lease, don’t let them take me!”

I knew enough Urdu to understand the girl’s desperate plea. The scrawny little thing clutching my arm was like any other twelve-year-old in the crowded Karachi marketplace, her hair covered with the traditional hijab headscarf, and her soft brown eyes wide with fear.

“It’s okay,” I said, betting she’d understand the tone if not the actual English words. My eyes darted about, attempting to pinpoint who or what was about to destroy the peace of a sweltering September afternoon. I’d heard enough horror stories to know if a young girl turned to an ambassador’s daughter for help, it had to be a matter of life or death.

The American embassy was only three blocks away, but we couldn’t walk there directly. A labyrinth of tiny stalls offering everything from used books to live chickens hemmed us in. Each booth butted up against the next, forcing shoppers to navigate a jostling gauntlet through a rabbit warren of sights and smells. It was one of my favorite places in the city.

I took her hand as we pressed through the crowd. I too wore a hijab, and though I normally tried to walk respectfully with head bowed, her panic was contagious. For once I didn’t care who caught sight of my bright blue eyes, a dead giveaway of my foreignness.

A glance back revealed three bearded men shoving people aside with careless brutality. They were dressed in loose tunics and trousers, but it was the sight of their turbans, a squashed version of what most men wore, that sent my heart racing. Benson once told me the local extremists sported the odd style as a badge of honor and were to be avoided at all costs.

A shout told me we’d been spotted. It also warned the other shoppers there was trouble brewing. As the crowd magically thinned, I knew with absolute certainty we were never going to make it to the embassy before our pursuers closed the gap. The girl’s fingernails bit into my skin as she realized it, too.

I searched the stalls as we raced, hunting desperately for something I could use as a weapon. Benson said the local group wasn’t well armed, but in his mind, that meant they probably wouldn’t have guns. Knives and clubs were another matter.

Inspiration struck when I spied the music man.

He always sat perched on a big, colorful pillow as he played one of the many musical instruments filling every square inch of his stall, his dark eyes twinkling as if we shared some secret. I hoped he’d forgive what I was about to do.

Five or six tall wind instruments resembling overgrown rhaitas, the flutes popular with snake charmers, stood in an orderly row at the front of the open-air shop. I grabbed the nearest one, about six feet in length and surprisingly heavy. The mouthpiece and flared opening were both fitted with metal coverings, but the rest was a solid shaft of gleaming wood. It was perfect.

What I was about to do broke every rule, but the men bearing down on us left me no choice. I shoved the girl behind me and stood my ground.

The shoppers cleared a path as our pursuers slowed to a confident pace. A cluster of old men cackled as they placed bets on how long I could fend them off, and how many blows I could land before I succumbed.

The trio came to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust. The guy in the center regarded me with contempt as I bounced on the balls of my feet, the staff balanced in my hands. He appeared to be in his late twenties, but his two young companions were only a few years older than me.

“Go home… girl.” He spit out the last word as if it were dirt in his mouth. English was the second language of Pakistan, but he spoke it better than I would ever manage Urdu.

“No problem,” I said evenly. “I’ll just take my friend and go.” I didn’t dare turn to look, but she still hovered behind me.

“No. She has offended Allah and shamed her family. We will take her.” He took a threatening step in my direction, but I held firm.

“What has she done?” The kid looked barely strong enough to walk to the dinner table.

“This.” Her high voice piped up as she stepped forward, her stance defiant as she held up the forbidden object causing all the commotion. A book. “I have been going to school.” Her English was clear and precise, her words ringing with pride.

Oh, shit. As far as these guys were concerned, she might as well have announced she danced naked with sheep. The traditionalists in this part of the world were hell bent on keeping their girls ignorant and subservient. There would be no walking away from this one gracefully.

The old men holding wagers were getting impatient. One of them called out a taunt, egging the trio on. The leader took the bait, but I was ready for him. A quick flick, and the staff smacked him squarely across the face, shattering his nose. My stomach clenched at the sight of spurting blood.

Benson’s voice rang inside my head, directing my movements as I followed with a hard jab to the ribs and an uppercut to the jaw. My shocked opponent sank to his knees before passing out cold on the dusty street.

Cheers and catcalls arose from our audience. They didn’t care who won or lost; this was the most fun they’d had all day. It also fueled the righteous anger of the remaining two, one of whom pulled out a gleaming knife. He nodded to the other and they broke apart, intent on circling me. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Benson’s rule,” my dad’s security chief would say. “Level the playing field.” The knife had to go.

I feinted toward the guy with the weapon, and he fell for it. Off balance, it was a simple matter to sweep the staff behind his knees and whip him off his feet. The other guy attacked. Fortunately, he fought like an untrained schoolboy and clumsily swung a fist in my general direction. I dodged it easily and sank an elbow into his exposed throat. His windpipe was probably fine, but he was suddenly a whole lot more worried about breathing than he was about messing with me.

The guy with the knife lurched back to his feet and came looking for blood. The chatter from the sidelines grew as bets were doubled, maybe tripled. I danced just out of reach, counting on his anger to make him reckless. I was shaming him in front of his people, something my dad would surely ream me for later.

The swiftness of the girl’s movements surprised us both. Like a cornered kitten, she launched herself at him with arms raised. She viciously slammed the book down on his knife hand. The weapon skittered away and so did she, beaming as she cleared the field. I immediately swept the staff into the sweet spot between my opponent’s legs, and his eyes glazed over as he sank to the ground.

I glanced at the spectators, worried an uncle or cousin of one of the fallen would feel honor-bound to enter the fray, but they were all too busy arguing over their wagers.

“Let’s go,” I urged the girl, pausing in front of the grinning music man to return the dented instrument and empty my pockets of every last rupee. I hoped it was enough.

“Thanks!” I yelled back as we dashed away.