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“Won’t Hakeem’s men be expecting this?” She felt sick to her stomach. In a way, all these people depended on her, and she in turn depended on Tom. She glanced at the U.S. Marine, so confident, so capable. But would he be able to protect her from a regime that couldn’t afford to let her live?
“They’re looking for a blond Westerner, not a local woman with a rebel sympathizer. Those two guys in the square wouldn’t have seen your hair, and if they did, they wouldn’t have had time to relay the information back to their colleagues yet. We’ve got a narrow margin in which to exit this city.”
They crossed at the traffic lights. Hannah kept her head well down, shuffling like she’d seen the local women do in their long robes. Beside her, Tom remained alert, always one hand on his rifle.
No one stopped them. They were just part of the civilian exodus from Syman City.
They’d almost made it to the rest area when a convoy of police vehicles screamed past, sirens wailing. Tom pulled her into the sparse vegetation at the edge of the road. Tom yanked her off the road and into the brush.
The convoy braked ahead—hard.
“Shit,” he said under his breath.
Hannah turned to him, her pulse thudding.
“What is it?”
His voice was cold.
“It’s a roadblock.”
CHAPTER 12
Hannah felt like crying as the blue lights spread out across the road and the traffic started backing up. They’d almost made it.
“Now what?”
“They’re trying to stop more rebels from entering the city and joining the rallies.”
“You mean it’s not for me?”
“Not officially, no. But they’ll have orders to watch out for you.”
Cars were slowing down. It was easier to flag someone down now.
The first car was a lone male driver. Tom let that one pass.
The next was a smart Mercedes with two businessmen inside. While she was tempted to shove Tom out into the road to get their attention, he didn’t stop them either.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Something they’re not expecting,” he replied, squinting at the next car—a silver sedan, slightly run-down, not the latest model. There was a woman next to the driver and two more people in the back. Tom stepped into the road, waving his handand forcing the driver to stop. The army definitely wouldn’t be looking for a family.
Tom beckoned Hannah over. “Ask him where he’s going.”
She obeyed, speaking flawless Arabic. The man didn’t seem to realize she was a Westerner. That was a good sign.
“He’s going to Bani Hatwah,” she whispered. A visual of the name written on the map popped into her mind. It was a tiny village, a thumbnail south of Syman City. The woman in the passenger seat looked impatiently at her husband.
“That’s good enough. Ask him for a lift. Tell him we’ll pay.”
“Okay.”
She relayed the offer to the driver, a slightly paunchy man of about sixty, with a beard and a turban. At first, he looked like he was about to refuse—then he heard the word “pay.” Money was essential during a crisis. Banks were often closed or offline, and prices climbed as demand surged.
“How much?” he asked.
“A hundred US dollars.” Tom didn’t wait for her to translate. He already had the cash out.