asked.

The two of them climbed aboard the paper
mache
monstrosity. At the front of the float trailer a miniature model of downtown Savannah had been constructed dominated by a tenth scale version of the gold domed city hall. A similarly scaled model of a suspension bridge spanned a blue tissue paper Savannah River between the downtown and the strip club.

A quick inspection revealed that the replica of the
Hoochie
Mama’s House building had been fastened to a green toilet paper covered hill constructed over what felt like a wood two-by-four foundation about six feet in height.

The
house
had an interior about six
feet square,
not including the front porch area.

“They’ll look in there first thing,” Mo said.

“Yes,” Ross said his face set in lines of concentration. “But I have an idea. Get the duct tape remnants and the nail file.” Ross examined the
hill
and then prodded at it with careful fingers.

When Mo had retrieved the items. Ross took the nail file in hand and began cutting into the side of the mock grass near one of the corners, a straight line for approximately three feet. More cutting and he had created a paper
mache
entrance. The interior was a tissue paper cave.

Just then they heard a car engine approaching.

“Get in,” Ross said.

Mo made a move to comply then stopped. “I’m claustrophobic.”

“They have weapons,” Ross reminded her.

“Good point.” She climbed in. “I’m more
gunaphobic
.”

Ross followed pulling the paper door over the opening. He took the duct tape from Mo’s hand and applied it to the corners of the opening.

“Let’s hope they don’t look at this side very carefully,” Ross said.

“Yeah, we’re sitting duck a
l’orange
in here.”

 Mo knew air could pass through the toilet paper, and it wasn’t even that dark. Nevertheless, the walls seemed to be moving closer. She put an arm through Ross’s and the two of them stood, Ross with a slight hunch, silently listening to the metal clank of the Russian mobsters entering the warehouse.

“They gone,” a baritone voice exclaimed.

“They can’t be. I locked the door,” a higher voice with a frightened tremor said.

“Well, they are.”
Kubikov
sounded disgusted.

“Maybe they hide,” the baritone said.

Fingers snapped. Mo heard scuttling about on cement. Obviously, the goons were looking for them. Her grip on Ross’s arm tightened and, in the dim light of the toilet paper cave, her frightened eyes met his. He was a great actor, but she could tell his calm was too studied and deliberate to be real. Bless him. He was trying to be reassuring. He dropped a silent kiss on the tip of her nose.

They both jerked as a movement near the float startled them. Through the small breaks in the paper, Mo saw
Gigantor
near the edge of the trailer holding the float. He bent and crawled under the edge. A bump on the floor under her feet nearly produced a gasp from Mo, which she prevented with a hand over her mouth.

After a few seconds,
Gigantor
emerged rubbing his head. Excellent, the monster had hit his head.

“Anything over there?”
Kubikov
asked.

“Nothing. But I look more.” The thug jumped up onto the trailer and Ross steadied Mo when the floor dipped with his weight. He climbed the stairs and Mo heard him clomping around on the plank of plywood over their heads. Two steps this way, three steps that. Would he think to look beneath his feet? Were any of the cracks wide enough for him to see them?

“Anything?”
Kubikov’s
tone was impatient.

“No. They not here.”

Scuttling noises, then the little goon yipped. Mo leaned closer to one of the paper rips to see the smaller thug in the grips of the larger one.

“Is Stephen Dagger and his girl do the magic?”
Kubikov
asked.