Chapter 86 - The Ferry at the Strait
The impact sent the Peugeot fish-tailing across the rain-slicked cobbles of the outer port district of Tangier. Lind wrestled the wheel, tires shrieking as he forced the battered sedan into the maze of shipping containers near the passenger terminal.
"Out! Now!" Lind yelled, cutting the engine as the car slammed to a halt against a rusted steel freight box.
We hit the pavement running, weaving between stacks of cargo crates. The smell of salt, dead fish, and diesel fuel hung thick over the docks. Out on the water, the massive white hull of the high-speed ferry to Tarifa, Spain, sounded its horn—two long blasts signaling final boarding.
Behind us, doors slammed open. Roland’s men were fanning out, their boots pounding against the wet concrete.
"The passenger ramp is fifty yards ahead," Lind panted, his breath ragged. He was clutching his left side; a ricochet from the airfield had grazed his ribs, soaking his shirt in dark red. "Do you have your passport?"
"Always," I said. "Keep moving, Lind. Don't you dare stop on me now."
We reached the foot of the covered gangway just as the ferry staff were unhooking the safety chains. Lind shoved two thick bundles of Moroccan banknotes into the attendant’s chest, barking in fluent French: "Medical emergency! Two tickets to Tarifa, keep the rest!"
The attendant hesitated, took one look at Lind’s blood-soaked shirt and my determined glare, and stepped aside, swinging the boarding barrier open.
We hurried down the gangway just as the hydraulic ramp began to lift away from the pier. Looking down through the wire netting, I saw Roland Vance standing near the edge of the dock, leaning heavily on a spare cane, his face twisted in silent, impotent rage. Two uniformed port security officers were approaching him from behind, their hands resting on their holstered weapons.
The gap between the steel ferry and the Moroccan shore widened to ten feet, then twenty, then fifty, churning the Mediterranean into a froth of white foam.
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Lind collapsed onto a metal bench in the lower passenger lounge, clutching his side. I sat beside him, pulling Arthur's ledger against my ribs, watching the African coast shrink into the haze.
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