Chapter 8

 

Nick slept like a baby that night.

When he finally started to wake up, he felt blissfully relaxed. It was the first time he had slept solidly since he’d escaped from the black site.

Thank god he and Elaine had gotten out of there and they were both safe now. He enjoyed the feeling of his face buried in her hair. She was cuddled up against him, her back to him, and he had one arm slung around her waist.

Nick let out a long, satisfied sigh, his eyes still closed, and snuggled up even closer. He could tell by her long, deep breaths that she was still asleep, and he didn’t want to wake her.

He started to drift off again, half-listening for the sound of Tony banging around in the kitchen...Ryan would come bounding into the room at any second, jumping up onto the bed, shrieking, and waking them both up...

Then he realized that the ambient noise was unfamiliar...

The cawing of seagulls...?

Nick suddenly opened his eyes.

The hair splayed out on the pillow before him was black, not blonde.

He recoiled.

It was Isabella lying next to him, not Elaine.

They were at a beach hotel in Tangier...they’d been dancing last night...and...

My god, what I have I done? he thought. Moving away in the bed, he carefully withdrew his arm from around her waist, hoping not to wake her.

He quietly swung his legs out from under the sheet and picked his underwear off the floor. Isabella stirred.

He pulled on his jeans and glanced at the dresser mirror—now she was watching him, her head raised a little.

“Is everything alright?” she said sleepily.

“Yeah.” Nick forced a smile at her through the mirror. Bright Mediterranean sunlight streaked into the room. With her dark eyes and long, curly black hair spilling over the pillow, she no longer seemed angelic to him—she looked more like a prostitute, or one of those “soft hookers” he used to take home from the bars in Bulgaria. He realized that he still did not trust her, and that he never would.

“I think I’ll go down to the restaurant and get some coffee.”

“Okay,” she said, with a sigh, looking as if she were about to fall back asleep.

“Do you want me to bring you a cup?” He glanced around the room—he had been so sloppy! His burner phone was laying right there on the nightstand, out in the open.

“Yes...coffee would be nice.”

“I’ll check the flight schedule while I’m down there,” he said, picking up the phone and slipping it into his pocket.

“Flight schedule?” Now Isabella sat up more, looking more awake, squinting at him in the bright light.

“Yeah, to go to Germany. Remember?”

Her big brown eyes locked on his face for a moment, and then she gave a look that seemed to say “Oh, so that’s how things are,” and she set her head back on the pillow. “Fine.”

 

* * *

A few minutes later, Nick returned to the room, dreading having to get Isabella out of bed to go to the airport. There was a flight to Frankfurt that left at 11:20. If they moved quickly, they could just make it.

He expected resistance.

But when he opened the door, he found her already packing.

“Here’s your coffee,” he said, casually setting it on the dresser.

She muttered a thank you. He told her about the flight they needed to catch.

She didn’t reply, but from the quick, jerky movements she made as she packed her suitcase, it was clear that she was upset.

And that pissed him off. What did she think? Just because they slept together once everything was back like it was in D.C.? He was still legally married, and he had two kids to take care of back in France, for god’s sake.

Then again, she’d told him that last night.

 

* * *

After they went down to the lobby and Nick paid the bill, they rolled their suitcases out into the parking lot to the rental car.

Nick opened the rear door and loaded the baggage into the back seat, and they climbed into the front. Nick started the engine.

He pulled the car out of the lot and they drove in an awkward silence down the long road that ran alongside the beach.

Nick felt like he needed to say something to break the tension. Just as he opened his mouth, a white van suddenly pulled off a side road, right in front of them.

Nick had to slam on his brakes to avoid rear-ending it.

“Stupid Moroccan,” he muttered.

The van came to a complete stop, and Nick had to slam on his brakes again.

“What the hell is wrong with—”

Nick didn’t finish the sentence. Both the van’s doors flew open. Two men rushed towards them dressed in black jogging outfits, wielding handguns. Nick recognized the one approaching his side of the car—he had short-cropped blond hair. And there was a white cast on his wrist.

He bashed in Nick’s window with his elbow.

Isabella screamed.

Nick was already trying to grab his backpack to retrieve his pistol, but in the next instant he took a blow to the back of his head.

As he blacked out, his last thought was, It’s the Ukrainian thugs from the beach bar.