The Line in the Sand
She didn't hesitate. Leaving Ethan to wrestle for the crowbar was a massive risk, but securing the firearm was their only guarantee of survival.
She threw herself across the gritty asphalt, her fingers sliding over the rough concrete until they wrapped around the familiar, solid grip of her weapon. She rolled onto her back, bringing the gun up and into alignment in one fluid, practiced motion.
Click.
She didn't fire. She didn't need to. The barrel was leveled directly at the center of the driver's chest.
"Freeze," she commanded, her voice dropping to a deadly, gravelly whisper that somehow cut straight through the grunts of their struggle.
The driver froze instantly, the iron crowbar hovering mere inches from Ethan's shoulder. He looked down the barrel of her gun, saw the absolute lack of doubt in her eyes, and slowly let his hands relax. The heavy iron bar clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Ethan scrambled backward, gasping for air as he wiped a sheen of sweat and dust from his forehead. He stood up, keeping a cautious eye on the man, before stepping over to her side.
The dock around them had gone deathly quiet again, save for the lapping of the sea against the concrete piers and the distant horn of a container ship. The remaining guard from the passenger seat was nowhere to be seen—having taken the opportunity to vanish into the maze of shipping containers the moment the tide turned.
"Are you okay?" Ethan asked, his voice shaking slightly as the adrenaline began its slow, painful comedown.
"I'm alive," she said, keeping her weapon trained on the driver as she slowly stood up, her body aching in places she didn't even know existed. She glanced at the crumpled sports car, then back at the shattered SUV. "Because of you."
Ethan offered a grim, tired nod. "We're even for the van jump." He looked around the desolate, sun-drenched docks. "But we can't stay here. The noise alone is going to bring unwanted eyes within minutes."
She knew he was right. They had survived the immediate snare, but their position in Morocco was completely blown. The fixer she had shot back at the square, these men, the disabled car at the church—someone had mapped their every move.
"Get in the sports car," she told Ethan, her eyes never leaving the driver as she slowly backed toward the idling vehicle. "We need to get to a new safehouse. A real one. And we need to find out exactly who leaked our location."
They have a working vehicle and a moment of breathing room, but Morocco is no longer safe. Where do they head next to disappear, or do they have a way to force this driver to talk before they flee?