Short Story #3: THE HOSTAGE

The Hostage

Chicago is on fire tonight.

My senses are alive with the heat, the spicy aroma of cayenne peppers, the fire rising from the pan as alcohol drops into the sauce, the ordered chaos of chefs and waiters shouting, the commotion of pots and pans ringing through the kitchen.

I grab my apron, stepping into the confusion. I stride over to a woman, who tastes a sauce before shaking her head.

“Hello, Miranda.”

“Jay, what do you think this needs?”

I smile. Miranda has never been one to waste time on pleasantries, like hellos and good mornings. I grab the spoon, wrinkling my nose as I taste the soup. “It needs something sweet.”

Miranda snaps her fingers. “Like honey.” She lets a couple drops of honey fall into the sauce. “Can you make a sauce for Fettucine Alfredo? It’s crazy in here tonight.”

I start gathering up ingredients. “It’s crazy in here every night, Miranda.”

As Miranda’s sous chef and a saucier in the kitchen, I spend the night making sauces. The kitchen remains a madhouse for the rest of the night. There are endless amounts of dishes going in and out of the kitchen, endless amounts of orders. The night seems as though it will never end. But then it does.

Slowly, the other chefs leave the kitchen, their work shifts ending. It’s not long before it’s just me and Miranda, closing up the restaurant.

“Well,” Miranda says, leaning back against a counter, “Looks like we’re done for the night.”

“Well, isn’t that handy.”

Miranda and I both turn. There are three men standing in the kitchen, none of which belong here. Not only that but they are all armed. Each holds a handgun and they all look like they know how to use it.

Miranda takes a step forward. “If it’s money you—”

“We aren’t here for any money,” one of the men says. “We’re here for you.”

Miranda tenses. I do, too. What’s going on? What do they want with Miranda? Is she in trouble? Am I in trouble? I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to act. Terror is sinking in, as usual, turning everything into illogical paranoia.

“Of course,” the man says, toying with his gun now, “The kid’s got to die.”

Everything starts moving too quickly for me to really understand what’s happening. There’s a gun in my face and I’m staring into the barrel of a gun and I’m not ready I’m not ready I’m not ready I’m not ready to die.

I think the trigger is going off and suddenly I’m pushed so hard I fall onto the tile floor. There’s a loud sound, deafening, and I let out a yell.

There’s no agony, no blood, no bullet. Why? What caused me to fall if not the powerful blow of a gunshot?  

I look around, sitting up slowly. And that’s when I understand. That’s when I see. She’s on the floor, too. Blood everywhere. Tangled limbs. Fading breaths. She pushed me out of the way. She took the shot meant for me.

The man that shot her curses. “We’ll have to take the kid instead,” he decides. “He’s scrawny but it’s better than nothing.”

I’m too shocked to fight them as they drag me out of the kitchen, leaving a dying Miranda alone on the floor. They drag me out into the street and I let them, not sure what else to do. They’re murderers. And if there’s one thing I know about cold-blooded killers, it’s that they don’t care how many people die.

Miranda is proof of that.

*****Thank you for reading THE HOSTAGE. More than halfway there! Only two short stories left. THE RUNAWAY is available on this blog the 20th of February! Don't miss it!