I cleared my throat. “Was that thing stuck in your belt?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry, the safety was on.” He sighted down the long, lean barrel. “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, keeping to the shadows, avoiding puddles of brown liquid that I knew weren’t water because, according to Monique, who’d been so ecstatic to rent al five of her riad’s rooms to us that she gave us random weather reports for free, 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, al right?”
“Yeah, but this is my
I was getting ready to grab the gun and perform an experiment that would satisfy both his curiosity and my need to shoot something when Bergman said, “Got him.
Two blocks northeast of you. He’s stationary.” We turned the corner, moving so quickly we nearly plowed into two men carrying bundles of bath supplies, which meant they were headed for the nearest hammam.
They’d just exited a diamond-mosaiced door. Cole hid the tranq gun behind his thigh, mumbled an apology in French, and pul ed me around the men, who wore light shirts, long pants, and basebal hats, al of which were blotched with mustard-colored stains. And damn, did they stink! They must work at the dump we’d been smel ing.
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 euro-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.
Like the knife in my skirt’s hidden pocket, the .38
strapped to my right leg weighed heavier, reminding me of my offensive options if I decided not to pul the gun disguised by my snow white windbreaker. But I didn’t want to spil blood knowing a vamp prowled nearby.
“What do they want?” I asked.
“The dude with the scar is demanding a tol for the use of his road, and extra payment for nearly running him and his buddy over.”
“What’s his name?”
Cole asked, and while the man replied I checked out his friend. He was maybe seventeen, a brown-eyed kid with lashes so long they looked fake. He couldn’t bring himself to meet my eyes.
Cole said, “His name is Yousef. The boy’s name is Kamal.”
“Tel Yousef I’l pay.”
“What?”
“Tel him.” Cole began to talk.
I swished forward, making my ful red skirt swirl around my knees as my boots clicked against the cobblestones, letting my alter ego take the spotlight. Lucil e Robinson was a pale, slender, green-eyed sweetie with a white streak in her red curls that might’ve signified another time when a man had taken advantage of her weakness and bashed her across the head before forcing her to his wil . Yousef didn’t know I’d earned the streak in hel , or that the Eldhayr who’d taken me there had already brought me back from the dead. Twice. Al he could see was that Lucil e’s curls looked more likely to bounce up and defend her than her fists. Mission accomplished.
I looked up at him 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 give me a second, okay? I keep my money in here so I don’t have to worry about pickpockets. I understand they can be a problem in Marrakech. 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 was 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 fol owed 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.”
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 to investigate the noise. He didn’t seem concerned about Yousef. Maybe girls hit him a lot.
“Feel better?” Cole asked me.
I backed off before the bul y’s blech could stick to my sunny-day outfit. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We headed down the street, keeping our eyes and Cole’s gun on the mini gang until we reached the end of the block and turned north. Yousef cal ed 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.”
