He wrapped the belt around Boulami’s neck and pulled it taut, jerking his head upward. Shock formed on his face that a gift would be used in this manner.
No, it wasn’t gracious. Just convenient.
Amir shrugged under the man’s struggle. Boulami flailed, clutching at his throat, his feet scrabbling to get a purchase, but Amir got behind him and forced him to the ground.
They stayed like this for several minutes. When Boulami no longer resisted, his body relaxed, but Amir remained with the belt around his neck until all life receded to the beyond.
Amir rolled up the belt and tucked it in his pocket before exiting the booth. He walked through the marketplace via a different street, strolling past the stalls like a man killing time. When he reached the next street, he walked until he reached the Marrakesh gate and left the Old Medina.
On the one-hour drive to Rabat, he stopped to refuel his tank and dispose of the belt. By now news of the leather dealer’s death would be known, but Amir would never be a suspect, and Sekkat would know that the debt had not been paid.
He reached the souk in Rabat by the afternoon and searched for Karima’s gift. Perhaps jewelry this time since they were parting. Nothing that spoke of promise. Nothing extravagant that might draw the attention of her husband. Just something for her to remember him by when he was gone.
Among the many bejeweled items for sale, Amir found a rare Tuareg cuff worn on the ankle. It was made of silver, adorned with pomegranate etchings, and fastened by a pin closure. On her slim ankle, it would be stunning. He planned to place it around her ankle while she wore nothing else. He wrapped his purchase in a silk scarf and drove to Karima’s.
He parked his motorcycle around the corner from their love nest, a small house stacked amid the hills overlooking the sea. They always met here, but she said this was not her home. Where her husband was tonight or on any other occasion, Amir neither knew nor cared, especially when Karima met him at the door with a smile that glittered like a mirage.
Amir decided he wouldn’t tell her he was leaving until it was time to go. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her at all. For now, he planned to embrace her ample pleasures.
She pulled him inside and kissed him, her hands sweeping across his back pockets. “What did you bring me this time?”
He kept her from taking the prize by moving it to his shirt pocket. It was all part of their dance.
“In good time.” He sighed. “The day was long, and I am glad to be done with it.”
“Come.” Her hand gripped his. “I have mint tea and pastries.”
He sat in his usual place, and she poured tea. Now that the tensions of the day were done, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “How long do we have?”
“Until the morning.”
They talked of nothing, and they talked of everything. Her travels. Her family. She spoke in generic terms. All Amir really did was listen.
When she exhausted her supply of words, she stood. “Enough talk.”
Amir knew well what that meant and was eager to oblige her. They stood and pressed against each other before stepping slowly toward the bedroom.
Then the door opened.
Karima gasped.
Amir gasped, too, when he saw pudgy, stringy-haired Nizar Sekkat enter the room.
“Nizar, what are you doing here?” She backed up toward a desk, increasing the distance between herself and Sekkat.
His smile held a threat, and his fist held a knife. “I believe I get to ask that question of my wife.”
Amir said, “I had no idea—”
“I was talking to my wife.”
Under normal circumstances, he could easily overpower the smaller man, but the knife was an equalizer. Amir would have to wait for an opportune moment to take control.
Karima stammered, “It-it is not what it looks like, Nizar.”
“You forget yourself, my lovely. I have known about your dalliance for a while.” He didn’t look away from Karima while she seemed to shrink under his gaze. “While it upset me when I first learned your secret, it left me free to tend my business. But now that your lover is leaving—”
Her head snapped toward Amir.
“—I must insist on reclaiming you as solely mine. Even if I have to ruin your pretty face to make it so.” He flicked the knife toward Amir. “I have no need of you for now. But be certain, I will find you again when it is convenient for me. Go. Get out of here.”
Before Amir could respond, Karima rushed toward her husband. Something glinted in her hand, and she rammed it into his chest. Sekkat merely looked startled as a crimson stain blossomed on his white shirt.
“You pig! I hate you!” Karima spit the words at him. “You promised to keep me in splendor, but you keep all your dirty money for yourself!” Her chest heaved, her hand still clutching a pair of scissors as her husband bled.
Sekkat dropped the knife, crumpling onto the floor in a heap.
Karima let the scissors fall. Her hands covered her gaping mouth.
Amir wasn’t sure what to do.
“You have to help me get him out of here.” She brushed back her hair. “We have to load him into the car and dump his body somewhere.” Her head shook. “The ocean, maybe. Or the desert. Which is better? Which is better?”
“You have to calm yourself, so I can think.” He took her by the wrists. “Get my cigarettes. I left them on the table by the teapot.” He stared until her eyes met his. “Can you do that?”
“Will you help me?”
“Of course I’ll help you. But first, I need a smoke. And bring me a teacup. Do you mind?”
“Cigarette. Teacup. Yes, I will get them.” She left him and went into the living room, mumbling to him or herself as she went. She returned a moment later with the pack and cup.
Amir sat against the back of the couch, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. He offered it to her, but she declined. Her dead husband lay on the floor before them.
They stayed this way in silence. If Karima started to say something, Amir held up his hand to stop her. This was no time to crowd his thoughts with female chatter. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the teacup. He set it on the floor.
She was beside him now, pawing at his arm. “Do you have a plan? Do you know what we are going to do?”
He gently kissed her lips. He pulled her present from his shirt and handed it to her. The gesture made her flinch.
“Open it.”
A smile arced across her face. “What is it?”
She put it in her palm and spread out the silk. When the treasure was revealed, she purred, “It is exquisite.”
And so was she.
“For my ankle?”
He nodded.
She placed her bare foot on his groin and wrapped the cuff around her ankle, the silk scarf fluttering to the floor.
Receiving gifts and adoration, this was her element. She could never belong to the little man on the floor. Karima was the kind of woman that no man could own.
When she stood to admire the anklet, Amir rammed Sekkat’s knife into her chest.
She was also the kind of woman that no man could trust.
As he twisted the knife, she whimpered before joining Sekkat in the beyond. Amir positioned her body where the double-murder scenario seemed most plausible. He wiped down the knife and pressed it into Sekkat’s hand before letting it fall to the floor.
Amir spent the next hour wiping down things he’d touched, replacing any fingerprints with those of Sekkat and relieving them both of their unneeded cash. As for the anklet, Amir had wanted to see it grace Karima’s lovely ankle at least once. He rewrapped it in the silk scarf to keep for someone he would meet in the future. Any evidence that remained, well, he’d rely on the incompetence of the police.
Leaving the house under the cover of darkness, he took the long way to the ferry port in Tangier, where he bought a passage for himself and his motorcycle to Tarifa. When he landed in
Europe, he planned to call the Americans. They said they could always use a man like him, a man willing to put in a day’s work.
THE END
A NOTE FROM HELEN HANSON
Amir is the man in the green mask on the cover of my bestseller 3 LIES — Book 1 of The Masters CIA Thriller Series. He’s not a sentimental sort, but he does have his own sense of honor and fair play. Though it won’t likely agree with your own.
If you want to read more about Amir, 3 LIES is running free at most retailers. You can check out my other work at www.HelenHanson.com/novels and get a free book here www.HelenHanson.com/free-thriller. If you’re so inclined, drop me a line: [email protected]. I love to hear from readers.
All the best,
Helen
The Contract
by
CATHERINE LEA
She knew it was him the instant he walked in the door. He was shorter and fatter than she’d expected. But she knew it was him, despite the guitar he was carrying.
He stood at the service desk for a second, squinting into the gloom, scanning all the tables, until he came to hers. He gave her a brief nod, checked his surroundings, then came over. “Hey there, hope I didn’t keep you,” he said.
“Not at all,” she replied.
She was dressed just like she’d told him she’d be, blonde hair piled up on top of her head, designer sunglasses, even though they were inside and the restaurant lighting was rather dim, lips and nails painted blood red. Her eyes were on him now as she lifted her glass and sipped at the straw—vodka, her usual poison.
“You mind?” he asked, pulling out a chair.
“Go ahead.” She watched with mounting skepticism as he carefully leaned the guitar against the table then took his seat. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d picked the right guy.
“So what’s with the guitar?” she asked.
“What? This? Oh, I play,” he said, sliding his chair up to the table. “Just down the corner there. I get a good crowd on a Thursday.”
“What? Where, what corner?”
“Just down there. Outside the deli. By the benches there. People sit there and eat while they’re listening,” he said and grinned. “It’s a good spot. You make a killing on a good day.”
“You’re a busker?” Her astonishment was obvious in her tone. “Like, in the street?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, you know. Jobs like this one don’t turn up every day. You gotta keep the wolf from the door. I’m pretty good, too. You wanna hear something?” Without waiting for a reply he picked the guitar up, sat it on his knee and strummed it a few times.
“Do you have to?” she asked, glancing around to find a few people at the other tables had turned their way, and were now watching in anticipation. He positioned his fingers on the fret board and started playing, then sang through the first few bars of Love Me Do.
“Excuse me,” she said, rapping her knuckles on the table to get his attention. She was almost sure that he was the wrong guy. She should have paid extra and got the other guy. The one her sister told her about. “Hey, excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry about that,” he said, leaning the guitar against the table again, then nodding around to acknowledge the smattering of applause coming from the other diners. “See? They love it.”
“Jesus Christ,” she groaned. “Listen, I’ve changed my mind.” She uncrossed her legs, tucked her phone back into her little Prada purse, and went to get up.
He reached across, put his hand over hers. “No, hey, wait a minute, will you. Aw, c’mon. I’m just showing you I’m versatile—you know, how I can blend.”
“You call that blending?”
“Tell you what, why don’t we eat first?” He leaned back, resting his ankle up on his knee.
She blew out a sigh and sat down again.
“I didn’t come here to eat.”
“We’ll order, then you can gimme the low-down.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The low-down?”
“Yeah, you know. Where he goes, what he does, that kind of stuff. I’ll need times, places, all that stuff. Here, write it all down on here.” He took a pad and a pen out of his jacket pocket and slid them over to her. Then he leaned forward and quietly said, “By the way, it is customary. We eat, client picks up the tab.” He tipped his head briefly. “It’s kind of like … protocol.”
“Protocol? That I buy you lunch?”
He looked hurt.
“I don’t believe this,” she muttered as she picked up the pen. “So, how are you going to do it?” She looked up to gauge his reaction, make sure she did have the right guy. She didn’t want to go pushing two grand in folding across the table to the lead guitarist of the local Mariachi band by mistake. “You’re not gonna sing to him, are you?”
“Listen, I’m showing you I’m versatile, okay? How I can fit into different situations.” He blinked a couple of times. “Why, what’s wrong with the singing?”
She was writing down whatever she could think of, mentally going through her husband’s schedule so she didn’t miss anything out. “Nothing’s wrong with the singing. But if you come at him with Love Me Do, he’ll probably shoot you first.”
“Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up one hand, suddenly serious now. “Wait just a minute there. Whaddya mean he’ll shoot me first? Are you saying he’s got a gun?”
She stopped writing and looked up. “Well, of course he’s got a gun. Why, haven’t you?”
“Well … no, actually.”
She laid the pen down. “So, what were you planning to do?” she asked. “Bore him to death? Hit him with your guitar?”
“Hey,” he said sharply, and looked hurt again. “I’ve got my methods. Doesn’t have to involve guns. And I’m a little offended by your comments, if you must know.”
She drew a deep breath and let her eyes slide around the room. Now what?
“Okay, I can see you’ve got some doubts,” he said reasonably. “I understand that. But, I’ve never had a problem before.”
“You’ve done this before?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She was looking at him expectantly. “What? You weren’t thinking I’d bring a resume or something, were you?”
“No,” she said, a little unsure. “Of course I didn’t.” She picked up the pen. “So—can you tell me? Or is that, like, a professional confidence? Like a trade secret or something?”
“Is that the money?”
They both looked down at the fat envelope peeking out of her purse. “No, it’s the tip,” she said. “Of course it’s the money.” She slipped it out of her purse, placed it on the table between them, and pulled in another deep breath, trying to control her rising irritation. “Two grand up front, then the other three—y’know—afterwards.”
He slid his hand across the table and tentatively touched the wad of notes with his fingertip. As if he was somehow mesmerised by it. “Two grand, eh? Right there. Whoooh.”
A waiter approached with a notepad and pencil and looked from him to her. “Sorry about the delay. You ready to order now?”
She snatched up the envelope and stuffed it in her purse, then turned the notepad over. “I’m, ah …” she said, adjusting her sunglasses on her face. “I won’t be eating.”
On the other side of the table, he was already going through the menu. “Oh, no, come on! You gotta try the mussels. You can’t leave this place without trying the mussels. They’re good, aren’t they?” he asked the waiter.
“They are good,” the waiter agreed. “And the lobster. The lobster’s good, too. But the mussels, well, they’re—” He kissed his fingertips, then looked at him. “So, what’ll it be?”
“I’ll have the mussels.”
“Good choice,” the waiter said, and then looked at her.
“Nothing for me. I’m seafood intolerant,” she said bluntly. “I’ll have another vodka, though.”
“Why not try the steak?” he said. “Ah jeez, I hate eating alone. Go on, pick somethi
ng else. G’won.”
“I told you,” she said pointedly, and flicked a glance up at the waiter. “I don’t want anything.”
“I guess that’s just another vodka, then,” he told the waiter, and made a face.
She took the straws out, drained the glass, and handed it to the waiter.
“Same as before?” he asked her.
“Make it a double,” she said.
“A double it is,” he said, and made a note on his order pad. “Same as before.”
“I dunno what the attitude’s about,” he said to her when the waiter had gone. “It’s not like you can’t afford it or anything. And it doesn’t cost to be civil, either.” He picked up the dessert menu and studied it. “Oh, man. They’ve got chocolate cheesecake—and Maraschino soufflé. What do you do?”
“Excuse me,” she hissed at him. “Will you cut it out? Here I am arranging to have my husband knocked off, and you’re agonizing over dessert.”
“Sorry,” he said and put the menu down. “But that maraschino soufflé; it is pretty damn good. So, anyway, what were you saying?”
“I was asking, like, you know … how?”
“Oh, right. No, it’s not a professional secret or anything. It all depends on what you write down, see. Like, for example,” he turned the pad, read the first entry, and tapped the page with his finger. “See here, where you say he goes to the gym at five every morning?”
She nodded.
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t doing it then. You never get me out of bed before eleven.” He shrugged. “I work nights. It’s hell on the metabolism.”
She blinked at him. “You don’t want to tell me? That’s fine.”
“It’s best that I don’t. Don’t you think?”
The mussels arrived. He tucked the napkin into his collar and sat back while the waiter put the plate down in front of him. Another waiter stopped at the table, selected a glass from his tray, and placed it in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said sourly. “Dammit, I wish I could smoke in here.” She opened her bag, took out a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, and flicked it open. It was empty. “Pfft, I’m all out, anyway,” she muttered. “Wouldn’t that just toast your coals?”
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