Page 98 of Red Line

“Treasure hunters found Kamal’s ring, and Elena stole it from them?”

Why wasn’t he brought up to speed? “Negative. I know that Elena has the ring.”

“I’ll give you details later. I believe the men at the ball who took Elena from the kitchen were part of a team. Five members of that team were sniped in Munich. At that scene, Elena stole the ring. That’s how she came to be in possession of it. The men in the van—you saved us from them—are probably treasure hunters trying to get the ring back before Elena can collect the prize. And we can’t let them do that. My orders are to make sure Elena succeeds at getting the money.”

Okay, retribution and robbery were on the table. “You see one of them?”

“Affirma—two. One with a broken arm, right arm, in a cast. One with—Sharing my screen.” Red was breathing hard.

Nomad whipped his phone from his pocket, swiped open the app, and watched the movement of the flag representing the ring dance across the map, sliding up and down and around the pathways.

If Elena could hide, she’d hide. That was the easiest survival move. If the men were on her heels, she wouldn’t have the time or space to make the feint.

She certainly wouldn’t head for the gardens.

As he watched, Nomad thought something about Elena’s movements was off.

And that was when he realized, “Cassie. There are more than two. They’re herding her.”

“To where? Can you get ahead of them?”

“Moving.”

If it were him running from his captors, Nomad would conclude that his best shot of escape would be to dive into the back of a random taxi. While taxis were everywhere on the street outside the Medina’s ancient walls, flagging one down would make Elena slow and conspicuous. The closest taxi stand was in front of the Palais Royale, where a line of military men—a representative of each branch—stood guard.

If Elena could get anywhere near the Palais, she’d be safe.

Two kilometers.

If the men were good enough to find Elena here in Marrakech, they were good enough to think that through. They would want Elena to devise the plan and work herself in that direction. They would push her toward that decision strategically because there were undercover police interspersed with the crowds, ensuring the tourists’ safety.

One scared influencer posting about their survival story could aim those tourist budgets to safer places.

Tourists were the lifeblood of the Medina economy.

Two kilometers. “Heading toward the Grand Palais.”

“I thought so, too,” Red panted. She had been hospitalized days before; Red was probably wringing the last ounces of energy from her system.

Scaffolding hugged the buildings all along the route from the Secret Garden to the Grand Palais. Placed there after the earthquakes to keep the ancient facades from tumbling, building materials were stacked above and below as the restoration took place.

The tourists had to decide how to move down the road, either under the scaffolding or in the center of the pathway.

Nomad chose to be under and close to the wall, wanting to avoid notice as he strode forward, using the length of his legs to his advantage.

On the app, Nomad saw the pin representing Elena advancing toward his position. He’d been right.

Red was a heavy breath in his ear.

Turning at the corner, Nomad told her, “I’m at the taxis. I can see the length of the path. I’ll see her coming.” As he leaned his shoulder into the wall, the drivers called out, offering rides. Nomad waved them off. He switched his screen to locate Red, and she moved up fast. Soon, she’d catch up to Elena.

He wondered what the plan was.

“Nomad!” Red yelled. It was a call to action. She’d forgotten to use his code name, Nicholi. “Nomad! Your three o’clock!”

Nomad whipped his head toward the line of soldiers near the door. People were milling about. He didn’t see any concerning movement. He spun back to look down the path. From his height, Nomad saw Elena, followed by Simone and Red. Behind Red was a man with a broken arm.

Elena looked over her shoulder and sprinted forward.

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