The sun had not yet risen, but the Casbah—the ancient heart of the city—was already stirring. Beneath the flickering gas lamps and shuttered stalls, the medina's twisted alleys whispered secrets only the brave or foolish dared follow. Here, where walls leaned in as if eavesdropping, and the stones beneath one's feet bore the weight of centuries, something moved beneath the surface. And Yassin was beginning to feel it.
He had spent the last two days recovering from the ambush and helping the resistance reorganize. The safehouse in the hammam was now too dangerous. The group had splintered into smaller units, operating in secrecy across the city. Every time Yassin blinked, he saw Rafiq's pale face again. Every night, he dreamed of ticking clocks and bullet smoke.
But now there was a new lead. Abbas had returned—silent, wounded, but carrying something precious: a map.
The parchment was old, likely drawn by hand decades ago, with annotations in French and Arabic. It detailed a forgotten tunnel system beneath the Casbah, a relic from Ottoman days, used once by pirates and later by smugglers. Abbas believed it now served as a hidden route for French intelligence officers—particularly for De Lassalle's most secret operations.
Khalid tapped the map with a finger. "If this is real, it could take us right into the lion's den."
Yassin leaned over the table, scanning the maze of inked passages. "And if it's a trap?"
Samira answered, "Then we spring it on our own terms."
The plan was simple: infiltrate the tunnels, intercept any intelligence transfers, and plant evidence to mislead the French about the resistance's next move. It was risky, desperate even—but it was better than waiting to be hunted.
The Descent
By nightfall, Yassin, Samira, and Abbas were en route to the Casbah. Khalid remained behind to coordinate other cells. The entrance to the tunnels lay behind a disused spice warehouse marked by a red door and a broken lantern. Inside, the scent of cinnamon and decay hung in the air.
Abbas knelt by a crate and pried loose a floor tile. Beneath it, a narrow shaft opened into darkness.
"No turning back," he said, and dropped in.
Yassin followed, landing hard on his feet. The tunnel was cold, the walls slick with age and moss. Samira descended last, sealing the entrance behind them.
They moved by lanternlight, the flame dancing off damp stone. Rats scurried in the distance. Occasionally, Abbas would pause, consult the map, and change course.
Hours passed.
Finally, they reached a wider chamber, where old crates and rusted tools suggested recent use. A table stood in the center, covered with documents.
Samira grabbed one. "These are coded transmissions. French naval reports. De Lassalle is coordinating with naval officers to block Tangier."
Yassin stared at the documents. "He's cutting off the coast. To stop arms shipments?"
"Or to isolate us," Abbas said.
Yassin spotted something else—a small black case. Inside: film reels.
"They're photographing us," he whispered.
Samira's eyes narrowed. "Let's make them see ghosts."
They planted false documents—maps showing fake safehouses, names that meant nothing, routes that led nowhere. Abbas even added a forged signature of a known double agent.
As they turned to leave, a noise echoed down the corridor.
Voices. French.
"They're early," Samira hissed.
They blew out the lantern.
The Chase
Yassin could feel his heartbeat in his teeth.
He gripped the wall, motionless, as boots approached. A flashlight swept the tunnel, illuminating crates, then the table. The officer muttered something—likely confusion over the new documents.
Then a clatter.
Abbas knocked over a crate.
Shouting. A shot rang out.
"Run!" Samira yelled.
They sprinted through the tunnels, the French close behind. Bullets ricocheted off stone. Abbas staggered, hit in the leg, but kept moving.
Yassin pulled him forward, adrenaline overriding fear.
"This way!" Samira turned into a narrow branch.
The path led upward—steep, slick, but light flickered at the end.
They burst out into the Casbah's northern edge, gasping. Night cloaked them, but French voices echoed behind.
Samira grabbed a pouch from her belt and lit a fuse.
A second later, the tunnel entrance exploded.
Reckoning
They made it back to a secondary hideout—an abandoned bathhouse used once by revolutionaries in 1944.
Yassin sat beside Abbas, who winced as Samira stitched his wound.
"We didn't just survive," she said. "We changed the game."
Yassin looked at the watch. Still silent.
"Why hasn't it moved?"
Samira shrugged. "Maybe it doesn't want you to leave yet."
He smiled faintly. "Or maybe I don't."
To be continued in Chapter 6: The Fire in the Harbor