Hannah bit her lip and put on a goofy grin. “I’m afraid I’ve done something silly, Ibrahim. I forgot to deliver this very important document to the mayor’s office yesterday. I want to run it down there before His Majesty discovers my foolish mistake.”
She waved the official stamp under his nose, hoping he wouldn’t see the For HRH Prince Hakeem’s Eyes Only typed across the bottom. Her hand was partially covering the text.
He registered surprise. It was unlike her to forget something this important. She smiled sheepishly, hoping to garner his sympathy. A reprimand from the prince wouldn’t be pleasant.
“Please, Ibrahim. You owe me,” she bit out, when it looked as if he might refuse.
His shoulders slumped, and Hannah knew she’d won. “Okay, but be quick. If you’re discovered, we’ll both get into trouble. I can’t afford to lose my job over this.”
“You won’t,” she said. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. Ibrahim was a good man. It was regrettable she had to lie to him. Glancing around her, she realized none of these men had any idea about what was happening five hundred miles away. They would soon. It was only a matter of time. She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Thank you. You’re my savior.”
More than you’ll ever know, she mused as she hurried away from the gate and merged into the pedestrian traffic on the busy suburban street.
Prince Hakeem’s military advisors would have informed him of the revolt in Hamabad by now and Anwar Abdul would be arranging an emergency summit to discuss the situation.
Hopefully they’d be too distracted to worry about her—at least for a while. Worst-case scenario, she had roughly forty-five minutes before she missed her morning meeting with the prince and they figured out she’d left with the document—and mobilized to come after her.
Forty-five minutes to get to the British embassy.
She turned off the busy street and down an alley away from the compound, trying not to draw attention to herself. Every strand of blond hair was tucked away under her scarf, so with her head down to hide her paleness, no one would notice anything unusual.
Syman City, the administrative capital of the island kingdom, was a pretty, sprawling town, situated in the northeastern part of the island. It consisted of a core financial district and then various sectors that spread out around it like the spokes on a wheel. The palace compound lay to the north of the city center, while the embassy lay to the west. The only way to bypass the center was to cut through a busy market area situated between them. This was not a bad thing. The markets, or souks, opened early, and Hannah hoped the crowds would conceal her from the police that were sure to come after her.
She turned out of the alley and onto a road flanked with shops selling everything from olives and vegetables to clothing and materials. The pungent smell of incense thickened the air. The colorful market stalls and their exotic produce were one of the things Hannah loved most about Syman. Shoppers, mostly women, scurried around, packets in hand. They wanted to get back to the safety of their homes. Hannah didn’t blame them. She’d rather be anywhere else but out here on the street.
Head down, she marched on, ignoring the activity around her. The main market was two blocks away.
Then she heard it. The sound she’d been dreading. Sirens.
Her heart leapt into her throat. They’d viewed the tapes, seen her leave with the document. It was happening faster than she’d anticipated. She’d hoped for—no, needed—more time.
The road was cobblestoned and thankfully too crowded for a car to pass. Hannah stepped out of her shoes and broke into a run. The rough ground tore through the thin material of her pantyhose and the skin of her bare feet, but being able to move quickly was more important than the pain. The souk would be busy with dimly lit aisles that crisscrossed each other, and clothing and fabrics hanging from railings obscuring the view. She’d be safe there, temporarily.
A siren wailed directly behind her. A police car crawled along the road, honking at shoppers to get out of the way. Hannah risked a look over her shoulder. They were scanning the road, their heads turning from left to right. Looking for her. She darted ahead of a group of men, smoking cigarettes and talking on the sidewalk, hoping the tight pencil skirt and bare feet wouldn’t give her away as a solitary Western woman.
Finally, the entrance to the enclosed souk appeared in front of her. She hurried past, turning left and then right, trying to lose herself in the dim interior.
The sirens halted. Presumably the police were searching for her on foot. Had they seen her enter the souk? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps they had figured out where she was headed and intended to cut her off.
A large woman in a traditional robe, or abaya, beckoned from behind one of the stalls. She pointed at Hannah’s skirt and torn pantyhose and then at her merchandise. Traditional clothing and scarves hung from the overhead railings resembling big black bats. Hannah rummaged in her handbag for a crumpled bill and passed it to the woman. Then she grabbed a full-length black robe off a misshapen metal hanger.
“Keep the change,” she said as she shimmied into it, pulling it down over her clothes. In a dark corner, she adjusted her headscarf so it covered the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes exposed. Prince Hakeem’s men would have a hard time recognizing her now.
She scuffled out of the souk and hurried away from the market district, keeping her head low. No one stopped her, and she didn’t hear anymore sirens.
It was only when she turned into the quiet, wide avenue that circled a small park, on the other end of which was the British embassy, that she realized she’d forgotten the document back at the stall where she’d bought the abaya.
God. How stupid can you get?
She could have kicked herself. Not because she was worried about the information, that would find its way back to Prince Hakeem anyway, but because she had no leverage with which to get out of Syman. No physical proof of what was about to happen. Plus, the police would know she was in disguise.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. There was no way she was going back.
Hurrying up the palm-tree-lined street, she passed a series of wooden benches, just begging her to sit down and rest. Boy, did she need to rest, but it was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not with the invitingly bright white embassy building looming just a few blocks ahead. She propelled herself forward, ignoring the loose pebbles on the sidewalk that bit into her feet.
Sweat dripped from underneath her headscarf, stinging her eyes. Finally she turned the last corner, and there, at last, stood the front gate to the British embassy.
Surrounded by a gated garden and overflowing with desert succulent plants and cacti, it offered sanctuary to those British citizens who needed it.
Like her. God, did she need it.
She ran straight up to the pedestrian gate, clutching at the heavy iron bars. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She pulled the gate toward her. It didn’t budge. Dismayed, she looked around her. The electric vehicle gates normally stood open, but they too were shut tight. There was no one inside, the magnificently landscaped gardens eerily deserted.
Struggling to get her breath back, she called a shaky “Hello?” toward the guard hut inside and to the left of the gate. “I’m a British citizen. Is anyone there?”
There was no reply other than the wind rustling through the date palms overhead. She rattled the gates and shouted louder, “Please. Someone help me!”
Still no reply.
Where the hell was everyone? There were usually lots of people milling about. Could they have closed the embassy in light of the civil unrest in Hamabad?
Shouting and the roar of several vehicle engines came from the direction of the market square. She only had minutes to spare before someone came bearing down the tree-lined avenue—and she hoped against hope that they weren’t connected to the prince.
Oh God, I’m going to die out here, she thought, rattling the gates hopelessly.
There was no
where else to go. She knew no one in town. Her job had required her to live on the compound, and the only people she’d mixed with had been the prince and his aides. There’d been very few women in the compound, so she hadn’t had a chance to make many friends. Not that she had time to socialize. The prince expected her to be available to him twenty-four hours a day, if necessary.
She collapsed in a heap before the gates. “Please,” she cried one more time. “Please let me in.”
But no one came to her aid.
Chapter Two
Crumpled before the British embassy gate, Hannah looked over her shoulder. The security police from the prince’s compound would be here any moment, and her only sanctuary in the entire country had locked her out. Which meant she’d officially run out of options.
“Can I help you?”
Thank God!
Jumping to her feet, she drank in the welcome sight of a British soldier clad in desert camouflage, approaching the gate from the inside. He was tall and well-built, but the serious-looking weapon he had slung over his shoulder reassured her even more than his presence.
“Please,” she begged. “I’m a British citizen. I need help. There are some dangerous and very powerful people after me. If they catch me, they’ll kill me.”
His alert blue eyes clocked her traditional garb. He seemed to hesitate, unsure what to make of her.
She tugged the headscarf down, exposing her face, and dug in her handbag for her British passport. Waving it in front of him, she pleaded, “See. I’m British. Please let me in? It’s a matter of life and death.” She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see police cars approaching at any given second.
The soldier, who seemed momentarily mesmerized, followed her cue and shifted his gaze from her face to the street behind her. There was nothing unusual going on. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, miss, you’re too late. This embassy is closed due to the state of unrest in the country. All personnel have been extracted back to the United Kingdom. There’s no one here.”
“What?” It couldn’t be closed.
How dare they leave when I need help, she thought indignantly.
“But it’s vitally important I get in. I’ve got information—important information about the regime. Please,” her voice cracked, “you have to let me in before they come for me.” What she would give to have that document in her hand right now.
“Calm down, ma’am,” the soldier said kindly. “Who is coming for you?” He still hadn’t made any move to unlock the gate.
“The authorities,” she whispered. “I’m afraid they’ll arrest me if they find me here. I’ve committed treason.”
“Treason? That’s a very serious crime. Are you sure?” His expression was one of doubtful concern.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped. She was close to sobbing. “It’s the document…”
The guard shook his head, confused. She had to admit, she did sound like a raving lunatic. It was just that she was so afraid.
“I’m under strict orders not to let anyone inside the embassy. I’d love to help, but…” He shrugged. “Perhaps if you contact the foreign office in London and let them know you’re still here… They’ll send someone to get you out.”
“I don’t have time. The police will be here any moment.” As if on cue, the reverberating echo of sirens filled the air.
“That for you?” The soldier asked, quickly noticing her stricken face.
She nodded. It was game over. They’d found her.
The British soldier gazed at the approaching flashing lights over her shoulder. The police cars were on the outer ring road, but within sight of the embassy. With obviously practiced speed, he checked his rifle, adjusted his position, and stood with his legs slightly apart, ready to fend off any unwanted visitors.
Hannah got up to run.
“See the alley at two o’clock?” he asked.
“What?” She barely heard him over the screech of tires. The police cars, having spotted her, mounted the pavement on the opposite side of the park. Instead of driving around to the approach road, they opted for the direct route—across the grass. A few local stall owners ran for cover as their merchandise went flying. She had literally seconds in which to react.
“Look, do you want help or not?” His voice was urgent.
She nodded.
“Go down the alley. It’s too narrow for a vehicle, so they’ll have to follow you on foot. That’ll buy you some time.” The alley was partially hidden by an outdoor display rack filled with brightly colored scarves, but she could just make it out. “At the end, turn left and keep going until the road forks. Take the left fork. At the end is a gate. Wait there.”
Without checking to see if she’d comprehended his bizarre directions, he stepped back into the shadows of the date palms flanking the guard hut.
Wait there? Was he crazy? With these guys after her?
“I don’t think so,” she muttered, taking one last look at the approaching cars and sprinting toward the alley. He was right about that being her best escape route, though. The stone pathway was too narrow for a vehicle, or even two men running side by side. As she charged down the alley, her heart surged with hope. With her pursuers on foot, she may just stand a chance. All she needed was a decent place to hide.
A shout made her glance back. Two burly men in suits raced down the alley after her. They were only in her vision for a split second before she skidded around the corner, but she’d seen enough to know they weren’t normal Symanian policemen. These guys were part of the palace security force, trained in lethal combat and willing to fight to the death for their esteemed ruler. If they caught her, she didn’t stand a chance.
She blinked sweat out of her eyes. The soldier’s words still fresh in her mind.
Turn left and keep going until the road forks. Take the left fork.
Strange that he would give her directions to an exposed gate and then just tell her to wait, but she didn’t have time to ponder it. The reality was she was on her own. Not even the British embassy was willing to help her.
On she ran, looking for the fork in the road. There it was.
The men hadn’t turned the corner yet, but she felt their presence as if they were directly behind her. Every second counted.
The road to the left was also narrow, a common feature of this neighborhood, but this one curved like a meandering river. A man on an ancient Vespa wobbled dangerously as he nearly collided with her coming around a bend. He yelled something, but she didn’t catch it, she was too busy running. Had the men chasing her seen which way she’d gone? Please, no. It would buy her precious seconds while they figured it out.
On the right-hand side of the road, double-or triple-story concrete houses were squished together in a jagged row. Washing lines, heavy with clothes, hung between their balconies.
On the other side was a tall hedge, with bougainvillea twirling around the razor wire on top. She pitied the man who tried to climb over that.
As she ran, her eyes searched for the gate the guard had mentioned. Why she was even bothering, she had no idea. There was no way she could just wait out here in the open. She’d be a sitting duck. The problem was she couldn’t find a possible hiding place, either. The hedge was thick and prickly, while the windows and doors of the houses were firmly shut. There didn’t appear to be anyone about.
The sound of chanting drifted toward her on the breeze. Prayer time. That would explain why the neighborhood was practically deserted.
She sprinted on for another few hundred meters, following the winding road, yet still no gate appeared. He did say the left fork, didn’t he?
There was a yell. She turned to see one of the men racing up the road behind her. The two thugs must have split up, each taking a different route. Adrenaline, fueled by fear, rushed through her veins. With a burst of speed, she accelerated around the final bend.
That’s when she saw the gate.
It was a nondescript wrought iron gate, about six feet tall,
situated at the end of the prickly hedge. It was slightly recessed from the path, so it didn’t catch the eye easily. Plus, long strands of bougainvillea mingled with the chicken wire on top, creating a sort of camouflage with the immediate surroundings.
She stumbled toward it, her chest burning from exertion. She was just reaching for the handle when the gate opened inward, surprising her. A man leaped out from the shadows and wrapped a long arm around her waist. Simultaneously, his hand covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream.
…
Sergeant Tom Wilde realized the woman was about to scream, so he held her against him and wrapped a hand over her mouth. “It’s okay. Remember me? I’m going to help you. This is one of the back gates to the embassy.” He kept his voice low and reassuring.
For a moment she looked terrified. Then recognition dawned, and her eyes—beautiful, oval-shaped brown eyes—widened in surprise.
Tom was captivated. If he’d thought she was attractive at the gate, it was nothing compared to seeing her up close. She had that enviable English Rose complexion, with full, pouty lips and a soft blush on her high cheekbones. Her look was sophisticated, yet sultry. He could picture her on the cover of a magazine. What she was doing in this dry, dusty, and volatile country, dressed as a local woman, he had no idea.
“You came,” she gasped, fighting for breath.
“Of course.” As if he wouldn’t help a fellow countryman in distress. He dragged his gaze away from her face and peered down the road. “How many?”
“One, right behind me.”
On cue, loud footsteps pounded along the road. There was no time to do anything other than fight.
“Get back,” he ordered, positioning her behind him with a sweep of his arm. Then he hid in the recess of the gate, and waited.
The man in pursuit dashed toward the gate. He’d seen Hannah duck inside.
Tom charged into him, knocking him off his feet. There was a loud oomph as the air expelled from the pursuer’s lungs. The two men went sprawling across the road.
Personal Assistance (Entangled Ignite) Page 2