Page 32 of Sweet Betrayal

He paused in the doorway. “It’s not your fault, Hannah. Don’t blame yourself.”

He was wrong there.

She looked down. “If I hadn’t gone to the embassy… maybe none of this would’ve happened. We wouldn’t be in danger, and you wouldn’t be stuck babysitting me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, surprising her, he said, “If you hadn’t shown up, I’d still be rotting in a guard hut wondering if I’d ever do something that mattered again. This? You? It matters.”

Her breath caught. “It does?”

“If it means stopping this war, then yeah. Definitely.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze locking with his. For a moment, the air between them thickened, charged with everything they hadn’t said.

Then he stepped back. “Good night, Hannah.”

“Good night, Tom.”

CHAPTER 11

They set off at first light.

Hannah felt a jolt of anticipation as she stepped outside into the cool morning air. This was it—the point of no return. From here on out, they were exposed. Out in the open, hunted.

She wore her disguise, a flowing robe layered over the shalwar kameez Tom had picked up for her and the gray headscarf wrapped tightly over her freshly dyed dark hair.

Her reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning had startled even her. She was no longer the American personal assistant, but someone who belonged here. And for now, that was the goal.

She felt much better after a night’s sleep, even if she had woken up a few times. The room had been unfamiliar, and the bedding had smelled of Tom. But knowing he was in the next room, had been a great comfort. She hadn’t felt safe, not since leaving the palace compound. But last night, lying on his bed, in his house—she’d come close.

Looking over, she admired how seamlessly he blended in. Gone was the crisp, commanding Marine from yesterday. In his place was a rugged, dust-streaked freedom fighter. Hisbeige combat trousers were worn, his T-shirt clung to his chest beneath a threadbare military jacket. A bandana masked the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—and even those were different now. Sharper. Hardened. Dangerous.

Where he'd gotten the gear, she didn’t know. But if she hadn’t seen him load the M4 over his shoulder herself, she might not have recognized him at all. He didn’t just look the part—he became it.

And he wasn’t the only one carrying. Nearly every man they passed had a rifle slung across his chest or strapped to his back. This was a city on the brink, a powder keg waiting to ignite. The streets pulsed with tension, but no one looked twice at them as they made their way from Tom’s apartment through the residential area.

He leaned in, his voice low. “Keep your head down. Hakeem’s people will have spotters out looking. You can bet on it.”

She nodded, keeping her gaze on the pavement as they passed a group of men gathered at a corner café.

“They must’ve found the document in the souk by now,” she murmured.

“Does Hakeem know about your memory?” Tom asked, eyes scanning the windows above them.

“I don’t think so. It’s not something I advertise.”

“But he’ll know you read it. That’s enough.” His jaw flexed. “He doesn’t need to know what you remember, just that you saw it. You could’ve taken photos. Passed it on. With comms down, he’ll assume you haven’t sent anything yet—but he’s not going to wait to find out. He’s going to throw everything he’s got at stopping you.”

She gulped as anxiety clutched at her chest.

Tom’s pace never slowed, but she sensed the tension in his body. Muscles coiled, eyes alert, head constantly moving, but notmaking it obvious. Always that control. His hand resting lightly on his weapon, ready to spring into action, should the need arise.

They pressed deeper into the city. The buildings around them grew taller and narrower, many still under construction. The country’s immense oil wealth had resulted in a massive surge of development. Hakeem had also invested billions into banking and tourism. He’d wanted Syman to rival Bahrain or Dubai. A pearl of the Gulf. Now, with the protests and civil war imminent, the work had been abandoned.

They stopped outside a battered newsstand. Tom grabbed a local paper, scanning the bold Arabic script that covered most of the front page.

“Can you translate this?” He tapped a smaller headline toward the bottom, away from the horrific images of burned buildings and bleeding civilians. She tried not to look at those.

“It’s a sandstorm warning,” she said after skimming. “It’s coming in today.”

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