The kissing turns passionate, and then she turns in my arms, facing away from me. I spoon up behind her and fill her, holding her thigh up and away. Her head turns and our mouths meet again over her shoulder, and we kiss and we gasp and we move together and we meld into a single being. I ache inside her, and she squeezes around me, and then we’re exploding together, needing nothing but this union, this moment, this love to find completion in each other.
And then we hear something.
A footstep, perhaps. Or a whisper.
We freeze, eyes locking—
And then we burst into motion.
16
Interlude in Tunis; Deeper Wounds
He’s rolling off the bed, forgoing underwear and simply jerking his suit slacks on commando. I too stand into my jeans without panties, but I do take a second to stuff my tits into a bra before donning the new shirt he got me.
There’s no time for anything else—they’re out there. I hear them, gear rattling, voices low but audible.
We each have an HK, and take up positions to cover the doorway. I kneel on the floor near the bathroom, while Apollo takes a corner by the TV—our positions are chosen so even if one or both of us miss, we won’t be in each other’s line of fire.
A fraught moment.
The door is kicked in with a loud crunch of splintering wood; the privacy chain is no match for a hard, well-placed kick.
A split second of silence—they’re communicating, probably.
They enter the room side by side, rather than in a line—three of them, dressed as hotel employees, carrying submachine guns identical to the ones we’re holding. They emerge from the doorway and fan out.
Apollo meets my eyes, nods.
We open fire at the same time, suppressed rounds still surprisingly loud. I take down the one nearest me, while Apollo’s rounds hit the one nearest him. The middle figure takes several rounds from each of us. Within thirty seconds, all three are on the ground, either dead or nearly so.
Apollo holds his position, trained on the doorway—he has the weapon tucked under his armpit, his whole body turned sideways. With only one good hand, he can’t properly grip the automatic weapon to keep it from jerking upward with the recoil. His tactic here would only work in extremely close range, but it still works.
When another thirty seconds go by and no one else emerges from the hallway, we both uncoil.
I toss my weapon on the bed, glancing at Apollo. “I’ll get the bodies in the tub while you pack us up.”
He tosses his gun with mine and kicks the door closed, or as closed as it will go, considering the damage done to it by the forced entry kick. I drag the bodies one by one into the bathroom and heave them into the tub; I spare a moment to rifle through their pockets—more cash in a variety of currencies, and more spare magazines. I take it all. There’s nothing to be done about the blood or the broken door. By the time I’m done, Apollo has our gear stowed in the backpack, leaving out a handgun each. We don our socks and shoes, he shoulders the backpack, and we head for the elevator.
The elevator dings and the door opens, revealing four uniformed hotel security employees.
“There were noise complaints from this floor,” one of them says, “as well as reports of suspicious individuals posing as hotel employees. Have either of you seen or heard anything?”
“We have not,” Apollo says, pushing past them to get onto the elevator, behaving as if he’s in a rush. “Excuse us, we’re late for a flight.”
He grabs my hand and hauls me onto the elevator just as the doors swish closed. The ride to the lobby is silent and feels like it takes forever.
We stop by the front desk, where Apollo tosses the keycard on the desk. “Room four-one-four, checking out. We’re all set, thanks.”
The clerk taps at his computer, barely affording us a glance. “ThanksforchoosingMarriot,” he mumbles, fumbling blindly for the card.
At the valet, Apollo tenders several large denominations of local dinar. “The vintage Toyota as fast as possible, please.”
The valet accepts the money, hurriedly scans the open cabinet of keys, plucks the correct set, and takes off at a sprint. Less than a minute later, the Toyota squeals to a stop, and Apollo holds out another bill.
“You never saw us,” he says.
The valet eyes the bill, pockets it, nods. “Slow day. No customer.”
