Page 107 of The Atlas Maneuver

Keep watch.

Be ready.

Something was going to happen.

He drew close, his back to them, eyes focused on the café’s entrance, one hand ready to grip his weapon, tucked beneath his jacket.

“I need a report,” she said to her operative in English. “And fast.”

AIKO REMAINED ANXIOUS AND CAUTIOUS.

She’d had a team on hand, here for the past two months, ready to deal with the international gathering that was happening about a hundred kilometers to the south. Six days ago she’d received a report of unusual CIA activity within Marrakesh. She’d ordered further investigation. Then, with all that had happened in Switzerland over the past two days, what was happening here had become even more important.

Now it was vital.

“They came for us,” her man said. “They were waiting. All five of the others are dead.”

“Why are you alive?”

“I was at the airport to watch the incoming flights and managed to get away from the people sent after me.”

“I need to know what you found out.”

“The Americans are planning an attack. Tonight. At Gledhill’s compound.”

Malone’s gaze kept scanning the small eatery and the front entrance, surely mindful that it was an open doorway with easy access.

He glanced back and she spotted the concern in his eyes.

“Tell me more,” she said.

“We’ve been watching a location here in the city. There’s been plenty of activity there over the past few days.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

COTTON WAS BOTH LISTENING TO THE CONVERSATION BEHIND HIMand watching the room, which contained about twenty patrons at small tables. Aiko was right. In order to catch fish, you had tolay out some bait. But this might be a bit foolish, though his new Japanese friend did not seem reckless. Quite the contrary, in fact. Still, they were pushing their luck.

Two men appeared in the doorway.

Brown-skinned, stocky, ready for a fight, their gazes locked on him.

One of the men vanished back out into the street.

The other advanced.

Cotton had already spied, through the kitchen, a door half opened to the outside. A rear exit.

“Get him out of here,” he said to Aiko, not turning around. “Past the kitchen. There’s a way out.”

His adversary produced a length of chain, brandishing it by his hip. Patrons reacted and leaped from the tables, fleeing toward the entrance. He debated whether to find his gun and end this Indiana Jones–style.

But somebody might get hurt.

The chain whistled close to him.

He threw himself back just in time, the links rattling so close he felt the rush of air across his face. Metal found stone. Chips flaked off the wall in a shower of blue sparks. Cotton scrambled to regain his footing. With a wild scream the man pounced, swinging the chain in a wide deadly arc. Cotton lurched back, barely evading a blow that would have broken ribs, but the end link nicked him.

Which hurt.

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