Car brakes screeched outside the Moroccan night club. Two men wearing suits and shades jumped out of the Mercedes and fired shots into the air.
Screams rose and people hit the ground in panic. The scent of gunpowder was already filling up the crowded street as the men walked boldly through the main entrance. People parted in fear before them, some fleeing the scene entirely. Loud music was blasting out onto the street where laughter and casual conversation was now absent.
“Give me Marcel,” commanded one of the men to the doorman, “now!”
The man, taken aback by the rapid events, followed suit and led the men down a long hallway. The walls were painted black and closed doors lay to each side. The men seemed unintimidated and if they were they did an extremely good job of hiding it.
Smoke filled the hallway as the doorman opened a door at the end of the hall. He instructed the two men to wait a moment for his return but with a shove they pushed him violently forwards, raised their guns and used him as a shield.
The room was empty apart from a few fresh cigar ends lying by the desk. The doorman was tossed aside as the men spotted an adjacent door left ajar. The taller of the two men nodded toward the escape route.
With no time wasted they made for the door. The sound of a single gunshot resounded and seconds later police sirens could be heard in the not-so-far-off distance.
The men returned into the office they had passed through. They grabbed a bag from a secret compartment under the desk and slipped back into the hallway. Others had heard shots fired and people were now streaming into the streets.
Suddenly a large vehicle smashed into the side of the building. The men, as if expecting this, proceeded toward the truck and jumped into the back seats before reversing through the debris.
They were gone.
------------------------------------------------------------Lincoln sat back in his rocking chair captivated by two birds playing on the windowsill. Thoughts of home lingered, flashbacks of childhood memories.
“Avenue Hassan has been under surveillance since last night as club owner Marcel…”
Lincoln snatched the TV remote from the coffee table and raised the volume.
“Last night two men entered the club by force. Eyes witnesses said they were wearing suits and firing guns in the air. As of yet there is no telling to the motive of this attack but police suspect it was a revenge. Marcel has many enemies…”
The words continued as Lincoln quickly stuffed clothes and documents into a backpack and headed for the door.
A Mercedes pulled up outside. The window rolled down and a man with shades and a deep voice called out, “Get in.”
Lincoln paused. He recognized the voice. He knew the face. He obeyed.
As he gazed out the window a worried expression covered his face. He had never been good at hiding his feelings. “I never expected you so soon. I never expected you to kill him.”
“We didn’t,” came the reply. “Once we found him we shot a blank round past his head, it was enough for him to spill the beans. We got him on tape confessing his many crimes and on the way out grabbed enough evidence to have him tried in court.”
“He gave in so easily?”
“Cowards do when they are alone.”
The car was silent as they drove toward the airport.
Soon the Sedan pulled up at the international departure gate. Goodbyes were exchanged as the two detectives shook hands with the foreigner. “Thank you for helping us out. We needed your undercover work to lead us to Marcel. Our officers are too corrupt to work with.”
Lincoln waved goodbye and sighed to himself. He had made it alive.
This story is inspired by true events on the mission field however, is a work of fiction.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
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