Page 8 of The Fallen
“Who are you, Noah Locke?”
Chapter Five
NOAH
As I step out from the airport and onto the Casablanca tarmac, the heat hits me like a wave.
I squint and drop my sunglasses into place to avoid the early evening glare, shrugging my backpack on. There isn’t a hotel booked to head to, so I wander for the waiting taxis. Didn’t take me long to find her address here once I knew where she was flying to, which surprised me. Took a while to get into Morocco's version of land registry, and then a while longer to deal with the fact that I don’t speak the language, but after that, it was plain sailing.
Fucking stupid considering her ability to hide shit. I expected a truckload more hassle finding her place, but no, her real name was loud and clear on the paperwork. The one thing I haven’t accounted for is that the address I’ve found might not be hers at all, and this could be some kind of con. Got a funny feeling it isn’t, though. Panic causes mistakes, and I’m betting she just made one of her biggest.
The taxi driver I eventually find speaks English well enough and tries hassling me with things I could do while I’m here as we make the journey to the town she’s registered in. They’re all things his brother, or cousin, or other brother could organise for me, all things that could line his pockets, I guess. Not interested. Nor am I interested in the sound of some twat on the radio wailing out fuck-awful music either. Still, I listen to him rambling on as we pass along roads and head through traffic, then stare out at the sea as the port disappears and a pretty nice coastline comes into view.
It’s been a while since I took a holiday like this. Don’t care that much for them. Lying around on a beach isn’t my thing, but I did it when I got my first decent-paycheck. Algarve. Two weeks with my brother doing not a fucking lot and trying out how the other half lived. Seemed they played golf and drank, and their wives hung around in spas and saunas, getting facials and tans. There was some nice shit to look at, but yeah, no. Boredom is not something I’ll be looking into again any time soon.
Bells are ringing somewhere, long and loud, and there’s a voice on a tannoy talking Arabic echoing around the place. I look back at the cab driver as he knocks the things dangling off his rearview mirror and chants something to himself, wondering what the fuck is going on. Prayers maybe. I don’t know. Don’t care either. I just need to get this little murderer home, and then it’ll be onto the next job on my list. Don't even know what that is at the moment. When Landon says jump, I do. Everything stops until his directive has been fulfilled.
Got a feeling it’s going to be that way for a long arse time yet, too.
The cab eventually rumbles into the small town where she's based, and I look around, taking in the market in full swing and all the people milling around. It’s busy, and the women all seem to be wearing brightly coloured, long clothing that makes them look mostly the same. The few tourists around stick out like a sore thumb, but the headscarves and clothes make the locals seem to blend into one mass of colour.
I frown at the look of them, considering if she’ll be in the same clothing. It's going to be hard to find her if she’s trying that on for size, especially if she knows I’m looking for her. Didn’t give that much thought until I found her address here, but Landon shouted my name back at Tallington, told me to get after her. Depending on how far away she was at that point, she could have easily heard him. That would have given her a name to work with, and it wouldn’t take a smart person with her skills too long to find me if they really wanted to.
We roll to a stop outside a hotel a way on from her actual address, and I pay the driver and get out. More fucking heat. I head for a local café and take a seat out front, ordering an ice-cold drink when the waiter comes by. I’ll sit for a while, scope out what’s going down here before I try getting into her place. The cover of darkness is what I need, and this sun has got a while before that happens.
Another hour and I start noticing the number of fucking cats littering the streets. They’re everywhere, half of them hissing and fighting, the other half pissing on anything they can get to as they crawl out of their daytime homes. Wouldn’t be surprised if there are as many of them as there are people. The darker it gets, the closer they come to me.
I get up and shrug the backpack on again, no interest in having any one of them coming to introduce themselves. Money gets put down under the glass I was drinking from, and I wander out in the direction of her building. A few tourists are walking around the place, two of them heading into her apartment complex. Lots of noise, all seemingly getting louder as the night draws in. The market’s even livelier than it was a while back, more smells and sights making the area more dynamic than it was. No sign of her, though, and no way of seeing if she’s in unless I go knock on the door. Might as well get on with it now it’s dark.
There isn’t any security to stop access, so I walk in and start looking over the numbers on the doors. She’s upstairs, the first apartment on the right by the look of it. I approach the door and try the handle quietly. It’s locked, no fucking access that way, so I knock. Nothing. I knock a little louder and drop my backpack, reaching for my tools. I’m ready to jack this lock and wait for her inside if I have to, but sudden movement in the lower courtyard makes me swing my gaze that way. The dark shadow of a woman rushes through the area, and regardless of her headscarf being pulled up as she goes, I recognise those features.
Four strides and I jump down the steps, one hand pushing me over the last of the terrace until my feet land, and I start chasing the sound of feet. By the time I get out of the complex and look around, all I can see is the faint image of her running straight for the market. I keep my eyes fixed on the outfit she’s wearing, noting the blue trail of the long skirt and the orange and blue pattern on the headscarf. That’s all I’ve got now. If she’s spooked, she won’t be coming back here for a while, and that means I’m going to lose her.
I weave and hurry, trying to keep her in my sights, as she runs through the alleys. Fuck she’s fast, and the fact that I don’t know where the hell I’m going doesn’t help. People get in my way, most of them trying to sell me goods, and get in my face. Shouldn’t have worn this fucking t-shirt. I look as much of a fucking tourist as the rest do, and I struggle to push them all out of the way to keep on her heels. Left, right. Another alley, this time with hardly anyone in it, and then we’re back in the crowded corridors of brightly coloured awnings and too many fucking people.
I trip on a rolled-up carpet sticking out, hands and feet scrabbling me upright, and gaze refusing to leave her body still running. She’s like a fucking ghost in here, her colours blending in with all the bright golds and noise. Men are shouting, women bickering and chatting, and the smell – cinnamon and spice - it’s fucking everywhere. And the more we run, the hotter it gets, the less able I am to concentrate on where the fuck she is in this carnage of colours.
Another corner turned and I stop, unable to see her anywhere. “Fuck.”
I look left and right, getting up on a stone water trough so I can see over the top of the endless people. It’s then that I see her shifting around a corner in the distance. She looks back at me, and for a split second all I can see is the look on her face under that headscarf. Pale skin, deep-set eyes that seem to fill her face with longing and wonder. Full lips, both glistening under the lights of the market. And then her head’s down again, and she’s moving silently through the crowds once more.
I’m running and weaving again, my shoulders pushing people out of the way so I can reach her before she disappears again. It isn’t until I hear the sound of the bells ringing, of the chanting and tannoy speaking, that I realise we’re climbing. Steps weave further and further, crisscrossing each other like a labyrinth of the same walls and the same buildings. It’s all I can do to try keeping up with her. I keep my gaze fixed on the sight of the trailing blue skirt, as it disappears around more corners, until the distant sound of noise dissipates to barely anything at all.
The eventual sight of an open area shows me nothing but empty space. I stop and look around, scouring the semi-lit expanse for a sign of her. Nothing, just more alleys running out of it in all directions. An old woman comes out of the darkness, her head dipped, as she slowly makes her way through the space, and her hand shielding her face from me. Guess we’re up in the old town now, probably not one of the better places for a pretty English woman to be hanging out.
I scan again and start looking down each alley, listening for anything that might give away her position in the quiet streets, and low and behold, there’s the sound I need. Someone’s talking in Arabic, low words hassled and panicked. Unsure whether it’s my girl or not, I head towards it anyway. It’s all I’ve got for now, and if it isn’t her, I’ll just walk on by not bothering with shit that isn’t any of my business.
What I witness puts my hackles right on edge. I watch the same swathe of blue skirt as it ruffles and billows in his hands. She’s trying, talking his language and hoping to get him off her. Not working, though. He’s got a woman alone in a dark, quiet alley, and he clearly thinks he's going to get his kicks with her. Maybe that’s normal up here in the old town. Maybe men do as they please with pretty, young things in the shadows. And yet, I still wait. I wait for her to get really fucking panicked, really fucking scared, because at that point, when I’ve helped her out, she’ll be more bothered about staying with me than she will be running.
I might even be getting a little fucking turned on as I keep watching and lean on the wall, especially when I see him smother her mouth and start rucking the skirt up. He’s in between her legs, his one free hand trying to get his dick out and keep her the fuck still. She isn’t making it easy. She’s fighting hard, but losing.
Chuckling lightly, I stalk towards the quiet corner, both my hands reaching for his head and neck. I haul him backwards the second I’ve got hold of him, my eyes fixed on her as she scrambles backwards towards a wall. One hand goes over his mouth, the other arm holds firm around his windpipe to make sure he’s going nowhere. The only thing he’s got on the cards now is passing out or dying. Couldn’t care less either way. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a problem I need to get rid of so I can do my job. One thing’s for sure, though, he picked the wrong girl to try raping tonight.
She stares at me, wide-eyed and fragile, scared and timid, as I keep a tight hold on him. He probably looks like he’s dying now. His struggling is getting weaker, body getting stiller. I can feel his chest rhythm slowing on my own, feel his sharp attempts for breath failing more and more with each fucking second. Don’t care. All I care about is that set of eyes watching me do this. No care for her, no matter how pretty she is, just care for my job. Bring her home, Landon said. Will do.
And then there’s nothing. Just him limp and useless in my hold.
I drop him and look down at her.
