Nina sat down at the kitchen counter. Suddenly the muffin looked really good to her and she took it into her hand. Taking a big bite into the warm soft crumbs she groaned in ecstasy from the robust taste of cinnamon, berries and the slightly over baked hardness of the crust. Chewing, deep in thought, Nina imagined herself looking like a chewing camel with its swiveling jaws and she laughed out loud in the loneliness of her kitchen. Even while missing Sam, even with not knowing the whereabouts of her billionaire boyfriend or even whether Dave was alive or dead, she felt good. Dr. Nina Gould felt a warm and gleeful feeling of hope crawl through her system.
“The Czech Republic,” she said to herself as he typed the country’s name into her search engine. “Prague, the capital of old Bohemia.” She read the words on the screen, enthralled by the beauty of the antique city and its rich history and culture. She had never given Eastern Europe much thought. Images of bombed villages destroyed by wars and third world management always went along with her opinion of places like this… erroneously so. Nina had never been to this part of Europe, where images of women with head cloths and socks halfway up their pale white legs jumped into her mind. She knew full well not to judge a country by the stereotypes presented by the media, yet this was — she hated to admit — all she knew about places like Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Romania or the Ukraine.
Nina thought of all the times she thought of the Bohemian culture as engaging and beautiful, while in the same context she saw images of slavery and gang rapes, prostitution and really sick pornography. Now she was about to find out what it was really like. Fortunately she would be in the company of an educated academic; therefore Nina knew that she would not be subjected to the lower, more dangerous types of Eastern Europe’s third world hierarchy. Little did she know that sometimes the lower sorts of any nationality are pitched right at the top of the food chain.
Chapter 5 — Shot in the Dark
Sam’s body shook violently from the cold night that refused to be kept at bay by the deficient shelter he had erected between two small thorn trees on the edge of the rivulet where they had stopped for water an hour before. The wind had picked up considerably and the weather was growing more aggressive. All the stars were eclipsed by rolling thick clouds which were rapidly consuming the heavens, entirely covering it from all directions. A brewing storm held no promise for Sam and he knew that it would be better for him if he rode as far as he could in the direction of the main road to Weimar instead of trying to weather what may be coming.
“Come horse,” he said, feeling a measure of pity for the poor animal that was as cold and uncomfortable as he was, inadvertently strolling into Sam’s predicament while simply looking for refuge in the shed a few miles back. “I’m so sorry, boy, but we are looking for trouble staying here,” Sam said as he mounted the horse. It was a catch 22 for both of them. The dark had made it virtually impossible to see where they were going, but what aggravated matters was the concern for holes and sudden slants. This is why Sam could not just spur the horse to speed up their escape from the brunt of the foul weather and he held the animal’s pace steady so that any accident would not cause grave injury to either of them.
Sam shook the leaves out of his shoulder length hair and the black ends stung his eyes from the whipping of the wind. He tried to tie it back, but the elastic snapped and left him with a head of brunette mane sweeping incessantly across his face and eyes, impairing his ability to see properly.
Over the first stretch of terrain things went well enough, but with the stars gone Sam soon realized that he was veering off course. By now he should have reached the main road. A sickening, sinking feeling writhed in his stomach at the realization that he had been fleeing in the wrong direction. Not only was he completely lost, but the angry weather prevailed as far as he travelled. The sudden shock of feeling that first ice cold drop of rain swatting him on the forehead had him crying out in frustration. So upset, Sam let go of the reins to throw his arms up in the air, furious at his spiteful and merciless fate. The horse changed direction under him and Sam had to grab onto its mane.
“You know the way?” he asked the horse over the chaos of the whining gale. “How do you know where I am going?”
But the horse kept walking, now and then dipping under its flabbergasted rider who was clinging to its neck, but one thing became clear — the horse knew the landscape. Like an invisible geomagnetic beckoning, the horse appeared to be guided through the dales and mounds, stepping around uneven rock rises.
“Well, I take it back, God,” Sam told the rumbling sky above. “I can see what you’re doing. Held back the insane killers and their dogs, sent me a horse and then told it where to take me. I guess I was wrong about you… and I almost feel guilty for betting Jimmy McClintock twenty quid that he would not flash the nuns of St Mary’s after the bingo that night on my birthday.”
The thunder growled as the clouds illuminated momentarily as if in answer to him and Sam smiled at the coincidence.
“Ich habe ihn!” someone shouted not a stone’s throw from Sam. From behind and to the right four men emerged from the cover of the trees and brush.
Sam looked up at the sky and wailed, “Oh come on!”
He grasped the mane of the horse tightly and kicked it hard in the loins, shouting “Yah!” like an old time cowboy. The pain of the rider’s sudden urging and the fear in his shouting compelled the horse to bolt forward and take to a stiff gallop, zig-zagging as the bullets flustered it. Sam held on for dear life, his heart throbbing in rapid cadence with the horse’s hooves as it raced onward through the unforgiving storm. Thunder shuddered on the ground under the animal as it equally shook the sky above the snorting beast and its inept rider who were dashing to outrun the bullets and the lightning at their backs.
“Oh, god! Oh god, I’m going to die!” Sam screamed through the storm as the rain pained his face and arms like frigid darts in unlimited amounts cast by unseen assailants. His back ached from the slamming of his tailbone on the hard pounding back of the running horse and his thighs burned from the burden of clutching his thighs tightly against its sides. Sam could not stay on the horse for much longer. The rain wet its hide and loosened Sam’s secure hold on it, flinging the journalist about like a rag doll as the shooters aimed narrower and barely missed Sam. He could almost imagine the feeling of a bullet penetrating the back of his head, a feeling he had imagined several times during his dangerous career, but he was convinced that tonight was going to be special — and not in a favorable way.
Ahead of him he could faintly discern two floating lights in mid-air, but from the turbulence of his mad ride it was almost impossible to tell for certain. His vision was marred by the piercing rain that joined his wet hair in and over his eyes. His body shaking profusely and his eyes could not focus on the lights ahead. They merely looked like wiry glowing veins that went in and out of Sam’s peripherals. Sam Cleave was a man of instinct. That was what made investigative journalism his forte. His instinct was, unfortunately for him, dead-on this time. Moments after he saw the lights for the first time he heard an ominous whistling grow louder behind him.