Personal Assistance (Entangled Ignite)

by Louise Rose-Innes

  Tom recovered first. A brutal punch to the nose ensured his opponent stayed down. Blood spurted onto the pavement. But the man was well trained. He didn’t so much as touch his broken nose. Instead, in one smooth motion, he retrieved a gun attached from his thigh holster and aimed it at Tom. Reacting instantaneously, Tom ducked, seconds before the man fired. The bullet whizzed past Tom’s left shoulder.

  That was close.

  With one eye on the gun, Tom grabbed the man’s arm, bending it backward until it snapped. The man howled in agony and dropped the revolver with a metallic clunk.

  Tom kicked it across the road. The man writhed in agony. Tom was about to punch him again when the man’s other arm came up swiftly, holding a knife. He jabbed upward toward Tom’s belly in a deadly thrust. Luckily, Tom saw the glint from the weapon, and in a practiced move, drew his own survival knife from his thigh holster. Without hesitation, he plunged it into the man’s chest.

  The man made a horrible gargling sound and stared at Tom as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Then he closed his eyes and collapsed.

  Blood leaked out onto the road, pooling beneath them. Tom stood up. He felt no remorse; it had been self-defense. As an officer in the British Army’s Special Air Service, he’d been trained to kill—just like his opponent.

  “You just killed a man,” gasped the woman. Her face was filled with a mixture of concern and respect.

  “I’m a soldier. It’s what I do,” he murmured, picking up the dead man’s knife and gun, and stuffing them into his belt. The gun was a Russian-made Makarov semiautomatic pistol, seen a lot in the Middle East. It was a good weapon—simple, reliable. The knife was of good quality, too. Tom recognized it as the standard issue for the Symanian Army.

  Pondering these facts, he pulled the dead man into the embassy garden and stashed him under some bushes. “I’ll deal with him later. Let’s lock up and get inside before his mates come looking for him.”

  After punching a complicated series of numbers into a space-age keypad to secure the gate, Tom retrieved the Heckler & Koch G3 assault rifle. He deemed it too noisy to use in the street. Slinging it over his shoulder, he led his rescuee through the immaculately manicured gardens to the main building.

  The British embassy was a perfectly rectangular white building with the British flag flying proudly from the rooftop. It was only three stories high but as long as a soccer pitch. The administrative offices were upstairs, with a large walk-in center downstairs, which catered for the small number of Brits that lived or worked in Syman. It also issued visas for the growing number of people who wished to visit Britain.

  “What happened to your shoes?” Tom asked. He could see her bare feet poking out from under her robe.

  “They were heels. I couldn’t run in them.”

  A simple explanation. Except with the ground heat, the gravel, and the cobblestones, her feet must be killing her. Yet she didn’t complain. His opinion of her went up.

  They entered through a door at the rear of the building. “This is the staff entrance. The front’s all locked up,” he said, by way of explanation.

  They walked down a short corridor with cream walls and high-quality linoleum underfoot. He could hear her bare feet padding after him on the tiles. He turned left and opened another door into the staff lounge and stood back to let her enter.

  It was a fairly large room filled with a couple of tables and a few not-too-comfy chairs, designed to keep employees awake during coffee breaks.

  “Thank you for helping me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along,” she said gratefully. As she spoke, she unwrapped her headscarf, and he found himself captivated again. Sexy, mussed-up blond hair fell forward over her shoulders, framing her face. It looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. And if that wasn’t enough, she ran a hand through it to draw it off her damp cheeks, parting her pouty lips in the process.

  His body sprang to life, something it hadn’t done since…well, since Afghanistan and Amrain. He gave himself a mental shake. Don’t go there.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. Sorry I couldn’t let you in the main gate. Official orders.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Those slanting eyes studied him curiously. He noticed they were more amber than brown.

  “Do you want some water?” Focus on the basics.

  She nodded, so he got busy pouring her some from the giant dispenser in the corner. It gurgled noisily into the plastic cup, filling the silence. He forced his mind away from how his body was reacting and onto the questions he needed to ask. Who was she? Why were those thugs, who looked suspiciously like Symanian military police, after her? And what information did she have that was worth more than her life?

  She took the cup from him and tossing her hair over her shoulder, sunk into one of the uncomfortable chairs. He watched as she tilted her head back and downed the water thirstily. Somehow she turned it into a sensual gesture, rather than a basic need.

  “What’s your name?” she asked when she was finished.

  It was time to talk. He pulled a wooden chair out from one of the tables, turned it around with a flick of his wrist, then straddled it. “I’m Sergeant Tom Wilde, 22nd SAS Regiment. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Wow. You’re SAS?” She looked at him appreciatively. “That explains your…performance out there.”

  “Any soldier would have done the same.” As a member of Britain’s elite special forces, he’d undergone extensive training in counterterrorism and special operations; however, all members of the regular army were trained in hand-to-hand combat. He’d just had more experience than most.

  “And modest, too,” she commented, a smile playing on her kissable lips. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Tom. I’m Hannah Evans.” They shook hands, which was irrelevant, since they’d kind of moved beyond that part.

  He sat down, trying his best to remain professional. “Well, Miss Evans, I need to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “Please, call me Hannah.” He liked her voice. It was husky and a little bit breathy all at the same time.

  Her gaze flickered to his legs straddling the chair. Feeling self-conscious, he rushed into the question. “So what are you doing in Syman, Hannah?”

  She smiled at the use of her first name. “I work here, in Syman City. I’m the personal assistant to the Prince of Syman, Prince Hakeem.”

  He hadn’t been expecting that. “You mean you work with Prince Hakeem at the Royal Palace?”

  “It’s more of a compound, but yes, that is where I’m based.”

  Now the few burning questions he’d had multiplied into a million. “Were those guys chasing you from the palace? Military police?” The man he’d taken out had been well trained. A superior fighter, with superior weapons. Military-grade weapons. These were not your average street cops.

  “They’re from the palace compound,” she explained, confirming what he’d already begun to suspect. “They’re part of Prince Hakeem’s security force.”

  That would explain the bulging jackets, the survival knives, and the fighting skills. They were trained killers. The question was, what had she done to piss them off?

  “Why are they after you?” He leaned forward, his arms resting on the back of the chair.

  “I stole a document,” she began. Her eyes darted from his face, to her hands, and back to his face again.

  Nervousness.

  “An important document, containing sensitive information. They want it back.”

  His head buzzed. None of this made sense. A British citizen working as Hakeem’s personal assistant? The fact that she’d gotten that job in the first place was a mystery. Then she’d stolen a document and risked getting arrested in a volatile Middle Eastern country. Was she mad? Unless…

  “Are you working for the British government?” It seemed the obvious conclusion. She could be a spy. He knew MI5 had people on the ground in Syman collecting intel. Maybe she was one of the
m.

  “Heavens no.” She looked horrified. “I’m merely an employee of the prince. I’m not a spy. I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”

  “But why would Hakeem’s administration hire a British woman? No offense, but you’re not Arabic.”

  “I know it doesn’t look it,” she said with a wry smile, fingering her hair. “But my grandfather is Symanian. I spent a lot of time with him growing up, and he taught me the language. I have Arabic roots.”

  “But you’re still British. Surely that’s a security risk?”

  She spread her arms. “That was precisely the point. The prince wanted someone British. He’s working on his relations with the West. He recruited me through an agency in London. I act as an interpreter, among other things. Besides, I was cleared. The prince trusts me, and I don’t have anything to do with national security. I manage his diary, shop for him, that sort of thing. It’s all pretty harmless stuff.”

  “Yet you stole a sensitive document, so you obviously have access to them. Did someone get to you? Were you recruited by MI5? You’re the perfect candidate. A Brit, living in an Arab nation, close to the prince.” It couldn’t be more perfect, in fact.

  She said slowly, “I told you I’m not a spy. I’m no good at espionage, as you can see by my disaster of an escape. I read the document by accident. Usually I take them directly to the prince, unopened. Reading any unauthorized correspondence is grounds for termination, particularly when it’s written by the prince’s Chief of Security, Anwar Abdul.”

  That name he’d recognize anywhere. He said carefully, “Anwar Abdul is a very powerful man. Did he issue the document?”

  She gazed steadily back at him. “He wrote it, yes.”

  Whoa! This was getting very interesting. A flicker of anticipation began to grow in the pit of his stomach. “So it’s a military document? Can I see it?”

  Hannah didn’t reply straight away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. A distancing gesture. Reluctance.

  Tom noticed the soles of her feet were covered in tiny nicks and bruises, and the big toe on her right foot was coated in dried blood. Still, she seemed oblivious to the discomfort. He waited for her to talk.

  “I’m sorry if I’m being difficult,” she began. “But I’m in a lot of trouble here. Treason is a crime punishable by death in this country.”

  She wasn’t wrong there.

  “I’m happy to hand over the document, but I need to know someone’s going to help me get out of here.” Her gaze roamed blatantly over his chest and settled on his rifle. “And I’d like that someone to be you.”

  He frowned as her words sank in. “You’re bargaining with me?”

  Didn’t she know he could extract that document from her in under a minute, if he wanted, without even breaking a sweat?

  I’d like that someone to be you.

  “Not bargaining, as such. I’m merely suggesting an exchange—your help for the document.” She made it sound so reasonable.

  He itched to say yes. He wanted to help her—he was dying to get back to the action. After his long stint in recovery after the Kabul debacle, and now this posting at the embassy, classified as “non-active duty,” he would relish the opportunity to be on a live mission again. He didn’t have his team with him, but he could still get her out. It wouldn’t be easy, but there were a few options. The country hadn’t gone into complete lockdown just yet.

  His blood pumped just at the thought of it. Being a soldier was what he lived for, and he was good at it. As a member of the British Special Forces, he felt he was doing something worthwhile, making a difference in this crazy world. Inactivity didn’t suit him at all.

  But he contained his excitement. Orders were orders.

  “I’d like to help you, but I’m duty-bound to stay at the embassy. I can make a phone call for you, and they’ll send someone to get you out. The British government won’t leave a citizen in a war zone. You don’t need me.”

  Who was he kidding? He’d never be allowed to leave his post. The whole reason for sending him to Syman was to get him out of the way. No one wanted to be reminded of the men who’d died in Kabul. An entire SAS team—except him. He was the lone survivor.

  So they’d made him disappear. He was injured. He’d taken a knock to his confidence and was suffering badly from survivor’s guilt. What better place for him to recover than a small island kingdom in the Persian Gulf that nobody cared about?

  Nobody until now.

  The sudden unrest had put Syman firmly back on the Western radar. The Western Allies had learned some harsh lessons from Syria and weren’t keen for a repeat situation.

  As catastrophic as the situation was, Tom was in the right place at the right time. The question was: Would the army give him a chance to redeem himself?

  To his surprise, Hannah snorted. “Duty is overrated. Besides, once your superiors hear what’s in the document, they’ll be begging you to get me out. Sending someone to fetch me is time consuming and a logistical nightmare during a civil war. You’re already here, and I saw you with that guy out there. You’re good. I trust you.”

  I trust you.

  Meaningless words. No one could trust anyone in a war. He’d heard those words whispered by another woman not so long ago. He’d promised to help her, too. Now she was dead.

  He kept his voice even. “If you’re not going to hand it over, you’d better tell me what’s in the document. Nobody’s going to authorize me to assist you unless they know what you’ve got.”

  By contrast, her voice became wobbly and hesitant. Her lips trembled ever so slightly. The confident negotiator of moments before had disappeared, replaced by someone who was disturbed by what she’d seen. It made him even more curious.

  “It outlines military action to be taken by Prince Hakeem’s regime against the opposition forces…should the country fall into civil war. It describes attack plans on rebel strongholds… It lists weapons and deployment of troops.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes as if trying to will the reality of her words away.

  He sat bolt upright. If she was right, this might warrant his help. Military intelligence would be incredibly valuable to the Western forces, should they decide to take action. But first, he needed to find out more. “Does it give dates and times for the attacks?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s more of a guideline than an actual schedule. It was written yesterday, I told you, by that brute, Anwar Abdul. So it’s recent. I don’t think the unrest in Hamabad had kicked off yet.”

  Brute? Interesting. Tom made a mental note to quiz her about Hakeem’s fanatical head of security later. First he needed to fill her in on what was happening in the country.

  “Hamabad’s been stirring for weeks. It wasn’t a surprise. Jemah, a rebel-run town to the south, has been the target of government bombing raids for the last two days. That’s where it all started.”

  She stared at him openmouthed. “I had no idea.”

  “An anti-government protest got out of hand, and the security forces shot a number of people dead. It led to unrest and clashes, which escalated, and the government deployed the army.”

  Her face paled as the reality of the situation apparently dawned on her. “So we’re trapped in a full-scale civil war?”

  “Absolutely. Part of the ongoing Arab Spring. Our evacuation orders for the embassy came through two weeks ago.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this. I mean, I’d heard there was trouble, but I didn’t know it was this bad. No one at the compound seemed aware of it. Ahmed was as horrified as I was by the news.”

  “Who?” He frowned, puzzled.

  She clarified. “He works—worked—with me at the compound.”

  “Ah, well I’m not surprised. Selective intel. The regime controls the media, so you’d only hear what they wanted you to hear. They can’t hide it any longer, though.”

  She shuddered visibly. “I can’t believe Prince Hakeem would atta
ck his own people. He was always so fair to me. He treated me with respect. I never in a million years thought he’d be capable of anything like this.”

  “War makes animals of us all,” Tom mused. “And he’s got a lot to lose.”

  She thought about this for a moment. “True. Although, just so you know, I’d never have taken the job if I’d known it would turn out this way. I don’t like violence, and I certainly don’t condone the killing of innocent people.”

  He said nothing. Given his profession, it was best not to.

  She slapped her hands down on her thighs. “Wait. There’s more. I forgot to mention the evacuation plan. That was in the document, too.”

  “For the compound?” That would be expected.

  “No, it was for the royal family and key members of the regime. It contained detailed instructions on when and how to evacuate the city. It listed Prince Hakeem’s various safe houses…”

  “Safe houses?” Adrenaline surged through his veins.

  “Yes. Places where they were to go and hide until the crisis was over. It would allow the government to continue to function in relative safety.”

  Holy smoke! This could be the most important discovery yet. The Western Allies would bend over backward for this type of intelligence—and he could be the man to deliver it. It would be a chance to prove his worth and get back onto active duty.

  He took a deep breath, trying not to show how affected he was by what she’d just said. “So just to clarify, do you have the actual locations of these safe houses?” He knew he was repeating himself, but he had to be sure.

  “I do,” she nodded emphatically. “There are five of them. Two in Syman and three in neighboring states.”

  “So we’ll know where they’re hiding,” he said, thinking out loud. He couldn’t believe his luck. There were agents in the country who had been trying for months to gather this type of intel—and he had it within his reach.

  “Do you think that warrants a personal escort out of the country?” she asked, her cheeks flushed from her big reveal.