For some reason that made her feel inexplicably happy.
“Let’s have a quick look around. You never know what we might find.” Leaving her staring after him, he strode off to explore the facility.
She didn’t argue. Her brain was still spinning with conflicting emotions. All she could do was turn and blindly follow.
He didn’t go back the way they’d come. Instead, he wound past the remaining silos, impressive in their size and shininess. A short distance away they found some abandoned pieces of machinery, turning rusty. They came to what used to be a field. Rows and rows of dead and dying plants stuck out of the dried ground like deformed stickmen. Any form of irrigation had dried up weeks ago when the revolution began.
Everything battles to survive in this place, she thought, looking at the sad little plants.
Tom gave a sudden shout and ran toward a broken fence. Leaning against it were two old bicycles. He felt the tires and gave a grunt of satisfaction. Then he turned to her. “Feel like taking a bike ride?”
Chapter Twelve
They cycled into the small fishing port of Hamesh through the leafy suburbs, purposely avoiding the main approach road.
At the coast, the air felt moister and the vegetation was lusher. Tall palm trees fought for space among giant cycads and a range of other bushy plants. It made a refreshing change from the stark shrubs of the desert.
They stashed their bikes behind a small convenience store. There was a dirt road, worn from centuries of use, which led to a half-moon beach and a little marina where an assortment of small fishing vessels and luxury yachts jostled for space.
Adjacent to the marina was a larger, commercial port. The thousand-meter-long cement platform jutted out into the marine blue ocean like an oversized runway. On either side of it, bright yellow loading cranes provided a colorful distraction from the dark gray tarmac. Tom counted five container ships moored in the quays, waiting to be loaded, or unloaded, with several more out in the bay, waiting patiently for berthing space.
“We made it,” she smiled, patting the dust out of her clothing and shaking out her hair. She looked exhausted. Not surprising, considering what she’d been through. Not once had he heard her complain, and she certainly had cause to. He’d set a grueling pace on the way here, trying to make up for lost time.
Looking at the strain on her beautiful face, he wished he could make it easier for her, comfort her in some way, but he couldn’t. They were nearly there. He only had to stay focused for a few more hours, and then he wouldn’t have to hold his feelings at bay anymore.
But it didn’t stop the surge of emotion he felt when she’d smiled at him. Unable to help himself, he smiled back. “We’ve made good time. Let’s head down to the marina and see if we can find ourselves a boat.”
It was late afternoon—a difficult time to commandeer a fishing vessel. Most boats would be heading back to shore after a hard day’s fishing out on the reef. Tom wasn’t deterred. There were other ways and means to get a ride.
Seven hours until the deadline.
He calculated that a boat to the mainland would take three hours at the most, even in rough seas. That left more than enough time to call HQ and deliver the information that would end the war.
The tiny marina was busy. Fishing boats motored back to shore, their colorful flags flapping in the breeze and their nets neatly retracted and folded up on the decks.
He led Hannah to a shady bench under a palm tree, overlooking the beach. It was an idyllic spot. She sank down gratefully. “What are you looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.” He scanned the coastal area for signs of police or the army. It seemed clear. Their ploy at the plantation must have worked. The only activity was the normal comings and goings of commercial vessels, fishing dhows, and private yachts. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.
At the end of one of the marina’s rickety wooden piers, a small merchant vessel was moored. She obviously wasn’t big enough to warrant a mooring at the quays, or perhaps she didn’t want to pay the berthing cost.
He beckoned to Hannah. “Stay low and keep your eyes peeled.”
She nodded, looking around fearfully as if she half expected one of Anwar Abdul’s men to jump out from under the pier.
He called to one of the men on the boat who seemed to be supervising the loading of some small boxes. He looked up and frowned, annoyed at being interrupted, but crossed the wooden plank to shore and jumped down just the same.
“Eh?”
He was short and leathery, with a gaunt face and protruding eyes. He looked like he’d spent most of his life at sea. Tom asked the mariner if he took passengers on board his boat.
The man held up a hand. “No, no people.” His English was dismal, at best. He nodded at his cargo. “Bahrain.”
“Tell him we’ll pay him well,” demanded Tom, glancing at Hannah.
She relayed the information, startling the wiry little man with her fluency. He responded in kind.
“He wants to know how much and in what currency,” she translated.
“A hundred British pounds for a ride to the mainland.” He always kept a couple of hundred pounds in his wallet for emergencies.
She did as she was told. The supervisor pretended to think about this for a moment, but it was obvious by the gleam in his greedy eyes that he was going to agree. A hundred pounds was a lot of money in the current economic crisis—in the midst of a civil war.
“He says to meet us back here at six p.m.”
Tom searched the man’s face for signs of suspicion, but all he saw was an eagerness to have English pounds in his pocket. He checked his watch. That left them with little over an hour—just enough time to wash off the dust of the road and find something to eat.
“Okay.” He shook the man’s hand, nodding to show he agreed.
Once the deal was sealed, he took Hannah to a small diner a few roads back from the marina. It was run down and badly in need of a paint job, but it sold food and got them off the street for an hour.
They sat down at the back, out of view. The only other customers in the diner were two elderly men playing backgammon by the window. A teenager with pockmarked skin took their order. At Tom’s suggestion, Hannah ordered chicken kebabs and pita bread. They were both starving.
“I can’t remember when I last ate,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
“It’s been a while. We need to keep our energy levels up. We’re not in the clear yet.”
Her look was tender. “But we’re nearly there, right? One hour to go, and we’ll be off this island for good—thanks to you.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Yes, they were almost there, but he couldn’t relax. Something didn’t seem right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but some weird sixth sense told him not to take anything for granted. Not until they were out at sea and away from here.
He squeezed her hand, not wanting to worry her. “You’re right. We’re nearly there.”
Touching her had been a natural gesture, but once he did, he couldn’t let go. He sat there, waiting for his food to come, holding her hand across the table and feeling like a lovesick teenager.
“There’s something I have to tell you.” she said softly. Her eyes were luminous in her pale face.
He held up his free hand. “I know,” he replied. “But you have to wait until we get out of here. I can’t have this conversation now.”
“No, it’s not that.” She smiled regretfully. “I know how you feel about emotions getting in the way of the mission. I understand that now.”
At his surprised look she continued, “I didn’t at first. I thought you were just being rude. My father brushed me off for so many years under the guise of duty that I thought you were the same. I realize how wrong I was. People like you and Jamal are dedicated and honorable. You value duty above anything else, because that’s how you save lives. I get it.”
He cleared his throat. He wasn’t good with words at the best of
times. How did one respond to that? Hannah saved him the bother.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said as their food arrived. “I just wanted you to know that I understand—and it’s okay. That’s all.”
With a grin, she picked up her kebab and took an enormous bite.
Emotions Tom couldn’t afford to process flowed through him after hearing her declaration. She understood. His beautiful, courageous Hannah understood his priorities and respected him for it. He’d never felt closer to another human being in his life.
At that moment, he knew that she was the only person he wanted to be with—if she’d have him, that was. He vowed that once they got on that fishing boat and land was in sight, it would be his turn to tell her how he felt.
For now though—he looked at his watch—there was a mission to fulfill.
Afterward, while Hannah was using the restroom, he paid the bill and waited by the door. He felt edgy, and what bothered him most was he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the sudden decrease in pace, or the fact that the end was in sight. They were so close now; maybe it was just last-minute nerves.
“I think it’s best if you wait here while I go and check the coast is clear,” he said when she returned.
She gave him an odd look. “Why? I thought we were in the clear?”
“I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right.” He kept his voice light and airy. “It’s nothing, but I think I’ll have a look around before we head to the boat.”
“Okay, if you think it’s necessary.”
In a moment of weakness, he pulled her toward him and gave her a hard kiss on the lips. She gasped, taken by surprise. The two men ignored them, intent on their game. The waiter was nowhere to be seen.
He said huskily, “Order a coffee. I’ll be back for you in ten minutes.”
Then he strode off down the rambling dirt road toward the marina.
It wasn’t long before he noticed the merchant vessel was gone. The mooring at the end of the pier was deserted.
Damn. He’d known something was up.
He scanned the beachfront looking for anything out of the ordinary. What had scared the fisherman away? There were no police vehicles nearby. No army trucks or military personnel. In fact, the only person in the vicinity in an army uniform was himself.
That was it. That was what was so strange. It was too quiet. The lack of official police presence was noticeable—especially considering the state the country was in.
He approached the pier with caution, trying to look inconspicuous. He went up to several fishermen hauling crates of fish off a decrepit dhow, which resembled a rust bucket rather than a ship, and asked them if they saw what happened to the merchant boat.
The men shrugged but wouldn’t meet his eye. Fear. He recognized the signs and knew instantly what had happened.
Anwar Abdul’s men had been here.
They hadn’t arrived sirens blazing as was their usual style. Anwar Abdul was getting smarter. He hadn’t been fooled by their charade at the production plant. Backing off had been a ploy to convince them he thought they were dead. He’d lured them into a false sense of security so he could anticipate their escape and intercept them at the docks. This port was their obvious destination. It was the only harbor with links to the mainland in the nearby vicinity.
Damn. He should have foreseen this. He’d underestimated the crafty chief of security, a mistake he wouldn’t make twice. Except right now he had to warn Hannah. Turning, he sprinted back up the road to the diner.
Anwar Abdul’s men would be scouring the streets for them, surreptitiously making inquiries at motels and diners—anywhere they might be hiding. It was only a matter of time before they found her. He burst into the diner, his chest burning from the exertion.
“Hannah, they’re here…”
The two old men had vanished, their game abandoned. The waiter was still missing. His eyes fell on the empty table where she’d been sitting. No. Please let him not be too late.
There was a muffled scream from out back. He sprinted to the back exit.
Two plain-clothed men held Hannah between them. They looked like civilians, but their broad chests and bulging biceps gave them away. Both were armed with handguns.
Four more men stood guard outside the back door. They flanked him as he charged outside. Four no-nonsense semiautomatic rifles pointed at his head. He froze. Not good odds.
A white Toyota waited with its motor running. A driver sat in the front with his hands on the wheel, watching the action. The getaway car.
Farther down the road was another vehicle, a red pickup truck, its paint faded from years in the sun. It was empty, but Tom bet that was how the four gunmen had gotten here.
“Tom!”
“Let her go,” he growled, pointing his rifle at the two men who were pulling her toward the car. They froze.
It was a stand-off. Not a very fair one, but a stand-off nonetheless.
Assess the risks.
Two men he could have handled, perhaps even three. But six armed men and a driver, also armed, was asking a bit much.
“Don’t be foolish,” one of the men surrounding him said. He was tall and mean looking, with eyes that didn’t waver. The ringleader.
Tom studied the other three. Shorter and less confident than the tall one, they obviously deferred to him. Unfortunately there was no way Tom could take them all out. If he started shooting, they would retaliate, and Hannah might get caught in the cross fire.
The man holding Hannah pressed his gun to her temple. “The next time you see your girlfriend, she’ll be on national TV. The world will see how we treat English spies.”
The other men sneered.
To her credit she remained calm. It was only her eyes, filled with unshed tears, that bore into his. “Tom, please,” she whispered. “You can’t afford to die. You have to get back to the mainland.”
He stood his ground. “I’m not going without you. I made you a promise.”
“You must,” she cried. “Please, Tom. You have to go while there’s still time. You’re the only chance these people have.”
Her words were such a far cry from when they’d first met, when she’d refused to give him the safe house information to ensure that he’d get her and the intel out of Syman. His brave, beautiful Hannah. He hesitated, uncertain. “I can’t leave you.” His voice broke. Not after everything they’d been through.
He took a deep, steadying breath and tried to think logically. The regime obviously planned to execute her publicly, either on TV or online, as warning. They wanted to make an example of her. It would serve as propaganda. The thought was too much to bear, but it did buy him some time.
“You must, Tom. The mission, remember. Don’t ruin it because of me. Not again.”
He knew she was referring to Afghanistan. He gritted his teeth. How had it come to this? Had he been so preoccupied with his feelings for her that he’d failed to see the obvious? Had he been blinded by his emotions again, so much so that he’d risked the mission? She was right.
She continued to plead with him. “I can’t escape them, but you can. You must do what is right, Tom.”
“Enough talking,” growled one of the thugs holding her. He opened the car door and shoved her inside.
“I love you, Tom,” she cried, as the second guy got in beside her and closed the door.
Tom held his ground. It killed him having to do so, but moving was out of the question. He watched as the car sped off, taking the woman he cared about most in the whole world with it.
Chapter Thirteen
“Drop the weapon,” ordered the ringleader as soon as the car carrying Hannah had vanished.
Tom looked him directly in the eye. “Make me,” he spat.
He knew what was coming next. They planned to kill him right here behind the diner. He’d be damned if he’d make it easy for them. It wasn’t his style.
The man shrugged and slid his finger to the trigger, but Tom was faster. He opene
d fire, taking out the ringleader.
Eliminate the biggest threat first.
As the man fell, Tom dove sideways to escape the hail of bullets from the other three. Luckily their hesitation after their boss was shot gave him precious seconds in which to react. He hit the ground hard behind a couple of trash cans, the wind knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he backed into a short alley that ran alongside the diner, firing relentlessly. Two more men fell.
That left one remaining.
Turning, Tom sprinted down the alley. He rounded the diner and approached from the other side, catching the fourth man off guard. It took all off ten seconds to disarm him and turn him around so his back was up against the pickup and Tom’s elbow at his throat. Then Tom pointed his revolver at the guy’s head. “Where are they taking her?”
The man hesitated. Tom didn’t. He shot the guy in the leg. The man screamed and fell to the ground.
“I asked you a question,” he said. “Where did they take her?” There was no time to play games. Hannah’s life was at stake.
“To the warehouse,” the man jabbered, in broken English.
“Which warehouse? Where?”
The man shook his head, clutching his bleeding thigh. It didn’t look good.
“Show me,” he ordered, pulling the thug to his feet. The man yelped in agony. The truck was unlocked with the keys still in the ignition. Predictable.
He drove out of town with the injured man giving him directions. Ten minutes later they came to a stop outside a gated complex. They were on the outskirts of town, in a semi-industrial area dotted by warehouses, presumably where the fisheries kept their stock.
He pulled over and killed the engine. There was the white Toyota. It was parked outside the entrance to the warehouse. It was empty.
Tom turned to the guy next to him, whose face was ashen. A pool of sticky blood had accumulated under the dashboard. The man was bleeding out. The bullet must have nicked a large vein. He didn’t have long.
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