Page 19 of Donovan Blake: Passion

“Is something wrong?” Jimmy asked, carrying the coffee to the table.

“We’re leaving soon, that’s all you need to know. Now make my fucking sandwich.”

As Oleg downed several gulps and let out a satisfied sigh, Jimmy returned to the counter and suppressed a smile. He knew the Percodan would start taking effect in about fifteen minutes, and with the heavy dosage he hoped Oleg would be legless in half-an-hour.

Purposely taking his time, Jimmy removed the cheese from the refrigerator and the bread from the cupboard. It occurred to him he might try to talk his way into Hawthorne Hall. He’d be safe there. Lord Hawthorne would rant and rave, but Jimmy had the gift of the gab, and Jane might just back him up. At the very least it was worth a try.

“More coffee,”

Turning around, he saw Oleg waving his mug.

“Coming right up,” Jimmy replied, striding over and taking it from him, but as he glanced back he saw Oleg staring out the window and frowning.

Hastily doctoring the second cup of coffee with more Percodan, Jimmy hurried it back to him.

“What brand is this?”

“Nescafe.”

“Huh. It’s good. Now get me that fucking cheese and bread and sit opposite me.”

Returning to the counter, Jimmy hastily finished the sandwich, carried it to the table and sat down. As Oleg looked back at him, Jimmy studied his eyes. The large dose of the medication was already kicking in. All he had to do was wait.

Quiet minutes ticked by.

Suddenly a loud banging on the door startled them both.

“This is the NCA. Your cottage is surrounded. Step out with your hands above your head.”

Panic-stricken, Jimmy jumped to his feet. His immediate thought was to hide his drugs, then abruptly realized The National Crime Agency wouldn’t be interested in his small-time dealing. They had to be after Oleg.

“What the fuck…” Oleg grunted, pushing himself up, then immediately tumbled to the ground and began groaning.

Immensely pleased with himself, Jimmy hurried across to the door.

“Thank God you came. I’m coming out. I have no weapons,” he yelled, then turned the handle, lifted his arms above his head, and kicked it open with his foot.

“Jimmy Pike?” a burly man demanded, flashing his badge.

“Uh, yeah…”

“Inspector Bridges, NCA,” he declared, spinning him around and quickly handcuffing him as three of his men entered the cottage.

“But the bloke you’re after is—”

“Mr. Pike, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken and given as evidence.”

“We have an unconscious man in here,” an officer called. “Call an ambulance.”

“What happened to him, Mr. Pike?”

“I drugged him so I could escape. He was holding me at gunpoint.”

“Drugged him with what?”

“Percodan and Melatonin.”

“You have a lot of questions to answer, Mr Pike,” the officer continued, walking him over to a car. “I suggest you cooperate.”

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