After about twenty minutes the van stopped. We were now a good distance from the village where we had left the Arnavuts. We believed we were safe — at least for the time being — unless the mobsters had tracked the van. Smith waited a long time before forcing the door lock, listening carefully to every sound from outside.
It was already dark. We were somewhere deep in the countryside. My phone's geolocation showed a tiny hamlet I had never heard of; the nearest proper town was about fifteen minutes' walk away. As the forecast had warned, the temperature had plunged below zero and snow had begun to fall. Neither of us was dressed for the journey.
The van driver lived on what had once been a farm. The house itself looked decent — as far as we could see in the dark — but the outbuildings were in ruins. He used them to store broken furniture, hardware boxes, and anything the family didn't want to clutter the house. Suddenly lights came on in the kitchen.
"I'd love to have a hot cup of tea with you by the fire, Officer," Smith said pensively, watching the silhouettes move behind the curtain, "but I'm afraid we'll have to make do with less tonight."
He turned and headed towards one of the barns. I was cold, exhausted, and barely able to stand, so I followed the Anglo-Saxon in silence. There were no other options — except spending the night in a shed.
The barn door stood ajar. It was farther from the house, which was probably why the driver kept little inside except building materials. Surprisingly, the barn was dry compared to the damp sheds Gaul was notorious for. A ladder led to a mezzanine loft filled with hay. We climbed up and found a spot to wait out the night. But I couldn't relax. I kept expecting the assassins to find us at any moment.
A few old chairs stood against the wall. I dragged one to the window overlooking the farmyard and sat, staring into the darkness, trying to spot predatory shadows creeping from behind trees or corners. Nothing. Then headlights appeared on the road. I gasped for air — which instantly alarmed Smith. He jumped up and joined me. It was just a passing car.
"Officer, I think you're a little over-tense," Smith chuckled.
"I must call someone and tell them what has happened," I mumbled, unlocking my phone. The blue screen light cast a ghostly glow around us. The signal was weak, but I had enough battery for a day.
"I can't let you do that, Officer."
Smith covered the screen with his large hand, blocking the call. He withdrew it quickly when I looked up. In the dim light I could only make out the outline of his face and the gleam in his eyes — but he could clearly see my annoyance.
"I'm not trying to stop you from contacting your colleagues, but are you sure you can trust them? Are you sure they'll send help instead of killing us both? And if they spare your life, do you think they'll give me a fair trial?" Smith squatted so I could see his eyes better.
"Why would my boss - or anyone I work with - want to kill me? If the mafia is after you, you'll get protection," I replied.
"You're so naïve, Officer Yazarova," he smiled. The phone light softened his sharp features, making him look almost human. "We're talking about the Arnavut mob, remember? They have no authority above them. They are authority - especially in a small village like yours. Why do you think they didn't alert your entire force the moment the Arnavuts entered your territory? Why has no one tried to contact you since you disappeared? They must have seen the surveillance footage by now and assume I took you hostage when you tried to stop my escape?"
He had a point. The same questions had gnawed at me since we fled the station. Yet I suspected he wasn't telling me everything — despite the sincerity in his tone.
"What did you steal from them?" I asked.
"Steal?! Don't use words like that around me, Officer! I collect, I borrow, I repossess … but I never steal!" he said flirtatiously.
"So, you're a collector? They must have misspelt it in your file. In that case, what did you repossess from the Arnavuts?"
"Well, I sold them something. They paid me, then complained about the quality of the goods," he explained.
"What did they think they were buying?"
"Cocaine," he whispered.
"And what did they actually receive?"
"Flour," he snickered.
"So, you owe them money and now they want your head," I concluded.
I needed time to process that. Even after everything he had said, I didn't believe he had told me the full truth. He was holding back some crucial detail — the missing piece that would explain the chaos he had dragged me into. I turned back to the window, though I could see little beyond distant streetlights. I switched off my phone to save battery, and darkness enveloped us again.
"Have you always dreamed of becoming a police officer?" he asked suddenly.
"No, Smith. Being a cop was never my dream. I always believed there was nothing I couldn't do, so I thought I could handle it. I was wrong. This is the biggest mistake I've ever made," I vented, unable to hide my disappointment.
"You're too hard on yourself, Officer! I think you're doing a great job. You're professional, brave - you're the greatest …"
I cut him off.
"It's not about bravery, Smith! This uniform doesn't give me power. I don't even have it inside the station because I let you escape! When the mobsters find us, this" - I shook the gun in my hand - "will be the only thing we have. And I can't guarantee we'll survive. My job requires me to protect people, but instead I'm playing dress-up!"
A painful spasm gripped my neck — one of those stress-induced knots that plagued me often. The doctor blamed tension in the muscles. Physiotherapy hadn't helped much, and I couldn't remember the last time I had gone to bed or woken up truly rested. Stress was a constant in my life.
Despite the darkness, Smith must have noticed me rubbing the back of my neck. Before I could react, I felt him behind me, his long fingers sliding over my shoulders. I tried to shrug him off, but he held firm.
"You're really tense, Officer. I can help. Just relax - sit back. It'll be easier if we take off your jacket." His hands moved to my chest, trying to unbutton my coat.
"Hey! Don't get carried away, Smith! I can do this myself!" I protested, undoing the jacket myself. Underneath I wore only a white T-shirt. I shivered as cold air brushed my skin.
"And maybe undo your bra so I could rub your shoulders properly," he suggested sheepishly.
"I'm not wearing one. I forgot to put it on today," I admitted, mortified.
"Oh, really?" His voice trembled. I ignored it and rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the day's tension. I gasped softly when his cold hands stroked my neck.
"Sorry. My hands will warm up soon," he murmured into my ear. I caught the scent of his sweat mixed with faint traces of strong sandalwood perfume.
"Just don't do anything I wouldn't do, Smith," I warned.
The whole situation was wrong. I shouldn't have let him touch me. But after everything that day, I craved some kind of relief. Usually that meant a hot shower, tea, chocolate, a good book, or something to distract me from my dull reality. None of that was here. Except Smith — perpetually aroused. I hadn't felt a man's touch in ages; perhaps I was simply taking advantage of the moment, assuming he wouldn't dare try anything because I was a cop.
Smith's hands followed the curve of my neck down to my shoulders, easing the knots. Simple, but the tension melted away. He pressed his thumbs into the base of my skull, moving gently up and down. As long as he kept it light, I could handle the sensation. But then he increased the pressure, kneading deeply with both hands. The pleasure was so intense my breathing grew heavier. He shifted back to the base of my skull, massaging with thumb and forefinger. The gun slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. I had to stop him — I couldn't stifle my moans or think clearly anymore. I reached back, grabbed his arm, and felt his muscles tense under my fingers.
"You're good at your job, Officer. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have made it."
His soft, reassuring voice and warm breath in my ear sent a shiver through me — one he clearly felt. The next moment he seized my arms, pressing them against my chest and holding them firm with one hand. With the other he undid my scrunchie. I normally wore my hair loose, but for work I braided it for professionalism. Smith brought his face closer, running his fingers through my hair, inhaling its scent.
"The smell of your hair drives me crazy - and your sweet moans … Please, let me hear more …" he whimpered into my ear.
Things were spiralling. I had to stop this. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to give in. But the Anglo-Saxon rogue found another way. He brushed his lips against my neck — soft caresses turning to kisses. When he bit gently, I lost control. My sighs were driving him wild; he squeezed me harder against the chair until I felt his heaving chest against my back through the spindles.
"Smith, stop! Let me go! I'll arrest you for sexual harassment!" I shouted.
"But you like this! Besides, you're the one encouraging me to continue."
He released my arms and slid his hands under my T-shirt. I stopped him by digging my nails into his hands — long nails that must have hurt, because he sucked in a sharp breath.
"I told you to stop, Smith! I don't want this!" I whispered furiously.
"I'll stop only if you tell me I was a good boy and admit you liked it," he moaned, breathing heavily into my ear.
"Don't be ridiculous, Smith!"
He nibbled my neck again.
"Okay, okay! You were a good boy, Smith!" I said as gently as I could. "Now let me go."
"Did you like it?" he mumbled.
"That's enough, Smith!"
"Please, Officer!"
"Yes, I liked it," I admitted - and it wasn't a lie.
Smith reluctantly released me and retreated into a dark corner of the mezzanine where I couldn't see him. I quickly buttoned my jacket and retrieved my gun from the floor. I heard him arranging hay.
"Officer, I've prepared the bed for us …"
"Forget it, Smith! I'm not sleeping beside you!"
"I won't do anything, I promise. We'll freeze tonight if we don't keep each other warm. You can trust me. I'm a good boy - you said it yourself …"
The vulnerability in his voice worried me. There was something clinically wrong with Smith, but he was right. The earlier excitement had faded, leaving only the biting cold. I holstered the gun and walked towards his voice.
I had no idea hay could be so uncomfortable. It pricked my neck constantly. Smith wrapped an arm around me and pulled the coat — the one I had given him at the station — over us both. Strangely, the Anglo-Saxon fell asleep almost immediately after murmuring goodnight. But worries kept me awake. My mind raced: the Arnavut mob, my boss, how we had escaped, the fact that no one seemed to care about a supposedly kidnapped officer, the insane John Smith lying beside me, and my own stupidity in letting a madman touch me.
Maybe Smith was wrong. Maybe my boss was looking for me, trying to stop the Arnavuts. Maybe this was all a nightmare. Whatever the truth, after this adventure with Smith was over, I needed to find another job.