"Officer! I'm hungry!"
After fixing the heating in the cell block, I returned to studying languages. The office was perfectly silent. Outside, snow fell steadily. The thin layer of frozen snow on the pavement reflected painful beams of light through my window, stinging my eyes whenever the sun broke through the clouds. I had almost forgotten about Smith when his voice echoed through the building, snapping me back to reality. It was past lunchtime, so I went to the kitchen to prepare something for my prisoner.
I found him fully awake, sitting on the bench. His face lit up when he saw me approaching with the tray.
"Hello, Officer! Is it me, or did it get warmer in here?" he asked, amused.
"I left the door open to let the heat in from the office," I replied absently.
He said nothing more, thanked me politely for the food, and ate quietly. Before I left, he asked if I could turn on the radio. I saw no harm in it and obliged. For a good hour I heard nothing from him and assumed he had fallen asleep. Then, minutes after the two o'clock news bulletin, he called again.
"Officer! I need to use the bathroom!"
I hated this part. Everyone had the right to use the lavatory, but I would rather clean up after an accident than escort detainees. It was risky, embarrassing for both of us, and — in Smith's case — I didn't trust him. He seemed far more dangerous than the local drunks or troubled teenagers I usually dealt with.
"Okay, Mister Smith. Just like I said before: don't make me use the taser," I warned as I entered the cell block.
I unbolted his cell and motioned for him to walk ahead. Before stepping into the male restroom, he turned and looked at me with a peculiar glint in his eyes.
"You know, Officer, it was very sweet of you to remove the blockage on the heating. No one's ever been so kind to me. But I'm afraid it could get you into trouble …" His voice dropped to a soft hiss at the end.
Smith knew. He hadn't been asleep; he had watched me vandalise station property. I stared at him, trying to keep a poker face, but I felt the heat rising in my cheeks — not because he had caught me, but because I couldn't stand the intensity of his gaze.
"My work issues don't concern you, Mister Smith. We're here. Make it quick."
The thief smirked and disappeared behind the door.
When he finished and we headed back to his cell, he suddenly stopped halfway down the corridor, blocking my path. My hand instinctively reached for the taser, but before I could draw it, he stepped back and begged me to listen.
When I started this job, I knew empathy would be my biggest weakness. Every detainee claimed innocence, wrongful arrest, victimhood. Some were telling the truth, but even in his worst moods Shaheed only arrested actual lawbreakers to avoid trouble later. If I let every prisoner plead their case, I would end up a lawyer or a therapist. Yet something in Smith's softened tone made me lower my guard.
"Please, Officer! Listen! Did you hear today's news? The shooting this morning? Those people were after me! They tried to kill me, but I escaped. I needed somewhere to hide, so I saw your colleague and punched him on purpose — so he would arrest me and bring me to a police station where I would be safe. But I'm afraid they know where I am and they're coming. You have to let me go!"
"I have to?! Is there anything else you'd like me to do, sir? Back to your cell, Smith!"
Smith dropped to his knees and wrapped his long arms around my waist, pressing his face against my stomach.
"Is there something you'd like me to do, Officer?"
The satyr had returned. His eyes gleamed with filthy intent. He caught the tip of my belt between his teeth and tugged playfully. I grabbed his face with both hands, trying to stop him. He released the belt instantly, caught my thumb in his mouth, and began sucking on it. The sight disgusted and paralysed me. In that moment of shock, Smith threw me to the floor and mounted me, trying to kiss me.
I managed to drive my knee into his groin. He clutched himself and rolled off. I shoved him away, scrambled to my feet, drew my gun, and ordered him back to his cell. Smith groaned in pain as he stood, but when our eyes met, he winked and started laughing. I locked him in and fled the block, face burning, while his chuckles echoed behind me.
It hit me that he could have knocked me out, raped me, or killed me — but he hadn't. That realisation, combined with the helplessness I had felt when I couldn't reach my gun or taser, made me feel sick. I had thought I could handle police work, dealing with harmless locals. John Smith showed me I didn't belong here. My only power came from pointing a gun; in reality, I didn't even have the mass to stop a teenager stealing chewing gum.
I went to the kitchen to calm down and make tea, then checked my phone for details on the morning's shooting in the neighbouring town's shopping district. Witnesses said armed men had stormed several shops searching for someone, firing shots into the ceiling. No one was killed. One woman claimed she had seen a man in a purple shirt run from a closed corporate building across from her flower shop before the chaos began.
It made me think. Maybe Smith wasn't lying. Maybe he really was running from mobsters. I adjusted my belt out of habit and froze when I didn't feel the electric cell key. I knew instantly: Smith had taken it when he groped me. I rushed to the cells. The door stood unlocked. He was gone. He could only have left through the main office door while I was in the kitchen.
I dashed outside and spotted him in the mini utility van parked on our property. He was trying to hot-wire it. I drew my gun, crossed the parking lot low to the ground so he wouldn't see me, and yanked open the passenger door, jumping in and levelling the weapon at his face.
"Get out of the car, Smith!"
"I'm sorry, Officer. When this is over, you can punish me however you like — but right now I need this van to start and get the hell out of here!"
He held a small hammer; a screwdriver protruded from the ignition.
"I said, get out!" I shouted.
His expression changed as he looked past my shoulder. He ducked and hissed at me to do the same. I thought it was a trick, kept the gun trained on him, and glanced back.
Three black jeeps had pulled into the station driveway. Armed men poured out and ran inside.
"See? I wasn't lying! Maybe they'll leave when they realise I'm gone," Smith whispered, tugging my shoulder to make me crouch.
"I don't think so. I left your ID card on my desk!"
"No problem, Officer. I have another one."
"Excuse me? What?!" I exclaimed.
"Quiet! They're leaving - and I think we should, too. You're coming with me, Officer!" He reached over and slammed the door shut.
One of the men spotted our van and alerted the others. Fortunately, Smith had got the engine running. He skilfully manoeuvred the van out of the lot and onto the highway before the hitmen could react. He floored the accelerator, trying to outrun them. But the jeeps soon caught up. One pulled alongside, trying to force us off the road. Its tinted passenger window slid down; a pale face appeared in the gloom, levelling a gun at us.
The man fired.
Three bullets struck the van; one shattered Smith's window, making him swerve violently. Somehow, he kept control. We had just reached an exit and veered off sharply as the assassins got trapped between the central reservation and oncoming traffic.
"Who the hell are these people, and what did you do to piss them off so badly?!" I yelled as Smith hurtled along the sharply curving road.
"Oh, some Arnavut guys. A little misunderstanding. A language barrier," he replied laconically, handling the wheel like a professional racer.
"You pissed off the Arnavut mob?!" My heart hammered; I fell back into the seat.
"Are you familiar with this area, Officer?" he asked, ignoring my panic.
The mobsters weren't as reckless and slowed on the bends, falling behind.
"Yes. It's an industrial zone," I said shakily.
We entered a densely built-up area — factories, warehouses, sea containers, side roads offering cover. Smith parked between two white containers on a bathtub company's lot. After several turns, we believed we had lost them, but we stayed cautious as we navigated the maze.
Most offices were closed, except for a second-hand store at the entrance to the zone. Reaching it unseen was tricky; it was only accessible from the main road. Just as we slipped inside, one of the jeeps pulled into the store's car park. Two hitmen got out. They hadn't seen us — yet — but I knew they would check the shop.
I was about to run upstairs to the manager's office and alert the staff when Smith stopped me.
"Officer, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he whispered, dragging me behind a shelf of tableware.
"We need somewhere safe to hide so I can call for backup!" I hissed.
"You think a locked door or the manager can stop those men? They'll shoot everyone until they find us!"
"What do you suggest? Play hide-and-seek among pots and kettles?!"
Before Smith could reply, I motioned for him to follow. I knew the layout. A warehouse at the back connected to the garage where delivery vans unloaded second-hand furniture. The warehouse doors were usually open for constant traffic. I thought we could escape through the loading gate.
We waited until the coast was clear and crossed the warehouse. At the gates we hit another problem: the black jeep was parked directly in the driveway. The driver sat inside; he would spot us immediately. Smith quickly found a solution. He nodded at the open moving van standing before the gates — empty except for cardboard boxes. He jumped onto the ramp and crouched to help me up. We hid behind the boxes, waiting for the driver to close the doors and drive away.