By Lottie M. Hancock
Reading time: 12 minutes | Published: February 2025
Life throws tiny complications at the contented to keep things lively. Marge Tanner rarely experienced such annoyances in her life. She ruled her world, her kitchen. Here, she maintained total control. Her spices lined up alphabetically on a magnetic strip underneath her cabinet. Her recipes, written on cute blue index cards, filled a photo album adorned with a picture of the palomino stallion she’d left behind in Alabama. Life was as perfect as she wanted it to be.
Marge brushed back her curly bangs as steam from the marinara sauce roiled through the red bubbles.
“I can’t believe how great that smells!” Sarah exclaimed, her small frame barely noticeable on the padded kitchen chair. At sixty-something, she maintained her beauty with straight black hair falling sleekly behind her shoulders. Few of the wicked crow’s feet that plagued Marge’s baby blues surrounded Sarah’s large brown eyes. With her ever-present spaghetti-strap purse and tiny shawl tied at her chest, Sarah reminded Marge of a child—eager to please and always watching, but shrinking into silence when uncomfortable. The Alabama widow enjoyed having her around.
“I’m hoping this will make a few pints for the winter. Can’t depend on store-bought tomatoes. No flavor.”
“I try to cook, but I run out of fire extinguishers.” The two friends laughed, but truth rang in Sarah’s words. She’d never found her footing in the kitchen. A housekeeper kept things tidy and supplied her with freezer meals to pop in the oven or microwave, but Sarah saw no reason to learn when cooking for one.
The kitchen door with its gingham-print curtains swung open. Desiree Bauchamp swept in, one hand on her hip, the other displayed over her head in a dramatic entrance. Her dashing smile flashed red against faultless teeth that the entire group suspected weren’t natural.
“Deal them out, ladies! I’m on a roll today!” Desiree kicked the door shut. “The cabby refused my money, swore I was some sort of celebrity.” Her hearty laugh filled the kitchen as she pulled a cigarette from her purse. Defiance blazed in her eyes as she stared at Marge, flicking her lighter. Instead of arguing about smoking in her kitchen, Marge turned back to her sauce.
“Bertie has the cards this week. We’re still waiting for her,” Sarah piped in. Desiree’s glance darted to her, feigning surprise.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there, Sarah. How’s life at the retirement home?”
“It’s not—” Sarah stared at her hands on the table. She liked Desiree but knew better than to get baited into one of her debates. Sarah lived in a gated retirement community of small condos, but Desiree attacked such establishments as surrendering to age and society’s stereotypes.
“Why do you pick on her like that?” Marge slammed her spoon on the stovetop.
“Me? Pick on her? Dear Sarah, please understand that I love you to death. I just want you to wake up to your potential. That’s all.”
“I’m fine,” Sarah replied, still studying her hands.
Desiree sighed and shook her head. “If you say so, then I’m glad you’re happy. As for the rest of the crew? Where are our wayward friends?”
“They’re on their way. Carpooling,” Marge tasted the sauce as she spoke. Wrinkling her nose, she reached for an unlabeled jar containing red flakes and white powder. How she distinguished one spice from another mystified them all, but the results never disappointed.
With a dramatic sweep, Desiree crossed her legs and studied Sarah. “Sarah, dear, my neighbor has been alone for far too long. He’s always in his garden or building something in his workshop. You know the type. Busy beaver. Such a shame though.”
Sarah shot her a wary glance. “I know the type.”
“Good, because I mentioned you to him this morning, and—” A knock on the door rescued Sarah from the redhead’s meddling. She recognized Desiree’s pattern—trying to match her with every eligible man from mailmen to bankers. Sarah also knew Desiree’s reputation and refused to date another of Desi’s exes.
Marge opened the door to two women who could have passed as sisters. Each shared Marge’s rounded face, but their hair gleamed with a bleached brightness that proclaimed their Southern heritage. Jones had sworn her hairdresser held a place in her final plan so she could enter Heaven’s gates without brown roots.
Jones and Bertie greeted Sarah and Marge with kisses on the cheek before taking chairs on either side of Desiree. They knew better than to risk her makeup with a kiss and settled for quick squeezes to her shoulders.
“The gang’s all here!” Bertie giggled at Desiree’s announcement. She’d always defended her best friend’s brashness, swearing good lived in everyone and Desi’s mouth served only as a defense mechanism. “How did you get away with Charles dropping you off? I thought he detested gambling.”
“Oh, he does, but he insists I must be joking when I call it card night.”
The women settled into their ritual—pouring iced tea and dealing cards. Their weekly gathering had become sacred over the past two years. Living scattered across Atlanta made regular visits difficult after meeting at Jones’ dinner party. Rosy Jones had celebrated divorce number five and her ex-husband’s extraordinary generosity in signing over the estate without squabbles. Despite clashing personalities, the five women clicked on a fundamental level they refused to surrender. Marge missed her poker nights back home, and Thursday night cards filled that void.
Marge slapped an ashtray in front of Desiree, earning a coy smile and sideways glance. “Next time, leave those at home,” she stated flatly, brooking no response. Her late husband’s smoking had killed him, and she’d stayed silent too long about his habit.
“All you had to do was ask,” Desiree cooed without looking up from her hand.
Color flooded Marge’s face, and Sarah sensed the eruption building. Before Marge could unleash two years of pent-up frustration, the door burst open. Four men in black clothing stormed in, waving guns and shouting.
“Get back! Get back against the counter! Go!” The largest man’s voice boomed through the kitchen.
The women screamed and huddled together, backing against the counter.
“What do you want?” Desiree’s voice cracked.
“Which one of you is Dr. Alice Simeon?” The large man’s dark eyes stabbed at each woman in turn, his gun following his gaze. The elderly group shared the same blank stare.
“Who?” Marge stepped forward. “You have the wrong house. None of us—”
“Shut up! We’ve made no mistake. We want Dr. Simeon. If we have to kill you one at a time to get her, we will.”
“No, you won’t,” Jones challenged. “You’d risk killing your doctor.”
The large man lunged at Jones, jamming his gun under her chin. Madness blazed in his eyes, all logic abandoned.
“Our employers want her now,” he growled. “They won’t think twice about roughing up some old ladies who are just about dead anyway.”
A lanky man returned from searching another room. The sounds of drawers crashing and glass shattering echoed through the house. Marge trembled but held her ground as the muzzle pressed against Jones’ throat. The leader backed away but kept his eyes locked on Jones.
“It’s not here.”
“Keep looking,” his glare swept over the women. “Who lives here? Answer me.”
Marge raised her hand, her voice frozen.
“Take her in there. If it’s here, she can get it.”
The small man shuffled his feet, looking from Marge to his leader.
“What?”
“It’s just,” he hesitated, his defiance crumbling. “She looks like my gramma.”
Rage twisted the large man’s face as he lifted his gun toward his subordinate. The other two men edged away from the door.
Marge saw death in the leader’s eyes. He’d kill his own man without hesitation—they stood no chance once he realized his mistake. Her swollen diabetic leg wouldn’t let her escape, but her friends deserved a chance.
Marge spun and grabbed the saucepot handles. The metal seared her flesh, but the boiling sauce scorched the leader’s face and neck. Chaos erupted. The man screamed, clawing at the thick sauce burning his skin. Desiree yanked Bertie’s arm toward the door, but the tawny-haired brute seized them with massive hands. The leader slammed into Sarah as he staggered backward. She crumpled to the floor, gasping, while he plunged his face under the faucet’s cold stream, desperate to stop the burning. Blisters erupted across his reddened skin as he whirled on Marge, eyes swollen with rage.
“Find the basement. Lock them inside,” he snarled.
The men herded them down the hallway, testing doors until they found the basement. They shoved Marge through the dark opening first, then threw Sarah after her. One man yanked the overhead string with a callused black hand. Bertie and Jones stumbled down the stairs, trapped by the tawny-haired monster’s grip on their shoulders.
“Keep quiet!” The darker man slammed the door. Something scraped against the doorknob outside.
The single bulb cast dancing shadows across tear-streaked faces as it swayed. Marge descended the stairs slowly, her friends following into her basement sanctuary. Small windows lined the top of the cement wall, filtering weak light from outside. Shelves covered every wall, with two more rows running the length of the room like library stacks. Every surface displayed her preserved treasures—soups, jams, the pride of her kitchen.
Now it was their prison.
Sarah huddled on a bench beneath the stairs, hands clasped between her knees, sobbing. Bertie and Jones stood frozen in the center of the room, staring at the door that concealed their executioners.
Desiree paced like a caged tiger, rage replacing fear. She glared at the door, aching for her cigarettes left on the kitchen table. Being controlled by troglodytes hadn’t figured into her evening plans.
Sarah’s quiet sobs echoed in the basement’s chill.
“Just buck up, why don’t you?” Desiree snapped.
“Leave her alone, Desi,” Marge stepped between them. “She’s scared.”
“Of course she’s scared.” Desiree’s voice cracked. “We all are. You don’t see me belly-aching.”
“Well, you should be,” Jones said flatly.
Desiree whirled on her friend, eyes rimmed red. “And why is that?”
“Because when they see they have the wrong women, they’ll kill us all.”
The truth of it echoed in the silence. Bertie covered her face and sobbed. Desiree rushed to her friend’s side, wrapping an arm around her quivering shoulders. Marge’s lips tightened at Desiree’s double standard.
“What are we going to do?” Sarah’s voice barely carried from her corner.
“We survive,” Marge squared her shoulders. “We defend ourselves.”
“Defend ourselves?” Desiree barked. “With what? Canned kumquats? Oh, I know! How about we throw boiling sauce on them? Oh wait—you ran out of ammo.”
“Shut up!” Bertie’s outburst made them jump. “What are you doing, Desi? You’re better than this.”
The words knocked the fight from Desiree. Her mouth opened, then closed. She dropped onto the bench beside Sarah, both avoiding each other’s eyes.
“Look at us,” Jones broke the silence. “At each other’s throats like rabid dogs. Marge is right. We can’t just let them kill us for nothing.”
“That doctor they want,” Bertie whispered. “These aren’t random thugs. They look professional. Why would they make this kind of mistake?”
“Well, I’m not any doctor,” Jones muttered.
“None of us are,” Desiree lifted her chin. “These men are idiots.”
Metal scraped against metal and the door flew open. The rust-haired man charged down the stairs, gun trained on them.
Jones and Bertie huddled against Marge as the leader descended the stairs. Glass shattered upstairs as the remaining men ransacked Marge’s home.
“Now, which one of you is Dr. Simeon?” His swollen lips twisted into a mockery of patience.
“Go to hell.” Desiree stepped toward him. The pistol whip caught her face, sending her sprawling. Bertie rushed to her side. The leader pressed his gun to Desiree’s head, blood trickling from a burst blister on his lip as he smiled.
The gunshot exploded through the cement block room. Women’s screams mixed with the ringing echo. Blood pooled around the leader’s head, trailing toward the center drain. The remaining mercenary froze, staring at the petite woman tucked in the corner of the shelves, a Smith & Wesson steady in her hands. She didn’t lower the gun. The man lunged at her. Sarah’s second shot caught him in the face. He reeled backward, sprawling across his leader. Two men thundered down the stairs. Sarah didn’t hesitate—two more shots dropped them, one hanging off the side, the other draped down the steps.
Bertie cradled Desiree on the floor. Marge stood frozen. Jones moved cautiously toward Sarah, gently cupping the small hands that gripped the gun. She eased the weapon down, and placed it on the bench. The room exhaled.
Police swarmed the house within minutes. A medic checked Desiree’s swollen eye while she managed a flirty smile for the officer. Sarah sat alone, a blanket around her shoulders, her hands no longer trembling. The Smith & Wesson had been bagged as evidence, but Marge couldn’t stop staring at Sarah’s fingers, remembering how surely they had gripped the weapon. Not the fingers of someone who needed a housekeeper to heat up microwave meals.
Two men in dark suits approached Sarah. The taller one crouched beside her, speaking in low tones. “Dr. Simeon, the CDC has been compromised further. We need to move you tonight.”
Sarah—Dr. Alice Simeon—gave a slight nod, her face showing no surprise at the title. She glanced at her friends, the same meek smile they’d known for two years now warming her features.
“The documents are secure?” the shorter suit asked.
“They always were.” Sarah stood, squaring her shoulders in a way they’d never seen before. She turned to her friends, her voice soft but steady. “I’m sorry for the deception. The CDC experiments… I couldn’t let them continue. But I couldn’t tell you—it would have put you in danger.” She paused. “Well, more danger than I already did.”
Desiree let out a sharp laugh. “All those times I told you to ‘live up to your potential’…”
“You were right about one thing,” Sarah said. “I wasn’t really suited for retirement.” The suits gestured toward the door. Another new identity awaited. Another life to disappear into. Sarah gave them one last smile—not the timid one they’d known, but something fiercer—before following the agents up the stairs. Jones watched her go, shaking her head.
“Well,” she said, “I guess we need a new fourth for cards.”
