Heat in Marrakech

Chapter 11: Sunrise Lies

My phone burns in my pocket.

_She dies at sunrise. — V.C._

Every second closer.

The screen cracks under my thumb.

Sabastian watches me.

Eyes narrow.

“Yvonne?”

I force a smile. Lips crack. Fake.

“No one. Wrong number. Spam.”

Lies taste like blood and metal and ash.

He doesn’t buy it.

“You’re shaking.” He steps closer. “Your hands.”

“I’m fine.” I grab the wig. Black. Short. Fingers tremble so bad I drop it. Pick it up. “Let’s go. We’re late.”

He stops me. Hand on my wrist.

Thumb over my pulse.

Counting.

Fast. Too fast. 140 beats.

“Look at me.”

I can’t.

If I look, he’ll see the truth in my eyes.

If he sees, he won’t let me go alone.

Cross said alone.

Cross meant it.

“Yvonne.” His voice drops. Low. Dangerous. The voice he uses before he kills. “What did he send you?”

The call to prayer ends.

Final note echoes over Marrakech.

Sunrise in 42 minutes.

I pull away.

“I said it’s nothing. Telemarketer.”

He lets go.

But his eyes say he knows I’m lying.

They always know.

We load the car.

Guns. Ammo. The ledger in a metal case with two locks.

C4 in the trunk.

“The money house,” he says. “We hit it fast. In and out. No hero stuff. No revenge. Just the ledger, then we vanish.”

I nod.

Lie.

I won’t be there for “out.”

I won’t be there for “vanish.”

We drive.

Marrakech is quiet.

4 AM quiet.

Even the stray dogs sleep. Even the dealers.

Only ghosts awake.

“You’re driving wrong,” Sabastian says.

I glance at him.

“What?”

“You always take Rue de la Kasbah. Every time. You took Bab Doukkala. Longer route. More cameras.”

I didn’t notice.

My brain is Layla. Layla. Layla.

Five years old.

Gray dress.

“You’re distracted,” he says. “Tell me. Now. Last chance.”

I can’t.

Layla dies if I tell him.

Cross promised.

We park. Two blocks from the money house.

Dark. No street lights. City turned them off.

“Earpieces on,” he says.

I put mine in.

Ear itches. Sweat.

“Test.”

“Test,” I say. Voice thin. Like a child.

He cups my face.

Fast. Sudden.

Thumb on my cheek. Wiping a tear I didn’t know fell.

“Whatever it is,” he says. “Whatever he has on you. We survive it. Together. You and me.”

Then he kisses me.

Hard. Desperate. Teeth and tongue and fear.

Like goodbye.

Like he knows I’m leaving.

He pulls back.

Eyes black. Pupils blown.

“Ready?”

I nod.

Lie again.

“Ready.”

He gets out.

Checks his gun. Click. Safety off.

I wait. Count to ten.

Heart in my throat. Choking me.

Then I text Cross: _Coming. Alone. Where?_

Reply instant. Like he was waiting.

_Warehouse 9. East gate. 10 minutes. No tricks or she gets a bullet first._

I slip out the other door.

Quiet.

Close it soft.

Run.

The opposite way.

Sabastian in my ear: “Yvonne? Where are you? Yvonne! Answer me!”

I rip the earpiece out.

Throw it in a gutter.

Dirty water carries it away.

To the sea.

And run toward sunrise.

And my daughter.

And maybe my death.