Bodyguard Lockdown

chapter Twelve



Night covered the city of Tourlay. The streetlamps burned a dull, misty yellow, thickening the smoke spewing from the roof holes of nearby dwellings. Buildings that had years before lost their charm—their bricks now gouged, the paint long replaced with graffiti.

“Follow me.” Booker kept to the shadows, peering in windows they passed.

“Are you looking for a place?” Sandra asked, making sure she kept within a few steps. “Because I know of one up the street.”

His eyes studied her face for a moment, but he didn’t ask how she knew. “Okay. Show me.”

The dwelling was little more than a room with a roof, gutted long before by its original owners, or nomads like Booker and Sandra who sought shelter. Dirt floors, clay walls and a roof made of scrap lumber, it did little more than protect them from the elements.

Sandra stepped through the door after Booker gave her the “all clear.” “The family that lived here, they had moved on to better things.”

“You helped them?”

“Not as much as I wanted to.”

Booker nodded. “Stay here. Keep away from the windows and door. I’ll be back in a while.” Before she could respond, he stepped out into the darkness.

In the back corner, near the only window, lay a small circle of stone for fire.

With the dry wood for the roof, Sandra decided against tempting fate and hugged her arms to her chest.

She was my wife, long before I met you. She died from complications when our baby miscarried.

Also long before I met you.

And frankly, its none of your damn business, Doc.

That was it. That’s all he’d said.

And he was right.

It wasn’t any of her business.

But the hurt was there, a razor-sharp edge that sliced the air between them.

The door creaked. Before she could react, he stood in front of her.

“Take this.” Booker handed her a bundle. Harsh woven cloth scraped against her palm.

“A change of clothes,” he whispered. “Put it on.”

“Where—”

“A caftan from a nearby laundry line.”

It took a moment, but she found the openings, slipped the garment over her head.

“So we can move through the streets easier.” He pulled a duplicate over his head.

Both were dark and blended well with the night. She took a step, testing the length, pleased when the hem brushed against the top of her foot. If she had to run, she didn’t want to trip.

Sandra drew a shabby scarf from the bottom of the bag, and noticed the flat bread and cheese. “You’ve been busy.”

“I also found a place to stable the horse.” A pail clattered somewhere down the street. People shouted; a door slammed. Booker placed a finger to his lips, then peered out the window for a long moment.

Two men, their backs hunched, hurried down a nearby alleyway. Obviously, they didn’t like the noise or the skirmish it caused.

Sandra draped the scarf around her neck, then pulled out the food, divided it in half and put the first portion back in the bag.

When he stepped from the window, she held out his share. A small piece of bread and cheese. “Digestion dehydrates. It’s best to have small meals.”

Booker waved off the food. “I’m not hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to eat something.” She lifted her hand higher. “I won’t be able to carry you if you faint. So I’ll leave you where you fall and finish this...hunt...by myself.”

“Hunt?” he questioned, but took the bread and cheese.

“I’m sorry, should I have said ‘vacation’?”

Booker took a bite of the cheese. His head pounded, tiny razor-sharp claws raking it from the inside every time his jaw moved.

“The cylinders are in the mountains on the farthest side of Tourlay. Easily a full day by jeep from the city.”

“We’re going to need supplies.”

“My friends will provide them.”

“Just how friendly are we talking here?” He took another bite, this time out of sheer stubbornness. The pain ebbed quicker, but not quick enough. He stepped over to the window, took another long look.

“I know more people than you think,” Sandra argued. “Last year, I found the contacts, got introduced to the right people on the streets who could provide the services I required or the supplies I needed in cities throughout Taer.”

“What do you mean? Right people?” Anger whipped his head around, but the dizziness had him locking his knees, grabbing the window’s edge with his free hand.

“You need rest, Booker.”

“I need a hell of a lot more than that,” he quipped. “Finish telling me about your contacts all over Taer.”

“Tourlay had been one of the main cities I worked in. I’ve spent the last year relocating families, providing medical treatment.”

Booker swore silently. “Who helped you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Guilt edged her eyes, but defiance lifted her chin. Obviously, it was her choice of penance.

A dangerous one.

“They’re wanted by Taer. They’re Al Asheera, Booker.”

“Who are they, Doc?” His voice was silky smooth and razor-sharp.

“I can’t tell you...I have to show you. They’ll only deal with me. It took me months to arrange my first meeting with them.” She folded her arms for emphasis.

“All right.” He held out his hand, helped her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

She glanced at his hand, remembered the strength of his fingers against her skin....

She tugged free, wiped her palms against her pant legs. His words replayed in her head.

Suspicious, she studied him, searching for the hidden agenda. “You gave in too easy, McKnight. What’s the catch?”



“No catch. It’s logical. We don’t have the time for me to find someone through back channels. We’d lose several days. And we need supplies. Weapons. Climbing gear. We have no idea what condition the trails are in.”

“So you’re agreeing with me?”

“Looks like I am.” Booker scowled. “Don’t get used to it, Doc.”

“Oh, I won’t.” She didn’t stop the smile.

They slipped into a back alley down the street. “Go ahead of me,” he ordered softly.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Booker snapped, his voice low. “I want to make sure we’re not being followed.”

She glanced around, alert. “Fine,” she muttered. “I always wanted to be human bait.”

“Not bait. Just a distraction.” Booker scanned the perimeter, keeping a few steps behind Sandra. “And I’ve got your back. So don’t worry.”

“Should I whistle a happy tune?”

When he didn’t answer, she sighed and started down the street.

Booker counted to ten, then stepped from the shadows.

Suddenly, two men emerged from the alley. They crossed the street, their faces covered by scarves.

Booker kept out of the streetlights, followed along the edge of the buildings.

Sandra stepped into the lamplight, her steps stiff. It took all her willpower, but she didn’t glance over her shoulder.

Brave woman, Booker acknowledged. The men ate up the ground behind her, making their presence felt on the quiet street.

Sandra kept her pace steady, her head straight ahead.

Booker ducked down a nearby alley, one he’d traversed earlier. He jogged to the end, up another street and down another back street. He came out a few feet in front of Sandra. When she stepped past, he grabbed her arm.

She didn’t scream, but she threw a punch. He caught her fist in his, locked her arms behind her.

Her heel came down on his instep.

“Damn it, Doc!” His breath hissed between his teeth as the pain shot up his leg.

Her heart raced against his chest. “It’s me.” He shook her to break through the panic and fear.

“Booker?” She swore, her fear now anger. He let her go and stepped back.

Her hand free, she swung, connected with his temple. “You son of a—”

“Stop it.” He gripped her wrist, ignored the jab of pain that pierced his skull, the razor-sharp stars that imploded in his head. “You hit me in the head, with a concussion.”

“I’ll fix it later.” She yanked her hand free. “Next time whistle or something before you sneak up on me again.”

“I’ll remember.” He jabbed a finger in the general direction behind him. “Go down the alley, and hide in the doorway on the left. Be quiet.”

The annoyance morphed into anger. “That works well for you, doesn’t it? Telling people what to do.”

“Only when they actually do what they’re told.” He eased up to the corner, took a look up the street. “So go. Now.”

The men glanced around, searching for their target, their semiautomatic pistols out, ready.

No talking, their footsteps light. Their hands up, signaling.

Military hand singles.

Not the Al Asheera.

Trygg’s mercenaries.

Booker waited until both breached the alleyway, then he stepped from the shadows. “Looking for me, gentlemen?”



The first man swung his pistol toward Booker, but he was too late. Booker shifted, turned and twisted the man’s arm. He heard a snap of bone, the cry of pain. He rammed his elbow into the man’s throat, yanked the pistol free and let him fall to the ground.

Booker swung around with a high kick. His foot connected with the other mercenary’s wrist. Again a snap, but this one took the pain with a grunt, then threw a fist.

Booker’s jaw slammed shut, his head snapped back. He staggered under the explosion of pain that rocked his head, rattled his teeth.

“That all you got, McKnight?”

“No. He’s got me,” Sandra retorted. The man swung around. Sandra kicked him in the crotch.

The man gasped, went down on his knees, then hit the ground, rolling in agony.

Booker picked up the discarded pistols, spared the injured men a glance, his mouth grim.

“I definitely will whistle next time, Doc.” Light-headed, Booker locked his knees. Bile slapped at the back of his throat.

“Glock. Semiautomatics. Matching set. Same as your friends we ran into yesterday.” He hit the release, checked the clip. “Full. Ready for battle.” He tucked one pistol in his belt, handed the other to Sandra. “Put this away in case you need it later.”

“Really?” She took the gun, slipped it into the bag. “That must have been a hard decision.”

“It would be harder to watch you hurt,” Booker admitted, annoyed.

Startled, Sandra glanced at him. “Booker—”

“I ordered you to stay in the doorway.”

“It was an order?” she quipped, not quite catching the light tone. “I thought it was a suggestion.”

The second man struggled to get up. Booker kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. At least now someone else’s headache would be worse than his. “Time to go.”

* * *

THE WAREHOUSE STOOD AT the edge of the desert, nudging the main rail yard and its web of tracks.

“You need to stay out here.” Sandra spoke in hushed tones. The building stood twenty feet tall, its walls spider-cracked cement, its compound fenced and deserted.

And pitch-black.

“I don’t want to spook them.” She lifted the latch on a small gate cut in the fencing, cringed when it squeaked in protest.

“The hell I am,” he growled. He pulled the Glock free from his waistband, thumbed off the safety.

She slapped a hand on his chest, pushed enough to get his attention. “Listen to me. I can do this.”

The blue eyes darkened, and his heartbeat strengthened beneath her palm. Its tempo slow, steady. She curled her fingers, just a bit, until the warmth of his skin penetrated the thin cotton of his clothes, seeped into her palm until her nerves jumped.

“You have no idea what you’re asking.” His hand moved over hers, stroking the wrist with his thumb. Her pulse jumped, her own heart raced.

Her eyes snapped to his, not sure they were still talking about the warehouse. “I’m asking you to trust me. Give me five minutes by myself.”

“And if I think the situation is getting out of control, you’ll do what I ask?” His thumb continued to stroke her wrist, muddling her thoughts. She tugged her hand free. Resisted the urge to shake the tingling away.

“Yes,” she agreed, realizing he’d make them stand there all night out of stubbornness. “But if I’m right and arrange everything we need, you’ll let me make more of the decisions. Deal?”

“Let’s get through this first.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, Doc.”

“It’s all I’m going to need.” In a quick trot, she crossed the yard and slipped through the warehouse door.

Booker counted a slow ten, then followed her in.

Stacks of wood crates surrounded him. Some topping fifteen feet. Some shorter. Some left solitary by the nearest wall.

Most smelled of gas and fresh wood. And something else. Booker inhaled. Gun grease.

He pried the top off a nearby crate with his knife.

AK-47s.

He moved to another. Pried the top free.



Rocket launchers. Land mines.

Booker swore. What the hell was Sandra thinking by getting in the middle of this?

Quickly, he searched the shipment, found explosive disks similar to those he used against the helicopter. He grabbed the nearest one, noting its slightly larger size, the advanced detonation device.

American made, he thought grimly.

He punched in a time span on its small digital keypad, then shoved it between two of the crates filled with the land mines.

With light steps, he made his way to the office. A giant with no neck and a hairy face stood by the door. An M16 short-stocked machine gun crooked in his arm.

Sandra’s scream ricocheted through the walls.

The giant’s teeth, broken and yellow, split into a big grin. Booker peered through the narrow window at the top of the office door.

“Hey, ugly.”

Startled, the big guy swung around, his machine gun leveled. Booker stepped in, grabbed the gun and shoved the barrel under the giant’s chin.

His finger pinned the guard’s against the trigger. Slowly, he applied pressure.

The giant’s eyes widened.

“You can move your hands off the gun, or eat a bullet. Your choice.”



Slowly, the man dropped the weapon and raised his hands above his shoulders.

“We’re going through that door,” Booker warned, leaving no doubt that the giant would be his human shield. He patted the man down, tossed away the knife hidden at his ankle, then took the set of car keys from the giant’s pocket and shoved them into his own.

“Let’s go.” Booker waved the gun toward the door. “Quietly.”

The guard nodded, then opened the door.

Two men stood across the room. Both holding M16s. Both pointed at Sandra.

“Friends of yours?” Booker asked Sandra, his eyes on the two men.

“Don’t you dare say it,” she snapped, her features flushed pink with either humiliation or rage, he didn’t know which.

“That I was right?”

“Don’t push me, Booker.” Her black eyes burned.

Definitely rage, Booker mused.

“If I may interrupt?” The oldest of the two stepped forward. He was a squat man, at least two feet shorter than his companion, with a round belly that strained the buttons of his sweat-soiled khaki shirt. His hair, peppered gray, hung long and thin just past his ears and framed a ruddy, square face with a fairly large nose and bug eyes.

Booker glanced from the older man to the younger. Noted the same nose and eyes.

Relatives. Always a touchy situation.

Since Ugly wasn’t blood, Booker knew his bargaining chip just lost its value.

Booker slammed the weapon handle against the back of the giant’s head. The man slid to the floor unconscious.

“Booker, meet the Contee brothers,” Sandra said, her tone derisive. She jabbed a thumb toward the older, shorter brother. “This is Madu. The other is Boba. It seems they both are aware of the contract on our heads.”

“And your friend?” Booker nudged Ugly with his foot.

Sandra shrugged. “Never met him before.”

“Yemesi. Our boss felt the need for us to have added protection,” Madu admitted with a shrug.

“Your boss needs to have another look at his staffing list,” Booker remarked. “This man barely understands how to hold a gun.”

“I agree. So you understand why we don’t care if you killed him,” Madu replied, his lips twisting into a slight sneer.

The office offered little space to maneuver. A steel desk was stamped with the U.S. Army logo, its top buried under piles of take-out cartons and papers. Behind it stood matching swivel office chairs on rollers and a single column of filing cabinets.

Booker’s gaze shifted over the room, touched briefly on the chair behind Madu before he spotted the red scarf.

Booker dropped the pistol onto the floor near his feet. “The doc says there is good Al Asheera. I take it you’re not one of them?”

“Our boss said you were smart. That we needed to be extra careful with you,” Boba observed with a frown. Taller than Madu by six inches or more, the younger brother sported less of a belly and a more expensive hairstyle—slick against his scalp. But not enough to cover the receding hairline.

“Shut up, Boba! You talk too much.” With a quick warning glance to his brother, Madu moved to the desk and settled himself into its chair.

Boba frowned. “Bloody hell, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve got them, don’t we?”

“You do.” Booker held up his hands. “I give up. Before you kill me though, I’d like to at least know who ordered my death.”

Sandra inhaled, reminding herself Booker had probably dealt with this situation a million times.

“I don’t think you’re so smart, McKnight.” Madu raised his gun slightly, until the barrel pointed at Booker’s forehead. He leaned back on his chair and placed his feet on the small clean corner of his desk. “Our orders are to bring you back with us. Not to kill you. We just didn’t expect you to make our job so easy by walking through our front door.”

“You’re lying,” Booker said quietly. “You knew Doctor Haddad would need supplies, and that you’d be one of the people she’d turn to, considering you’ve helped her in the past.”

“The doctor, yes. Not you,” Madu admitted. “When the boss said you wouldn’t be far behind, I didn’t believe him.”

Sandra shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“The reason you finally made contact with Madu last year, Doc, is because someone realized that the time would come that you’d need to trust the Contee brothers. This setup has been in the works for a year now.”

“But all those families we helped—”

“We were ordered to help you.” Madu snorted. “Of course, it’s a bonus when it helps our people, too.”

“Let me guess who your boss is,” Booker stated flatly. “Minos?”

“Exactly,” Madu admitted. “He hasn’t been around long, but he has single-handedly brought possibility and pride back to our people. We will take back what is rightfully ours. With your help, of course.”

“Maybe you aren’t so smart, McKnight. You’re on the wrong side.” Boba smiled, revealing two gold incisors.

“I really thought you were decent men.” Anger shook Sandra’s voice.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Doctor Haddad. We like you. You’ve done many good things for our people,” Boba admitted. “This isn’t personal. It’s business. Isn’t that right, Madu?”



“That’s right,” the older brother agreed and cocked the revolver. “Now it’s time to take care of some other business, McKnight.”

“We weren’t supposed to kill him, Madu.”

“A million dollars will help a lot of our people, Boba,” Madu rationalized. “We’ll tell the boss you got caught in a crossfire trying to be a hero. You understand.”

“Actually, Madu, I don’t think I do,” Booker drawled, then glanced at Sandra. His eyes flashed with warning. “Down!”

Sandra dropped to the ground. The explosion pounded the air, sucking it dry of oxygen, clogged it with heat and smoke.

The air buzzed around her head, muffled her ears.

Booker rolled, grabbed his gun. Both Madu and his brother staggered to their feet. Madu groaned and doubled over.

Booker grabbed Sandra’s arm. “Go!”

He pulled her out into the street and into a nearby alley. “What do we do now?” Sandra bent over, dragged oxygen into her lungs.

Booker held up a set of car keys, gave them a shake. “Where did you get those?”

“From Madu’s guard. Yemesi.” Booker clicked the button. Heard the beep of an alarm, saw the flash of headlights on a nearby silver-colored jeep.

“I think we just found our ride.”

* * *

SENATOR KEITH HARPER TUGGED at his suit for the hundredth time. It was the middle of the night. The fact that he didn’t have to battle the heat was little consolation.

Impatient, he reminded himself that this deal wouldn’t be made unless he traveled over to this forsaken land.

He was a big man, more than six four, barrel-chested and broad shouldered. The muscle beneath was more solid than slackened from age.

At sixty-five, his face was creased from years of stress and politics, not from the harsh elements of field operations.

He’d come from ten generations of military strategists and diplomats, spent a few decades as a career officer, but many more as a senator on Capitol Hill, dealing with bureaucrats and their self-righteous rhetoric, buying their wives a nice dinner, their mistresses’ even nicer jewelry.

The tent door rustled. A moment later, a man stepped in. He wore dark riding pants, a matching shirt and black leather boots. A scarf, bloodred, covered all but his granite-black eyes.

“General. I’m sorry for the delay,” the man called Minos said, with no apology in the slow, drawn-out words.

He carried a whip, touched it to his forehead in a friendly salute. “You understand that most in our position have very little time between business dealings.”

Instead of approaching the general, he crossed to a table set at the far end of the tent.

“Two hours is more than a little late, Minos.”

“It could not be helped. One of my warehouses just went up in flames. I had to deal with the damage control. I lost thousands of American dollars’ worth of merchandise,” the Al Asheera leader stated unequivocally, then dropped the whip on the table. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, unscrewed the top and poured himself two fingers high. “Would you care for a drink?”

“No,” Harper replied, his tone sharp, his impatience clear. He lifted the briefcase up slightly. “You’ve wasted too much of my time already. I have a flight to the States later tonight. And I don’t want to be spotted here. Not when we are so close to our goal.”

“You don’t need to be concerned. The Sahara is vast, General. The twin-engine planes traveling to and from my camp are never noticed. I make sure of it. It’s bad for business.” Minos set the bottle down, raised his glass in a silent toast, then downed the whiskey under the scarf in one gulp.

“No one knows you are here.” The black eyes narrowed, opaque and cool. “Unless you told them, of course,” Minos said, his tone silky and sharp-edged.

“And why would I do that? I’ve invested a lot of time and money into this operation,” Harper snapped. “I’m not about to watch it all go to hell simply because some random civilian recognizes my face.”

He poured himself another drink. “My man offered you a face scarf and caftan. You turned him down.”

Minos walked over to a nearby couch and settled back into the low, red cushions.

Harper eyed the man, annoyed when the Al Asheera leader didn’t remove his scarf. “Keeping up this charade to the end?”

“I find that it’s better for my...health, to let my skills build my reputation. One doesn’t need a face to establish credibility. Correct?” Minos asked.

“I’d prefer to know whom I am dealing with—”

“Then we’re done.” Minos rose from his seat. “All deals are off.”

“I said I would prefer it—I didn’t say it was necessary, damn it.”

Both understood the general had just retreated. Red flushed his cheeks. He did not like being on the defensive. But he needed this business taken care of.

“Then I owe you an apology,” Minos said easily, but his eyes remained narrow, unyielding. “I misunderstood. Since we are in agreement with the boundaries of our partnership, we may continue.”

“My point exactly,” Harper responded tersely. “We have wasted enough time.”

“Please have a seat.” Minos waved to the closest velvet straight-back chair. “My men told me that you have brought the equipment.”

“Yes. General Trygg needs it delivered tomorrow,” Harper replied. “Make sure it is not damaged in the transportation. It’s fragile and expensive equipment.”

“And the other part of our transaction?”

“I have it here.” Harper opened his briefcase on the table. Slowly, he turned the briefcase around until Minos saw its contents. “And three million in bearer bonds.”

“For Booker McKnight, Sandra Haddad and Riorden Trygg dead,” Minos murmured. “That’s quite a bounty for three people.”

“Do we have a deal?” Senator Harper handed Minos the piece of paper. “These are the coordinates to his camp.”

“That leaves McKnight and Sandra Haddad.”

“Chances are if you find Trygg, you will find McKnight and Omar’s daughter,” Harper snapped. “Trygg is hunting them down.”

“He is that close?”

“Close enough,” Harper replied. “Trygg is planning on moving his laboratory. Very soon. If that happens, you might not be able to track him.”

“Move?”

“He’s built his lab in the belly of the airbus we managed to acquire for him,” Harper explained. “I didn’t think the son of a bitch could pull it off, but he did. He plans on dumping the CIRCADIAN on Taer.”

“He wants to wipe out the royal family?”

“He wants to decimate them, along with most of the country,” Harper corrected. “And frankly, I don’t care if he does or not. Just so long as you take care of him soon. That’s our deal, Minos.”

“Yes, General. We have a deal.” Minos paused, thinking.

“Who knows, Minos? If you play your cards right, once Trygg hits Taer with the CIRCADIAN, there might be enough left for you to finally have the country for the Al Asheera.”

“You can’t rule the dead, Senator,” Minos murmured. He took a short sip of his whiskey. “What about Omar Haddad?”

Harper’s eyes went cold. “I am meeting with him in a few hours.”

“A meeting?”

“More like a conversation about old times,” Harper corrected. “Don’t worry about Omar. I’ll take care of him.”

“He is not a man who is easily taken care of,” Minos pointed out. He placed his drink on a nearby table. “And he, like you, is a father who will stop at nothing to avenge his daughter.”