Page 120 of Under Cover

“Nobodydoes that to me and mine!” roared Andres Kadjic—for this was clearly the man who had sent Tienne and his father running for the last five years. “And no lover of mine stands against me. Not in public, not in private.”

“I’m not your lover, then,” Daniel said. “I don’t want a thing to do with you. If I hadn’t been drunk off my ass, I would have seen you for the brute you are—”

Kadjic’s hand came out, brutally fast, a backhanded fist that drove the slender Daniel to his knees. “You think I am a brute now?” Kadjic said with a sneer. “Before this night is over, you will know me for what I am. But first—”

He turned to his men and nodded at Antoine Couvier, and his man yanked a knife across Tienne’s father’s throat.

“No!” Tienne screamed, and he saw the whole world as in slow motion.

The man who’d killed his father dropped Antoine’s body as it still spurted blood and turned toward him. At the same time, Daniel, Kadjic’s lover, who would probably share Antoine’s fate before the night was out, leaped at the man with the knife and looked Tienne dead in the eye, screaming, “Run!”

Tienne took off, running faster then he’d ever imagined he could, thinking he felt the hot breath of the man with the knife on his neck. He ran until he could run no more, finally taking shelter in an alleyway, where he sat with his back against the wall and sobbed.

The next morning, he awoke hungry, thirsty, and terrified. He knew this city, but he did not know where to go for help. He knew his father’s friends, but he did not know if any had betrayed him. He knew who the authorities were, but so many were not to be trusted.

He had his pack, though. He and his father split their cash now, so with his cash and his passport and ID, he could at least get out of Marrakech and go to….

Where? Back to France, perhaps? He and Antoine had been happy in France. But Kadjic had been there too. Prague? Kyiv? Amsterdam? There were cities they hadn’t been to—perhaps Kadjic wouldn’t be in Amsterdam?

It was then, as he was rummaging through his pack, that he made a terrible discovery.

As he’d fled, the man with the knife had probably taken a swipe at him. There was a slice down the pocket of his backpack, and the bulk of his cash was gone, as was a tube of green paint that had apparently been slashed as well.

He was broke.

He wasfound.

And Kadjic’s people were probably waiting at the mouth of the alley, intending to gut him like a fish.

He stood, frozen for a moment, until a young man appeared, right where Tienne had thought to see a mobster with a knife and an Uzi.

Instead, the man held a sizable wad of cash in many denominations, every paper covered with galway green paint.

“Looking for this?”

The man spoke English with a clear lower-class accent, and Tienne searched his face for any trace of a sneer or mockery. What he saw was a handsome young man, maybe ten years older than himself, with short brown/red hair and brilliant blue eyes, looking at him levelly as though assessing Tienne for damage. He held his robe back so Tienne could see his badge. It said something about Interpol, but Tienne didn’t care.

He spat. “I know nothing about that,” he said, not meeting the young man’s eyes. Crooked authorities—he’d seen his father pay off his share of people with badges.

“Do you know something about the man who almost died to save your hide last night?” the young man asked softly. “Danny Lightfingers?”

Daniel. Tienne bit his lip, and his voice caught. “He is alive?”

“Aye,” said the young officer. “Barely. I wanted to stay by his side to make sure Kadjic’s boys didn’t go after him again, but he told me to come find you. Turns out he has his own damned money to travel with, and he gave me permission to use it to get you to safety. You going to let me do that?”

Tienne met his eyes, knowing his own were overflowing. “Where is safe?” he asked gruffly. “They killed my father. Where is safe?”

“Would you believe Chicago’s safe?”

Tienne squinted at him. “America?”

“Aye.”

Two days later, with a neat haircut and dressed nicely, his luggage chosen to match, Tienne still didn’t believe it. After flying for what felt like days, he was greeted at the gate by a woman—ah, such a beautiful woman. She wore her hair in a chignon and dressed like the women of France, in a summer dress with an elegant clutch bag.

“Etienne Couvier?” she asked softly, and he looked around, over both shoulders.

“Oui. But my papers, they say—”