I didn't sleep that night. Every so often I jolted awake to noises outside or Smith mumbling in his sleep. At some point I gave up trying and decided to stay on guard — I was afraid the thief might try to escape. But my worries were unnecessary. The Anglo-Saxon slept like a baby. Still, I was right to stay alert.
At dawn, the family left the house. Silence settled for a while. Streetlights switched off. I wandered around the barn and checked the garage, hoping to find some form of transport to reach the city faster than walking. I discovered two children's bicycles and an old chopper with the keys still in the ignition. To use Smith's terminology, I borrowed the scooter. The new law allowed police officers to commandeer vehicles in urgent situations. We were precisely in one of those. Besides, I would return it to the owner later.
I rolled the scooter back to our barn and returned to the window just in time to see three jeeps in the distance. They could only be the Arnavuts. I prayed they would drive past, but I suspected they weren't passing through randomly. They knew we were hiding here.
"Smith! They're here!" I shook him violently by the shoulder – waking him wasn't easy. Smith stayed calm, but I saw genuine shock flicker across his face for the first time. The perpetual smirk was gone.
"I found a scooter with keys. It's right outside the barn. We can use it to get away," I whispered as we watched them through the cracks in the door downstairs.
Several men jumped out, leaving drivers inside. They walked to the house and kicked in the front door.
"Officer, they'll get us before our arses touch the seats! Even if we manage to drive off, we won't get far on a chopper! Their jeeps will catch us quickly. We should hide," he said pensively.
"They'll search every corner of the farm. Sooner or later, they'll find us. I have a better idea."
I rummaged through the scattered building materials and found two tubes of insulation foam with caulking guns.
"What are you going to do with those, Officer?" Smith asked, amused.
"I'll go around the buildings and approach their cars from behind unseen. I'll spray foam into the exhaust pipes — it'll stop the engines from starting. That'll buy us time to escape…"
"I can't let you do that! What if they see you? Give them to me…" Smith protested, trying to take the tubes.
"No, Smith! That's our only chance. I've never ridden a motorbike before, so I need you ready to start the scooter the moment I get back and drive us out safely!"
"Okay, but please - be careful, Officer!" He sounded genuinely worried and clung to my hand. I gently pushed him off and slipped out through a small back door, staying low as I hurried forward.
At the house I heard loud banging inside. The hitmen were tearing the place apart, searching for us. I had to hurry; next they would target the barns. I dropped to my stomach and crawled towards the cars. On the far side I saw Smith creeping on hands and knees to the scooter. He spotted me and froze, watching as I sabotaged the vehicles.
Opening the tube cap was difficult — I had to bite it off. Using the caulking gun was worse. Emptying the tube required hand strength I barely had. But our lives depended on it, so I forced myself. The first exhaust filled quickly. The second was harder. By the third my arms were numb; I could hardly pull the trigger. I crawled back behind the house and used every ounce of strength to push myself up. My hands were cramped; I could barely move my fingers. Thankfully, my legs still worked, and I hurried back the way I had come.
I hadn't noticed one driver had stepped out to smoke. He wandered around the premises and decided to check behind one of the barns — just as I ran past. He was startled, then realised I was the cop Smith had supposedly kidnapped. He gave chase. A few metres from the barn I yelled for Smith. He heard me and peered around the corner.
"Take my gun!" I shouted as I ran towards him.
Smith understood instantly. In a swift movement he pulled the gun from my holster and aimed at the mobster behind me. One shot cracked through the air; the Arnavut dropped. The sound alerted the others inside. They poured out and saw us struggling to start the old scooter. Two men raced towards us, shouting in Arnavut, while the rest jumped back into their jeeps. I watched over Smith's shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist, hands still numb. The scooter failed to start on the first two attempts. I thought we were dead. On the third try the engine roared to life. Smith made a sharp turn and gunned it, putting distance between us and the murderous gang.
I was terrified the first few minutes on the back roads; afraid the foam hadn't worked. But the longer we rode without pursuit, the more I realised my plan had succeeded. For the next half hour, we travelled peacefully through countryside, villages, and deserted roads. Smith was taking us to his friend in Shortridge, who owned a bed-and-breakfast. The Anglo-Saxon said we would be safe there. I looked forward to it. I hadn't eaten since fleeing the station. And I desperately needed a shower. After that, I would have a serious talk with Smith.
***
B&B 4 U was a whitewashed terraced house in the heart of Shortridge's old town, near a romantic bridge overlooking the river and historic Gaul buildings. It had a small garage. Mark — the Gaul hotel keeper and Smith's friend — let us park the scooter there until we could return it.
Mark was unremarkable — neither repellent nor striking. Nothing about him stirred strong feelings. Smith must have known him for years; when Mark saw us, he became excited, talking nonstop and interrogating Smith about his life. My first impression was that Mark fetishised Anglo-Saxons, which explained the friendship.
The keeper acted oddly when handing us the room key, apologising to me: only one room left, so Smith and I would have to share. He glanced at Smith, expecting me to be embarrassed. I didn't even consider separating from my detainee. I was still a cop, still responsible for him. The men looked surprised when I silently took the key and trudged upstairs, Smith following.
The room was spacious, with a bay window. It had a king-sized bed, minibar, en-suite bathroom, writing desk and chair, widescreen TV, and even an iron. Smith said we could use the washing machine in the floor's laundry room. I checked the wardrobe and asked if he had clothes to wash. He didn't answer, though he had heard me. In fact, I knew he was watching as I took bathrobes from the top shelf. When I turned, I noticed for the first time how tall he was. Smith stood in the middle of the room like a menhir, staring, waiting for my next move.
"Give me back my gun." He had tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.
"Come and get it," he said, beaming with smug satisfaction.
Annoyed, I stepped forward and pulled the gun free.
"Now, take off your clothes."
He looked delighted — until he realised I meant to wear the bathrobe. I turned my back as the shameless Anglo-Saxon stripped in front of me.
"Are you done?" I asked after a while. "Now, lie down on the bed."
"I love it when you command me, Officer," he said in a husky voice.
I hated him for his foolishness and for making me uncomfortable. I knew he did it on purpose to provoke me. As soon as he sat, I grabbed his hand and handcuffed him to the solid metal bar of the bedside lamp. Smith caught my waist with his free arm, stopping me from leaving.
"You want to play, Officer?" he asked under his breath, tugging at the cuff.
"Let me go, you freak!" I shouted, pushing off. The hems of his bathrobe parted, exposing him. Amused by my instant blush, the Anglo-Saxon covered himself.
"When will you be back, Officer?" he asked calmly as I opened the door.
"When I'm ready," I snapped, locking the door behind me.
The laundry room was empty. I took off my clothes, put on the bathrobe, and loaded our garments into the drum. The floor was carpeted, so I sat while the cycle ran. Smith and his predatory behaviour filled my thoughts. Nowhere in his file had I read anything about sexual harassment. Important data I needed to add to his case. Or did I? He made me nervous — yet I wasn't afraid of him. That contradiction confused me.
The machine had a drying function, but our clothes were still damp. I returned to the room and found Smith sitting comfortably on the bed, handcuffed, watching TV. I hung our outfits on a rack by the radiator to finish drying.
"Mark said we can eat in the kitchen, or call them to bring food upstairs," he said, eyes on my back.
"We'll call them to bring it up," I stated without turning. "But first I need a shower."
"Can I join you? I feel dirty," lips curling into a mischievous grin as he eyed me up and down.
I decided he should go first. As I uncuffed him, I caught him peeking into my bathrobe.
"You go first, I'll call reception for food," I said, tightening the belt. Smith looked disappointed — he had thought I had uncuffed him to take him into the shower. Grudgingly he shuffled to the bathroom.
I called reception. Mark answered and promised to send food up. Meanwhile I listened to Smith's little concert in the shower — strange Anglo-Saxon songs.