Page 52 of Sweet Betrayal

She pursed her lips. “Looks like we’re going to Jemah then.”

A dusty whitepickup truck idled outside the grocery store with its engine running. A group of rough-looking men with bandanas obscuring their faces climbed into the back. They were heavily armed and looked a dangerous, volatile bunch.

She swallowed hard. These were rebels.

A rebel convoy headed for Jemah—and they would be right in the middle of it.

How was this a sensible plan?

And why did Tom seem so at ease?

She watched him greet the men, shaking hands and speaking in low tones. Seeing him with them, she realized just how easily he blended in. With his tanned face, dark beard, and the bandana around his neck, he looked nothing like a U.S. Marine. Only his blue eyes gave him away, but that could be chalked up to a genetic quirk.

She wondered how Tom knew Jamal. It was obvious they were friends but judging by the way the others deferred to him, there was no question Jamal was in charge.

“Hannah, sit up front with the driver,” Jamal ordered, striding over to her.

She glanced at Tom, who gave a small nod. It was obvious Jamal played an important role in the anti-governmentmovement. Maybe that was why he hadn’t wanted to speak openly in front of her. And Tom—who clearly knew exactly who and what his friend was—hadn’t said a word.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Tom said.

Sighing, she climbed in next to the driver, a hard-looking man with an angry scar slashed down his cheek.

“As-salamu ?alaykum,” she said in Arabic.

He didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

Great. She was in a truck full of armed rebels. She must be out of her mind.

What the hell was Tom thinking?

Once everyone was inside, the driver shifted into gear and pulled away. She sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap, wishing Tom were beside her and not in the back with the others.

They drove in silence. She couldn’t make out what the men were saying behind her, but the way they were all huddled together, it looked like they were planning something. She began to get a bad feeling.

She wondered what it was—then decided she didn’t want to know. As long as they made it to Jemah safely, that was all that mattered.

They bounced along for an hour. The road was rough and riddled with potholes, and she was jostled so much she had to hang onto the door handle to avoid hitting her head on the roof.

Eventually, just when she felt like she couldn’t take another minute of it, the driver veered off the road into a shaded rest stop beneath a small cluster of overhanging fig trees. He cut the engine.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in Arabic.

The man ignored her, his eyes locked on his rearview mirror.

It was maddening. She might be a woman, but she was still a human being. She wasn’t invisible.

Then again, working for the prince had given her a false sense of entitlement. He had allowed her a level of freedom and respect she wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere in Syman. Most areas outside the cities were very traditional, and women weren’t meant to ask questions.

Angling her side mirror, she watched Jamal issue a command to the men in the truck bed, then leap down. A moment later, two other men followed, both carrying bulging backpacks. After a brief exchange, Jamal clapped them both on the back and they disappeared into the low dunes beside the road. Then the rebel leader climbed back in and thumped on the roof of the cab, making her jump. The driver started the engine again and pulled back onto the road, leaving the two men behind.

The whole thing was incredibly suspicious.

She turned and tried to catch Tom’s eye, but he was staring ahead, his expression unreadable, his eyes narrowed slits against the sun.

What the hell was going on?

The bad feeling she had got worse.

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