Chapter 8
T he first thing Tom did was close the curtains and lock the front door, just in case. He meant it when he said she’d be safe here. Nobody knew who he was, or where he lived. There were no records left at the embassy, and the State Security had no way of finding out who’d been posted there.
“How long have you lived here?” Hanna glanced around his small apartment. It was sparse, he knew that. But he had everything he needed. This worn old sofa, a mismatched armchair, and a wooden table that he ate off.
Functional, nothing more, but it was home. For now.
"Three months," he replied. "Since I arrived in Syman."
She studied him, curious. "Where were you stationed before this?"
He hesitated, the memories surfacing unbidden. Quashing them, he scowled, but he may as well get this out the way, so she’d stop asking questions.
"A military hospital in Virginia," he said. "Before that, Afghanistan."
A look of concern flashed across her face. "Hospital? Were you injured?"
It had been a long time since anyone gave a shit.
“Took a bullet during my last mission.” Actually, it was two bullets, and one had punctured his lung. He’d been pretty banged up for a while. The doctors had done a fantastic job, but he was lucky to be alive. Unlike the others.
“Is that why they posted you here?” she asked, tilting her head. “Because you were injured.”
“They assigned me here to recover.” Not strictly true. He’d been cleared for active duty. Syman was a punishment, a reprimand. The embassy posting was a reminder of what he’d done, that they didn’t want him around.
She nodded, believing him.
“It’s not exactly front-line action, but it's something,” he muttered.
When she didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “You have that document?”
He’d felt the bag under her robe when he’d carried her over the glass at the embassy.
She shifted uncomfortably. "About that..."
His eyes narrowed as a bad feeling crept over him. "Tell me you have the letter."
Her words spilled in a rush. "Oh, Tom. I'm so sorry. I lost it in the souk. I was trying to escape the security forces, so I bought an abaya to disguise myself, and must have left the document on the stall counter."
He stared at her. “You lost it?”
Was she fucking kidding, right now?
She bit her lip. This time he didn’t look down at her mouth, he was too goddamn angry.
She shifted in her seat. “I was worried that if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t save me."
It wasn’t up to him. He threw his hands in the air. “Now we have no leverage. They won't authorize me to assist you without that letter."
He paced up and down the room. With that letter went his one chance of getting out of here.
“You should have told me the truth.”
A whisper. “I couldn’t.”
He tightened his jaw. Now what?
“You could just say I’ve got it.”
He stared at her. “You mean lie to my Commanding Officer? What happens when we get you out of here? When it’s time to deliver?” She stayed silent, so he shook his head. “What were you going to do then?”
“I don’t know. I was just trying to stay alive.”
He hissed out a long breath.
Another time, another place.
Same fucking thing.
Amrain had lied—and he’d fallen for it. Fooled to the point that he’d led his entire team into an ambush.
It was beginning to feel like he had “sucker” tattooed across his forehead.
He swung around. “Does the document even exist? Or did you make that up too?”
To his surprise she jumped to her feet, eyes flashing. “Obviously, it exists. Why do you think the State Security forces are after me? It’s not because I quit, you know. I’m not that indispensable to His Royal Heighness.”
Of course, he was being a dick. They’d bombed the shit out of the U.S. Embassy trying to get to her.
He was about to apologize, when she took a step closer to him.
“For your information, I didn’t plan on losing it.
That letter was my ticket out of here. I panicked, okay?
I’m not used to being a fugitive. You may be able to think clearly under pressure, but I can’t.
Especially not with State Security breathing down my neck. ”
He paused, considering her words. At least that cleared one thing up. She wasn't a spy. No operative would lose such vital intel in a souk.
He raised his hands in a consolatory gesture and tried his best to calm down. “Okay, let’s call a truce. You were desperate, I get that. But we’re in a tough spot, now. Without that document, getting you out won't be easy."
"You could call your commanding officer and explain the situation," she suggested.
"And say what? That you tricked me into believing you had this top-secret intel?"
She gulped. "Tell him the truth—that I lost the document. What other option do we have?"
He sighed. "I need to call them about the embassy, anyway. They might not know what happened yet.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ll probably be sent back to assess the damage."
She swayed, her face pale, and clutched his arm.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t look so?—”
Her eyelashes fluttered closed, and she crumbled in front of him. He just managed to catch her before she hit the floor.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Gently, he carried her to the couch and set her down. “Rest up. I’ll make us something to eat, then you should get some sleep.”
He turned to leave, but she reached for him. “Please don’t leave me. They’ll kill me.”
She wasn’t wrong there.
A tremor coursed through her body.
“I won’t,” he said with a sigh. He couldn't abandon her. Not now. Not after everything.
The bad feeling settled into a deep melancholy.
This had been it. His one shot to climb out of the hole Afghanistan had left him in. A mission that mattered. High-value intel. A civilian to protect. It should’ve been textbook—get her out, hand over the evidence, win back the trust that he’d lost in Kabul.
Instead, it had just been flushed down the toilet.
He stared at her as she lay on the couch, eyes closed, pale and exhausted. She was completely spent. No matter what the truth was, this woman was wanted, and she wouldn’t survive without him.
He straightened up, clenching his fists. Delivering Hannah and the intel would’ve put him back in the game. Back where he belonged. Not babysitting an empty embassy in a country on the brink.
Maybe, just maybe, it would’ve proven that he was still sharp. Still useful. That he hadn’t gone soft. That the ghosts from the sandbox hadn’t broken him completely.
Instead, she’d lied.
Looked him dead in the eye and fed him a story. Played him.
“I didn’t trick you.”
The words came so quietly, he almost missed them.
He turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. “What did you just say?”
“I said I didn’t trick you. We can still use the information.”
He hesitated. “What the hell are you talking about? You left the letter back at the market. You told me that yourself. Without it, we’ve got nothing.”
She tapped the side of her head, forcing her eyes open. “I didn’t lose anything. It’s still in here.”
He crossed his arms and stared at her. “You’re saying you remember what it said?”
A nod.
Bullshit .
“You’re telling me you memorized a classified, four-page strategic defense memo in the middle of a panicked escape from the palace? Come on, nobody is that good.”
“Not exactly memorized,” she said, her voice unsteady. “It’s more like my brain took a picture.”
He studied her, wondering if she was full of shit. Sitting upright, her chin was raised in defiance, but there was a flicker of nervousness in her throat as she swallowed.
A long beat passed.
“I don’t follow,” he said, eventually.
“I have a gift. Or at least, that’s what my grandfather called it. I’ve always had it, since I was a kid. If I see something once, I can recall it exactly. Word for word. Picture-perfect. It’s how I learned Arabic so quickly, why I never had to study for exams. It’s just... there.”
He’d heard of people like that, but it was rare.
“You expect me to believe that?”
She flinched. “I know I’ve given you reasons not to trust me, but I’m not lying.” Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her bare feet shifted slightly beneath the robe. She was anxious, but not evasive.
Still, he couldn’t afford to go soft. Not again.
“You said you could recite the document,” he said slowly. “But it’s all in Arabic. That’s convenient. I’ve got no way of proving it.”
Her lips twitched. “Then give me something else to read. Something in English. I’ll prove it to you.”
He hesitated. She’d called his bluff, and now his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Wordlessly, he strode down the short hallway and into the bedroom. When he returned, he held a beat-up military thriller in one hand, the kind with a cover that screamed testosterone and covert ops.
He handed it to her. “Read something.”
She flipped the book open to a page in the middle. He watched as she scanned the page with laser focus, her eyes flicking line by line without pausing. She didn’t skim—she absorbed. Her lips didn’t move, but her chest rose and fell steadily as she processed the words.
A moment later, she closed the book and handed it back.
Tom took it, eyeing her the way he’d study an IED that hadn’t exploded. Dangerous. Possibly a trap. But he couldn’t ignore it.
She leaned back in the chair, stared past him at a spot on the wall, and began to recite.
Her voice was smooth, mechanical. No hesitation, no filler. Just raw data, straight from the page—names, places, action sequences, dialogue. Everything.
He didn’t interrupt, he was too busy following along. Didn’t say a word until she finished the final sentence and looked up, her eyes meeting his.
“Well?”
He blinked once. “You’ve got a photographic memory.”
She broke into a smile. “Told you so.”
Tom scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Shit. This changes everything.”