The night was a predator.Rice moved through it like a wounded animal, every step a negotiation with his failing body. The desert had turned cold—not the gentle cool of a pleasant evening, but a biting, bone-deep chill that seeped through his torn clothes and settled into his joints. The wound on his neck had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it felt hot and tight. Infection. Already.He'd walked for three hours. Maybe four. Time had become meaningless. The moon was a sliver, barely enough light to see the ground ahead. He stumbled often, catching himself on hands and knees, then forcing himself upright again. The data chip was still in his pocket. He touched it occasionally, a nervous habit, as if checking that it hadn't vanished.The village was miles behind him. No one had followed. Not yet.That would change.He heard the truck before he saw it.The rumble of an old engine, poorly maintained, coming from the east. Rice dropped to the sand, pressing himself flat. Headlights cut

Casablanca was a city of contradictions.Rice drove through its streets as the sun climbed higher, the old Toyota wheezing like a dying man. Modern high-rises stood beside crumbling colonial buildings. Luxury cars shared the road with donkey carts. The Atlantic Ocean glittered to the west, a promise of escape that felt impossibly far away.His body was failing. The adrenaline from the warehouse fight had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead. The wound on his neck throbbed with every heartbeat. His ribs ached where the fifth man had landed punches. He needed rest. Real rest. But rest was a luxury he couldn't afford.Joao's address was in the old medina, a labyrinth of narrow streets and crowded alleyways where the police rarely ventured. Rice parked the truck in a public lot and walked, keeping his head down. The Glock was tucked into his waistband. The chip was in his pocket, pressed against his thigh like a talisman.He found the building af

The Café Hafa was a Tangier institution.Rice had heard of it even during his Agency days—a sprawling terrace café perched on a cliff overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. It had been a haunt for writers and spies for decades, its mint tea legendary, its view of the Mediterranean unmatched. Paul Bowles had written there. William Burroughs had plotted there. And now Dominic Rice was meeting a smuggler there.He arrived alone, as instructed. Joao was stashed in a cheap hotel near the port, nursing his broken ankle with a bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol. Rice had told him to stay put and stay quiet. Whether Joao would listen was another matter.The café was nearly empty at this hour. A few old men sat at scattered tables, sipping tea and playing dominoes. The waiters moved slowly, their faces tired. Rice chose a table near the edge of the terrace, where he could see anyone approaching from either direction. The Glock was tucked in his waistband, cold against his skin.He ordered tea

Algeciras was a city of transients.Rice moved through the train station with Joao limping beside him, the morning sun casting long shadows across the platform. The station was crowded—commuters, tourists, migrants, all pressed together in a chaotic flow of bodies and luggage. It was perfect cover. In a crowd this dense, two wounded men could disappear.They'd abandoned the hotel before dawn, leaving nothing behind but a few bloodstained towels and a stack of euros for the cleaning staff. Rice had considered dumping Joao at a hospital, leaving him to fend for himself. It would have been the smart move. The tactical move. But Joao had saved his life once, and that debt still hung between them like a chain.The train to Madrid was scheduled to depart in twenty minutes. From Madrid, they'd catch a connection to Barcelona, then cross into France. It was a long route, deliberately indirect. Rice had learned long ago that the shortest path was usually the most dangerous."Two tickets," Rice

They left the safehouse before full dawn.Rice drove the dead men's van—a battered Ford Transit with Spanish plates and a cargo area that smelled of diesel and stale cigarettes. Joao sat in the passenger seat, his face gray, his breathing shallow. The bandage on his head was already soaking through again. Rice had changed it twice during the night, but the infection was spreading faster than he could manage.They took back roads, avoiding the main highways. The van's engine was loud, its suspension loose, but it ran. Rice pushed it hard, the needle hovering at the edge of what the old vehicle could handle. Every kilometer put distance between them and the bodies on the hillside. Every minute reduced the chance of being caught.Joao spoke first. "Danny's contact. The one who owned that house. He sold us out.""Maybe.""Maybe? Rice, they were waiting for us. They knew exactly where we'd be."Rice didn't answer. The thought had been turning in his mind since the firefight. Either Danny's