Promotion for the sous?
“Shut up! No speaking!”
Sharp words from the youthful captor as he jabbed the bound and gagged men with the end of his club. The first was wide-eyed and groaning horribly, face to the floor, almost kissing the rubber tiles. The other two were tied so tightly they could hardly catch a breath. Their captor smiled, showing stained teeth. It could not have gone any better.
“Hey!” came a gruff voice from the top of the stairwell that led into the dark hold. “Are you done? We need you up here, doing your damn job.”
“I thought this was my job now,” said Elan, the captor.
“They’re not going anywhere and we’re hungry. Get.”
Elan nodded towards the hostages as if they were the ones issuing the order and obeyed. The hallway in which he emerged was musty and dimly lit, but he hardly noticed it. He swiped his card in the familiar lock, took his place inside the tiny kitchen, and sighed. High fat, high sugar, no creativity. With a last look at the blackness outside his window, he began preparing the crew’s meal.