Free The Moses Stone by James Becker

O’Connors had been killed in a freak accident, he knew he could just walk away. But if he voiced his suspicions—and that was really all they were—he guessed he’d be stuck in Rabat for far longer than he wanted.
    Not that the city was unpleasant—far from it, in fact. Bronson lifted the cup to his lips and glanced round. The café’s tables and chairs were spread across a wide pavement on one side of a spacious boulevard, lined with palm trees. Most of the tables were occupied, and Bronson could hear the slightly guttural sounds of conversation in Arabic alternating with the softer and more melodic accents of French speakers. No, the beautiful weather, café society and relaxed lifestyle of Rabat were undeniably attractive—or would have been if Bronson had been there with Angela. And that thought made the decision for him.
    “Sod it,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll just wrap it up.”
    He drained the last of his coffee, stood up and walked away from the table, then realized he’d forgotten to pick up his briefcase and turned back. And found himself looking straight at two men wearing traditional jellabas who had just stood up from their table on the far side of the café and were themselves staring directly at him.
    Bronson was used to being stared at in Morocco—he was a stranger in a foreign land and more or less expected it—but he had the uncomfortable sensation that these men weren’t just looking at him with idle curiosity. Something about their gaze bothered him. But he gave no sign of even noticing them. He simply picked up his briefcase and walked away.
    Fifty yards from the café, he stopped at the curb, waiting to cross the road, and looked in both directions. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the two men walking slowly toward him, and less surprised when they, too, crossed to the far side of the street. Within two hundred yards, he knew without any doubt that they were following him, and one was talking animatedly into a mobile phone. What Bronson didn’t know was what he should do about it.
    But that decision was taken out of his hands less than half a minute later. As well as the two men behind him, steadily getting closer, Bronson suddenly saw another three men closing on him from the front.
    They might just have been three innocent men taking an afternoon stroll, but he doubted it, and he wasn’t going to hang around and find out. Bronson took the next side-street, and started running, dodging through the scattering of pedestrians on the pavements. Behind him he heard shouts and the sound of running feet, and knew his instincts had been right.
    He took the next turning on the left, then swung right, getting into a rhythm as he picked up the pace. He risked a quick glance behind him. The two men from the café were running hard to keep up with him, perhaps fifty yards back. Behind them, another running figure was visible.
    Bronson dived round another corner and saw two men approaching from his left, trying to intercept him. It looked as if they’d guessed which streets he’d take and were trying to cut him off.
    He accelerated, but headed directly toward them. He could see them hesitate and slow down, and then he was on them. One of them fumbled in his jellaba , perhaps looking for a weapon, but Bronson gave him no chance. He slammed his briefcase into the Moroccan’s chest, knocking him violently to the ground, then turned to face his companion, just as the man swung a punch at him. Bronson ducked under the blow and rammed his fist into his attacker’s stomach.
    He didn’t wait to see the man tumble to the ground; already he could hear the yells from behind as the other men closed up on him. Two down—at least for a short while—three to go.
    Without a backward glance, Bronson took to his heels again, his breath rasping in his throat. He knew he had to finish this, and quickly. He was used to running, but the heat and humidity were getting to him, and he knew he couldn’t go