Soccer suspense novel "The Churning"- Chapter 1

Tires popping on gravel. Sounds getting closer. Someone else is coming. That heavy-sounding guy was around earlier, and a toilet flushed. How many people are here? Who the hell are they?

Somebody just closed a door. Heavy door, light door? Footsteps? They’re too faint to count.

My head still hurts, but it’s not as heavy.

Een degeh che etefagheeyeh keh oftaad? What the hell happened?

I know they hit me with drugs. It’s all clay upstairs, but the clay is breaking up. The bastards.

Who did this? I’ll fucking kill ‘em!

Damn, I wish I could see. I’m wearing a hood, or a dark pillowcase or something.

My hands are tied behind my back. They’re turned palms out, held by cold steel. Handcuffs.

I’m seated on a chair. At least it has some cushioning. My feet are bound, too. When I try to move them, metal clinks. Something is tight around my chest. I think I’m all in chains, but I can’t be sure because I can’t bloody well see!

Muffled voices. So at least two assholes are here. But who are they?

“Hey, you out there! Let me go! Hear me?”

“We ain’t deaf, you fartknocker,” he says in a British accent.

It’s the Fat Man. He sounds heavy, hairy nostrils, like when I first woke up. Now the lunatic’s right here in the room.

Fuck it. I don’t have to put up with this.

“Hey, get me the fuck out of here! Don’t you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, a few feet away. “We know who you are, Wizard.”

“Then let me out of here! What is this?”

A deep breath reeking of calm. “This? Oh, this is payback, quay style, you might say.”

Footsteps. A zipper. A duffel bag? Now they’re coming closer, his heavy feet. Something touches my cheek, through the hood. It’s hard, a hard edge. I can’t help recoiling.

“Not so powerful now, are you?” Another tap, my left cheek. “Are these the golden boots, from the game? Poor Poles. Never saw you coming, did they.”

My latest game, he means. We flew into Warsaw and slaughtered the Polish National team five-nil. I got a brace and an assist to Andrews, my mate up top.

I hear myself snarling. “What is this?! Let me the fuck out of here now, you fat bastard!”

He taps me again. Multiple points, leather smell. Probably the bottom of a cleat. “Now, now, Wizard. Let’s have a little caution. Mister Kay don’t want you too damaged, yet, but a man in my position gets temptations. One shot,” he adds.

“You won’t do it,” I shout back, shaking. “You’re a coward. All you guys!”

A vise clenches my jaw—Fat Man’s big hand. He’s got me by the face. It hurts!

“Maybe you do want to learn about cracked molars and such. If you can brain a man with a bottle, think of how much fun we could have here in this little room.”

I struggle against his hand, fingers crushing my cheeks against my own teeth.

His face is close to mine. “Understand this, Hessabi. Your money and your goals don’t mean a thing here. You’re a long way from Culverhouse Crossing, Yankee, and you ain’t ever gettin’ out.”

He lets go and something drops in my lap. The boot. Then he leaves the room.

White splotches spread before my eyes from the pain.

Who the fuck are these guys? How did this happen?

I open and close my mouth. The flesh of my cheeks ache.

What is this?

I’m shivering. The shoe falls off my lap. Yes, a cleat. The nubs clatter on the stone floor. Shivering. It’s chilly, brass monkeys in this place. It’s March. Don’t they heat the place? I’ve been here how long, and I’m just realizing that now? The bastards must’ve put roofies in my drink. Fuck.

I guess this isn’t one of Julian’s pranks, after all. That’s what I was wondering when I first came to, here. Tied to a chair, can’t see. But no nasty hooker came in for a lap dance, and I was too fuzzy to stay awake.

I shake my head, shake off the cobwebs. What else do I know?

I am bound tight. I can’t lean forwards—there’s that pressure on my chest. I’m wearing shoes—slippers. The floor is rough and uneven. Is it stone? Concrete?

Now think, Arman. Don’t be a dolt. Be like me, and think.

Shut up, Kamran. You’ve never been trapped like this!

What do these guys want? That maniac and his crew. He said my money’s no good. That’s bullshit. They’re in this for ransom, that’s all.

Maybe I just wait a while, see if they soften them up. Then they’ll listen to reason.

Think, Arman. How did you get into this? You’re a striker for Culverhouse Crossing, tied for second place with Arsenal. You’re an American living in England. A Persian-American. Not that that matters. You’re rich. You get women—most of the ones you want. You’ve played in three World Cup games, netting four times. You play soccer.

So who does this, Kamran?

There’s that sound again, that hissing. Haven’t I heard it before? It sounds like a snake from a kids’ movie, but it isn’t a snake. I’m not that bombed.

Man, I have to pee!

Wait, my head is clearing. The drugs are definitely wearing off.

Why would someone drug me and not ask me any questions? Could they be police? The CIA or Interpol or something? But why the hell would they be after me? And that psycho, a cop?

Shit, maybe somebody’s mistaking me for a terrorist. I’m originally from Iran and all . . .

No, that’s doesn’t track. Fat Man. He knows exactly who I am. If this is a police thing, I can’t believe they’d use someone like him.

Go back, Arman. What happened?

The woman. Yes, there was a woman . . . in purple. Pretty purple underwear. Ruffles. I guess it was lingerie. I can feel it now—cool and slick. Was it satin? Nice nice, what a body. Better than a stripper. I don’t like to see ribs and fake ta-tas. God, she was beautiful. Straight blonde hair. A little short, but she had a really nice smile. Lovely? I would say lovely. The Brits like that word, but they seem to use it sarcastically. I can picture this gal being the bride in one of those wedding frame shots. Miss All-America. And she was ready to rock.

Polish? She and I spoke and her voice was weird, high-pitched. I didn’t care for her accent. Sounded Russian, but everything Polish sounds Russian to me. I honestly didn’t care about her voice, either, Miss Magazine Cover. We talked a while, though. In a bar. I don’t think we shagged. God, she would’ve been sweet, too. Perfect hourglass, no cellulite on her legs. Young, obviously. Not high-school young. Maybe my age, twenty-five or twenty-six. No tattoos. I don’t think she was a hooker. Not her. Whoever their mark is, the guys on the team excel at pointing them out.

Stay away from that one, Arman. She’ll give you a lot more than a blow job.

The woman. Where were we? Yes, a hotel room. Mine? Fuck, it’d help if I had any idea where we were staying. It was an afternoon game, so we’d drop some moolah that night and fly back in the morning. That’s all I remember. I wouldn’t know the hotel if I hadn’t been drugged—they’re all the same. Upscale, good sheets and towels, fancy showers. Honor bar that’ll cost you your favorite shoes for a pack of Peanut M&Ms. But the Sentries don’t stay at the Sheraton. It’s the same in the States, for the Sounders and Fire. No Motel 6 for the starters.

Did I have a roommate? Yeah, probably Clark, backup left-mid. Good guy. Been with the team a little longer than me. He’s good at scoping out the hotel staff for hotties. Seems like he picked up a desk clerk in Glasgow, some tall redhead with a horrible accent.

So somebody’s missed me by now and they’ve called the police. Right. Wake-up calls are usually at seven for a ten-thirty flight. Coach Periconi always wants an earlier departure time, but the guys kept blowing their wake-up calls. Andrews said sometimes guys would be staggering back from a bar or some lady’s fuck suite when they were supposed to be at the airport. Guess you have to be more realistic with a bunch of guys. Even professional footballers. Even married ones.

Didn’t anyone see me with the blonde last night? Yes, had to. We were headed to a club after dinner. Emilio and LeClerc and Bromley were arguing about which one, or in which order.

I was walking down the street with the guys . . . walking down the street . . . and someone ran into me. That’s it. That’s how it happened. I think she ran into me . . . and I knocked her over. And helped her up. The guys moved on while . . . while . . . while she and I went into a bar right there. We both wore black leather jackets—she said I have good taste. She didn’t know who I was, right? Right. Because when she asked what I do, and I told her, she was shocked. Big, big beautiful blue eyes.

“Oh, you play football? That’s incredible,” she said. Or something like that.

She was alone until she ran into me. Then we were at the bar. She did marketing for a cell phone company. That’s it. She was in town on business. Then we . . . then we walked to her hotel, just down the block. A place with some marble spheres in the lobby. And we went up to her room. We ordered room service. She did. She said she ordered me a cheeseburger. And then we danced, slow danced. There was music. The heat of kissing. And a drink, a vodka tonic. That would’ve slayed any man, right there.

We started to take off her clothes. She giggled because there was something complicated about her skirt and I was having trouble. What was it? Then all that purple and beauty, standing over me.

Then I woke up here.

What happened to her? Did they take her, too?

No, I’m missing something. What am I missing?

Room service came, but I didn’t see it. I was in the bathroom. I think I was already fuzzy, but I didn’t see the guy. Probably one of these assholes here, Fat Man or his waste-of-space crony. I bet it was. That computes.

Fuck, she must’ve made me a drink and spiked it in the room. We were kissing and grinding. I started messing with her bra. She smiled for me. My fingers investigated those purple ruffles. And then I was out.

Fuck, I have to pee.

Could this all be a case of mistaken identity? Any second, that lady’s going to come in and take off my hood and flash a badge and apologize. Isn’t she? But what if she doesn’t?

No, Arman, you’re fooling yourself.

Goddammit, I’ve really got to pee!

“Hey,” I call out. “Hey, I have to piss!”

Shuffling feet approach. Good, you bastards, let me take a leak.

I think there’s more than one man. Fat Man’s coming—those are his hooves. In the room now. Someone else exhales from the door; the direction is different.

“Show me,” says a voice.

Not his. Not Fat Man’s. It’s a little rough and weak—it’s definitely different. The new man.

Fat Man comes closer.

A hand grabs my head to keep it in place. Another hand grazes my throat. I flinch as the hood is lifted. I clench my groin muscles, fighting the urge to piss.

Another hand grabs my head to keep it in place. The hand drags up over my chin and mouth. A rough patch of skin catches and pulls on my lip. The hand smells. My world brightens.

The hand stops with a finger over my eyes, pinning the hood against my nose. I still can’t see a thing. My chin and cheeks feel cool, freed from my own body heat.

The hand holds my hood like that for a few seconds. Then it drops. I go back into darkness.

Feet shuffle. I hear laughter. Closed-mouth, quiet chuckling. I think it’s the same one who just said “show me.” It comes from the same direction. Bastard!

The hand releases my head and Fat Man’s footsteps depart.

Yes, they’ve got the right man. Arman Hessabi.

Mano dozdedan.

I can picture my brother’s face right now, shaking his head.

Oh, Arman, wherever you are, you’ve stepped in the dog shit, now. Moragheb bash, Barâdar.

I know, Kamran. Thanks.

Now, how the hell am I going to get out of here?