Page 49 of Sweet Betrayal

The man hesitated, studying her again. He frowned at her lack of an accent. “These are dangerous times. You can’t trust anyone.”

“I understand. But we mean no harm,” she said. “We just need help. He’s a friend of yours.” She motioned to Tom. “This is a friend of his.”

Tom stepped forward. “My name is Tom Wilde,” he said. “I met Jamal in Syman City. We worked together.”

The man nodded, turning back to her. “Jamal’s not here now, but I’ll contact him. Go to the mosque on the corner. He’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“Shukran.” She translated for Tom, who also thanked him.

They bought some food—plain bread and bottled water—and sat outside the mosque, perched on an overturned crate. Hannah eyed the rounded dome overhead, now shattered where mortar blasts had ripped through. The front entrance was gone, blown off completely. Cracked walls and sagging supports gave the whole place a feeling of barely hanging on.

More people were on the streets now that the sun was up. The town buzzed with quiet activity. A man and young boy set up a table with vegetables; another teen laid out fresh flatbreads.

“How long do you think the ceasefire will last?” she asked, watching children play among the rubble. Their bright eyes and laughter seemed at odds with the destruction.

“Not long,” Tom replied. “The army will want this town back. It’s too close to the capital. Strategically important.”

“These poor people,” she murmured. “How do they live with this constant threat? I couldn’t do it.”

“Jemah’s even worse,” he said. “Another town under rebel control. The army’s been attacking for days. It’s brutal.”

“When I took this job, this was the last thing I expected.” She motioned at the ruined streets. “It’s surreal. Me, caught in the middle of a civil war? Feels like a bad dream.”

His jaw tightened. “Things tend to go bad pretty fast in places like this.”

He would know. His entire career had been spent in hot zones like this.

She didn’t know how he handled it.

“There he is.” Tom stood up.

Hannah squinted into the sun. A man emerged out of the glare, smoking a cigarette, which he tossed into the dusty ground as soon as he spotted them.

“Tom. Good to see you, buddy.” They shook hands, while she stood aside, waiting to be introduced. His English was good, almost as natural as her Arabic, and was that a hint of an American accent she detected?

She studied him with renewed interest. He was tall, slim, dressed like many of the locals in jeans and a T-shirt, and his short dark hair and beard framed a handsome but serious face. The rifle slung over his shoulder caught her attention. It wasn’t the same kind as Tom’s, but it looked just as deadly.

“This is Hannah Evans,” Tom said in a low voice. “She’s why we’re here. I need to get her out of Syman. Urgently. Can we talk somewhere private?”

Jamal looked over at her and she got the feeling she was being assessed. A beat passed, after which he gave a curt nod. “Follow me.”

Hannah was unsure what to make of him. Tom had called him a friend, but their greeting hadn’t been exactly warm. She wondered what kind of work the two had done together.

Jamal led them through a maze of narrow alleys, some barely wide enough for one person. Eventually, they stopped outside a three-story apartment block, wedged tightly between two similar buildings. Bullet holes marked the walls, and looking up, she noticed many of the windows were cracked.

Jamal unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“This is my sister’s place,” he said, ushering them into the kitchen. It was clean, neat, and sparse. A dough-covered breadboard rested on a wooden table. “You can stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks, but we can’t stay long,” Tom said. “I was hoping you could help us get out.”

Jamal’s gaze shifted to Hannah, and he hesitated.

Fine. She got the message. He wanted to speak to Tom privately.

“I would love to freshen up,” she said. “Would your sister mind if I used the bathroom?”

Jamal gave a relieved nod. “Please, feel at home. The bathroom is upstairs. There is also a shower, if you’d like one.”

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