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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 draggedthe 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.