Page 34 of For Life
“Alright, then I’ll take the East Bay location,” I formulated a plan out loud, “Shepherd and Roman can maybe drive by the South San Francisco one? Felix and Maksim, can you look into the North Bay place?”
Everyone nodded except Jefferson, who crossed his arms next to Ash, who had joined us an hour before. Where Jefferson looked determined, Ash looked worried.
“Hold up, I’m going with you.”
Before I could protest, Ash tugged on his arm, “What do you mean you’re going with him? I forbid it, Daddy.”
They had an interesting dynamic I hadn’t known was possible. Ash was the Dominant top, Jefferson was the submissive Daddy. Seeing it in action was both fascinating and not the distraction I needed. I was counting on Jefferson as a second gun if needed, to have my back, but not at the cost of his relationship.
“I”m good. I’ll go and scope it out, but I’ll bring my uniform in case it’s the right place. I’ll call you for backup if I need to.”
“No,” Jefferson shook his head at the both of us, “Everyone else is going in pairs, which is safer. And I saw combat in three different countries in the military. I can hold my own, Mixtress.”
Ash cupped Jefferson’s neck and pulled their foreheads together. I tried to ignore their whispers, but the room was silent. We all heard their private conversation.
“If you get hurt, I will not give you a spanking or fucking for weeks. If you die and miss our wedding, I will bring you back and introduce castration kink to your un-dead life. Do you hear me, Flowers?”
My wince at their threat wasn’t the only one in the room. No way was I risking Jefferson getting hurt. I would do my best to keep him safe. Jefferson didn’t wince though.
“Yes, Mixtress,” a soft kiss sounded, but I didn’t look. “you own me, body and soul, in this life and the next.”
Roman and Felix visibly swooned on the couch and I felt myself oddly choked up. Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I knew it was time to go.
Leaving my bike at the station, I carried my service weapon and uniform, complete with camera, back to Shepherd’s. Jefferson had his own bag of supplies ready too, and we wished the others luck. Ash dropped Jefferson and I off at the ferry to Oakland in his new car. After a few more warnings from Ash, a few bucks each for the ferry, and less than an hour later we were checking out the situation at an abandoned looking old warehouse in Oakland.
The lot around the building had no cars and a lot of weeds. The morning sun was much more visible on this side of the bay, and we could see straight across the water to San Francisco. Not wanting to expose ourselves, we camped out in a nearby shed to see if there was any activity while we waited for updates from the others. Jefferson handed me a thermos of coffee and pulled out a bag of jerky.
“Thanks for being here, Flores.”
He grunted and nodded at my thanks and use of his last name. Military and cops were similar that way, and even in silence there was a camaraderie. We both knew how to sit and wait, and the importance of saying what was on your mind without hesitation in case you didn’t get another chance.
“Any time, Wu.”
Chapter twenty-two
ANT
COOKINGFORTHEGOONSwho’d kidnapped me was a unique experience. They hovered at first, until they saw how many steps it was going to take to turn a box of noodles, block of cheese, and cans of sauce and meat into a meal. Not nearly as long as if I was making my own pasta and sauce from scratch, but they still complained.
When the oven got to the right temperature and I started working on turning flour into bread, I remembered I had a handkerchief in my packet. I’d used it to gather herbs and when they’d searched me it must have been deemed not a threat. Emptying the collection onto the counter, I saw some that would work for flavoring the dough like the basanicol’, and used the hankie to wipe my brow. It was a rainbow, and made me smile to know I had it with me. They could mock me for being queer, but I still had pride.
At some point they all moved back to the other side of the loft where there was a cheap TV and old dilapidated couch. I couldn’t hear much over the action movie, but the sound of Russian being spoken made it across the big open space. My theory had been correct. They seemed to be a few radicalized members of the Russian Kiselov crime family. From the few words in English I heard, these guys thought they were doing good work helping out the Kiselov’s by stopping an Italian incursion. I didn’t think they would believe me if I said there was no incursion and that I wasn’t part of any Italian mob. I couldn’t know one of those things if the other was true.
An idea struck me. There was a window beside the counter, and it was getting hot between the oven and the rising sun on all the thin windows. They were covered with old newspapers and looked ancient, but there was a lever on some for opening them. As quietly as I could, I kept one eye on the couch and tried the turn-crank. It stuck at first, rust and paint flaking off as it budged a millimeter at a time. Furtively, I turned it bit by bit, waiting for louder parts of the show until I had an inch of space and could feel fresh air. It smelled like the ocean and I could hear gulls, so we were back in the bay. The handkerchief I tied to the crank and tucked out the opening so it was billowing in the light breeze and not visible inside.
Maybe no one would know to look for it. Or the people in charge would show up and see it first. It could get me hurt again or worse. But I had to try.
Just as I moved back to my dough to check the rise, which wasn’t much without a proving drawer, goon three came to check on me. I shifted my body past him to the other side of the counter so he wouldn’t be looking at the window, but otherwise I ignored him and started forming the bread into rolls with bits of the herbs. They had to fit on the single sheet pan the kitchen had, and I wished that I’d collected things in the woods that might make them all have explosive diarrhea.
“Smells good. When’s it done?”
“The lasagna needs another forty-five minutes to cook, and the bread should be done by the time the pasta cools.”
He stood silently behind me for minutes that stretched out as the bread went into the oven too. He leaned over to inspect my work. “Maybe you are a chef,” he admitted, and I heard the wariness in his voice. If I was just a chef and not some mafioso, then they kidnapped and tortured an innocent person.
“Yup, chef and baker for a couple years now,” I closed the oven and stood to lean on the counter. “My family is Italian, but they’re farmers and loggers, not the mob. Plus I haven’t spoken to them in years even if they were.”
Saying these things to a guy that had hurt me wasn’t fun, but it did give me a sense of satisfaction when he looked conflicted. It didn’t last long, though, since he let me use the toilet that wasn’t much better than my bucket and then locked me back in the cage. My plan to cook had allowed me to learn more and possibly flag for help, but didn’t stop me from being a prisoner.