Chapter 3: The Gas Man
1507 Words
POV: Ezra
It was 10:00 AM on a Tuesday. The perfect time for an assassination.
Most of the neighbors in the building were at work. The building staff were on their mid-morning coffee break, huddled in the loading dock smoking cigarettes. And Julian was locked in his soundproof study, screaming at someone in Russian over a secure line about a shipment of "textiles" that I was 90% sure were actually semi-automatic weapons.
I was in the kitchen, teaching Leo the chemistry of gluten development.
"You have to knead it with aggression, Leo," I explained, folding the sourdough on the floured counter. "But respect. It’s a living thing. If you beat it too hard, the strands break. If you don't beat it enough, it’s weak. It won't hold its shape under pressure."
Leo stood on a step stool, watching me with grave intensity. He wore a little apron I had improvised from a dish towel. He nodded, then punched the dough with his small fist.
Ding-Dong.
The service doorbell.
I paused. My hands were covered in sticky dough.
I looked at the monitor by the fridge. A man in blue coveralls and a cap stood in the service corridor outside the back entrance. He was carrying a heavy tool bag. He looked impatient, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Gas company," the man said into the intercom, his voice distorted by the speaker. "Checking a leak on the floor below. Need to check your pressure valve."
I analyzed the image on the screen.
• The Uniform: Brand new. Stiff. No grease stains on the knees. Real gas workers spend half their lives kneeling on dirty floors.
• The Boots: Tactical grip soles. Not steel-toe work boots. Those were for running, not plumbing.
• The Eyes: He wasn't looking at the camera. He was checking the corners of the frame. Scanning for blind spots.
"Bingo," I whispered.
I wiped my hands on a towel, leaving a streak of flour on my cheek.
"Leo," I said calmly. "Protocol Zero."
Leo didn't hesitate. He hopped off the stool. He didn't run—running makes noise. He fast-walked to the pantry, grabbed a box of juice, and stepped inside the hollow space behind the bulk paper towels I had cleared out yesterday. He pulled the door shut until it was just a crack open.
Good kid.
I walked to the service door. I smoothed my pastel yellow cardigan. I put on my "confused doe" face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
"Oh, hello!" I chirped, blinking rapidly behind my thick glasses. "Gas check? Mr. Vane didn't mention it."
The man stepped inside before I could step back. He was big. He smelled of stale tobacco and gun oil—a scent no amount of aftershave can hide. He forced his way into the kitchen, his tool bag hitting the floor with a heavy clunk that sounded like metal on metal.
"Emergency check," he grunted, locking the door behind him. "Won't take long."
He turned to look at me. He saw the apron. The flour on my nose. The slight frame wrapped in wool.
He smirked.
"Is the boss home?" he asked, reaching into his "tool bag."
"He's in a meeting," I stammered, backing up until my hips hit the marble island. "I... I can go get him?"
"No need," the man said.
He pulled a silenced pistol from the bag.
The moment the weapon cleared the canvas, his smirk vanished.
"Turn around," he ordered. "Knees on the floor. Hands behind your head."
I sighed, letting my shoulders drop. "You know, I just mopped this floor. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of grout?"
The man blinked. "What?"
I dropped the "confused doe" act. The mask vanished.
I grabbed the heavy ceramic bowl of sourdough resting on the counter behind me. It weighed about eight pounds.
I spun.
The heavy bowl connected with the man’s wrist. CRACK.
The gun skittered across the floor, sliding under the fridge.
The man howled, clutching his broken wrist. He lunged at me with his good hand, aiming a clumsy, furious punch at my throat.
He was fast for a big guy. I was faster.
I stepped inside his guard. I grabbed his outstretched arm, used his forward momentum, and pivoted. I drove my elbow into his solar plexus.
He doubled over, gasping for air.
"You didn't wipe your feet," I scolded.
I grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face into the granite countertop. THUD.
He went limp. He slid to the floor, unconscious.
Silence returned to the kitchen.
I checked my pulse. 65 BPM. Resting.
"Messy," I tutted, looking at the flour he had knocked onto the floor during the scuffle.
I walked to the pantry. "Coast is clear, Leo."
The door creaked open. Leo peeked out. He looked at the unconscious giant on the floor. He looked at me.
He gave me a slow, solemn thumbs-up.
"Grab the duct tape from the craft drawer," I told him. "And the jump rope."
POV: Julian
The call with the Russians had been a disaster. They wanted me to make a dead body disappear from a hotel room in mid-town by noon, and they wanted it done "quietly." I had a headache that was throbbing behind my eyes like a techno beat.
I unlocked my study door and walked into the hallway. I needed coffee. I needed silence.
I walked into the kitchen.
"Ezra, I need an espre—"
I stopped.
Ezra was humming. He was sliding a tray of muffins into the oven. The kitchen smelled like blueberries and lemon zest.
But something was wrong.
Leo was sitting on top of the kitchen island, swinging his legs. He was holding a stopwatch.
And there was a muffled, rhythmic thumping sound coming from the pantry.
"Ezra," I said slowly, my hand instinctively going to my holster. "What is that noise?"
Ezra closed the oven door. He turned around, wiping his hands on his apron. He looked angelic, dusting flour off his elbows.
"The muffins need twenty minutes," he smiled. "Espresso?"
"The noise, Ezra."
"Oh. That." Ezra pointed to the pantry door with a flour-dusted spatula. "We had a visitor."
My blood ran cold. I drew the Sig Sauer from my holster instantly, leveling it at the pantry.
"Who?"
"Gas company," Ezra said airily. "Or so he claimed. His badge was a very poor forgery. The lamination was peeling, and the font was Ariel. No self-respecting utility company uses Ariel."
I moved toward the pantry, gun raised. "Ezra, get Leo back. What did you do?"
"I handled it."
I kicked the pantry door open.
I expected to find a corpse. I expected blood.
Instead, I found a man—six foot four, at least 250 pounds—trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
He was bound with silver duct tape. His ankles were tied with Leo’s neon green jump rope. There was a dish towel stuffed in his mouth as a gag. He was conscious, staring up at me with terrified, watering eyes.
And sitting on top of his chest, weighing him down, were four heavy cans of peaches.
I lowered my gun. I looked at the hitman. I looked at the peaches.
I turned to Ezra.
"You... you tied him up with a jump rope?"
"It’s surprisingly durable nylon," Ezra noted, starting the espresso machine. "And the peaches keep him grounded. He tried to wiggle, but the cans are heavy. Gravity is a harsh mistress."
"He came here to kill me!" I shouted, gesturing at the assassin. "He probably has a gun!"
"He had a gun," Ezra corrected. He opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a silenced pistol. He placed it on the counter next to the butter dish. "Now he has a headache and a broken wrist."
I stared at my new nanny. He was adjusting his glasses, looking completely unbothered.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
Ezra brought me the espresso. He placed the delicate ceramic cup in my hand.
"I’m the nanny, Mr. Vane," he said softly. "And I believe I’m owed a hazard pay bonus. This gentleman scuffed the floor."
I looked at the hitman again. The guy made a muffled pleading noise against the gag. He looked at Ezra with pure horror.
I realized then that I hadn't hired a shield. I had hired a shark.
"Keep him there," I said, holstering my gun. My headache was gone, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so potent it made my fingers tingle. "I’ll... I’ll call the cleaners."
"Already done," Ezra said. "They’re coming for the 'trash' in ten minutes. Eat your muffin, Julian. You look peaky."
He reached out and patted my cheek. His hand was warm and smelled like flour.
I stood there in my kitchen, sipping espresso, watching a hitman struggle under a can of fruit, while my nanny hummed a lullaby.
I was terrified.
And God help me, I was incredibly aroused.
- Writer
