The house in Boukhalef smelled of old carpet, boiled mint, and fear.
Adam sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the spare room, his shirt removed. His aunt, Fatima, hovered over him with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. She was a woman worn down by life, her face a roadmap of sorrows, but her hands were steady.
"Hold still, ya waladi," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The wound is infected. You need a doctor."
Adam shook his head sharply. He tapped the TV remote control on the nightstand.
The television flickered to life. The news channel was broadcasting a live feed from the Royal Atlas hotel. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: TERROR ATTACK IN TANGIER - POLICE MANHUNT UNDERWAY.
Karim Haddad stood before a bank of microphones, his arm in a sling, his face contorted into a mask of righteous fury. Flanked by the Chief of Police and the Governor, he looked like the grieving savior of the city.
"These extremists," Karim spat into the microphone, "this so-called 'Ghost,' has declared war on our way of life. He bombed the hotel. He assassinated my associates. He is a danger to every man, woman, and child in Tangier. We are implementing a city-wide curfew. If you see him, do not approach. Call the police."
The image cut to a blurry surveillance still of Adam running through the alleyway near the hotel.
Fatima gasped, dropping the cloth into the water. "Adam... they say you are a terrorist. They say you killed people."
Adam looked at her. His eyes were weary, sunken deep into his skull. He picked up a notepad and pen from the bedside table.
They killed Mom and Dad. They killed Youssef. I am not a terrorist. I am the consequence.
Fatima read the words. She began to weep silently, her tears splashing onto her apron. She remembered Adam as a boy who loved football and drawing. Now, looking at the scarred map of his torso—the bruises, the knife wound, the bullet graze—she saw that the boy had indeed died long ago.
"I have a car," she said suddenly, wiping her face. "An old Fiat. It is in the garage. You cannot stay here. They are sweeping the streets. They are going door to door."
Adam grabbed her hand. He squeezed it gently. You will be in danger.
"I am already in danger," she said, a spark of the old El Kader stubbornness flaring in her eyes. "My nephew is not a terrorist. My brother was a good man. I will not let them hang you like a dog."
Suddenly, a heavy pounding shook the front door. BAM. BAM. BAM.
"Police! Open up!"
Fatima froze, her face turning the color of ash.
Adam was off the bed in a second. He grabbed his gear. He checked his pistols. He looked at the window. It was too high. The door was the only way out, or through.
"Go to the basement," Fatima hissed, pushing him toward the hallway. "There is a trapdoor to the sewer system behind the furnace. It hasn't been used in years, but it leads to the storm drains."
"Open this door! We know you're in there!"
Adam hesitated. He looked at his aunt. She was old, frail. If they didn't find him, they would hurt her.
He shook his head. He pointed to the back door. He handed her a heavy kitchen knife. Hide.
"Open!" The door splintered.
Adam didn't run. He moved into the shadows of the hallway, blending into the darkness.
Three officers burst into the house, weapons raised. They wore tactical vests, their faces obscured by balaclavas. They weren't regular beat cops; these were Karim's private death squad disguised as law enforcement.
"Where is he?" the lead officer shouted, grabbing Fatima by the hair.
"I am alone! I swear!" Fatima screamed.
"Liar!" The officer raised his rifle to strike her.
A black shape dropped from the ceiling.
Adam landed on the officer's shoulders, his legs locking around the man's neck. He twisted his hips, throwing the man backward into the second officer. They crashed into a vase stand.
The third officer spun around, firing wildly.
Adam was already moving. He kicked the rifle out of the man's hand, driving an elbow into his jaw. The officer dropped.
The first officer scrambled to his feet, drawing his sidearm. Adam didn't give him a chance. He threw a knife. It buried itself in the officer's shoulder, pinning him to the wall.
The second officer groaned, reaching for his weapon. Adam stomped on his wrist, shattering the bone.
Silence returned to the small house, broken only by Fatima's sobbing.
Adam stood over the bodies—unconscious, not dead. He pulled the knife from the wall and wiped it clean.
He looked at Fatima. She was trembling, looking at him with a mixture of horror and awe.
Go to Asilah, he wrote quickly. Leave now. Don't look back.
He kissed her forehead, a ghostly touch of affection.
Then he vanished out the back door, disappearing into the labyrinth of the neighborhood just as more sirens began to wail in the distance.