Emma Williams glanced around the crowded bazaar in Kabul, tucking her long, flaming red hair more securely beneath her headscarf. Perspiration dampened the back of her neck as she took in the sights and sounds of the open market, and she cursed the thick hair she’d hidden. The clothing covering practically every inch of her skin.

She didn’t exactly blend in with the locals though, and with her fair, porcelain skin and bright hair, she stood out amongst the Afghanis even more than most Westerners.

And there was no need to draw any further attention to herself.

The smell of kabobs seasoned with fresh herbs filled the warm air, drifting throughout the marketplace, and she watched a man animatedly talking as he sold several plates of them to a family.

The long, tunic-style blouse she had on over her worn-in jeans fluttered in the slight breeze, and she would’ve killed for a breezy little sundress. Good heavens, even shorts and a tank top. Nothing like being covered from head to toe in the sweltering, 95-degree weather—well, not literally head to toe, she thought with a smirk.

She was wearing sandals.

But she looked exactly like every other Western aid worker here in Afghanistan—had blended in nicely with them for the past week and a half.

Never mind that she was really in the country conducting archeology research for the latest academic paper she was writing. Some of the locals might frown on a woman doing a “man’s” job, but aid workers were welcome here—as long as they didn’t reveal any skin, avoided all forms of alcohol, kept their hair covered, and never spent any time alone with a man.

Good heavens.

She respected the customs of other countries, but there was no way on Earth she could ever live here for an extended period of time, research or not.

“Look at those,” her colleague Lily said, pointing toward another merchant’s wares.

The dusty street they were walking along was lined up and down with vendors—booth after booth was filled with spices, traditional Afghani clothing, scarves, jewelry, and fresh fruits and vegetables. Colorful, woven tapestries fluttered in the slight breeze, and Emma’s eyes were drawn to the tables of painted pottery that Lily was pointing to.

Some of the vases would look fabulous on an end table at her flat back in London, but it would be difficult to transport them safely back in her rush to leave in the morning.

Guilt seeped through her at the thought of leaving her colleagues and friend, but she didn’t exactly have any other options.

“Beautiful,” Emma agreed. “I’d probably break them on the flight back though.”

Lily laughed, her light brown waves peeking out from her own headscarf. “You’re here six months, right? I’m sure you can figure out how to safely pack them in your suitcase by then. Just wrap them up in your clothes or buy one of those gorgeous tapestries. I’m thinking of getting one for my apartment back home.”

Emma smiled, nodding slightly at her American friend. Emma had gone through a painstaking process to obtain the necessary visas and paperwork to come to Afghanistan posing as an aid worker. Her friend was here for legitimate reasons—to actually help the people of this country. To work here for the duration of her visa.

But after the information Emma had accidentally uncovered this week?

She shuddered despite the heat.

No. She absolutely needed to return to London as quickly as possible.

Her eyes swept across the bazaar, making sure there was nothing out of the ordinary. Double checking to ensure she wasn’t being followed.

Yes. She had to go back to London. It would be safer for everyone that way.

A group of men talking loudly by one stall in the market caught her attention, and she neatly turned around, walking in another direction as her pulse pounded and adrenaline surged through her veins. Fear clutched her chest, and her eyes scanned the crowd mingling there.

She took a deep breath as she quickly hurried away, leaving Lily behind her.

They most certainly weren’t the men one of her other colleagues had said were asking about her yesterday.

They couldn’t be.

The market was filled with people, young and old, foreigners and locals alike, and she was letting her imagination get carried away.

It was bad enough she’d already drawn unwanted attention to herself. Gossip spread like wildfire about foreigners here, especially Western women, and the last thing she needed was more prying eyes. She’d snooped where she shouldn’t have while conducting her research a few days ago, and it apparently hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Wait up!” Lily called out, hurrying after her.

“I just remembered something I have to pick up,” Emma said, glancing back toward Lily’s flushed face. Her eyes trailed back to the group of men again, and she picked up the pace. “Meet you in ten minutes by the fruit stalls?”

“Oh, sure,” Lily said, looking confused as she fell in step beside Emma. “I thought you wanted to look at the tapestries with me.”

“I will. I just need to purchase something else first.”

“More tea?” Lily joked.

“They’re certainly a people after my own heart,” Emma said, relaxing slightly the further they walked.

“Not mine. They’re aren’t nearly enough coffee shops here in Kabul.”

“You Americans and your coffee,” Emma teased. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you drinking that harsh, bitter brew first thing in the morning.”

Lily laughed. “Give me a few weeks. I’ll change your mind.”

“Highly unlikely. I’m a true Brit, born and bred. I’ll meet you back by the fruit stalls in a few minutes,” she said, pausing in the middle of the bazaar. “We can select a tapestry then if you like.”

“All right,” Lily agreed. “I’ll meet you then. Catch ya later.”

Emma watched her friend walk away before turning and continuing in the opposite direction. Having no intention of returning.

If those men she’d seen were the ones who’d been asking about her, there was no sense in dragging Lily into her problems. No point in potentially putting her in harm’s way. It was better that Emma had ducked out of sight before they spotted her.

Lily would no doubt wonder where she was when she didn’t show up in ten minutes, but if it meant keeping her safe? It was quite worth the secrecy and any hurt feelings that might ensue.

Emma shifted her tan leather backpack from one shoulder to the other, her stomach fluttering with nerves as she thought of the documents she’d discovered during her research the other day that were stuffed into the lining. She was catching a flight out tomorrow, and if she could just continue acting as if everything was normal for the next twenty-four hours, she’d be back in London in no time.

She had several academic journals interested in her research and was quite looking forward to some quiet time alone her materials, laptop, and a hot cup of tea.

And as for the documents she’d discovered?

A trip to the police would be in order as soon as she returned to London—or perhaps MI6. But it’s not like she could just waltz in there announcing she’d found what looked to be a list full of targets for a terrorist attack. The guards certainly wouldn’t let her just stroll into headquarters unannounced proclaiming she had that type of information. They probably wouldn’t even believe her.

Perhaps some of her colleagues at the museum had government contacts she could reach out to. Officials who would believe the documents she’d found and insist on seeing them as soon as possible.

Certainly going to the police was necessary at the bare minimum.

Worry churned through her stomach.

Ducking between two booths, she set her backpack on the dusty ground and lifted a vase up to carefully inspect it. Maybe she should purchase one after all and stuff the papers she’d found into it. Her backpack seemed too obvious of a hiding spot.

But what if the vase broke?

Anyone who saw it would certainly notice what she’d hidden.

Wonder why she’d stuffed papers in there.

She tapped the vase with her fingertips, trying to determine how sturdy it might be, the gold band around her left ring finger glinting in the afternoon sunlight—you couldn’t be too careful as a woman traveling alone in certain areas of the world.

If the locals believed she was a married woman, then she was all for a little white lie.

A young boy working alongside his family in the booth smiled up at Emma.

“Buy for 1,200 afghanis.”

“No, thank you,” she said, politely shaking her head.

“Yes?” he asked.

She shook her head no again and bent to pick up her backpack from the ground, uneasiness suddenly prickling across her skin. Her heart raced as the boy’s gaze shifted to something behind her, a confused look on his face.

Swallowing nervously, Emma drew in a breath and turned to find two of the men who’d been arguing loudly standing before her.

Eyeing her with interest.

Startled, she took a step backward as icy cold fear raced down her spine.

Had they been following her around the bazaar?

One reached out toward her, and she couldn’t follow the quickly flowing words coming from his mouth. His hand brushed against the backpack she was clutching.

She turned, knocking over the table of vases, listening to the shouts of the men and family behind her.

She ran.