Free Agents Under Fire by Dana Marton Page B

back any second.
    Steel doors banged in the distance. Now and then, she could hear muffled cries.
    On the way in, she’d been escorted. Nobody bothered with her now. She took one turn after the other, hoping she got it right.
    Sweat ran down the middle of her back by the time she reached the outer door that led to the sun-drenched street. Another guard manned that post. He shot her a hostile glare as he stepped aside.
    She steeled her spine. She would stay until she found Kenneth. She refused to be run out of town. She hadn’t let her board of directors oust her from the helm of her father’s company. A small town police chief wasn’t going to get the better of her.
    She wished the U.S. embassy was calling. Or would consider helping her a little more enthusiastically than they’d been doing. But for some reason their records were all messed up, indicating that Kenneth had entered the country as part of some commando team. Kenneth William Hatch, millionaire businessman with serious political aspirations. Ha! He wore Hugo Boss suits and Armani loafers. She couldn’t even picture him in army fatigues and combat boots.
    But the embassy had washed its hands, referring her to the Army who brought in these private security commando teams on contract. The army wouldn’t give her the time of day, of course. Classified information and all that. The locals were even less helpful.
    She squinted against the sun as she looked around with a sinking heart, searching in vain for the cab that’d brought her over from the hotel.
    Better not loiter around or the police chief might change his mind and call her back. She hurried down the street in the direction of her hotel, a dozen blocks from here. Caught a number of angry glares from passersby. Even the old beggar sitting in the dirt frowned at her.
    She looked at her long-sleeved dress that covered her arms to her wrists and her legs to her shoes. She couldn’t imagine anyone finding fault with that.
    A group of older men carried on an intense conversation a couple of yards ahead, wearing long traditional robes and uniform round hats. The street narrowed at the spot where they stood, barely leaving her room to pass.
    They shot her looks of disapproval as she approached. She kept her eyes downcast.
    “ Whore,” one called out as she reached them.
    She walked faster.
    “ American whore spy.” A hand reached out and yanked her hair, hard.
    She scrambled to pull her scarf tighter around her head, but her fingers touched nothing but hair. No scarf. She spun around, but couldn’t see the flimsy material behind her. It must have slipped off as she’d been fleeing the police station, in those winding hallways inside.
    The men shouted at her in Arabic. Some shook their fists.
    For about half a second she pretended she could handle them, that she wasn’t intimidated and everything was fine. Then she ran.
    Her heart beat in her throat. Panic squeezed her lungs. She didn’t dare glance back until she reached the end of the block. The old men had given up pursuit and stood at a distance, arguing with each other.
    Relief filled her to her toes. She drew a shaky breath and pushed forward, eager to put as much distance between herself and the men as possible.
    The streets grew narrower and narrower. Houses butted up against each other, tall adobe walls loomed above. Should have reached the main street by now. She slowed after a while, trying to identify a point of reference, but nothing looked familiar. Instead of the colorful shops the cab had passed on its way to the police station, drab houses lined the street.
    She must have taken a wrong turn and entered a residential area somehow. None of the residents appreciated a foreign intruder, which they made clear by shooting her hostile looks as she passed by. Tension seeped back into her muscles as she kept on walking.
    The maze seemed endless, following no logic, the heat trapped in the narrow passageways, the temperature brutal. As endless