Free Wake Up Dead by Roger Smith Page A

home.
    The car slowed, and the squat man was speaking again. “What color you push to open the gate?” The gun barrel slipped, wet, from her mouth.
    “Green. The green button.”
    He pushed the barrel against her forehead, hard enough to dent the skin. “If it’s the panic, I fucken kill you.”
    He watched out the side window, his body tense over hers. His stink almost suffocating her. She heard the rattle of the castors in their rails as the gates slid open, and the man relaxed. The car rolled through and came to a stop with a squeak of brakes.
    Mr. Handsome had the rear door open, and the troll backed out. The barrel of the gun didn’t move from her. His T-shirt stuck to his paunch. She could see the word Lifeguard lettered across his flabby chest. She pulled herself upright and slid from the car into the perfection of a Cape Town summer’s evening. The beautiful man was leering at her, his eyes all over her body like hot hands.
    The short one grabbed her by the ponytail and yanked her head to the side, bringing her down to his height. Jammed the gun into her neck. “There anybody in the house?”
    “No.”
    “The alarm on?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. You open the door, and you punch the code. You do anything stupid, and you dead, hear me?”
    “Yes. I hear you.”
    He let go of her hair and shoved her toward the front door. The other man handed Roxy the keys, and they watched as she unlocked the door, her hands shaking. The alarm started to pulse a rhythmic warning tone. She had thirty seconds to enter
the code into the keypad inside the door, or the alarm would activate.
    She punched in the five numbers. The beeping continued. The troll was coming at her. She punched in the numbers again. Got them right this time, and the beeping stopped.
    Mr. Handsome looked around. “Nice place you got here.” Like he was an invited guest.
    The short man was up in her face. “Where’s your room?”
    Roxy pointed up the stairs. He shoved her forward, and she led them up past the pink room, to her bedroom.
    The troll said, “You got a girl?”
    At first she thought he was asking if she had a child. Then she realized he was talking about a domestic worker. She shook her head. “She’s on vacation.”
    The beautiful man laughed. “I can see that.”
    The bedroom was a mess, the bed unmade, clothes strewn across the room. She had never been much for housework.
    The short man grabbed a couple of pairs of tights that hung from the back of a chair and chucked them at his buddy. “Tie up her hands and feet.”
    “I have to pee,” she said.
    “Piss in your pants.”
    “Please. Let me use the bathroom.”
    Mr. Handsome, walking over with the tights in his hand, smiled at her. “Let her take a piss, man. I watch her.” Something filthy in that smile.
    “I take her,” said the squat man. “You start checking through the closets.”
    He pushed her toward the en-suite bathroom. Stood in the doorway, watching her. Roxy knew he wasn’t going anywhere. She sat down on the toilet and pulled down the lycra pants. Doing her best to keep herself covered.
    He looked at her with disinterest. “Hurry the fuck up.”
    At first she thought the pee wouldn’t come, with his eyes on
her, but she managed to let go. Felt the relief. She wiped herself, and they went back out.
    The beautiful man had yanked open the drawers of the vanity table and found her jewelry: rings, necklaces, earrings. The spoils of having been married to Joe Palmer for five years.
    “These real?” he asked, fingers dripping Cartier and Van Cleef and Arpels.
    “Yes.” She watched as he filled his pockets.
    The troll shoved her to the carpet. “Tie her up. Come.”
    Mr. Handsome enjoyed doing it, his hands lingering on her body as he bound her wrists behind her back and tied her ankles together.
    The ugly man sat down on the bed. He stared at her, then he smiled, showing uneven black teeth. “We know what you done.”
    She looked at him, shook her head.
    “You