1
The aroma of roasting meat filled the kitchen. Daros was focused on washing the broccoli. He had to run abundant water through the florets to remove any residue of dirt and dust, since he preferred to consume the vegetable al dente rather than cooked. Then he heard the call coming from the woman's room. He'd just finished chopping garlic and onions, and the smell still permeated his fingers. He hated being interrupted in the middle of a task. He rubbed vinegar on his hands to speed up the process, then washed his skin with coconut soap, dried it on a dish towel, and headed down the hallway.
The key hung on a hook beside the door. He inserted it into the lock and heard the metallic click of the latch turning. Greta stared at him, startled.
"What is it?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Want to change the sheets? Could the pillow be softer? Or do you just want to call room service?"
"I..." She licked her dry lips. "I need to use the bathroom. And I'm also thirsty."
Daros frowned. He hadn't planned any of this. In his favor, he hadn't had much time to think about the details. His eyes ran over her figure on the bed, the sheet pulled up to cover her body from the waist down. But why the hell... Ah, of course. He'd taken off her pants. It made sense that the woman would cover herself even if it wasn't cold.
He assessed the room, considering his options. The first thing that crossed his mind was the bathroom window. That needed to be addressed now.
"I have to take care of something," he said. "I'll be right back."
He walked to the master suite, not far from the prisoner's room. He slid open the closet doors and removed the false bottom, revealing a control panel. He located the plate identified as "S1" and pressed "close." A low hum indicated that the steel plates were descending to cover the windows in the suite where he kept the woman.
He turned his attention to the bags of clothing on the bed. He rummaged through the first and pulled out a polo shirt. Wrong bag. In the second, he found what he wanted: two women's panties still with tags. So underneath should be the rest of the clothes he'd bought for her.
The smell of roasting was starting to get stronger. He inhaled the air and identified what pleased him: green seasoning. He couldn't resist green seasoning. He preferred scallions to parsley. And he didn't understand how there were so many people who didn't know the plant.
He returned to suite number one. A glance at the woman's trembling body confirmed the system had worked. The room was plunged into darkness, completely isolated from the outside world. Daros entered and turned on the light, observing the effect of the steel plates on the windows.
Giving time for the hostage to process the situation, he went to the bathroom and turned on the light. He placed the bag of clothes on the sink in front of the mirror. After some quick mental calculations, he announced he'd be right back.
In the pantry next to the kitchen, a small room no more than six by six feet, he crouched down to what appeared to be the base of an ordinary cabinet. To untrained eyes, the two handles were practically invisible. He pulled both and removed a thin but resistant chain from the hidden drawer, with a tag describing its sixteen-foot length.
Back in the room, he approached the bed with deliberately slow movements.
"Excuse me," he said with sudden formality. "I need to work on your right ankle for a moment. Is that okay?"
The woman nodded silently.
He gently took her right leg, taking care not to displace the sheet. With precision, he removed the chain attached to the iron ring around her ankle. With each maneuver, his fingers pressed Greta's shin with a touch too subtle to be aggressive, but firm enough to make clear who was in charge.
He fitted the new chain and attached the other end to the bed post, in place of the previous one. He tested the resistance several times, making sure of the security of the arrangement. Then he removed the shorter chain to avoid friction and wear. No accidents.
"There," he announced, satisfied. "I left towels and clean clothes in the bathroom. There are personal hygiene items too."
He walked to the prisoner's left foot and freed it from the ring. He took both the ring and the chain with him.
"Make yourself at home. I'll be back in a bit. Lunch is almost ready. It would be a shame to let the food get cold."
2
Greta remained motionless for a few seconds, processing what she'd just seen. The whole structure was too elaborate. The chains, the automatic locks on the window... There was no improvisation there. It was the system of someone who'd done this many times before.
The profile didn't match the robber-killer described in the newspaper. This man was too meticulous, too cold. He was infinitely worse than an opportunistic criminal who killed to steal.
As soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, she jumped from the bed. Her bladder had reached its limit. She walked to the suite bathroom at the maximum speed the chain allowed, which wasn't much. The door didn't close completely because of the metal that interposed between it and the frame, leaving a gap of two or three inches. It was enough to remind her that she would never be alone in there.
After using the toilet, she undressed and got into the shower. The warm water fell in an abundant stream, and she closed her eyes, grateful. She washed her hair without hurry, prolonging that moment of apparent normalcy. The water ran down her shoulders as if washing a body that was no longer hers. For a few minutes, she could pretend she was just a tired woman, not a hostage.
Only when she finished her shower and dried off did she examine the contents of the bag. Two simple cotton panties in the right size. A conservatively cut bra. Gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Nothing for her feet. The absence of shoes was a clear message: he wasn't planning for her to go anywhere.
3
Leaning over the marble island in the center of the kitchen, Daros mulled over the information about the motorcycle plate. The broccoli was already ready in the pan, and he'd put a lid on to preserve the heat. The recipe was simple, taught by an Asian man with whom he'd shared a mission. Some chopped garlic cloves fried, soy sauce instead of salt. And of course, the master's trick: a modest little piece of fresh grated ginger. Then just cover the pan for the broccoli to reach the right point and the seasoning to incorporate.
Where was that guy from, anyway? Southern China? Impossible to know for sure. Communication between the two was usually more mime than verbal.
The conversation he'd had earlier on the phone came back with force. It might be nothing. It was the kind of phrase that sent careless people straight to the grave. It wouldn't work for him.
If he was indeed in someone's crosshairs, he'd need to maintain discretion. And, thinking about it, the woman could be useful for longer than he'd imagined. A man traveling with a companion already completely changed the target's description.
Inspired by the thought, he returned to her room. The key turned in the lock and he pushed the door. His eyes followed the metallic curve of the stretched chain disappearing under the bathroom's half-open door. The sound of the shower being turned off escaped through the narrow gap.
He pulled the chair from the table for two and sat down. And waited. Now, he needed to decide if he could trust her. And he knew exactly how to find out.