Chapter 4
“It’s okay. You remember me?” His voice stayed low, steady. He didn’t want to spook her more than she already was. “This is one of the back gates to the embassy.”
She stopped writhing, but her legs gave out. He supported her as she collapsed, tightening his arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. She fit snugly into his frame, her body soft and fragile, all heat and trembling femininity.
“You’re safe now.”
She looked up at him, wide eyes framed by the gray scarf. Beautiful, oval-shaped eyes. Panic, confusion… it was all there in her terrified face.
“You?” she panted, her chest heaving from the exertion.
“Yeah. Me.”
She blinked, like she wasn’t sure if he was real. “But I thought…” Her voice was sultry, husky, like the last note of a slow song in a smoky bar. It stirred something inside him.
“You thought I wasn’t going to help you?”
A hesitant nod. She glanced toward the gate, but he wasn’t ready to look away. Not yet.
She smelled like sweat and jasmine, her fear wrapped in something warmer and undoubtably female. Her mouth was parted, lips soft and enticing.
Then—footsteps. Heavy. Closing in fast.
“How many?” he barked, snapping out of it, dragging his gaze from her lips to the alley.
“One. Right behind me.”
“Get back.”
He pushed her behind him and stepping behind the overgrown hedge. Her pursuer was already charging straight at them, eyes locked on her.
But he didn’t see him .
Tom stepped into the opening and met him head-on, slamming into the man with full momentum. The impact knocked both of them sprawling across the pavement.
Tom recovered first, his training kicking in. He drove his fist straight into the man’s face, crunching bone. Blood splattered across the concrete.
The guy didn’t flinch. No cry, no hesitation.
She did, though. A gasp that he ignored.
The guy got to his feet.
What the hell?
He was trained, Special Forces, by the look of it. Tom grimaced determinedly. The stakes had just got a lot higher.
The man pulled a sidearm from his thigh holster. Tom recognized it as a compact Makarov. He ducked a split-second before the shot cracked past his shoulder.
Fuck. That was too close.
Still crouched, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard. The joint snapped with a clean pop. The attacker howled and dropped the pistol. Tom kicked it out of reach, skidding it across the road.
But it wasn’t over. The guy reached into his pocket with his good hand and drew a blade. Short, curved, lethal. He lunged upward in an experienced move, aiming straight for his gut.
Fucking hell.
Tom shifted his weight, dodged left, and drew his marine-issued Ka-Bar combat knife from his thigh sheath in one clean motion. The 7-inch carbon steel blade sank deep into the man’s chest.
The attacker made a guttural choking sound, his eyes locking with Tom’s in something like disbelief, before fading to nothingness. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the pavement.
Blood spread fast, dark and slick under his body.
Tom straightened, his heart racing. It had been a while since he’d had to kill up close. Longer still since it had been this personal.
There had been no room for hesitation. The man he’d taken down was a professional—he’d recognized the type instantly. He’d moved with purpose, his reflexes sharp, his technique polished. Tom had been trained the same way, cut from the same cloth, and built for the same kind of work.
The only difference was who acted first. And thankfully, he’d gotten the drop.
“Is he dead?” the woman whispered, venturing forward.
Tom gave a stiff nod, then knelt to retrieve the man’s knife and gun. He was waiting for the admonishment, the accusatory tone, but instead, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. I thought he was going to kill me.”
His eyes were hard. “He was.”
She gazed up at him, eyes shiny with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job.”
Protecting an American citizen from a credible threat to life.
He turned over the weapon in his hand, inspecting it. As he’d thought, a Russian-made Makarov. A solid, no-frills rifle. Common with former Soviet allies. He’d seen a ton of them during deployments in the Middle East.
The knife was military issue. High-carbon steel, with a textured grip. Nothing ornamental. Straight off the belt of a Symanian Special Forces operator.
Tom looked back at the woman.
What the hell was she mixed up in?
Tom dragged the dead man into the embassy garden and shoved him beneath a thick flowering bush. “I’ll deal with him later. Let’s lock up before his buddies arrive.” There was nothing he could do about the blood on the ground.
The heavy wrought iron gate clanged shut. Tom looped a steel chain around the bars and locked it with an industrial padlock.
The woman stood watching him, breathless and flushed. He tried not to notice how the robe clung to her slender curves or the glimpse of collarbone where the scarf had slipped, or how wispy strands of blond hair clung to her damp cheeks.
Instead, he retrieved his M4 rifle from where he’d stashed it beneath the shrubs. It was too loud to use out in the street and the last thing he needed was more attention. That single shot the guy had managed to squeeze off would be a damn dinner bell to the rest of his team.
Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he motioned for her to follow. They cut across the empty embassy lawn, moving fast through pristine flowerbeds and sculpted walkways.
The U.S. Embassy was a perfect rectangle of whitewashed symmetry, the Stars and Stripes hanging limp above the roof. It was three stories tall, but stretched the length of a football field.
Upstairs was the administrative offices. Tom didn’t often have reason to go there, but when he did, he found them quiet, orderly spaces where embassy staff handled daily operations and internal affairs.
Downstairs was the consular section, which served as a lifeline for American citizens in need, whether they were applying for passports, sorting out legal documents, or desperately seeking help when things went sideways overseas.
“What happened to your shoes?” He nodded to her bare feet beneath the robe.
“I couldn’t run in them,” she said simply.
He appreciated her practicality, but given the heat, sunbaked asphalt, and uneven stones, her soles had to be shredded.
“You can take care of them inside,” he said, a flicker of admiration sparking. She must be in pain but hadn’t mentioned it once.
They entered through the back. “This is the staff entrance,” he told her. “Unfortunately, the front’s sealed.”
“No kidding.”
He masked a grin.
Inside, the corridor was cool and abnormally quiet.
Now that there were no people about, you really noticed the cream-colored walls and white marble tiles underfoot.
Every painting that had once hung here had been pulled down, crated up, and shipped to a vault in D.C.
before the evac. All that remained now was silence.
She padded quietly behind him as they moved through the hall. When he reached the end, he opened a door and gestured for her to step inside.
“Come in here. You can sit down and rest.”
It was the staff lounge, dimly lit with the blinds drawn tight against the morning sun. Tables stood stacked against one side, chairs on top.
He’d cleaned up after everyone had left. The place had looked like a student digs after an all-night party. Coffee cups half-full and forgotten, lobsided watercoolers, tubs of stale cookies crumbling beside stacks of unused napkins. Proof of a sudden and frantic exit.
“Looks unused.”
He snorted. “Should’ve seen it two weeks ago.”
It had been chaos. Paper shredders had worked overtime, even as the low rumble of armored vehicles pulled into the service entrance. Then came the hurried, anxious movement of diplomats being ushered out like cattle, taking only what they could carry.
He lifted down one of the chairs and set it by the window. “Can I get you some water?”
A nod. “Please.”
She unwound the scarf and dragged her fingers through her hair. That hair—golden, mussed, sticking to her damp cheeks—had no business being so sexy under the circumstances.
Her eyes met his and something flickered there.
Embarrassment, maybe. Or awareness.
“I don’t usually look like this,” she said, a little defensively. “I ran here from the royal compound.”
He handed her the glass.
“The royal compound?” Had he heard her right? He arched a brow. “You work for Prince Hakeem?”
“I’m—or rather, I was—his personal assistant.” She drained the water in one go. “Hannah Evans.” She held out a hand.
He shook it. It felt warm and soft, and very small in his rough palm.
“Tom Wilde.”
A quick smile, as if it had slipped past her defenses before she could stop it. Dimples appeared, and those brown oval eyes seemed to soften to amber, framed by a striking copper ring that made them hard to look away from.
It caught him off guard.
“Good to meet you, Tom.”
There was a pause, as he frowned, and gathered his thoughts. “Is that why the military police were after you? You ran?”
“Escaped,” she corrected, steel in her tone now. “They would’ve killed me if you hadn’t stepped in.”
She had that right. That guy meant business.
He grabbed another wooden chair, spun it around, and straddled it backward. Her gaze moved to his thighs, before flicking back to his face.
He probably owed her an explanation. “Sorry I couldn’t let you in through the front gate. I’m under strict orders.”
“I understand,” she said. “Although I was pretty pissed at the time.”
He grunted. That was understandable.
“The State Security force will be looking for their operative and when they figure out what’s happened and where you’ve disappeared to, they’ll come here.”
This place was the only logical safe zone.
“How do you know they were palace police?” she asked, her delicate brows rising.
“I could tell that guy had superior training.”