The Marshes criminal police department was impossible to reach. The Arnavuts had stationed themselves at every approach to the building. We had no idea how many Shortridge officers were involved — they operated undercover — but we knew they were there, just unable to show themselves openly in another precinct, especially the Marshes'. Two of us against an entire police force and the mob, and we had to avoid them all. On top of that, an automatic fence gate only opened after visitors announced themselves via intercom.
Smith and I hid in a café across the street, watching the vigilant hitmen through the window. In the past hour we had discussed every conceivable way past the guards — from Smith posing as a pizza delivery driver to me using my badge to recruit a car owner, hiding Smith in the boot to smuggle him onto the property. Smith rejected most ideas. There was only one plan he refused even to consider.
My idea was insane, I admit. But it was the best we had. I kept pressing Smith to accept it. The plan had roughly a fifty-fifty chance of success, and Smith — the gambler — would normally have taken the risk. What stopped him was my involvement.
"It's dangerous, Alex! You could get hurt - or worse! Have you thought about what happens if they get their hands on you? Those people are maniacs. Their money and freedom are at stake. They'll stop at nothing!"
"But what do they have against me? I'm a rookie who spends her days dusting her desk. If I couldn't stop you escaping prison, how was I supposed to fight you? The worst that happens is I get fired."
"But what if the Arnavuts reach you first? They torture and kill to make people talk, Alex!"
"The Arnavuts are tied to the Shortridge cops. Even though I'm not from their precinct, I doubt they would hand me over to the mob. Besides, what could I know? I can say I was held hostage and the kidnapper never spoke to me."
"I can't let you risk your life, Alex!" Smith exclaimed, voice cracking with desperation.
"Everything will be fine. But you have to promise me - no matter what happens - you'll deliver the flash drive. I can talk my way out of trouble, but eventually they might spot inconsistencies and suspect I was involved. You can run and hide. I can't. That's why it's so important you take down the Shortridge cops."
For the first time since I had known him, Smith avoided my eyes. I knew he was torn — he hated the idea of me helping, but he also understood that even if I went home and he tried the mission alone, the police and the mob wouldn't leave me alone. I couldn't simply walk back into the office pretending nothing had happened. Either way, I was at risk.
"Okay," he said finally, voice firm. "But first we need to take care of some things!"
***
Going along with Smith always ended with me doing something illegal because I failed to see through his manipulations — and regretted it later. Like the old Ford we broke into. We needed a car, but stealing one without telling the owner was wrong. Smith assured me not to worry — the Ford had sat abandoned for as long as he could remember. Only once we were inside did it hit me: Smith lived on the other side of the city. How could he know about an abandoned car in an underground car park on the far side of the Marshes? I soothed my conscience by telling myself that sacrificing one vehicle might help dismantle corrupt cops.
Before heading to the criminal police department, we drove laps around the district, rehearsing the plan. Smith kept trying to talk me out of it, repeatedly warning how dangerous it was and how little I understood what I was walking into. I acted as if his concerns didn't faze me, insisting I was committed. But the closer we got to the critical moment, the more anxious I became.
Smith checked the ropes he had tied me to the passenger seat — making sure they weren't too tight so I could move my hands in an emergency. As an extra precaution he buckled me in and pushed the seat back, away from the dashboard. Before gagging me, he kissed me long and deep. His eyes glistened as if he might cry.
"You don't have to do this, Alex. Maybe we can wait a few days until I come up with something better," he pleaded.
"We don't have that time, Smith. We can do this," I said, smiling and kissing him once more before he tied the white cloth around my head.
He steered the car in a straight line toward the criminal police department and wedged a brick on the accelerator. He released the wheel and sprinted ahead to reach the gate when the car crashed into it. The road ran straight from our starting point to the building. Smith had calculated the vehicle wouldn't reach full speed by impact.
Smith was wrong.
A sudden, unexplained surge sent the car hurtling forward. I knew little about cars, but I understood that touching the wheel would cause it to flip. I could die in the crash — or survive with serious injuries. All I could do was sit back and brace for the collision.
The Arnavuts spotted the car coming. They raised their guns toward the Ford. We hadn't anticipated they would open fire — we thought they would avoid drawing attention. Fortunately, their reaction came seconds too late; they didn't get off many shots. Several bullets struck the hood and windscreen — one missed my head by inches. In the final moments before impact, I closed my eyes and prayed to God to spare my life.
***
They told me they got me out of the car just before it exploded. The Ford slammed into the gate of the criminal police department, completely destroying it. Two assassins were hit in the crash, but nothing more was known about them or why they had shot at the vehicle. Passers-by who witnessed the accident came to my aid. They recognised me instantly — my picture had been all over the news. I was rushed to hospital and remained unconscious for days.
When I woke, I was in a two-patient hospital room. The curtain between me and my neighbour was drawn, but I knew someone was there. I tried to move and call for help, but my limbs felt leaden and my throat was parched. The person behind the curtain heard me. The screen parted, and I heard bare feet patter across the floor.
"Hello darling! Relax. You've been out for two days, but you'll be fine. The doctor said you'll need rehabilitation. How do you feel?" said a warm female voice. My vision was blurry; for the first few seconds I couldn't make her out.
"I'd like some water, please. I can't remember what happened. Who are you?" I asked as the kind woman offered me a glass. She pressed a button on the remote to raise my headboard and helped me drink.
"My name is Gala, I'm your neighbour. I had an appendectomy. I was supposed to leave yesterday, but when I heard that you were my roommate, I faked some symptoms to stay longer so I could talk to you when you woke up," the freckled woman whispered. "You're quite the celebrity here! Do you know how many reporters tried to sneak in for information about you?"
"Why?" Her chatter confused me.
"Don't worry - the nurses and I won't let those sensation-hungry vultures near you! Don't you remember? A week or so ago, John Smith - that Anglo-Saxon thug - abducted you from your police office where you were holding him. He kept you hostage for days, then let you go. Symbolically, at least. The monster nearly killed you! He tied you to the passenger seat of a car and sent it crashing into the criminal police department. Witnesses said two men shot at you but thank God you weren't hit - the car ploughed right into them. People dragged you out before it exploded," Gala said, clearly invested in the story.
Gradually my memory returned. I remembered all my adventures with Smith. My stomach twisted at the thought that something might have happened to him.
"Did they catch John Smith?" I asked. My voice trembled, but Gala didn't seem to notice my concern — she probably assumed I was anxious as a hostage and officer to know what had happened to my abductor.
"No, darling, they didn't," she said with regret.
"Any other news? Something that happened while I was out?"
"Oh, there's the scandal with the Shortridge police. It broke the same day - it was all over the news! They're still talking about it. Wait, let me see if it's on TV." Gala switched on the television and flipped channels until she found the news. They showed the head of Shortridge police being led into court in handcuffs, hounded by reporters. The next clip played Smith's iPhone footage of the same man accepting money from an Arnavut drug dealer.
That meant Smith had succeeded in delivering the flash drive — and that he was all right. A weight lifted from my shoulders. Gala noticed me smiling.
"You knew something about this case?" she asked, hoping for insider details.
"No, I'm just glad it's all behind me," I said — not entirely a lie, but not the full truth. "Has anyone visited me while I was here?"
"Yes, your parents come every day, usually in the afternoon. Your boss and colleagues visited, too."
"Anyone else?"
"No, just them." It was naïve to hope Smith could visit me in hospital, but deep down I wished to see him one more time.
My parents came that day. They were worried and urged me to find another job. I felt guilty for the stress my abduction and near-death had caused them. I agreed I needed a change, though I wasn't sure I would leave the police office just yet.
My boss was notified I had woken up and promised to visit soon. Gala, my new friend, was soon discharged — the doctors suspected she had faked her symptoms. We exchanged phone numbers and addresses.
The next day my boss came. As usual he was calm and detached, even when he told me I would receive a pay rise for showing courage in a dangerous situation. The extra money was welcome, but I was simply relieved they hadn't sacked me for letting a thief escape custody. My boss was hard to read — to me he seemed unimaginative and dull. He didn't stay long. He wished me a speedy recovery and said he expected me back once I was fit.
Two minutes after he left, a nurse entered carrying a large bouquet of red roses. A courier had delivered them. No one knew the sender, but the flowers came with a card.
Get better soon, Mummy!
From your good boy