you cause it,” he added, tilting his chin directly at Johnny, who glared at him.
I sensed, almost felt, her resist an impulse to look at her watch. It had been about half an hour since we’d gotten off the bus. Not too long a delay yet—but we couldn’t afford any more, not if the alignment was as close as she kept fretting about. We had to get out of here, and it couldn’t wait until they got ahold of Rutger or her parents. They wouldn’t be able to get ahold of mine, not that they knew that. I hoped that wouldn’t cause even more of a delay.
The big cop glanced at me, as if reading my mind, and ran a hand caressingly along the butt of the pistol in his chest holster, one of three visible on his uniform. For all I knew he had one strapped to his shin, too, like the movies.
“The airport security, they made a mistake,” he said. “Dealing with a little rabid dog. Having reviewed the footage, I will not. Please, sit. It may be some time.”
He gestured at two empty wooden chairs on the far side of the desk. I immediately collapsed onto one; Johnny sat more slowly on the edge of hers.
“Can we at least get these off?” I said, waggling my arms hopefully. “I can’t feel my hands.”
“No.”
I opened my mouth again, and stopped. The pain in my hands had gone from a numb buzz to a roar, creeping up my arms. That wasn’t fair; Johnny’s hands were free. Shouldn’t point it out, though. A heavy silence fell, occasionally punctuated by whatever noises could penetrate the thick wooden door. At least there was that. We were in here, not out there—other cops might take our bags, grope Johnny, there would be fights, chaos, and we’d never make it home, let alone to the great gate. Jesus.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Johnny said.
“There is a bucket in the corner.”
“...I changed my mind,” she said.
After another few minutes, she said, “How did you find us?” I almost laughed; her pride had been hurt. As if we were international spies and not a couple of highly visible teenagers on the run.
“We are not having conversation,” the cop said. “Shut up and wait.”
“That zapper you’re carrying? I invented those.”
“Be quiet.”
“We don’t have time for this,” she muttered.
The cop shrugged, eloquently implying with the single gesture that he too was wasting his time looking after us in this cramped office, instead of filling out forms or working on his novel or emailing his friends, but we all had jobs to do, and the best thing to do would be to not complain about it. And at least he wasn’t interrogating us, or rifling through our bags, both of which I expected to happen any minute now. Think, think. How could we get out of this? Johnny had a plan. Must have. She was always the one with a plan, no exceptions.
Except for the guns. The guns made an exception. What good was it trying to break us out of here if one or both of us got shot?
And I thought again, coldly: Yes, but if I got killed, she would simply take my bag and go. You don’t mourn the pack mule. You just keep going. The gate has to be shut. Has to.
We would not have come all this way if she didn’t truly believe that the gate could be shut.
“Could we at least have some water?” she said.
The cop sighed, the ends of his moustache flapping, but maybe we looked dried-out enough to be pathetic; he opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of water, dipped his head as he dug deeper in the drawer. Johnny tensed. I held my breath, waiting for the leap, the collision, the gunshots.
But she let him get all the way back up again before she pounced, and I stood up, yelling her name, crashing against the desk and dancing back as they struggled. It wouldn’t have been a fair fight even without the size difference—the desk was in the way, they were fighting around it, sickening crunches of arms and legs against the wood. I could see that he didn’t want to hurt her, which was unfortunate, since she certainly wanted to hurt him, and it wasn’t till he finally held her down with one hand and went for a gun that I leapt.
We collided harmlessly; I felt the breath of air as he evaded my