Tom grabbed her hand, and together they ran toward the wall. Shots were fired, but she couldn’t work out where they were coming from. Snipers, she supposed, scanning the rooftops.
The concrete dug into her back as she flattened herself against it. She was afraid that if she moved suddenly, someone would see her and shoot. Apparently movement was easier to detect than someone standing still—she’d read that somewhere.
Tom conferred with the two men. There was a lot of hand signals and head nodding, but then he returned, and the two men, with Jamal, ran forward in a crouch position and sat down with their backs to the barricade. Jamal strained to turn his head so he could peer over the protective blocks.
“What’s happening?”
Tom led her into an alleyway. “They’re getting ready to advance. Abu-al-Rashid and his men are farther forward. There’s another barricade closer to the enemy line. We need to see if we can reach it.”
“Are you sure?”
Beyond the barricade was an abandoned street, covered in rubble from bombed buildings. It looked like a hurricane had swept through it, destroying everything in its path. Buildings had lost their front facing, and there were dark spaces where the rooms used to be, with electrical wires hanging out and dust and broken concrete everywhere.
“There could be snipers out there,” she whispered, worriedly.
“There probably are,” Tom confirmed with a shrug as if it was inevitable. “We’re going to have to take our chances. Stay low and against the walls, and you should be okay.”
Unable to keep her fear in check, she stifled a sob. Then a high-pitched screech echoed all around them.
“Get down!” yelled Jamal, waving his hand frantically from the shelter of the barricade.
Tom threw his body on top of her just as the building next to them exploded in a ball of fire. Big chunks of concrete, glass, and metal flew outward across the street. Luckily they were not directly in its path. A fierce gust of hot air engulfed them, singing her tightly shut eyelashes.
When she opened her eyes, the street was a scene of complete devastation. Smoking piles of cement littered the road, parked cars were on fire, but most disturbing were the screams and cries of the people affected by the blast.
She was surprised the building was still standing after that direct hit. It burned from within, like a pumpkin on Halloween, except the exterior was black and scorched. Someone yelled loudly, and then a young man sprinted toward the fire. He shouted something in Arabic. When the man showed no signs of stopping, Jamal attempted to tackle him to prevent him from entering the blazing inferno.
“There’s someone in there,” she translated, shocked. “He says his cousin is still inside.”
Tom leaped up and ran to Jamal.
“It’s Abu-al-Rashid’s nephew inside,” the rebel commander told him, his face pale despite his dark coloring. “We must see if he’s alive.”
Tom squinted as he surveyed the building. “It looks like the grenade hit the front of the house. We may still be able to get him out.”
They hurried toward the blackened building. Thick black smoke billowed out of the door and windows, or rather the holes where they used to be.
She watched from the sidewalk, unable to stop herself from shaking, not for herself, but for Tom, who was about to put his life on the line to save one of the rebels. What if he never came out again? She stared after them, refusing to blink, praying for his safe return.
…
Tom reached the front door first. The searing heat engulfed him, singing his skin and clothing. “We’re going to have to find another entrance,” he yelled, backing up.
They dashed around the side of the house. The walls were less scorched—a good sign. In the back corner, a window beckoned. Only the frame remained, the glass having been blasted out during the impact from the rocket-propelled grenade. The two men jumped through the window, landing easily on the uneven floor inside.
It was smoky, visibility was next to zero. Tom raised his scarf to cover his nose and mouth. If he didn’t have something to block the smoke, they wouldn’t last longer than five minutes before the fumes overcame them. Jamal didn’t have a scarf, so he pulled his T-shirt neck up to his nose.
Jamal called out in Arabic into the gloom.
A faint groan could be heard in reply, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from this room. They ran into the next one, a small study by the looks of things, although what little furniture had been there was now smoldering in pieces on the floor.
A sob came from beneath a pile of fallen tiles and concrete, where the roof had caved in.
“Over here.” Tom began digging, pulling tiles and concrete off the top of the pile and throwing them behind him.
There was a hot gust of wind as the fire spread into the room. Its hungry hot fingers drew ever nearer to where they were standing.
“Hurry,” urged Jamal, lending him a hand. The smoke wasn’t as bad in this room, due to the hole in the ceiling siphoning some of it out, but it was thickening.
Another sob, louder this time. Then they saw a little hand. It was reaching up through a gap in the debris.
“It’s a child,” said Tom. He hadn’t been expecting that. A teenager maybe, but not a youngster.
The men worked faster, tiles flew off the pile as if they were lifting them double-time. Finally, an arm appeared, and then a small tear-stained face with singed eyebrows and hair, and a bleeding gash on his temple. The boy couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven. But at least he was alive.
“Help me, please,” he gasped in his own language, coughing profusely. Tom grunted as he lifted a collapsed wooden table off the child, and Jamal, after clearing away a few broken tiles, scooped him up in his arms. The child had crawled under the desk when the grenade hit, so he’d been protected by the majority of falling tiles.
The flames from the front were lapping at their heels, and the boy was losing consciousness from smoke inhalation. More of the roof crumbled under the intense heat, raining tiles and small rocks on their heads.
“Let’s move out,” said Tom, kicking out the remaining glass in the study window. He climbed out then took the child from Jamal, so the rebel could climb over the sill. The fresh air helped rejuvenate the boy, whose eyes were glassy but open. He was still coughing, but Tom could see he was going to be fine.
…
Hannah nearly screamed with joy and relief when Tom and Jamal reappeared, child in arms. She only just managed to control herself.
“Oh, thank God. Are you okay?” She stared at Tom, taking in his ripped T-shirt and scorched combat trousers. She wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still in one piece, but she couldn’t. Not here. Not after what he’d said earlier.
“I’m good.” He gave her a thin smile. “We managed to get to him in time.”
The boy’s cousin, Abu-al-Rashid’s eldest son, came running over. He was a young man of about twenty, with wayward curly hair held in place by a red bandana.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, bowing profusely and pumping Tom and Jamal’s hands over and over again. “You saved Hamez’s life. My sister will be extremely grateful, as will my father.”
“Your father is fighting up ahead, is that right?” Tom gazed at the rebel leader’s son thoughtfully. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he have a plan?
“He’s leading the defense,” the young man said proudly.
Tom smiled. “Then I’ll look forward to meeting him in person. We’re going to join them.”
Jamal paused for a moment, and then said, “I’m coming with you. You’re going to need backup.”
If Tom was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he gave the rebel commander a quick pat on the back. “Thanks. I owe you.”
She had to admit she was also relieved Jamal was coming with them. While Tom was an impressive soldier, he couldn’t take on an entire army contingent by himself.
Jamal shrugged it off. “I want to talk with Abu-
al-Rashid.” He didn’t say what about, but she could guess it involved the rebel defenses and their plan to fight back.
After a few quick words with his men, Jamal rejoined them, and they huddled together to discuss their next steps.
“Let’s head for the buildings on the northern side of the next block.” Tom consulted his map, which he had folded in such a way that he could see where they were without having to open it all the way up each time. “It’s some sort of warehouse. If we get separated, we can regroup there.”
Jamal nodded. “Let’s go.” He unclipped his rifle, checked the magazine, and made sure it was cocked and locked. Barrel pointing forward, he nosed out from behind the wall.
“Clear!”
He sprinted around a small apartment block and disappeared into the dim interior of what appeared to be an abandoned school.
Tom nodded at Hannah, who didn’t wait to be told twice. She ran after Jamal, adrenaline making her senses super sharp. She looked for movement in the shadows or sparks of light that might indicate gunfire. Tom was right behind her, his rifle at the ready. She could see the beam from his weapon’s flashlight dancing on Jamal’s back in front of her. The whole scene was totally surreal.
They moved stealthily through the abandoned school until they found a back entrance into a yard. The tarred ground where once little feet had played was pockmarked by explosions. The playground looked like a ghostly post-apocalyptic remnant of itself. A set of monkey bars appeared ready to topple over, and a pair of swings were no more than burned rubber globules hanging off a chain. A metal pole was all that remained of a merry-go-round.
“How awful,” she murmured as they raced across the yard to the wrought iron fence on the other side. The gate opened after a firm kick from Tom, and they were out in the street again. A woman holding a grubby child by the hand ran for cover, while a group of unarmed teenage youths ducked down behind a low wall, surveying the action.
They reached the end of the road where a pile of sandbags had been stashed. “Shelter from enemy fire,” he said, leaning against them.
“We need to get Hannah over there.” Jamal pointed to a shop across the road, which had no front window, but the cave-like interior would offer protection from stray bullets. “Abu-al-Rashid and his men are behind that bus.”
Across the road, a group of rebels armed with machine guns fired at the enemy from behind the wreck of a burned-out bus. Ironically, the bus had a rainbow painted across it, still visible beneath the fire damage. There wasn’t much hope here, she thought grimly. Glass from the bus’s shattered windows covered the road, shining pink in the early morning sunrise.
“How am I going to get there?”
The road was impossible to cross. Bullets that hadn’t found a target were flying across the road, burying themselves in the sandbagged wall behind which they were hiding. The ground at their feet was littered with shell casings.
Tom looked around. He picked up a charred car door that had been blown off and used it as a shield. “This will do. Hannah, you come with me.” He glanced at Jamal. “I’ll see you over there in a second.”
“I’ll cover you,” Jamal offered, pointing his gun through a crease in the sandbags. “On my count. Three-two-one. Go.”
She didn’t have time to argue. Instead she grabbed Tom’s arm and crouched next to him as they ran across the street. Bullets whizzed over their heads. One struck the car door shield and ricocheted with a twang to one side. She screamed.
“You’re doing great,” he yelled. “Keep going. We’re almost there.”
She gulped and gritted her teeth as they charged the final few meters into the empty shop front. It was filled with rubble, wires, and broken shelving. All produce had long since been looted. She heaved a sigh of relief and resisted the urge to check herself for bullet holes. For the moment, they were safe.
Tom bent down on one knee and aimed his rifle toward the enemy. He nodded to Jamal, who raced without protection across the road, not toward them but to the bus, while he unleashed a hail of bullets.
She blocked her ears. God, that was loud. Jamal dived for cover and landed in a heap at the feet of the rebel fighters. It was a miracle the man didn’t get hit.
A comrade helped him to his feet, obviously recognizing him. A tall, dark-haired man turned to greet Jamal. He held himself proudly and was older than the rest of the fighters. She couldn’t see his face, but assumed he was the renowned Abu-al-Rashid. He embraced Jamal and shook his hand vigorously. News of his nephew’s rescue must have reached him already.
Tom gripped her shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Wait here, okay? Whatever happens, don’t come out.” She blinked at him. His voice sounded strangely muted. It must be the effects of the rapid gunfire right next to her. It was a good few seconds before her hearing returned to normal.
He slid along the wall and beckoned to Jamal. The rebel nodded, pointed to Tom, and seconds later ran over to Abu-al-Rashid. Out of the direct line of fire, the three men could converse in relative safety.
After what felt like an eternity but was in fact only about five minutes, Tom and Jamal slid back along the wall and into the shop. Abu-al-Rashid returned to the bus where, unbelievably, fighting had intensified, so she never got a chance to meet him. Bullets zinged through the air and a grenade narrowly missed the bus, blowing up a charred car instead.
She began to hyperventilate. She couldn’t help it; it all just seemed too much. Dizziness clouded her brain. She forced herself to calm down.
Long breaths out, she ordered herself, pushing the excess air out of her lungs. Feeling weak, she sat down on a cracked concrete slab. The raw edges cut into the back of her legs, but the pain was good. Focusing on it stopped her panicking.
I will not turn into a hysterical female. She glanced at Tom. Not yet. After this was over she could quietly meltdown in private. Right now she had to keep it together. She gripped the concrete beneath her as if trying to absorb its hard, cold strength. Soon the dizziness disappeared, and her heart rate returned to normal.
“You okay?” He crouched down in front of her, his blue eyes probing anxiously. She longed to touch his bearded face. “You look very pale.”
“I’m good,” she managed to grit out. It was only pride that prevented her from collapsing in a blubbing heap at his feet.
Thankfully he took her word for it and turned away to study the ongoing battle. After a few moments of intense surveying, he said, “Let’s circle around the army shooters while they’re preoccupied. No one is looking this way. All the action is coming from behind the bus.”
“Agreed. Now is a good time to get around them.”
Keeping his back against the shop wall, Jamal slid out of the shop and rounded a corner into a narrow alley. She followed; it was unlikely any stray bullets would hit her at this angle. She twisted around the corner, still in one piece.
“This used to be a great neighborhood,” said Jamal quietly. The sadness in his gaze was quickly replaced by anger. “The fighting has destroyed it.”
The alley was completely deserted. All the doors and windows that overlooked it were boarded up or shut tight. No elderly men played backgammon on tables outside their front doors, and there was no colorful washing swinging between balconies above their heads. Instead, glass glinted among the cobblestones and angry, red anti-government slogans covered the walls.
Tom rounded the corner and gave Jamal a thumbs-up.
They ran up the alley, their feet crunching on the broken glass. The raging gun battle they’d left behind was muffled now that they were a street away.
“We’re on par with the enemy line,” said Tom, carefully peering around the corner. They’d reached the end of the alley, parallel to the army contingent. “If we get caught, we’ve had it.”
She took a look, and what she saw made her blood run cold. The street ahead swarmed with army soldiers. From behind carefully constructed sandbag walls, they popped grenades into grenade launchers and fired them at the re
bel-held district. Others knelt down behind the barricade and unleashed a torrent of firepower into the streets beyond their line.
To make matters worse, a cavalcade of army vehicles, including tanks, was flooding in. Most were mounted with rocket launchers. It was a breathtaking display of firepower. The rebels were tough, but she doubted they’d be able to outgun these guys.
Jamal’s face was white. He had obviously reached the same conclusion. “We’re going to need reinforcements,” he whispered. “We’ll have to fall back and regroup. I must warn Abu-al-Rashid.”
“Where did they get all this equipment?” wondered Tom, gazing at the tanks and missile launchers. “And how did it get here so quickly?”
“They’ve got outside support,” she murmured, without thinking. Jamal gave her a sharp look. “How do you know that?”
“I…er… I used to work at the royal compound,” she said, glancing fearfully at Tom. Had she just made a humungous mistake by revealing this information to the rebels?
Tom gave a brief shake of his head, too small a movement for Jamal to pick up, had he been looking at him; however, all his attention was on Hannah.
“You worked with Hakeem?” His voice was incredulous, and he was obviously wondering why no one had thought to mention this before. He glanced at Tom. “Why did you not tell me?”
Tom shrugged. “It isn’t important. She was a secretary at the palace, but she escaped before the trouble started. We’ve been hiding her at the British embassy for days.”
“It’s true. I got scared and wanted to go home, so I ran to the embassy, but I was too late. Everyone had gone. Tom agreed to help me get back to England.”
Jamal paused for a moment, studying her. “Perhaps she has information that can help us,” he said finally.
Tom’s expression seemed overly nonchalant. “I had the same thought, trust me. If she knew anything useful, we’d have extracted her days ago. The truth is, my boss won’t spare the personnel because she’s not important enough. Not when I’m already here to get her out the old-fashioned way.” He gave a wry grin.
Personal Assistance (Entangled Ignite) Page 12