I nod. I get it, my accent will stand out in a heartbeat.
We go through a rustic wooden door. Like almost every door I’ve seen in these parts, its old paint job is faded and chipped. As the Frenchman pushes open the door, the noisy environment and the smell bleed out. The place looks like a gigantic cave, and I can’t tell if its ceiling is made of either carved stone or mud bricks. No one stops what they are doing, they only give us a cursory glance then keep on minding their own businesses.
The place is packed, and there’s nowhere to go, though that doesn’t seem to stop The Bedouin. He waves at me to follow him and moves people to the side as he goes. I follow him closely. The clinking of glassware and men shouting at each other reigns in this joint. Men pull out knives, ready for a fight, only to laugh it off and keep drinking. There are quiet men too, enjoying a drink in peace, near-naked women sauntering around.
While I observe this controlled chaos I feel a tug at my clothing. It’s the Frenchman subtlety telling me to sit down at a corner table. The cane chairs are surprisingly comfortable.
“Now we wait. Believe it or not, this is the best place for us. Most people in here have some kind of agenda, like you and me,” he whispers. “Have your gun ready. No one will get involved if you get in trouble nor will they blame you for pulling the trigger.”
“Locked and loaded,” I confirm.
“Good. Wait here, I need to go pee.”
I lose sight of him as he enters the sea of people.
“Sarah?” I hear Rage’s voice.
This is the longest we’ve gone without talking.
I miss him.
“I’m here,” I say as quietly possible. I don’t want to sound too eager to talk either.
“Judging from that noise, I can assume you’ve made it to the meeting spot.”
“We did.” I jiggle my foot under the table. This place creeps me out.
“Stay alert, remember every face. We never know who you might cross paths with here. Where’s The Bedouin?” I hear the concern in his voice, he doesn’t like me to be alone, and his apprehension warms my heart.
“He went to take a leak a few mi–” A gunshot sounds.
Beyond the wall of people in front of me muzzle flashes lighten the ceiling, followed by people screaming and yelling, “Muttawa!”
Fuck.
Chapter Forty
SARAH
A mass of frantic men and women tries to scatter as some are struck by bullets. I quickly kick the round wood table down and use it as cover. What was laughter and joy moments ago is replaced by people crying in agony, surrounded by bullets and blood.
Rage is asking or, should I say, yelling, through the earpiece, but I’m more concerned about the bullets striking the wall next to me.
The Frenchman joins me in an instant. He’s sweating, and his forehead is bloody.
I gasp. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not my blood. We need to go. There’s a backdoor right next to the bathroom.” He peers above the table and a bullet grazing his cheek forcing him to retreat.
“They could be waiting for us on the other side, but there’s no other way out. Be prepared,” I command. It’s time to get the fuck out of here.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
“On my mark,” I start, and he nods, “One…”
Taratatannn!
“Two…”
