“God damn it, Stanley!” Mary’s scream reverberated through the house. She sprinted back toward the kitchen, Dorothy’s footsteps pounding behind her.
They barely had time to process the terror before it struck. A vise-like hand clamped over Mary’s mouth, silencing her scream. An iron grip encircled her frail torso, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw Stanley sprawled on the kitchen floor, struggling to push himself up on shaky hands and knees.
A low, guttural gasp escaped her muffled mouth as she glimpsed another figure—towering, menacing, and grim—pressing the barrel of a gun against Dorothy’s trembling stomach. Dorothy’s eyes bulged, her knees buckling in fear as she faced the brute’s cold, unyielding gaze.
Mary’s frantic glare darted to a third figure, younger and more agile than the others, who moved with a predator’s grace as he knelt beside Stanley. The kitchen, now a scene of chaotic dread, seemed to close in around them, the oppressive weight of imminent violence pressing down on every breath they took.
The man clutching Mary in his deadly embrace spoke first with chilling deliberation. “I told you someone would have their door open in a neighborhood like this. Crackheads and old fools…” His lips brushed Mary’s ear as he whispered with sinister intimacy. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, ma’am,” he continued, his tone dripping with mock courtesy, “but my associates and I would like to visit with you and your family for a spell.” He gave a curt nod, signaling his lack of interest in any response. “Pick up the old man,” he said to the youngest of the trio, not a request but an order. “Find me some rope or tape, and take them into the other room.”
Mary gaped in stunned silence, tears streaming from her eyes.
“How dare you lowlifes…” Dorothy began, her voice quaking with anger. The giant holding the gun on her grasped the front of her shirt and relocated the barrel of the gun firmly against her throat.
“Shhhh, not another word,” he whispered with eerie calmness.
“You won’t get away with this,” Dorothy spat out defiantly, her voice a brittle shard of glass in the tense air. Mary, eyes wide and pleading, silently begged her to stop talking. The brute responded with a chilling click, cocking the hammer of the gun. Dorothy’s defiance faltered; her eyelids clamped shut as if to block out the horror.
Mary’s breath hitched, feeling the crushing weight of the arm wrapped around her, as though it could squeeze the life out of her with terrifying ease.
The younger man, moving with a disconcerting blend of care and control, eased Stanley off the floor and guided him toward the living room. But the hulking brute with the gun remained rooted in place. “What the hell we stoppin’ for. We need to keep movin’” he growled, his impatience palpable.
“You shut your damn mouth,” the man grasping Mary snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. “This is your mess. We had the money—Hell, we were home free. But you just had to go and kill that guard, didn’t you?”
“Kill the guard?” The brute’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talkin’ ’bout? He set off the alarm. I told him to lie down, and he set off the alarm. Screw him. And you know what else? Screw you too!”
“You just screwed all of us,” the man hissed, anger boiling over. “Get outta my sight. I need to think.”
“Think about what? Kill the codgers.” Dorothy gasped as the catcher’s mitt of a hand clamped around her throat. “We take their car and get the hell outta Dodge. There’s a hundred side streets out of here. There’s no way they can cover ‘em all that quick. Let’s just book it outta here.”
“You’ve done enough thinking for one day,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that echoed the storm outside. “Take the old women into the other room and give me a few minutes. This storm’s gonna give us some cover. No one could have seen us come in here. As long as that storm keeps up and they’re looking for us out there, we’ll be safe in here.” As if on cue, the walls shuddered with a violent crash of thunder, making the entire house tremble. An involuntary shriek escaped from Dorothy, a high-pitched sound of raw fear that seemed to hang in the charged air.
“Yeah, ’til they start a house-to-house search… don’t be thinking’ on this too long,” the brute snarled. With a rough shove, he jammed the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then yanked Dorothy’s head back with a vicious jerk. His other hand clamped down on Mary as he dragged both women toward the doorway, his grip unyielding. His cold, unforgiving eyes shot a final, furious glare before he shoved the two women into the next room, the storm outside mirroring the violence within.
Stanley sat on the sofa in a daze with the angry shadow of a bruise spreading across the left side of his face. Sitting beside Stanley was the younger man, appearing strangely nervous as he clumsily tended to Stanley’s injury. “You didn’t have to hit him like that,” he shouted at the brute. “He’s an old man, what was he going to do? You’re damn lucky you didn’t kill him.”
“Christ…when did you two turn into such old ladies? First, I had to listen to your old man whine about the guard, and now you’re getting soft over this old cottontop. I thought I was working with men,” the brute sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he tightened his iron grip on the women. His hateful gaze locked on to Stanley. “Old man… you got duct tape?”
Stanley’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, calm yet edged with steel. “You’re hurting my wife,” he said, his eyes boring into the brute with an unflinching glare. “Take your hands off her, and you can have whatever you want.”
The brute blinked in stunned disbelief at the old man’s audacity. He didn’t beg. Hell, he didn’t even ask. He commanded. He commanded a man three times his size, ordering him to release his wife. “Is that right?” the brute growled, as if he’d been threatened. His jaw clenched, and he wrapped his fingers around Mary’s throat. “Maybe I just break her neck, old man… then we can see who gives the orders ’round here.”
The kid sprang from his seat and rushed closer to the brute than was probably wise. “What the hell, man!” he shouted. “You’re tough talking someone old enough to be your great-grandfather. Let’s just calm down so we can figure out how we’re getting out of here.”
The brute’s sneer twisted into something darker, his contempt palpable. “Fine, you deal with Old Man River and his bitches,” he spat, his words laced with venom. With a brutal shove, he flung Mary and Dorothy toward the kid, their frail bodies colliding awkwardly into his arms. The brute didn’t wait for a response; he stormed out of the room, his heavy footsteps pounding the floor, leaving a suffocating silence in his wake.
The kid helped Mary sit down beside Stanley as Dorothy took a seat across the room. He again tended to the bruise on the side of Stanley’s face. “Look, I’m sorry about all this,” he muttered, a hint of shame creeping into his voice. “I’ll get you some ice for your head, but I’m gonna have to tie you up. No one needs to get hurt. We just need to figure out how to get out of here.”
From the corner of the room, Dorothy’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Degenerate scum,” she hissed, her words dripping with contempt as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You think we’re just going to lie down and take this?”
Stanley glared up at her with the same dark intensity he had shown the brute. “Goddammit, Dorothy. Are you serious? For once in your life, would you just shut your damn mouth.” His voice was a low growl, each word heavy with suppressed rage. It was clear to everyone in the room that Stanley would not tolerate a response. Dorothy accepted the rebuke coldly, her eyes dropping to the floor, her face a mask of restrained emotions.
Stanley shifted his intense focus to his young captor, his gaze piercing. “And you, son, what do I call you?”
The kid hesitated, nerves evident in his voice. “Umm…Mike, call me Mike.”
“Is that your name?” Stanley asked, his voice hardening.
The kid swallowed hard, lowering his voice. “No,” he quietly answered.
Stanley gave a dry laugh. “Alright, Mike it is. I’m Stanley. My wife’s name is Mary. Her friend is Dorothy. Good luck keeping that one quiet.” He gave the kid a genuine grin, and for a moment, the tension in the room lifted. The sound of Dorothy scoffing punctuated Stanley’s barb. “But you’re right, Mike. No one needs to get hurt. We’re not going to give you any trouble.” Stanley nodded and pointed two ancient fingers to a door near the entrance to the living room. “That door right behind you leads to the attic. If you open it, there is a coffee can with some screwdrivers in it. There should be a small spool of clothesline in it or beside it. You can grab that and still keep an eye on us. I have duct tape, but it’s in the garage, and I’m guessing you boys aren’t interested in going outside right now.”
Mike was momentarily stunned by Stanley’s candor, his eyes widening in surprise. Dorothy balked, her face flushing with a mix of anger and fear, while Mary silently made the sign of the cross, her lips moving in a whispered prayer. Mike, shaking off his shock, stepped across the small room and opened the attic door. There, just as Stanley had indicated, was a small knot of clothesline sitting on the stairs.
Returning to the couple, Mike’s demeanor softened slightly. “Thanks, Stan. Just…you know, keep playing it cool, and we’ll be out of here before you know it. Can you hold your hands out in front of you?” His voice was almost pleading, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the room moments before.
Stanley interlaced his fingers and held his hands out to Mike without the slightest hint of hesitation. Mike quickly wrapped the clothesline around his gaunt wrists and knotted the ends. He gave an apologetic shrug to Mary and Dorothy, as though embarrassed to give the order. They both took Stanley’s lead by extending their hands to Mike without having to be told. With their hands bound, he did the same to their ankles and sat on the chair across from them. Stanley noticed the kid’s hands shaking as he fumbled with the knots. He caught Mary’s eyes and winked at her in an attempt to calm her and reassure her that they were going to be just fine. Her lips drew tight, and she closed her eyes, giving her head a tiny nod, tears still running down her cheeks. Against his every instinct, he gave Dorothy an encouraging nod as well.
About the Author:
Mystery and thriller author K.C. Kissig writes from his home in Northeast Ohio, drawing inspiration from family life with his wife and two children.
