Chapter 10 #2
Tonton’s red shirt aside, she’d recognize his back anywhere. He turned with a stack of sandwiches, pastries and bottles of water. Before she could hit the button and lecture him on the bad, bad idea it was to separate himself from her, two men blocked his path.
Twin forks of fear and anger skewered her heart.
Based on the fez and the curls, the goons from Casablanca had found them. Goddammit, kidnapping was not on her agenda. She ducked, then opened her phone’s camera and angled it so she could watch their interactions.
Baaka, the one in the fez, pointed to the dining car’s other doors.
They marched John away from her.
No. They were not taking him. Not today, not ever.
She slipped on her sunglasses and followed, remaining one car behind them. The train slowed, allowing a nonblurry view of houses clustered atop the green hills surrounding the station. She undid the safety pins from the folds of her hijab/pashmina.
As the doors opened, she hopped down the steps.
People of varying shapes, sizes, and styles of clothing poured onto the checkered platform. The red flash of Tonton’s shirt was her beacon. She kept pace as they marched John through the palm-tree-filled train station and toward the glass-fronted main entrance.
Outside, the train station’s plaza was the length of a football field.
She blinked against the sunshine bouncing off the skyscraper across the street. Turquoise taxis circled the station’s roundabout, hunting for passengers.
She could not let them put John in a car.
This would need to be quick, stealthy. Raphael first, since he stood intimately close to John, likely holding a weapon to his ribs.
Then Baaka, who might be slow to catch on because of the phone at his ear.
She dropped her sunglasses in her bag, then withdrew two EpiPens.
She flicked the caps off with her thumbs.
She was not lethally allergic to peanuts, and these pens didn’t contain epinephrine.
They were loaded with two hundred fifty milligrams of propofol each, enough to knock out a big man for five to ten minutes. More than enough for these guys. Even better, they weren’t highly trained professionals. Otherwise they wouldn’t have their backs to the station.
Advantage—Vivian.
She went low and plunged the pen into Raphael’s thigh. He yelped and backhanded her. The pain registered a second later, blunted by her rush of adrenaline. But fuck, he knocked the other EpiPen from her grip. On the plus side, he dropped his knife, too.
He lunged for the blade, staggered and dropped. Propofol for the win.
The other guy, Baaka, charged at her.
“John!” She dodged Baaka’s meaty fist. “Get the EpiPen!”
“The what?”
Another dodge. “EpiPen. Near the curb.”
She whipped the pashmina from her shoulders and wrapped a few inches of the ends around each of her hands. When Baaka’s next fist rounded toward her, Vivian looped the scarf around his arm and redirected his momentum. He stumbled, but recovered quickly.
“John. Pen.”
Another swing. She caught Baaka’s arm with one loop and his neck with another, then tightened. A crowd had gathered, and fuck, phones were out and filming.
The big man struggled against her grip.
With her knee on his back, she demanded, “Who sent you?”
“Fuck you,” he ground out.
“Wrong answer.” She tightened the loops. “Who’s your boss?”
“Fuck you…twice.”
An unruly crowd meant police would arrive soon. They had to run. But she couldn’t have this guy following them.
“Jab him,” she said to John. “You have to. My hands are literally tied.”
John stuck him in the leg, and a few seconds later, the large man dropped, taking Vivian down with him.
A bullhorn-amplified voice shouted at the crowd to move. The onlookers shifted. Yep, police had arrived.
She dropped the pashmina, then grabbed John’s arm. “Run.”
With her hand tethered to his, she bolted through the circle’s traffic, then veered right. Tourist-heavy locations were the best places to blend, and in Tangier, that meant the beaches. Handy, since her friend Lisa’s museum was near the beach.
Her bag slapped against her back as they ran.
“Vivian, wait.”
“No,” she called back. “Hustle.”
They had to get off the street and into a crowded area. She steered them from the Centre Commercial, aka the shopping mall. Too much security there, and too many cameras. The road delivered them to a palm tree–lined corniche overlooking the beach.
Glass-enclosed elevator stations would take them down to the waterfront.
As soon as she and John were inside one, she leaned against the wall.
“Are you okay?” She fought to catch her breath.
“I lost my shoes, and my pants are falling off.” He clutched at his waistband. “Other than that, I’m fine.”
“Good. Because I’m furious with you.”
The elevator doors opened, releasing them to the beach. She kicked off her sneakers and stomped away from him. The tide was high, so few people were swimming. A wave thundered to shore, obliterating a sandcastle.
“Me?” He jogged after her. “What did I do?”
Happy couples caught less attention.
She reached for his hand. “You put yourself at risk.”
His grip was as warm as the sand between her toes.
“If I hadn’t been in the dining car, wouldn’t they have gotten the drop on both of us?”
A volleyball rolled in front of them.
“Probably not if you’d woken me when I asked.” She scooped up the ball and threw it back to the kids playing on a roped-off section of beach.
“I’m the bad guy because I let you sleep?”
“No, because you let me sleep and you left me alone for a fucking sandwich.”
“For both of us.” He stopped. “Vivian, wait. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
Her cheekbone might be bruised. “Not as much as I hurt him.”
“Good.” He paled and leaned in close to her ear. “Did we…did I…kill them?”
“No. We hit them with enough propofol to knock them out for ten minutes. No killing.”
“Propofol?” John asked. “So those aren’t real EpiPens.”
“No. I’m not allergic to anything. We’ve got to keep moving.” She restarted their walk. “My friend’s expecting us by ten.”
“Not allergic?” He linked hands with her again. “I gave up peanut butter because I didn’t want to murder you if I kissed you.”
She couldn’t stop her smile. Death by peanut butter smooch was absurd.
“That’s sweet.”
“It’s not sweet. Not accidentally poisoning someone you love is the minimum.”
His stomach growled.
“You really wanted those sandwiches on the train, didn’t you?” Boats bobbed in the marina up ahead. “We’re almost at the Villa Harris Museum. It’s an unofficial safe house where I’ve stashed euros and clothes—my college roommate is the executive director. Dr. Lisa Devon.”
“Are she and Anjali friends?”
“Yeah.” Vivian paused to put her shoes on. “We all lived together senior year.”
“You must not get to see her as often.”
“Three or four times per year. Both of us are in Europe a bunch for work.”
“Christ, that’s how often I see my college roommate Patrick, and he’s in Fairfax.”
“I prioritize seeing them. My friends keep me sane. So do you.” Her cheeks heated.
Hadn’t meant to say that. “How about you? Are you staying sane? Global shenanigans and subterfuge and waking up in strange places…” She gestured toward the beautiful Italianate mansions lining the road. “It’s a lot to take in.”
Dear God, the babbling had to stop.
“It sure is, Gorgeous.”
She stiffened. She could be cool and ignore what he just said.
But…nope.
“Was that gorgeous about the scenery?” she asked. “Or did you mean…”
“You. Sorry, it slipped out.”
A smile bubbled her cheeks. She’d take it.
“Not much further,” she said.
In this older part of the city, crowded buildings shadowed the narrow streets.
They fell silent as they passed mothers with strollers, teenagers, and tourists dipping in and out of shops lining the path.
As they rounded a corner, her friend stood on the steps of a repurposed Portuguese mansion, waving madly.
“Vivi—no, shit, I mean Jane! Jane Davis!”
The exhausted giggles bubbling from Vivian turned into guffaws. Stress had clearly gotten the better of her. Lisa was the worst secret-keeper, but she tried so hard.
“Oh my God,” Vivian wheezed. Her sides ached. “I’m going to pee my pants.”
“Me too,” Lisa croaked.
John stood helpless between them. “You’re Lisa, I take it?”
Which caused Lisa to shriek-laugh again.
Vivian thumbed tears from her eyes. “Yes, that’s Lisa. Let’s go inside. We had to ditch some fanboys at the train station.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Lisa dabbed at her eyes with the ends of her scarf. “And sorry I can’t get myself together. John, did Viv—shit, I did it again.”
More giggles streamed from them.
Finally, Lisa asked, “Did Jane tell you we revert to teenagers every time we see each other? I’m normally more composed and intimidating.”
Lisa locked the entrance’s intricate wrought-iron gate behind them.
“Here.” She picked up a sturdy-handled aromatic paper bag and thrust it toward Vivian. “You never remember to eat.”
“Right?” John asked. “I don’t understand it. And now you’re my favorite friend of hers.”
“Ooh, who else have you met?”
“Anjali, but she didn’t give me food. Just water.”
“Technically, I gave you water,” Vivian said.
Lisa pumped her fist like she’d hit a home run. “Yes. I’m winning.”
“Holy shit, Lisa, when did you get a Zakaria Ramhani?” Vivian stopped at the gallery off the main entrance. A six-by-eight foot portrait overlaid with Arabic calligraphy stared at her.
“Last month—thanks for turning me on to him.” Lisa side-hugged her.
“But let’s keep moving. Staff arrives soon.
” Lisa led them through the museum’s courtyard and into the storage area.
She swiped her ID and entered a code, then held the door open for them.
“Not to style shame, but you could use a change of clothes, yes?”
“Desperately.” Vivian gestured to John. “FYI, his alias is a fashion-forward influencer, so take that into consideration. I also need hair dye, and he needs a razor.”
“I do?” John palmed his jaw.
“We’ve been made,” Vivian said. “We need to change our look. It’s a safety issue.”
“Okay then,” Lisa said. “Clothes, dye, razor, maybe some cosmetics. John, you’re, what? Waist size thirty-six, shoe size twelve?”
He rocked on his feet. “That’s scarily accurate.”
“I flirted with fashion as a career, but I like to wear clothes, not make them.” Lisa pocketed her ID. “The door code’s the same as our dorm door if you need to leave.”
Her bestie slipped out the door and locked them inside.
“She seems nice,” John said.
“She is nice.” Vivian punched her six-digit code into the locker Lisa had reserved for her and withdrew a fat stack of euros. “You should eat whatever’s in the bag.”
“You too.” He held out a paper-wrapped sandwich. “Don’t say you don’t have time.”
“For these I’ll make time.” Her mouth watered as she unwrapped the tosta mista, a Portuguese ham-and-cheese melt and her favorite sandwich. The grill-pressed bread’s crunchy corners were heaven.
“Not to be crass,” John said. “But do CIA officers make a lot of money? Or does the government supply your cash hoards, too?”
She slowed her chewing.
Like any serious couple, she and John had talked about money. John and Jane knew how much each other earned and what their expenses were.
Vivian’s revenue streams, however…
She shook her head. “The amount of paperwork required for a cash advance is ridiculous. I’ve got two jobs, remember? And during the years I lived abroad, the government covered my housing and living expenses. I saved a ton of money.”
There was some additional truth she couldn’t share.
“Does my money change anything?” she asked. “Some guys are touchy about it.”
By touchy she meant steeped in patriarchy so they believed their only value was being the primary breadwinner. Which meant they couldn’t handle a woman out-earning them.
“Are you kidding?” he asked. “I’m happy for you. And based on the last couple of days? They should double whatever they’re paying you.”
He handed her an orange juice. It was hard to sip around her smile.
She knew he was one of the good ones.