Chapter 2
W henever Hannah’s responsibilities took her beyond the compound walls, she was never allowed to go alone.
Aneez, her assigned driver, or the prince’s steward—both of them men—always accompanied her.
Women did not step outside the confines of the palace without an escort. That’s just the way it was here.
Right now, however, everything was different. There was no one to enforce protocol. No escort trailing behind her. No official clearance or nod of approval. It was just her, moving swiftly and silently across the manicured lawns and along the gravel paths that lined the palace grounds.
The thought of Prince Hakeem discovering her absence sent a dry chill through her mouth. He lived by a schedule with the precision of a surgeon. His office doors opened precisely at eight o’clock. Not a moment before. Never a second after.
Holy crap! Where had the last forty-five minutes gone?
When she failed to bring his morning coffee, he’d ask where she was. Ahmed—if he’d shaken off his stupor by then—would tell His Majesty that Hannah had gone out half an hour ago and hadn’t returned.
The prince wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Not right away. He’d be puzzled, maybe mildly annoyed. Hannah was never late. Never careless. She was the one person he didn’t have to worry about.
Over the last few months, she’d made herself indispensable. Ran his diary with precision, remembered names he never bothered to learn, fetched gifts for his wives, and smoothed over the rough edges of his public life. Whatever he needed, she anticipated it before he asked.
In return, Prince Hakeem had rewarded her with something rare: trust. Freedom, even—more than most of his staff were allowed. Abdul Anwar had warned against it, but Hakeem had overruled him.
It was that freedom she was gambling on now.
She glanced at the time. Thirty minutes—that was all she had before someone noticed she was missing and started asking real questions. By then, the security team would have rewound the footage.
Every gate, every hallway, every exit was under constant surveillance.
Real-time video streamed into the administration building, monitored by a rotation of stone-faced guards trained to notice the smallest anomaly.
If even one red flag was raised, the State Security force would be deployed without hesitation.
They were fast, heavily armed, and fiercely loyal.
She knew the men. She knew their names, their routines, the weapons they carried.
Just imagining the sound of their boots pounding down the corridor behind her sent a chill through her entire body.
There was no such thing as sneaking out. No forgotten camera. No dead angle in the system. So she hadn’t tried for stealth.
Instead, her plan was simple. She would walk through the front gate and talk her way out.
It wouldn’t be easy.
She thought through the scenarios. Aneez, her driver, was probably still at breakfast. He wouldn’t be needed until midmorning, but even if she found him, he wouldn’t help. Aneez was loyal. Traditional. He’d know this wasn’t official business—and he’d report it.
Bougainvillea spilled over the compound walls in a riot of hot pink, offering scraps of cover. The heat shimmered across the manicured garden. A perfect day, cloudless and still. Her urgency felt out of place, but everywhere she looked, the colors were too sharp, the flowers too loud.
She moved briskly toward the staff entrance.
It was tucked behind the complex, near the employee quarters, out of sight from the palace.
The grand front entrance was off-limits unless she was accompanying His Royal Highness and his retinue.
Four armed guards manned the staff gate.
Unlike the front, it remained open, but the black iron spikes rising skyward looked less ornamental now and more like a warning.
She scanned the guards’ faces. Two were strangers, so no chance there. The third had made a crude remark last month and she’d shut him down, so she wasn’t banking on him helping her either.
Panic stirred. Dammit! Time was bleeding away.
Then she spotted him.
Ibrahim.
Stationed off to the side. Ibrahim knew her well, but he also owed her. She’d fetched his child from school one afternoon when his wife was sick. A small favor, but hopefully it would be enough.
Steadying her breathing, she walked straight up to him. “Hello, Ibrahim. How’s your family?” Her Arabic came easily, warm and familiar.
“Hana.” He smiled as he said her name. It was Arabic in origin, an ode to her grandmother’s heritage. “We’re well, thank you. Where are you going?” His eyes flicked past her, looking for an escort. When he saw none, his expression tightened. “You know I can’t let you out alone. Palace rules.”
She forced a sheepish grin. “I’ve done something foolish. I forgot to deliver this document yesterday. It’s urgent—it has to reach the Chief of Police before His Majesty notices.”
She flashed the official stamp on the folder. Her thumb masked the bottom line: For HRH Prince Hakeem’s Eyes Only .
Ibrahim’s brows drew together. She knew what he was thinking, and he’d be right. That it wasn’t like her to forget something this important.
She held his gaze, let her voice drop. “Please, Ibrahim. You owe me.”
He hesitated, his shoulders drawn tight, but then he exhaled—and she felt a surge of hope.
“Go. But be quick. If this comes back on me, we’ll both lose our jobs.”
“It won’t,” she lied, guilt making her chest tighten. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. None of them did.
Did they even know what was happening in Hamabad? If they didn’t, they would soon. It was only a matter of time.
She gave his arm a brief squeeze. “Thank you. You’ve saved me.”
More than you know.
Then she turned, slipped through the gate, and vanished into the hum of the street beyond.
She moved fast through the crush of morning foot traffic, head lowered, heart thudding.
Each step took her farther from the palace.
Hakeem’s advisors would have informed him of the revolt in Hamabad already.
With a bit of luck they’d be too distracted by the crisis to notice she was missing. At least for a while.
But someone would notice soon enough. Her absence at the morning briefing would trigger questions. Her desk would be checked. Abdul Anwar would look for the memo.
That’s when it would begin.
The siren would sound, the gates slam shut, and the entire compound would be searched. When they couldn’t find her… When they saw the security footage… they’d send State Security operatives after her. The prince’s most loyal enforcers. And they wouldn’t stop until she was found.
She gulped over the lump in her throat. How long would that take?
Her meeting with the prince was in three quarters of an hour. Forty-five minutes to get to the U.S. Embassy.
She veered off the main road and slipped into a narrow alley, ducking under hanging laundry and low balconies. With her scarf pulled tight and hair hidden, she blended easily—another veiled woman with somewhere to be.
Syman City wrapped itself around the coast in elegant sprawl. When she’d first arrived, she’d marveled at the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs. Now she hardly noticed them.
She silently thanked the near-photographic memory that had always served her well.
In her mind, she pictured the city layout from a map she’d studied months ago.
The palace compound stood in the northern sector, while the U.S.
Embassy was located to the west. Cutting straight through the downtown district would be far too risky—there were too many eyes, too many checkpoints, and not enough cover.
The souk was her best chance. The bustling local market opened early and was always crowded, noisy, and in constant motion. If she could reach it, she might be able to vanish into the chaos, at least for a little while.
She turned out of the alley and onto a road flanked with shops selling everything from olives and vegetables to clothing and materials.
The pungent smell of incense thickened the air.
The colorful market stalls and their exotic produce were one of the things she loved most about Syman.
Shoppers, mostly women, scurried around, packets in hand.
They wanted to get back to the safety of their homes.
Hannah didn’t blame them. She’d rather be anywhere else but out here on the street.
But she had no choice.
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.