Tim was impressed with Kathryn's acute efficiency. As they'd prepared for Ibsen's arrival, she had spoken to him only in short, clipped sentences. Suddenly, the one-word phone conversations made more sense. This was Kathryn the Professional; calm, collected, and with zero tolerance for bullshit or distractions. He'd made a few attempts at sarcastic banter, but she'd brushed him off easily, and a few times she had been so absorbed in her work she hadn't even heard him.
The house was dark on the inside; they'd done a good job of covering the windows with blankets and tape, and she had positioned herself near the front door, behind a coat rack, and instructed him to wait toward the rear of the house, out of sight. The door to the basement was propped open, so she'd have a clear path.
When Ibsen walked in, there was a brief burst of sunlight through the open door. The kitchen was so dark, Tim had almost forgotten it was barely afternoon. Kathryn waited, patiently, for Ibsen to close the door and lock it behind him before she maneuvered smoothly and wrapped the garbage bag in her hands around her face. Though Tim had known what she was planning to do, it was still jarring to watch the man in her arms flail, and he fought the base human instinct he felt to intervene. Ibsen threw an elbow back into Kathryn's side and she winced. Tim realized for the first time he had never asked about her injuries following the firm blows she'd received during her brief meeting with Solokov and his associates, and he wondered how much damage she had sustained. Whatever it was; she'd hid it well until now.
"Listen to me, Ralph, if you don't cooperate, I'm going to let you die right here wrapped in this plastic, you understand? Now let's go."
Ibsen was a small man, but still larger than Kathryn, and Tim watched her wrangle him with a strength he hadn't perceived to her to have. Was he supposed to believe that her morning yoga sessions made her that strong? She wrapped her arms under Ibsen's and clasped her hands firmly behind his head in a full nelson hold. She kicked his legs out from under him and balanced his weight against her chest as she dragged him back toward the basement stairwell. Ibsen kicked his legs in a lame attempt to slow her progress, but Tim watched as first Kathryn and then Ibsen disappeared down the stairs. He waited a moment and then followed at a safe distance, pulling the door closed behind him.
In the basement, Kathryn wrangled Ibsen into the chair he'd brought down earlier, the bag still placed loosely over his face, which made Tim uncomfortable. Kathryn took a step back, breathing heavily and gingerly holding her right side. She took a moment to catch her breath, then set about taping Ibsen's legs to the those of the chair, and securing his arms behind him with the ethernet cable she'd found. Tim stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching and waiting as he'd been instructed to. She had made it clear that he was only there as a fail-safe, a security guard in case Ibsen freed himself. The sight before him made him uneasy, recalling stories from other vets he knew; ops shrouded in darkness they only talked about when there were too many empty drinks on the table.
He wondered briefly if he was more likely there to ensure she didn't kill the man than vice versa.
When Kathryn removed the plastic from her captive's face, he gasped desperately for air.
"Are you crazy? I could have died!" he exclaimed, spitting wildly in Kathryn's face. She didn't even flinch.
"I hardly think that would be a bad thing, if we're being honest here, Ralph," she bent over, her face inches away from his, and smiled. "You're running, and you know you don't have much time before they catch up with you, right?"
The vitriol that rolled off Kathryn's tongue with each word spoken filled the whole room and Tim looked at Ibsen, trying to figure out what about him so disgusted her. He remembered the men he'd killed in the field, all of whom seemed far worse on paper than the boyish librarian. Still, he thought he knew Kathryn well enough to trust that her disgust wouldn't be misplaced, and he shivered at the thought of what Ibsen could have done to warrant such visceral disdain.
"They think I'm dead! I just... I'm just trying to get out of here."
"That's a luxury you don't have, friend." Ibsen scoffed at the word and Kathryn smiled. "There, at least now we understand each other."
Kathryn walked over to the washing machine and picked up a small navy blue box. Tim didn't know where it had come from; assumed she must have found it while searching the house for tools prior to Ibsen's homecoming. But he watched Ibsen's face contort as she placed it on the floor before him and took out the lighter he'd seen her with earlier.
"I knew you'd come back, Ralph. For this. Just couldn't help yourself, could you?"
Ibsen swallowed hard and Tim watched, fascinated, as he broke out in a sweat that left his face glistening in the dim light of the basement. His eyes remained fixed on the box before him, unblinking.
Kathryn flicked on the lighter. "Now, you're going to tell me what I need to know or I'm going to burn this box. Maybe even this house." She paused a moment, "Maybe even you."
Ibsen's gaze finally tore away from the box and he looked up at Kathryn, fearful.
"I know there's a shipment scheduled this week, and I assume it was moved once my cover was blown. Where is it going? And when?"
Tim shifted his weight, interested in this new development. A shipment of what, he wondered? Ibsen's head swiveled over to him when he moved, and he seemed to notice Tim's presence for the first time.
"You've got to help me, man, please. She's crazy." Tim smiled, his upper lip curling into a cruel sneer.
"Wrong tree, buddy, I'm on her side."
"Where?" Kathryn asked again, flicking on the lighter and crouching down before Ibsen, holding it close to the box. "When?"
"Stop!" Ibsen shouted, leaning forward against his restraints. "Please..." Tim noted the pathetic strain in his voice and he realized he didn't want to know what the blue box contained. He felt a nauseating bile rise in the back of his throat, an instinctive reaction that told him more than he wanted to know about the weaselly librarian. The boyish face, all the photos with his students, and Tim thought he may have finally figured out why Kathryn despised him so much.
"Tell me," Kathryn said, firmly, and ran the flame along the top of the box, singeing the edges.
"They're making the drop at some truck stop in Kentucky," he said, but Kathryn didn't pull the lighter back and he fidgeted. "Uh... I can't remember the name! It's off 75 in Laurel County... o-on Tuesday, I think! Please, stop!"
Kathryn pulled the lighter away and let the flame die. "The 49-er Truck Stop?"
Ibsen nodded furtively, "Yes, that's it! On Tuesday... Tuesday night!"
"They've used that spot before," she said. Kathryn stood up and Tim watched as she mulled over the information, biting down hard on one thumb as she studied the furnace. He turned to look at Ibsen, who was still fidgeting, desperate to free himself. The scene made Tim feel fidgety himself, like worms were crawling around in his organs, trying desperately to get out.
Suddenly, Kathryn reeled around on Ibsen, gun in hand. Ibsen screamed, "Whoa! I told you what you wanted to know! What are you-"
"Listen, Ralph, and listen carefully. Me and my friend are going to leave. I'm going to drive back to Kentucky and intercept that shipment at the 49-er truck stop. Now, I'm also going to leave you here, tied to this chair. If you've told me the truth, and I get what I'm looking for, I'll call my boss, and they'll send some nice federal agents here to untie you after you've had a few days to stew in your own piss and shit." Kathryn knelt down and pressed her gun to Ibsen's crotch. The man whimpered. "But if I go to that truck stop and that shipment doesn't come through, I'm going to turn around and drive back here. Alone. And I'm not going to untie you, Ralph. I'm going to blow your prick off and watch you bleed to death in your shitty fucking basement."
Kathryn stood up and tucked the gun away in her waistband. Tim thought he should get her a proper holster to replace the one she'd lost when Ibsen stole her car. If he were still seeing that shrink, he would have pointed out this was a dissociative thought designed by his brain to remove him from his current situation and allow him to focus on something familiar and calming. He was glad he wasn't seeing the shrink anymore.
Kathryn was stood over Ibsen, arms at her sides, and the little man in the chair sneered at her. "I recognize those marks on your arms, you know," he said, and Tim's attention was peaked once more.
"I'm sure you do, Ralph. But that wasn't my question. Do you wanna die here, or do you want to tell me the fucking truth?"
"You fucking stupid bitch. You wanna die? Be my guest. That shipment is coming in a truck that's going to be abandoned on some back fucking road in the Daniel Boone National Forest."
"Where?" she said.
Ibsen let out a bark of laughter, loud and clear. "You think they fucking told me? I don't know anything; that's why they haven't come for me." And then, more sheepishly, "Yet."
Kathryn rubbed her hands over her face. "Okay," she said. Tim watched as she grabbed the duct tape and wrapped it around Ibsen's face, covering his mouth, ignoring his protests. Ibsen thrashed in the chair, knocking it over, and his limp body thudded pathetically against the concrete floor.
"I don't care if you spend the next few days lying down, Chief. Enjoy the view," and she brushed passed Tim on her way up the stairs. He hesitated a moment, watched the man on the floor pleading with his eyes for help. He looked at the box Kathryn had used to upset Ibsen. He was curious about its contents, but also knew that unknown boxes were often better left unopened. It was easier to imagine the worst than to know it for certain.
Tim walked over to the box, Ibsen watching his every move intently, and nudged it with his foot out of the man's reach. Then he turned and followed Kathryn upstairs. She was already waiting for him on the front porch and when he appeared behind her, she pulled the door closed and walked back to the car without saying a word.
#
In the car, Kathryn let him drive without protest, and she pulled out her phone. Again, a single ring and there was someone on the other end of the line. "He says Daniel Boone Forest, but he doesn't know where. I can't cover that much ground." A pause and she sent him a surreptitious glance. "No," she said. "He's in the basement; you'll find enough in the house to book him," and she hung up.
Tim didn't ask any questions, just drove them back to their motel quickly and quietly. The parking lot was nearly empty, if you ignored the hundreds of empty beer cans and broken bottles, so finding a spot near their room was simple enough.
Kathryn didn't wait for him to exit the vehicle and she was already in the bathroom by the time he reached the door, which she had graciously left ajar for him.
Tim closed the door and locked it before striding across the room to the open bathroom door. When he looked inside, Kathryn tugged her t-shirt back down quickly, but that didn't stop him from seeing the dark splash of purple and grey across the right side of her torso. He wondered how she'd managed to hide the injury from him in the days they'd spent together.
"Jesus," he said, "that looks about 15 shades of horrifying."
Kathryn leaned against the sink, making eye contact with him in the mirror. "It could be worse," she said.
"Yeah, you could be dead. So you're welcome." He added a little bow to the end of his sentence, hoping to get a rise out of her.
It worked. He watched Kathryn's muscle coil in response as if she were a provoked snake. She was wound so tightly after the confrontation with Ibsen that he was surprised she hadn't snapped even sooner.
Kathryn squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "What do you want from me, Deputy? A medal? You not get enough of those in the Rangers?" She turned around to face him. "Here," she pulled a chapstick tube out of her pocket, "Here's a raspberry flavored star for not following fucking orders." She threw it at him and he caught it against his chest.
"Thank you, ma'am. I will cherish this. Maybe even put it in a shadow box next to my purple heart." Tim stuffed the chapstick into his pocket with a wry grin.
Kathryn looked like a caged animal in the bathroom, backed up against the vanity, face flushed with frustration and breathing like she'd just run a half-marathon. Her jaw was set tightly. He thought she might even be grinding her teeth. "You're here as a civilian, right? We agree on that? Our professional relationship no longer exists."
Tim quirked his head to the side, curious where she was going with this. "Sure. Just a regular guy on vacation in scenic Bristol, TN. Not here in any official capacity whatsoever."
"Honestly, it would be best if you weren't here at all."
"Maybe I'm just a very solid-looking ghost," he postulated, still unsure of her meaning.
Kathryn nodded her head and then in two quick steps she was on him, grabbing the front of his shirt to pull him toward her and pressing a violent, desperate kiss across his mouth. Tim was more surprised than he'd ever been, though pleasantly so. This felt fucking good, having her pressed against him, and he returned her kiss with an equally forceful one of his own. She pushed him toward her bed, raking her fingers down his sides and yanking up the hem of his shirt to find the taught skin underneath. Her mouth moved away from his and landed firmly on his neck.
Tim used the opportunity to say, "This is a better commendation than the chapstick."
Kathryn pulled away from him and he didn't like it. "It's been a stressful few days, Deputy, so if you'll indulge me..." And with that, she pulled him down to her bed with her. Everything was frantic and forceful, animal needs being satisfied as quickly as possible. Kathryn yelped softly as he pulled her shirt over her head, aggravating the bruises on her ribs, but it didn't slow either of them down. They both knew what they were doing, just as they were both interested purely in the intended outcome; the dance they did to get there didn't matter.
And then suddenly, Tim became painfully aware that he hadn't had sex in six months, and that he couldn't last as long as he would have liked. He pulled out quickly and grabbed for the closest scrap of cloth he could find when he came.
He looked down at Kathryn, still pinned beneath them and let out an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry," he said, "it's been a while."
Kathryn let her head sink back into the pillow and she chuckled quietly in reply. "No worries, Deputy, you'll just have to owe me later." She rolled off the bed and headed back into the bathroom. Tim sat on the bed and examined the thing in his hands, hoping maybe he'd gotten lucky and grabbed a stray motel towel, but he found instead Kathryn's only t-shirt, now covered in a sticky substance he didn't think she could easily hand wash out in the shower.
"Shit."
"What?"
"Uh... I think maybe we're gonna have to get buy you a new shirt."
Kathryn walked out of the bathroom, still wearing the bra he'd neglected to remove, and found her underwear before tugging them on. He appreciated her lack of modesty, and the confidence suited her. "Give me a minute and we can head out."
Tim dropped the shirt to the ground and fumbled for his own clothes. He hoped he'd have the chance to make things up to Kathryn soon.