Blitzed (28 page)

I
was bored
out of my mind, sitting in the bedroom with little to do. I’d walked the room twice, and by my guess, it was ten feet wide by eleven feet long. It gave me a decent math challenge, counting the steps before multiplying them and then converting the inches into feet. And I did it with no pencil or paper even. When you get bored out of your mind, you’d be surprised what you do to keep your mind busy.

I looked around, finding nothing in the room that was even halfway entertaining. There were a couple of trunks that were locked, but that was about it. I thought about following Francois advice and going back to sleep again, but I was too wired. I needed to think.

Obviously, my first focus should have been on escape. However handsome Francois was, he was still a criminal, and I couldn't trust him at his word. I’d seen his face now, after all, and he could just as easily kill me and leave me here to rot. But, there were quite a few challenges for attempting an escape. First, I was in a locked room with no windows, and the only door led to another interior part of the cabin. In said cabin were, at least, two men who were most likely armed, if not with guns, then with at least some samurai swords.

The next problem was, I had no idea where I was. We were far enough from any road that I didn't hear traffic, but that could be as close as a half mile or as far away as twenty miles. Since Francois said it was morning, I assumed from the temperature and the cabin's construction we were in the nearby San Jacinto or San Bernardino mountains — the Sierra Nevadas were too far away. Worst of all, I had no shoes on, or even winter clothing. The best I could do was a light sweatshirt and jeans.

Shivering, I grabbed the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders, hoping my kidnappers at least would be kind enough to lend me a jacket or something if they were going to keep me locked in the room. I was just about to knock and ask when the door rattled again, and another man opened the door. Larger and more muscular, maybe a little short of two hundred pounds, it was obvious the two were brothers. They shared the exact same hair color, nose, and jawline.

"We have breakfast for you," he said in the same lightly-accented English. "Come and eat."

I followed the man, if only because I could tell it was warmer in the other room. I followed him out, wincing as my semi-frozen feet crossed the cold boards. In the other room, obviously the main room of the cabin, I saw Francois standing over an older-looking pot belly cast iron stove, nodding and smiling to me. "Are you feeling more refreshed?"

"I couldn’t sleep," I answered, "too much to think about."

"I understand. You look cold. Have a seat in front of the fire with my brother. I’ll have breakfast ready soon."

The fire was small but welcome, and I got as close as I could without burning myself. Francois's brother took a small camp stool nearby, watching me closely as I warmed my hands. "You look cold. Is it cold in there?”

"Considering I've been kidnapped, I don't suppose I have room to complain, but yes it is," I answered. "Think next time you guys could just book us some rooms at the local Motel 6 instead?"

"That wouldn’t have been advisable," the man said. Behind him, Francois chuckled.

"Brother, come on. She’s kidding. It is cold in that bedroom. And I’m glad she has a sense of humor about it, considering the situation we’ve put her in."

The other man turned and glared at Francois before turning back and chuckling. It was the first time I'd seen him smile. It was hidden under a very thick layer of terseness. "Francois is right. I’m sorry, Miss Banks. I’ll make sure you have another blanket when the evening comes around."

"Thank you. I suppose asking for wool socks, a thermal undershirt, and keys to your car are too much?"

"The socks and shirt I can do something about, but I’ll keep the keys to myself," he said. "Although you’ll have to make do with men's size clothes."

"I have a sweatshirt you can borrow," Francois said, "but my only other pair of socks are dirty. What about you, brother?"

"I packed extras, you know that."

As the two brothers jawed back and forth, I gained a sense of the relationship between them. Francois was more playful, and certainly more relaxed than his brother. It wasn't that his brother — I still didn't know his name yet — was cruel or mean, he was just very serious. He was also easily exasperated by his brother's joking tone, yet tolerated it. Francois, for his part, knew exactly how far to push before backing off and acquiescing to him.

True to his word, Francois was ready with breakfast within ten minutes, bringing over bowls of easily identifiable but messy huevos rancheros. "The corn tortillas are but chips, but I think the spirit is still there," he said. “My culinary skills aren’t up to par."

"Considering it is Mexican-American style cooking served in a bowl by a Frenchman, I’m not expecting Michelin stars," I wisecracked, before seeing Francois face. "Sorry."

"She does have you there, though," the other man said with a grin. He dug in with his spoon, taking a bite. “It’s good. What is the red sauce?"

"Just some salsa that I cooked down and added some extra lemon juice to. I had to cannibalize our midday snack for this. So no nachos."

"Okay, that confirms it," I said with a chuckle. I took a bite of the food and thought that Francois was being humble. The food was excellent, considering the things he had to work with. "You may be part French, I can hear that in your voices and in your name, but you two aren't totally French. Do I get to know, or can we play Twenty Guesses to find out?"

"It can't hurt," Francois said to his brother, who nodded. "We are French, yes. But also Roma and American."

"Roma? As in Romania?" I asked. "I thought that was called Romanian."

The other man shook his head. "Not Romanian. Roma. What is commonly referred to as gypsies."

I nodded in understanding, excited that I could place a part of their background.

"We were born in the United States," Francois said, “but we’ve spent our lives living in many places in the world. Fiction distorts many things about our culture, but there are things they get right too.”

"You must have had a very interesting childhood growing up," I said, taking a bite of my breakfast. The avocado added just the right amount of creaminess to offset the salty eggs. “Pretty good,” I admitted.

Francois nodded in gratitude. "I hope you enjoyed because you might be here longer than we anticipated. Our dealer is being . . . uncooperative on our extraction. We might be here a few days."

I shrugged, it wasn't worth getting upset over just yet. "I see. Well, I won't worry about my job, I'm sure they have you on video dragging me out of there or something. I doubt my boss will assume I just walked off with you two. No offense."

"None taken," the other brother said. "Enjoy your food. If you will agree to not try and go near the door or window, you can stay out here near the fire. Also, don’t go anywhere near the swords either. I don’t want to lock you in the cold bedroom, but I will if I must."

"You're not much for conversation, are you?" I said with a smirk. "I thought the French were supposed to be these great conversationalists, yet you're worse than a Parisian waiter to tourists."

Francois looked at me in surprise while the other brother glared at me for a moment before grumbling under his breath and digging into his breakfast, finishing it off in five large spoonfuls.

“I’ll wash the dishes," he said quietly before getting up and going outside. I watched him go, shutting the door behind him. I looked over at Francois, who shrugged.

"The water pump is outside. If it were me, I'd have gotten a bucket of water and brought it inside, but Felix is Felix. Oh dear, I've told you his name now. Please don't tell him. He’s angry enough with me as it is."

I grinned and nodded. "Your brother’s a very serious man."

"He has a lot of weight on his shoulders," Francois said to me. “He doesn’t like complications.”

“So you plan to disappear amongst the Roma," I said. "A group that does not trust the government as it is. I assume you plan on going overseas again?"

"Smart woman," Francois replied. "Yes, at least for the beginning, we’ll go back to Europe. Felix has responsibilities there — grave ones. After that, though, our lifestyle is not like most people's. We’re nomadic, more than even most of the Romani. Our father ensured that."

"How so?"

"It has to do with our lives, and why Felix is the leader while I’m just the younger brother. You must understand the Romani have what we call Romanipen to be able to understand it all. You’re far too typical American to understand. You grew up, where, Santa Barbara?"

"Rock Hill, Missouri actually," I said. "It's a suburb of St. Louis. I came out here six years ago, to try and make it as a musician. I didn't realize just how hard the music scene is in Los Angeles."

"Which is why you’re working as a janitor," Francois completed. "There is no shame in that, too many people don’t recognize the value of hard work."

"It’s strange to hear that coming from a thief," I replied. "Are you saying that your
work
is hard work?"

Francois laughed and shook his head. As he did, I was struck again by the dark handsomeness of his features, even if they were less brooding than those of his brother. "No, not at all. But if you give me half a chance, I might convince you that I’m not the immoral criminal that you think I am. Felix was right, there are some things that fiction gets wrong about our people. Yet there are many things it does get right. Maybe some day you’ll know and appreciate the difference."

T
he cold air
outside helped me gather myself. That woman, Jordan, she didn’t know how she affected me. She was beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and eyes that seemed to burn with an inner flame. Her taunts added to the already tremendous pressure on my mind until I either lost my temper or walked away. I'm a sucker for intelligence, even more than appearance, and a sense of humor and the willingness to retort sarcastically is a quick way I've been able to measure intelligence in people, even if she did make me want to lose my temper. As losing my temper would show my weakness in front of Francois, I chose instead to leave, making the excuse that I had to wash the dishes.

I could hear them talking as I washed, the pump was right next to the house and the windows weren’t that thick. At first I was angry when Francois told Jordan my name, but I soon settled down again. My brother had always pushed the boundaries of what I’d allow, especially if he thought he could get away with it. It had been the case when our father was alive, and continued as we became adults. Still, we made a good pair. Francois pushed my boundaries while I was always there to rein him in when his self-confidence got out of hand.

I was surprised when Jordan said she was a musician, as music had an important place in Romani culture, and in French culture too for that matter. I’d inherited a deep love of music from my mother, who insisted that if I were to be trained to follow in the footsteps of my father, that I would at least appreciate some of the art and artifacts I would be stealing. Father, of course, had his own hand in what exactly that meant, specifically in my choice of instrument, but thankfully I enjoyed it, and once I showed some affinity, he let me drift away from the staid, dry classical pieces toward whatever caught my ear.

As I listened and washed, I was drawn to the pitch of Jordan's voice. So many women nowadays try to sound girlishly high-pitched and end up sounding like a squealing hamster. Jordan, on the other hand, had a confident, slightly throaty voice for a woman. I wondered if her musical abilities were as enchanting as her speech. She certainly had a musical quality to her words.

After washing the dishes, I shook them off before taking them back in. Inside, I checked the food supplies, concerned. Francois had used more of our food than I'd thought, and we only packed for two people on a three-day wait at most. "Francois."

"Yes brother?" he asked, looking up from Jordan. I could see that he was interested in her, and understandably so.

"When you said you used our midday meal, I didn't realize just how much you used. I need you to go shopping. Think you can take the Jeep?" I asked, not trying to order him but making it clear I wasn't merely requesting. "While you’re out, pick up some warmer clothing for Miss Banks."

Francois nodded, giving Jordan an appraising look. “Will a medium or a size eight do?”

"Close enough," Jordan said with a smile. "I wear a six most of the time."

"I don't suppose you'd consider letting me go on the shopping trip?" she added, looking at me. I had to smile at her sense of humor and shake my head. "It was worth a try."

I nodded, part of me looking forward to the next few hours while Francois left the mountains to do the shopping. "It was, Miss Banks. Come, my brother needs get going."

* * *

A
fter Francois left
, I sat down in the chair between Jordan and the door, watching the fire and her at the same time. “Sorry about of all of this, but we couldn’t take a chance. I’m normally not in the habit of taking hostages, I assure you. In fact, I prefer to not be noticed by anyone at all."

"So you two are good at this I take it,” Jordan commented. She shifted, curling her legs underneath her and running her hand through her hair. She still had the blanket over her legs, which I understood, the cabin was cold, and the fire wasn't very large. We'd set aside wood, but hadn’t planned on living in woodsy luxury for our wait. "Any stories you want to tell?"

"Maybe later," I replied. She looked at me and sighed. “Francois’ boast that we both could disappear into Roma culture is true, but still, we shouldn’t tell you too much. I’m sure the police will press you for everything, and I’d rather not throw them any bones. And I overheard Francois tell you my name. So Felix is fine."

Jordan looked away into the fire. "You seemed pretty angry earlier, Felix.”

I shook my head. "I get that way when things don’t go as planned on the job. I don’t do a good job of controlling my stress levels sometimes, and this operation from the beginning has been what I believe some Americans call a clusterfuck. From the purchase of this property, much farther from the museum than we planned, to me literally running you over, to now problems with our extraction plan. Our father wouldn’t have approved of this from the beginning, but I let Francois talk me into it. The money was too good to pass up. By the way, how is your head?"

Jordan touched the back of her head carefully, her eyes tightened against any pain, but shook her head after a moment. "I think it'll be fine. There's no crust of blood or anything, and I don't have too much of a headache anymore. What does your mother think of what the two of you are doing?"

"
They
are fine with it," I replied. When she gave me a confused look, I waved it off. "It’s a long story. Maybe another time.”

“Sounds interesting. Well, do you have a radio or a TV around here?" Jordan asked. "It isn't that I don't want to talk, but this huge amounts of silence is kind of weirding me out. I seem to have spent too much time in the city with its perpetual background noise."

I shook my head, then thought. "This cabin doesn’t have electricity. Just a second, though. Francois is a bit of a musician . . . he usually brings something along for times like this. Come, I’ll see if I can find it."

Jordan shrugged and got up off the couch, letting the blanket stay where it was. It was my first chance to look at her without the shroud-like cloth, and I found myself staring, to the point that Jordan cocked her head and smiled. "What?"

Shaking my head, I regained my senses. “Sorry.” I felt an unfamiliar smile come to my face, one of genuine pleasure and not a grimace of restrained frustration, and I gestured towards the bedroom. "Shall we?"

Jordan walked into the bedroom and to the far corner, where she stood quietly. "I didn't see anything that looked like a musical instrument earlier. There isn't much in here."

"You are right, but you forgot here," I said. I picked the LED lantern up from the side table and turned it on, carrying it over to the far side of the room and kneeling next to the dresser before unlocking Francois footlocker. He always used the same combination, 1-1-3-0, a personal gesture. Opening it up, I lifted out the upper tray that contained a shirt, underwear, and two pairs of pants, looking for what I hope Francois normally packed. "Ah, here it is."

I pulled out Francois’ guitar, holding it up. "It’s not full sized, in order to fit inside the locker, but do you think you could play this?"

Jordan's brown eyes sparkled, and she nodded. "That's a 2/4 size guitar, right?"

"I couldn’t tell you,” I admitted. "Francois bought it years ago, for the footlocker only. At home, or when we can, he plays a full sized one."

Jordan came over and held out her hands. I handed it over, impressed as she handled the instrument with care and respect. She looked it over, her eyes widening as she looked at it. "It's not wood."

"No," I agreed. “It’s carbon fiber. He sometimes plays it when he and I are stuck like this, or when we’re before a job in order to relax."

Jordan finished her inspection, then strummed the strings. She made a few adjustments and strummed again, smiling. "It has a decent sound. It's been a while since I played an acoustic guitar. Your brother is good?"

I laughed and shook my head. "No, but father insisted that we study music. Francois went first with the lute, a common Roma instrument before taking up the guitar. Father wasn’t pleased with it, he called it a peasant's instrument, but he permitted it. I, on the other hand, wasn’t given as much an option."

"Oh?" Jordan said, getting her fingers familiar with the instrument. "What did you learn?"

"I had to learn a classical instrument, as he termed it, so I studied the violin," I said, closing Francois’ footlocker and standing up. I noticed the grimace on Jordan's face, the downward twist of her features. "What is it? Something wrong with the guitar?”

"No, it’s fine,” she said quietly, holding the guitar in her hands and sitting down on the bed. "It's just that . . . I had a bad experience with the violin. I don't play it anymore.”

"I see. Well then, I’d love if you’d play a little, I’ll see if I can keep rhythm on the table top or something," I said lightly, wondering what could be so traumatic as to cause her happy mood to evaporate so quickly.

We went back out into the main area, where the fire did make a noticeable difference. Even with the beginning of the day's warmth trickling in, and the door being open for close to an hour to gather warmth from the rest of the cabin, it was still very chilly.

“It's been a long time since I played any acoustic guitar, so forgive me if I make mistakes," she said, taking a seat on one of the hard chairs that were supposed to be part of the dining table. "Any requests?"

I shook my head. I went over to the kitchen area and took out a wooden spoon, reversing the grip so that the narrow handle could act like a drumstick. "I can try and keep time with anything you like. Start with something easy, though. What sort of music do you play?"

"I'm normally into rock, but that's on an electric," Jordan replied. She thought for a minute, then nodded to herself. "It's been a while, but this is one of the first real songs I performed on an acoustic guitar."

Jordan started strumming, and with the way she was stroking all the strings at once, I thought she would do a traditional folk song or something like that. Instead, she shifted to a finger pick style quickly, grinning as she heard the sound. I nodded in appreciation.

"Hello darkness, my old friend . . .” I started, Jordan's head jerking up as she heard me sing along. She stumbled over a chord before she smiled and found where she was, the two of us harmonizing for the rest of the song.

When the last note floated away into the quiet air of the cabin, she set the guitar aside and clapped softly. "You said you knew the violin. I didn't know you were such a good singer too."

I felt heat creep up my neck and I shook my head. "I'm not that good. I just know some of the folk-rock songs from the sixties and seventies. My father, he was into that sort of music, so I grew up listening to it often. What about you, do you sing?"

"Not unless I've got three beers in me, which I never do," Jordan said with a laugh. "There's a reason I'm a guitar player and not a singer."

"I think you have a lovely speaking voice," I said, making her turn to blush. It raised an appealing pink to her skin, and in my mind, I could see my lips tracing that blush to see how far it went. She was distracting, that was for sure.

"You Frenchmen," she finally said, dismissing my compliment with a wave of her hand. "Come on, let me play some more before my hand gets too cold. It'll help me pass the time."

For the next hour, on and off, we entertained ourselves. I was surprised at the breadth and depth of her knowledge, as she strayed from rock and roll to some light country and even traditional spiritual music. I countered with songs that were not only in English, but French, Spanish and Russian as well. "How'd you learn so many languages?"

I shook my head, smiling. "I don't know nearly as many as it seems. I merely learned the music itself. I only speak English, French, Rom and my country's native language. The rest of it I fake reasonably well when I sing. After all, Spanish is very closely related to French, and there are many words in Russian that sound similar to Rom."

Jordan set her guitar aside and looked at me, her eyes assessing me levelly. "Tell me, Felix. You seem like an intelligent man. You're multilingual while I struggle with English it sometimes seems, you obviously know a lot about art, technology, and things like that for your work. You're a talented singer, and from the way your hands are built, I can assume a decent violinist. You could make a good living doing regular work. Why do what you do? Why do you steal?"

Her words stung, and I stood up, going to the indoor sink and poured a cup of water. I'd asked myself the same questions many times, and to have this woman, who was already distracting me so much, to put a voice to the nagging doubts in my head shook me. "Despite what you may think, I'm not a stereotypical Gypsy, Jordan."

I swallowed the cup of water bitterly, dropping the cup in the sink. I don't know if she heard my next words, but they were for my benefit anyway. "Even if I am a thief."