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A location. A code. And a short message of where to leave “live cargo” for sale.

“Sounds like human trafficking,” Ciro mutters as we make our way to a private airfield on the outskirts of Moscow.

“Sounds like we are going to Marrakesh.”

* * *

“This place is shit.”

“This place is free and we needed somewhere to sleep. And to be fair, my contact here in Morocco isn’t exactly my biggest fan. Turns out when you don’t pay your guys for a couple of years they get pissy.”

“He saw reason to get back in your good graces.”

“Yes. His balls saw reason. Do you have to squeeze every bad guy’s sack so hard?”

“Only ones who disrespect me and my man,” I sniff and Ciro’s eyes widen at my threatening expression.

“How do you manage to make my balls retreat in fear, yet make my dick so hard?”

“Becausethis.” I turn slowly, showing off my dress and how good my ass looks in it.

“Oh. You’re absolutely right.”

I had better stop before we tear each other’s clothes off again…

We have important things to do here.

“We will look ridiculous leaving this hovel dressed like this,” I snicker, peeking out through the tattered curtains.

“I feel like the digs are par for the course after that tin can martini shaker of a flight you had us on. Janky ride, ratty amenities.”

“Hey, Osel owed me a favor. He has plane. No questions asked and avoids authorities. It was fine.”

“My spleen is on the wrong side now. And doesn’t Osel mean ‘donkey?’”

“His name is joke, but yes.”

“Because he smuggles things like a pack mule?”

“Oh. I never thought of that. Everyone just calls him that because of his teeth and ears.”

“Clever.” Ciro snorts, repacking our duffel bag. I do love a man who can pack light.

We set our gear in silence for a few moments, waiting for the sun to go down.

As soon as dusk fades, we head out, keeping to the shadows until we reach a wide avenue, bustling with activity. Flagging down a cabby, we give him an address near our target.

We must be cautious about who knows where we are heading.

“Hopefully your contact did not spread word around that you are alive and in town.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. The last time I was here was years ago. There’s no way anyone remembers.”

Ten minutes later, we are standing outside of a row of hole-in-the-wall casinos, black market stalls. The part of town where back-alley deals take place in the open.

“You were saying?” I mutter, pointing at a poster as we navigate the tight crowd. Ciro’s face is printed on the doorway of almost every locale with what I can only assume means either “wanted” or “banned” in bold red lettering on the top.

“Oof. Good thing it was during my ‘ironic glasses and frosted tips’ era.”