Morocco

Lace curtains adorn the smoky room as Allen sits cross-legged on cushions surrounding a low table. He slowly sips on his tea and puffs away at a hooka as a dancer undulates in the middle of the dim room. As the dancer comes near Allen gifts her a pink desert rose. The curtains part and a tall lanky man with a black fedora appears scanning the room, he catches sight of Allen and strides over in a series of quick steps. “Tea? Hooka?” Allen inquires to the gentlemen holding out the hooka hose.

“Where are the weapons Allen?” The stranger says dispensing with niceties and ignoring the proffered hose. Allen smiles obliquely shrugging. “I hid them. Your little mercenary band of terrorists is just going to have to find them somewhere else.” The stranger shakes his head in anger. “We will come after you Allen. I will display your head at my desk.” Allen laughs in casual defiance. “Come on then.”

As the tall stranger starts to leave he is caught up by the dancer winding herself around him leaving Allen’s pink rose in his breast pocket. The tall stranger pushes her onto Allen. “Enjoy your last days.” He says as he pushes back the lace curtains and exits from the room. Allen helps the dancer to her feet and begins to smoke staring bleakly into the future. A gunshot rings out close by. Allen gets up from his table and walks to the back door of the establishment passing a manila envelope to a doorman on his way out. A small alley way brings him back to the street where he can see his nemesis dead a rose sitting innocently in his breast pocket. Allen hurriedly walks off; it was time to leave Morocco.