Chapter 18
I t was just before sunrise when they spotted the lights of Mandhab twinkling ahead.
The town nestled against a stretch of rugged hills—shorter than a mountain range but still imposing, with jagged rock faces that glowed purple in the early morning light.
Instead of heading straight in, they circled wide and entered through a small road at the base of the hills.
“This place is a rebel stronghold,” Tom said quietly, motioning for her to stay in the shadows.
“What?” She stopped short, pulse going into overdrive. “Didn’t you say to avoid the rebels at all costs? What if they find out who I am?”
“Don’t worry. These rebels aren’t interested in you—they’ve got their own problems to deal with.
This town’s been through days of mortar fire and skirmishes with government militia.
That’s why it looks like a war zone. The army only pulled out a few days ago, and most people here are still trying to adjust to the ceasefire. ”
She glanced around. That would explain the shattered buildings with gaping holes, the exposed wires overhead, and the leaning street poles.
The road was littered with debris from bombed-out homes, and burned-out vehicles sat rusting by the curb.
Yet people were beginning to emerge—some heading to work, others inspecting the damage.
“I know a place where we can rest and grab something to eat. It’s just two blocks from here.” He offered a reassuring smile, but it didn’t help with her nerves. “We’re almost there.”
Hannah kept her eyes peeled. Now she had to look out for both soldiers and rebels—she didn’t know who she was more scared off. There were lots of men dressed in the colors of the freedom movement, but thankfully, there didn’t appear to be a military presence.
They came to what looked like a post-office riddled with bullet holes, then turned down a side street.
It led to a small line of shops–or what was left of them.
All the windows were covered with wooden or iron sheeting, even though they would soon open for business. The owners were taking no chances.
“Is this where we’re going?” They’d stopped in front of a small convenience store. It too was boarded up. The shop sign hung haphazardly over the door, while the ground outside was strewn with broken tiles and other debris.
Tom tried the handle. It was unlocked. A small bell jingled as he pushed the door open. A man with thick black hair and a beard poked his head up from behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” he asked in Arabic.
““Jamal. We’re looking for Jamal,” Tom said in English, hoping the man understood. He seemed to. He rose and studied their dusty clothes and tired expressions. His gaze lingered on Tom’s rifle.
“Why you want Jamal?” the man asked, his accent thick. He was neatly dressed, probably in his forties.
“We need his help,” Tom said. Hannah stood by his side, willing the man to help them.
“Jamal not here.” The man turned away.
Was that it? Hannah cast a worried glance at Tom.
He stepped forward, but Hannah placed a hand on his arm. “Let me try,” she whispered.
Without waiting, she stepped toward the man. “Please. We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re trying to get out of Syman—back to England. Jamal told us to come here if we needed him.”
She wasn’t sure if that last part was true, but she hoped it helped. They needed to look like anything but a threat.
The man hesitated, studying her again. He frowned at her lack of an accent. “These are dangerous times. You can’t trust anyone.”
“I understand. But we mean no harm,” she said. “We just need help. He’s a friend of yours.” She motioned to Tom. “This is a friend of his.”
Tom stepped forward. “My name is Tom Wilde,” he said. “I met Jamal in Syman City. We worked together.”
The man nodded, turning back to her. “Jamal’s not here now, but I’ll contact him. Go to the mosque on the corner. He’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Shukran.” She translated for Tom, who also thanked him.
They bought some food—plain bread and bottled water—and sat outside the mosque, perched on an overturned crate.
Hannah eyed the rounded dome overhead, now shattered where mortar blasts had ripped through.
The front entrance was gone, blown off completely.
Cracked walls and sagging supports gave the whole place a feeling of barely hanging on.
More people were on the streets now that the sun was up. The town buzzed with quiet activity. A man and young boy set up a table with vegetables; another teen laid out fresh flatbreads.
“How long do you think the ceasefire will last?” she asked, watching children play among the rubble. Their bright eyes and laughter seemed at odds with the destruction.
“Not long,” Tom replied. “The army will want this town back. It’s too close to the capital. Strategically important.”
“These poor people,” she murmured. “How do they live with this constant threat? I couldn’t do it.”
“Jemah’s even worse,” he said. “Another town under rebel control. The army’s been attacking for days. It’s brutal.”
“When I took this job, this was the last thing I expected.” She motioned at the ruined streets. “It’s surreal. Me, caught in the middle of a civil war? Feels like a bad dream.”
His jaw tightened. “Things tend to go bad pretty fast in places like this.”
He would know. His entire career had been spent in hot zones like this.
She didn’t know how he handled it.
“There he is.” Tom stood up.
Hannah squinted into the sun. A man emerged out of the glare, smoking a cigarette, which he tossed into the dusty ground as soon as he spotted them.
“Tom. Good to see you, buddy.” They shook hands, while she stood aside, waiting to be introduced. His English was good, almost as natural as her Arabic, and was that a hint of an American accent she detected?
She studied him with renewed interest. He was tall, slim, dressed like many of the locals in jeans and a T-shirt, and his short dark hair and beard framed a handsome but serious face.
The rifle slung over his shoulder caught her attention.
It wasn’t the same kind as Tom’s, but it looked just as deadly.
“This is Hannah Evans,” Tom said in a low voice. “She’s why we’re here. I need to get her out of Syman. Urgently. Can we talk somewhere private?”
Jamal looked over at her and she got the feeling she was being assessed. A beat passed, after which he gave a curt nod. “Follow me.”
Hannah was unsure what to make of him. Tom had called him a friend, but their greeting hadn’t been exactly warm. She wondered what kind of work the two had done together.
Jamal led them through a maze of narrow alleys, some barely wide enough for one person. Eventually, they stopped outside a three-story apartment block, wedged tightly between two similar buildings. Bullet holes marked the walls, and looking up, she noticed many of the windows were cracked.
Jamal unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“This is my sister’s place,” he said, ushering them into the kitchen. It was clean, neat, and sparse. A dough-covered breadboard rested on a wooden table. “You can stay here as long as you need.”
“Thanks, but we can’t stay long,” Tom said. “I was hoping you could help us get out.”
Jamal’s gaze shifted to Hannah, and he hesitated.
Fine. She got the message. He wanted to speak to Tom privately.
“I would love to freshen up,” she said. “Would your sister mind if I used the bathroom?”
Jamal gave a relieved nod. “Please, feel at home. The bathroom is upstairs. There is also a shower, if you’d like one.”
Obviously, she looked that bad. A shower sounded amazing, so she smiled gratefully and headed upstairs. Her absence would give them time to talk and hopefully hatch a plan to get her the hell out of here.