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EIGHT
Asher woke with a start,his heart racing. He sat up, the taste of blood in his mouth. Had he bitten his tongue?
It’s just a memory. Just a memory.
“You good?”
Harry’s voice made Asher jump and reach for a weapon that he didn’t have. His heart was now in his throat. Asher glared at Harry, who was sitting at the table, until his heart rate calmed down.
“Bad dream?”
Asher didn’t answer. He checked his watch. It was nine o’clock. God, had he really slept that long? All while Harry sat, very much awake, just metres away. Asher was lucky to have woken up at all. Harry could have killed him, taken his belongings, and been hours-gone.
Yet, there he sat.
“I’m hungry,” Harry said.
Asher scrubbed his hand over his face and nodded. Thirty minutes later they were eatingbaghrirwith figs, cherries and peaches, washing it all down with Turkish coffee.
Asher felt more human with every bite, though he was amazed by just how much food Harry could eat. He could easily put away twice what Asher ate, which shouldn’t have been surprising given he was twice his size.
He pushed his half-eaten plate toward Harry, a silent offer. He preferred the coffee anyway. Harry pinged his phone again, this time to look like it was located just outside of Paris. Asher wasn’t sure what good it would do, if any at all. Would it confuse those tracking them? Would they find nothing in Morocco and go back to Europe?
Asher wasn’t hopeful.
The small café they were in was old and dingy, tucked away in a narrow lane of the lower Casbah. There were three young men standing outside, and Asher noticed one of them trying to scope them out.
He sighed, not even bothering to put his coffee cup down. “We have some friends. Three, male, just kids, really.”
Harry froze, his back to the door.
“Relax,” Asher whispered calmly. “They’re street thugs; possibly eighteen years old. After some quick cash, maybe a watch or a phone. They must think we’re tourists.”
Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin, swung his legs around on the small stool, and slowly stood to his full height.
One of the guys saw Harry get up, his eyes comically taking in the size of him, his expression making the other two turn around. The three of them gawped. Harry took one step in their direction and they scrambled to run off.
Asher laughed and sipped his coffee.
Harry grumbled. “Fucking punks.”
Asher threw some money on the table. “Let’s go.”
They walked back toward the square through an open market, and passing a clothing stall, Asher decided new shirts were in order. “We should try and look half-decent today,” he said, taking a white button-down shirt off a rack. He held it up against himself, and it would fit just fine.
Finding one for Harry, on the other hand...
The salesman came over, smiling. Asher greeted him in Arabic, asking for a shirt that might fit his friend. The salesman looked at Harry and grimaced, but he went to one rack in particular and pulled out a pull-on linen shirt, pale blue, with a round collar.
Asher held the shirt against Harry’s broad chest. It should fit.
Harry smiled and mumbled, his lips barely moving. “What the hell is this?”
Asher grinned. “It’s perfect. Now pay the good man.”
Harry’s nostrils flared, and Asher was certain he’d have thundered some obscenity if it wasn’t for the older gent waiting expectantly for his money. But money paid, they made their way back to the room.
They needed to freshen up the best they could and get changed for their meeting. They couldn’t very well turn up looking like they’d been on the run for five days.
