Bite Marks

perfectly with his jeans that it disappeared when he dropped his hands to his sides.

“That looks… lethal.” Could be, too, if we got the dosage wrong. Which we didn’t, because I double-checked it myself. Maybe we won’t need it, though. Maybe he’ll cooperate. I cleared my throat. “Was it stuck in your belt?” I asked.

“Yeah. But don’t worry, the safety was on.” He lifted the barrel slightly. “Hey, imagine what would’ve happened if I’d shot myself in the butt. My cheeks would’ve been numb for a week!” I took off down the sidewalk. I kept to the shadows, avoiding puddles of brown liquid that I knew weren’t water because according to Franck Landry, who’d been ecstatic to rent all five of his riad’s rooms to us, it hadn’t rained in the past two weeks.

Cole jogged after me. “Jaz, where are you going? We don’t even know—”

“I’d rather walk aimlessly than discuss your ass, all right?”

“Yeah, but this isn’t just my ass. This is my numb ass. Do you think my legs would stop working too?” I was getting ready to grab the gun and perform an experiment that would satisfy both his curiosity and my irritation when Bergman said, “Got him. Two blocks northeast of you. He’s not moving.” We turned the corner, moving so quickly we nearly plowed into two men who’d just exited a diamond-painted door. Just before it closed I saw a lantern hanging above a mirror at the end of a tiled hall with four arches along its length leading off into darkness. Cole mumbled an apology in French and pulled me around the men, who wore light shirts, long pants, and baseball hats, all of which were blotched with mustard-colored stains. And damn, did they stink! They must work at the dump we’d been smelling.

One of the men, a black-mustached thirtysomething with a scar under his left eye, spoke to Cole, who replied sharply, his hand tightening on my arm. Already I was used to natives offering to guide us anywhere we wanted to go, but these guys didn’t have the look of dirham-hungry street hustlers. I looked up at Cole. His face had gone blank, a bad sign in a guy who assassinates his country’s enemies for a living.

The .38 strapped to my right leg weighed a little heavier, as did the knife in my pocket, reminding me of my offensive options. But I didn’t want to spill blood knowing a vamp was prowling nearby. “What do they want?” I asked.

“The dude with the scar is demanding a toll for the use of his road, and extra payment for nearly running him and his friend over.”

“What’s his name?”

Cole asked, and while the man replied I checked out his companion. He was maybe fifteen, a brown-eyed boy with lashes so long they looked fake. He couldn’t even meet my eyes.

Cole said, “His name is Yousef. The kid’s name is Kamal.”

“Tell Yousef I’ll pay.”

“What?”

“Tell him.”

Cole began to talk. I swished forward, making sure my skirt swirled around my knees as I moved. I looked up at Yousef like he was the cutest teddy bear I’d ever hoped to squeeze. Even though he couldn’t understand the words, I figured he’d get the tone as I reached down the V-neck of my dress with my left hand and said, “Just gimme a second, okay? I keep my money in here so I don’t have to worry about pickpockets. I understand they can be something of a problem in Marrakesh. Am I right?” By now I’d come within an arm’s length of the reeking man, who was staring at my hand like he wished it were his. He never saw the base of my right palm shoot up. Just grunted with shock as it jammed into his jaw and knocked his head backward. He staggered. Cole aimed the tranq gun at Kamal to make sure he stayed peaceful as I followed Yousef down the sidewalk, throwing a side kick that landed on his chest with the thump of a bongo drum. He landed flat on his back in the street.

I watched him struggle to breathe as I said, “We go where we please, you son of a bitch.” Cole translated. To my surprise Yousef smiled. I looked over my shoulder at Kamal. He was staring around nervously, making me think he didn’t savor a conversation with any authorities that might show up to investigate the noise. But he didn’t seem worried about Yousef. Maybe girls hit him a lot.

“Feel better?” Cole asked me.

I backed off Yousef before the bully’s blech could stick. “Yeah. Let’s go.” We headed down the street, keeping our eyes and Cole’s gun on the little gang until we reached the end of the block and turned north. Yousef called after us.

“Unbelievable,” said Cole as he shook his head.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He wants to know if he can see you again. He says his uncle’s friend owns a good restaurant above the Djemaa el Fna.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No.” Cole’s wild blond hair danced at the suggestion. “I think he liked what you did to him. In fact, I

think he liked you.”

meet the author

Cindy Pringle

JENNIFERRARDINbegan writing at the age of twelve, mostly poems to amuse her classmates and short stories featuring her best friends as the heroines. She lives in an old farmhouse in Illinois with her husband and two children. Find out more about Jennifer Rardin atwww.JenniferRardin.com. .

Don’t go back in that car, the

voice snarled

W hat do you want with a seinji, a shallow playboy, a neurotic inventor, and a See-it-all anyway?