Page 92 of Red Line

“It starts out that way, then there’s the shifting and sliding narrative, but I wrap it up in a neat little bow as fast as I can even if I find the abruptness dissatisfying.”

“Can you listen like that?”

“It’s my job to listen like that, right? I need to know everything. The longer the story, the more I understand what motivates the storyteller and what characteristics they express with the most emphasis for good or for bad. What makes a hero to them? What makes an evil-doer? What do they perceive to be a reward? For some, it’s money and fame. For others, it's the safety of their family and a hug from a beloved friend. Listening to the storyismy job.”

“I like that.”

“It’s funny how things work. Stories in the real world can have a plot twist. And it’s only a plot twist if the characters think that life will continue on like a normal day, but no. Something happens.”

Like you're about to fly home with a delegation, get rerouted, get rerouted again, and meet someone astonishing.

“I see just how random fate is. Two people standing side by side. One is blown into mist, and the other is coated with the mist of his friend but otherwise unscathed. Or me—”

“Yes, you. You survived the bombing at the hotel. You had to have, or you wouldn’t have been coated with plaster the way you were when we found you.”

“I was supposed to be sitting at the table with an asset. But leading up to the bombing, I ate a random campsite meal that gave me a random bacterial overload that sent me to the random toilet clutching my stomach. My asset is killed, and I am protected by the collapse of the metal stalls taking the blow and the aftershock.”

“Saved by the shits.”

“That’s what I said. Absolutely random.”

“But someone has your back. We had you out of there within twenty-four hours, and the only heads-up anyone had was that you didn’t check in.”

“And had you not been in the area, no one would have found me, and I could well have died. Dehydration leading to sepsis or what have you.” She lifted her chin. “Why were you in the area? How did you get to me so quickly?”

“I was fishing in the Mediterranean.”

“As one does.”

Nomad pulled into a dusty plot used as a parking area. “This is as far as we can go with a car.” He shifted into park. “We’ll act like tourists and hire a pushcart to take your bag to the riad. You ready, Cassie?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Red

Nomad caught Red’s gaze. “Elena’s on the move.”

Red looked down at her phone screen. “She has her map search open. It looks like they’re heading to the Djemaa El Fna, the main square with the monkeys you wanted to pet.”

“Given the time, they must be going out to see the sunset.”

Red stood and stretched. “That would be an affirmative. They’re heading to a rooftop restaurant. They just put the name into their map app.”

“What do you think?”

Red moved closer to him so she could whisper their conversation. “I’d like to get eyes on them. I have the pictures you took. Some people do well making the leap from photo to in-person recognition, but I’ve found that when I’m trying to find someone in public, it’s rare that they look like they did in a photo or that I get a good look at their face. As a matter of fact, if I get a good look at their face, it means they’re getting a good look at mine.”

“Can you tell me about that?” Nomad wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her into his lap so she didn’t have to bend over to speak in his ear. He gave her a slight lift of the brow, asking if this was all right.

It was very all right. Natural even. Flashes of her rescue came back to Red. She decided to go ahead and say it out loud. “I’ve been in your arms before. I want to tell you how much I appreciate your care during my rescue. For a while there, I assumed I was going to die. And when you had me up againstyou,” tears welled, but Red thought that was a little too damsel-in-distress-like, so she pushed those feelings down, “I knew I wouldn’t.”

Those words seemed to affect Nomad, too. He drew her tighter in his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m going to wade away from those emotions and go back to your question,” Red continued without lifting from his embrace. “What I like to do is minimally get film of the person. It’s better if I can observe over time. Everyone has a style. I focus on how they like to sit. How fast they like to walk, how they swing their arms. How observant are they? Do they walk with their phone in their hand? All of that. Picking out someone’s movement patterns is so much easier in a crowd.”

“I get that. And you’re right. When I get home from deployment, and we’re all dressed exactly alike, with the same haircut and the same hat shielding half our faces, the families don’t hesitate. They see their soldier, and they race into their arms. That has to be body mechanics. And yet, I never put that together. I’ve always looked for the face.” He patted her hip. “Are you ready to head out? Do you need to change or anything?” Nomad asked. “I need to use the bathroom, and then I’m ready to go.”

“I’ll change into traditional clothes and head scarf. I love to wear them when I’m near the desert. They keep the sand and dust out of my hair. And they give me a certain level of anonymity.”

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