Why does he affect me like this? Where is the patience and indifference I’ve prided myself on?
What is it about Asher Garin that rankles me so much?
“You are insufferable,” Harry mumbled with a sneer. “And infuriating. You know you’re annoying, right? You never shut up. Did yourboyfriendever tell you that?”
“You are equally insufferable,” Asher replied. “If you ever run out of bullets, you could just growl at your next target. Maybe rip his arms off with all that pent up anger and beat him to death with the soggy ends. Or better yet, spend five days with them like I’ve had to, and they’ll surrender.”
“Well, just so you know, if sniping someone from a mile away is no longer an option for you, you could just kidnap them, give them a gun, and talk to them non-fucking-stop and they’d shoot themselves.”
A knock on the window scared the shit out of both of them.
Harry pulled his gun and aimed it at the intrusion, but Asher deflected it, pushing the gun away. The intruder was a man wearing a traditional djellaba and a no-nonsense glare. He didn’t even blink at Harry’s gun.
“You want room or not?” the man said.
Asher turned on his high-wattage smile and charmed the man in both Arabic and English as they collected their bags from the truck and began walking. And hewascharming, and the smile could soften even the hardest of souls...
Maybe even Harry’s.
The man, who did not give a name, guided them through the spiderweb of narrow corridors and up the many, many steps. If it wasn’t steps, it was cobbled stones. The walls got narrower the higher they climbed. Buildings jutted out overhead, powerlines, extension cords clung to exposed beams, and men herded donkeys along the pathways to collect rubbish. The streets so narrow, Harry could touch opposite side walls with either hand, and the buildings were in disrepair. Old, decrepit, peeled paint, crumbling walls, patched with whatever materials they could find. There was graffiti, tin bolted to walls instead of windows.
Yet it was strangely beautiful.
There were ornate doors in ancient and arched doorways, heavy wood with iron patterns whose age Harry would hate to estimate. The tile work was incredible. The steps and pathways were worn by thousands of feet over hundreds of years, carried along the air of danger, spices, and sweat.
And Harry caught himself... He was admiring the architecture.
Jesus H Christ.
He chastised himself, grumbling as he followed the two men ahead of him.
Asher glanced over his shoulder. “Ankle okay?”
“M’ankle’s fine,” he snapped.
His ankle was not fine, but he wasn’t admitting that to Asher.
Harry hated that his ankle was sprained. He hated that Asher had hid them away in Tangiers to give him time to heal. He hated that Asher got them through three different countries without a lick of trouble, got new passports, transport, accommodation.
He hated that Asher was good at this.
That people warmed to him, fell for his charm and his disarming good looks. He hated that strangers liked him.
He hated thatheliked him.
The man stopped at a blue door along one particularly narrow street. Well, it had once been blue. It was now peeled and rusted, but it had a decent lock. The man held out a key and Asher gave him the truck key in return, and without even a glance in Harry’s direction, the man walked back the way they’d come.
Asher unlocked the door, but Harry stopped him from opening it. With a glance up and down the empty street, he took his pistol in hand and pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
It was dark, though his eyes quickly adjusted. The first room was small, the second room was clear too. No one was lying in wait for them, Harry determined easily, because there was nothing to hide behind.
The first room had a table and two chairs and an old sink basin in the corner. The second room had one single bed in it.
He turned around to find Asher standing inside, smiling.
“I’ll take the floor,” Harry grumbled.
Asher snorted but didn’t say anything. Instead, he carried the chair into the bedroom, stood on it, and lifted the utility panel in the ceiling. “Give me your bag, and pass me mine.”