Page 5 of Sweet Betrayal

Two blocks to the souk.

She didn’t look back.

Then she heard it. The sound she’d been dreading.

Sirens.

Shit. Her heart leapt into her throat. They must have viewed the tapes, and seen her leave with the memo. It was happening faster than she’d anticipated. She’d hoped for—no, needed—more time.

The road was cobblestoned and thankfully too crowded for vehicles to pass. It was also impossible to traverse in heels. She stepped out of her work pumps and broke into a run. The rough ground tore through the thin material of her pantyhose and pebbles dug into the skin of her bare feet, but she ignored it, grimacing against the pain. It couldn’t be helped. Being able to move quickly was more important. Her feet would heal.

Once she got to the crowded souk with its dimly lit aisles that crisscrossed each other like a web of tunnels, she could vanish amongst the clothes and textiles. She’d be safe there, if only for a little while. She pushed forward.

A siren split the air behind her, making her jump. She moved faster, trying not to make it obvious, as a police car crawled along the road, honking at shoppers to get out of the way. A tiny glimpse over her shoulder told her they were scanning the road, heads turning from left to right like satellite beacons.

Looking for her.

She ducked her head and slipped past a group of men smoking and laughing on the sidewalk. Her pencil skirt clung too tight for speed, and the concrete scraped at her bare soles, but she kept going. To stumble now would draw attention to herself.

The entrance to the enclosed souk appeared in front of her, and relief welled up.

Thank God.

She hurried inside, weak with relief. There was no time to pause. She zigzagged through the tunnels, weaving among the garments that hung off railings, obscuring the way. It was blissfully dark, the dim interior lanterns aimed at the items for sale rather than the shoppers.

The sirens dulled, then stopped altogether. Presumably, the police were searching for her on foot. Had they seen her enter the souk?

She didn’t think so but she couldn’t be sure. There was always a chance they’d figured out where she was headed and intended to cut her off.

A woman in a traditional robe—an abaya—beckoned to her from behind one of the stalls. She pointed at Hannah’s skirt and torn pantyhose, then at her merchandise. Traditional clothing and scarves hung from the overhead railings like big black bats.

Yes! That’s what she needed. A disguise.

Hannah rummaged in her handbag for a crumpled bill and passed it to the woman. Then grabbed a full-length black robe off a misshapen metal hanger.

“Keep the change,” she said, shimmying into it, pulling it down over her clothes. In a dark corner, she adjusted the headscarf so it covered the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes visible.

Hah! Prince Hakeem’s men would have a hard time recognizing her now.

She scurried out of the souk and hurried away from the market district, keeping her head bent low. No one stopped her, and thankfully, she didn’t hear any more sirens. Twenty minutes later, she turned onto a wide avenue that circled a park and heaved a sigh of relief.

Finally.

On the other side stood the U.S. Embassy. The solid, rectangular building whitewashed and orderly, with crisp American lines and rows of tall windows, seemed to beckon her like a promise of safety.

Then she froze.

Oh, no!

She’d left the folder containing the letter back at the stall where she’d bought the abaya.

How could she be so darn stupid?

Distracted by the sirens and a frantic need to disguise herself, she’d put it down on the piles of scarves and forgotten to pick it back up. If they found it, it would condemn her.

Treason.

Even worse, now she had no leverage to get out of Syman. No physical proof of what was about to happen. Another thought struck her. Once the palace police questioned the store owner, they’d know she was in disguise.

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