Page 10 of Bitter Burn
I buy a few trinkets I don’t need and then find a spot in a café with a cup of black coffee and a discarded newspaper, which I pretend to read while I observe the square from above.
I haven’t forgotten that this is the worst part of intelligence work. Waiting and watching. Beating off boredom with a stick, keeping my thoughts from drifting to the endless unknowns.
Unknowns like whether my runaway priest will wait to leave his bolt-hole when the shadows stretch over the streets of the medina, or whether he’ll trust the bustle of the square and brazenly go about his business during the day. Whether he’s changed physically since the last known photo of him was taken. Whether he’s alone.
Whether he’s dangerous.
The café is sheltered from the briskest of the December breezes, but I’m grateful for my jacket and the fresh coffee as morning rolls into afternoon. An orange tabby hops into the chair next to me and cleans his paws. I stroke his ears while I read and drink more coffee. I think about cappuccinos and my bodyguard. I think about espresso cups cradled in my wife’s slender, deadly hands.
I had a plan once, and it went like this: get revenge, and then probably die in the process. It was a thing of clarity and purpose, and for all its moving parts, the reason behind it was as present as a hatchet buried in my chest. They killed what I loved, so I would kill all of them.
But then came Isolde. Isolde who fainted after crawling to me because subspace hit her so hard; Isolde who used the honeysuckle knife I gave her to kill wicked priests.
Then came Tristan, who only wanted one thing while he was deployed, and that was a kiss. Who went to Ireland to get my bride for me because I asked, even though it lacerated his heart to do it.
And now I don’t even know what the hell to do with my plan. I was supposed to care about nothing, and now I care about two things, and it’s a little fucking irritating, if I’m honest.
There’s a flicker of movement from one of the doorways opening into the square, and it would be easy to ignore, to forget, except I see a hand come up, then down, then side to side. The sign of the cross.
Instantly alert, I watch as a white man wearing a zip-up and jeans—tourist clothes—drops his hand, steps into the square, and starts walking toward one of the narrow lanes leading out to the rest of the medina. Small drops gleam darkly in his wake—blood, dripping from the hem of his jeans.
I toss my newspaper on the table, wedge some dirhams under the coffee cup, and stride out of the café. I nearly lose him as I shoulder my way down the lane he chose, but I catch sight of the dark green zip-up and curly brown hair as we walk past the university. He’s found a baseball cap—or he had it already—and is pulling it over his head as he makes a sharp turn down an even busier lane. Carpet stores and clothing stores have their doors flung open, and vendors have parked their wheeled carts between, selling everything from bottled water to dried scorpions.
I’m decently good at following people, if I’m allowed the self-praise, but my quarry seems to be just as good at evading a tail. He turns often, he doesn’t shy away from crowds, and he uses the narrow lanes and congested corners to his advantage. I’m staying on him, but only just, and that’s when he throws a glance over his shoulder. Just the one, but it’s long enough to see me, which shouldn’t matter—the medina is full of tourists, and I’m able to play the role of feckless British tourist quite well—but it does matter. And I have a beat after he bolts down the next lane he comes upon to appreciate that he must know who I am. It doesn’t narrow down the list of people who’d like to run away from me, but it gives me an idea of what I’m in for.
I sigh and then take off after him, wishing that for once, things could be easy. Haven’t I earned that? Something easy? Jesus.
He’s fast, but so am I, and I gain on him as we tear past cafés and bazaars and piles of cats sleeping in the sun. I’d rather not be running in a linen suit and leather shoes, but I’ve operated in tuxedos, in dress shoes—and once in a full Venetian carnival costume and volto mask—so this isn’t too bad, and despite the pinch in my feet and having to fumble for the leather gloves in my pocket to pull on as I run, I’ve almost caught up to him when he ducks down by a fountain, turns, and scoops up something from the ground to throw at me.
I have only a second to register ears and a bushed tail—that motherfucker threw a cat at me—before I manage to catch the animal against my chest. Claws sink into my biceps and above my ribs; I hear a frantic hiss. It takes me precious seconds to disentangle the stray cat from my suit jacket and set it carefully on the ground. As far as diversions go, it was an effective one, because now I’m bleeding from the arm, I can’t see my quarry, and this cat is perfectly fucking unharmed, turning around to hiss at me as I start running again, like I’m the one at fault here.
It’s luck that I see the flash of movement up ahead, just a dart through the crowd, and I shove past people trying to sell bouquets of mint or purses into a leather goods store, which is mostly empty. I emerge onto a terrace overlooking a tannery and choke on the foul air. Vats of cow urine, pigeon feces, and lime dot the courtyard below, and beyond them are deep wells of dye—henna, saffron, indigo—and everywhere are wet animal skins, some raw, some fully processed. Across the tanneries, I see a group of tourists heading back inside a store from their viewing terrace with handfuls of mint held to their faces, and then finally on the terrace below, I spot the man I’m chasing. He casts a quick look back at me before he hops the final half story down to the tannery itself.
I jump after him, landing with a flinch as my thirty-six-year-old knees absorb the shock, and then jump again until I’m down on the level with the vats and skins, among the fetid air of the tannery.
I’d kill for even a sprig of mint right now.
The man hoists himself onto the honeycombed array of dye vats, scurrying between the opaque pools of red and yellow and blue, and I follow, quicker than him by just enough to be within grabbing distance as we reach the edge. He surges toward a narrow, empty alley piled with colorful stacks of finished leather, and once I’m in the alley with him, I tackle him to the pungent skins with a heavy thud. We roll once, twice, and he’s reaching for something, and so am I, and by the time we stop rolling, we’re in a scatter of leather with Isolde’s stolen knife to his throat and the tip of his knife digging into my ribs.
He hisses in my face, “I’m not afraid to die. But I plan on taking you with me.”
I believe him on both counts, but I’m also not interested in killing him—not at the moment at least. “Since you’re so eager to reach heaven, maybe you’ll know the person I’m looking for.” I keep my tone conversational, but the honeysuckle blade remains unambiguously pressed to his throat. “A Father Minch. He’d be a few years younger than you—short, British, very paranoid.”
The man’s eyes burn up at me. His face is well shaped, with a strong brow and a wide jaw, but the ferocity of his anger makes him look wrong. Twisted. “You’re too late, Sea Hound.”
It’s been some time since I’ve heard my old CIA code name, and I’m a little charmed by it, even if I don’t like what he’s saying. “You’ve already found him then.”
“He’s been sent to God to answer for his sins.”
“Sounds like something a saint would say,” I say, but it’s more to keep his attention on my words and not on the subtle shifting of my knees on the leather beneath us. I’m not surprised he’s a saint—there aren’t very many people who will cross themselves while leaving bloody footprints across a public square—and it makes sense they would be as interested in Father Minch as I am. But it’s not ideal.
“You know nothing about what a saint would say,” he says, and his voice—accentless until this point—is getting more Italian by the syllable. “You know nothing about?—”
I don’t care. I’m already wrenching myself sideways, away from his knife, and by the time he’s rolling to follow me, I’m pouncing, slicing. Two quick cuts—a scream that’s muffled by leather—and then I’m standing, flicking his blood off the blade with a few practiced motions. “I’m sorry about the tendons, but I’d rather you not follow me. I’m sure you understand.”
The saint gives me a baleful glare. “God will punish you for this,” he seethes through clenched teeth.
Grow up, I want to say. Suburban tennis players deal with Achilles injuries all the time. “You’ll be fine. You won’t able to run for a few months, but I doubt Mortimer will put you down like a horse.”
