CHAPTER TWO
The Chase Continues

Matthew fell on the jeep's hood, the windshield cracking from his weight. Pain shot up from his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he reached over the glass and stopped a goon from pointing an M1911 at his face. He gripped the pistol strong, but the jeep swerved left and right and lurched along the tight road, making it difficult for Matthew to keep the barrel away from his person.

A bullet whizzed past him within a hair's breadth. The goon's head turned to a red pulp, exploding blood everywhere. Matthew looked behind and saw Ashley holding a smoking sniper rifle! Nice shot, he thought. She finally got to use that damned thing.

It wasn't over. Matthew climbed over the windshield, sat beside the bleeding corpse, and punched the driver square in the jaw. In response, the driver pulled out a knife and swung it straight to Matthew. The overwrought analyst blocked the stab, clutching the enemy's forearm with a grunt while bullets kicked up dust and debris around him.

"Cease fire!" shouted Matthew.

Was Ashley crazy? He had it under control. Matthew used his other arm to pull out a bag of Moroccan spice from his jacket pocket. He slammed it on the driver's face, a blaze of red powder stinging his eyes. The knife fell from his hands.

Matthew reached over him, opened the door, and kicked the driver out of the jeep. Now he was behind the wheel. What now?

Ducati Scramblers appeared by pair from the adjacent streets. First there were two, then four, then six…

The bikers shot at Malik. They were growing desperate. Matthew took a long deep breath and slammed the nearest motorcycle against the wall. With an ear-piercing screech and bright flying sparks, the pinned Scrambler spurt out metal parts and debris, knocking its jockey out of balance. Matthew swerved to the opposite side of the road and rammed another biker, one of the jeep's front fenders flying into the air.

Four more bikers left, but this time they shifted their attention to the rogue jeep. Matthew opened the glovebox and grabbed from within a MAC-11, then he fired it at the next biker. Brrrt! His back stippled with bullets, the enemy fell motionless. His other pair fired back at Matthew, but Ashley Brooks took the biker out with one bullet.

The last pair of bikers retreated. Matthew caught up with the van.

"Bill, Ash!" Matthew called out. "Are you okay?"

"Just about," said Bill.

"Yeah. How about you, egghead?" said Ashley.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me," Matthew assured them. "They've seemed to be retreating for now!"

"Then jump on board!"

Matthew looked at Ashley incredulously. "No! You find a safe spot to dig in. Make sure there are no civilians nearby. I'll drive to the GIGR, get you some back-up. Can you do that?"

"Safehouse Alpha?" Bill asked him.

"Yeah. Yes! Safehouse Alpha."

Ashley turned to Bill. "Where the hell is that?"

"No worries, I know what he's talking about." Bill said. "Matthew, are you gonna be okay?"

"Sure. I know the way here, Bill. Just be careful!"

"Roger that."

The two vehicles split along the Y-intersection. Matthew was all alone. Shuddering, he stopped the car and kicked out the corpse beside him. Then, he started his drive to the GIGR headquarters, located on the city's sandy outskirts, where he would get backup.

Commander El Fassi would be fuming.

Matthew's heart raced. What started out as a by-the-books mission turned quickly into a car chase with multiple tangos KIA. Worse, an old memory returned— the EMP blast that fried their communications. The enemy was ready for this. They had decked their vehicles with military grade components to shield them from the blast.

He could've died today. And god knows how many civilians were injured. An analyst on the field and a fish out of water— Matthew knew the danger, but he had to act, even for an organization he despised: The Central Intelligence Agency. He had worked for them, provided information for them, analyzed and followed their orders, but he had no love for the CIA. Not after what they did to him.

Bill Glasser, his buddy in the field, could count as an exception.

The GIGR headquarters neared. Just a few more miles left. As Matthew drove, he looked around him, weary of more bikers donning black leather and black helmets and riding black Scramblers.

And then, they appeared.

Through the gaps of buildings and stores, the shadow of a biker rode, cruising with the same speed as Matthew's jaded jeep. Matthew sped up, blurring the enemy's figure across the other street. Matthew looked to his right and saw the same thing— the obscure figure of another biker.

Matthew swallowed. They surrounded him. He gripped his MAC-11 tighter.

VROOM! A biker burst through dry shrubbery and onto Matthew's street. He jerked the wheel left, hoping to ram the scrambler, but the biker had slowed down just in time to tail the analyst from the back. Matthew turned pale. He ducked as bullets hit him from behind, riddling the windshield with cracks. In response, Matthew fired blindly at the pursuer.

His radio suddenly crackled.

"Foxtrot, this is Nomad— bzzzt— your location! I repeat, what is your location?"

Matthew fumbled around his radio. Finally, it came back! With a click, he said, "Nomad, this is Montes! HVT is with Princess and Glasser in 412 Rue Amezmiz Street, Tassiltante! I'm on Khalil Jabran, multiple tangos in pursuit!"

"Roger that, Foxtrot 1. Stand by."

As the motorcycle revved with a growl that echoed how he felt, Matthew pressed harder on the pedal. VROOM! The second biker had squeezed through a diagonal alleyway, appearing swiftly in front of the jeep. Matthew peeked through the steering wheel and tortured glass. With a deep breath, he crushed the trigger and a burst blasted from the MAC-11.

It hit nothing.

The bike behind him roared and hastened, flanking the jeep's driver side. They were inches apart, and Matthew knew his luck would run out soon. The biker had a clear shot of Matthew's head; the enemy leading the chase had just finished reloading.

With one last card to play, Matthew jolted open the driver-side door, hitting the Scrambler. It wobbled and quivered, sending the biker head-first into an electric pole.

One bastard left. But Matthew saw the last Scrambler skidding to a halt. Had he given up that soon? Dumbfounded, Matthew focused his attention to the road in front of him…

Or what was left of it.

Overhead, there was little asphalt left. The road ended on a steep, dirt ramp that led through a depressed parking lot.

Matthew's heart froze as the jeep flew.

Arcing through the air, thirty feet above the ground, he braced for impact.

Matthew hastily slung a seat belt over.

Concrete and metal collided harshly. The hood crumbled like paper against the ground. The glass shattered. A forceful crunch resounded on the empty parking lot before the jeep rolled over like a ball of gnarled metal and car parts. Matthew's weight was thrown in every direction, his chest burning as the seat belt caught his body. With each billow, the jeep spewed debris across the arid clearing. A sturdy roll cage protected Matthew's head.

The jeep came to a stop, landing right side up.

His head lulled into a daze, Matthew unfastened his seat belt and fell out of the car. He could barely move with his head spinning like crazy. The nasty car crash had shaken the life out of him. He could use a good rest.

It wasn't over yet.

The distant roar of a motorcycle engine made him shudder. Not again! Matthew groggily sat up right. Where was his gun?

"Hello," came a familiar, female voice in Arabic. "Let's get you up."

"Huh?" Matthew groaned.

"Oh, they messed you up, brother."

Matthew looked up and squinted against the afternoon sun. A shadow loomed above him. He saw a somewhat pretty woman with desert goggles and a concerned smile. Her hand reached out, and Matthew took it.

"Broken bones?"

Matthew stood up and leaned against the jeep, clearly hurt. "Please, let us converse in English. I have not practiced Darija yet."

"Alright, Foxtrot 1. Do you have any broken bones?" Her accent was thick but elegant.

"I don't think-" Matthew coughed. The crash must have disturbed his lungs a bunch. "I don't think so. What's your name?"

The woman did not respond. Instead, she gazed off in the distance. A motorcycle was fast approaching, and Matthew heard it like a voice in his head. Pale as a ghost, he searched frantically in the wreck, but found nothing.

"I'll handle this." The woman raised an AKM, pointed to the biker.

Matthew winced in pain. "Miss, you don't have a magazine loaded."

His savior smirked, then she pulled the trigger.

A fist-sized blur shot out from her rifle. That was no bullet! Matthew looked as the projectile zipped across the parking lot, landing a few dozen yards away in front of the biker's path. The projectile stuck on the ground, like a magnet, with a blinking, yellow light. Matthew flashed a befuddled squint.

As the biker drove over the projectile, a thundering BOOM echoed overhead. The vehement shockwave threw the rider from his Scrambler, and he tumbled a few feet in front of them. Smirking, the woman pulled out a pair of handcuffs and got to work.

That was the end of it. Matthew let out a breath, almost collapsing. One by one, the bruises on his body flared and he could not do so much as sit anymore.

"The name is Sanaa," she said. "And I wonder... what's an analyst doing here?"


A few hours later, Matthew lie battered inside an infirmary. Sanaa "Nomad" El Maktoub had practically carried him there. It delighted him to see an actual member of the Groupe d'intervention de la Gendarmerie royale after a violent, pulse-pounding car chase across Marrakech. Matthew remembered falling asleep as fast as he could say the words 'Where's Bill and Ashley?'.

The operation had already ended when he woke up. Bill and Ashley fought nobody in the safehouse, instead using their downtime to interrogate Malik. Apparently, he worked for somebody called Bossman, who had multiple secret operations across the globe, one of which Malik oversaw in Bulgaria. White Masks swarming about, as usual.

About a dozen arrests were made in Marrakech. The local news picked up on those damned bikers and their black leather jackets, and it pleased Matthew to find out that the whole operation killed no innocent civilians, even with the shower of bullets and the car crashes. Now, every soldier involved could rest and lick their wounds.

"Montes," Ashley said. Matthew opened his eyes, saw her on a chair near his bed.

"Hey, Princess."

"You did good, huh?" she remarked. "How's your head? Don't tell me you hit it so hard that you'll become another Bill. Look, I don't like eggheads that much, but I prefer them over lumberjack-looking ruffians. Had enough of them where I came from."

"My head's fine." Matthew rolled his eyes. "I want to ask..."

"I don't want to answer."

"...are you from Sweden?"

Ashley laughed. "Gross!"

"So, Denmark." Matthew smiled. "I knew it."

Ashley raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. The light walls and her creamy skin boasted the same color. "Classified. Stop asking."

"You need to work on your American accent better. Word of advice: don't speak staccato. That's a classic European thing. German, Danish, Dutch, you know the like."

"Listen close, egghead. If you keep prodding and prying, you better sleep with your eyes open or I swear to god you will never sleep again with your chest closed. Understand?"

Matthew smiled. His wounds still hurt like hell.

"Besides. That's no way to talk to a lady."

"I didn't realize I was talking to a lady."

Ashley told him about her helicopter escort and how she would leave for somewhere classified soon. Matthew understood. It did made him wonder where Ashley Brooks would go next- probably Europe- and it pained him a bit that they had not grown closer. Matthew always befriended all his foreign workmates in hopes of learning more about their culture, and perhaps making new contacts abroad through them. It's a shame, he supposed, but just like how an analyst needs his connections, somewhere out there, a Kingdom needs its Princess.

Bill and Matthew soon drove to Marrakesh Menara Airport to catch a plane home. Matthew had been to Morocco before, but his trips were never as hectic as a car chase and shootout. As he sat by the 747's window, comforted on his seat, he clutched the necklace in his palm. A souvenir always told the tale.