Bodyguard Lockdown

chapter Fourteen



Pitman followed Jim down the circular stairway to the main floor of the lab. “Is everything satisfactory, Doctor?”

“Almost,” Lewis replied, pleased.

The lab ran the length of the plane. Hundreds of square feet of fitted steel and white tile, Plexiglas and state-of-the-art technology.

“The only thing missing are the cylinders,” Pitman advised him. “Have you located Sandra Haddad?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you know where she is at least?”

“We know who she’s with,” Jim answered.

“Who?”

“Booker McKnight.”

Pitman stopped at the base of the stairs, blocking Jim. “Senator Harper’s son-in-law?”

“Yes,” Jim acknowledged. “But he will be taken care of soon.”

“You realize it is harder dealing with a man bent on revenge than one who just wants more money?”

“I understand the man more than you think, Lewis. Booker McKnight was more than just military, or loyal. Those men trusted Booker and he let them down. They were his responsibility, his family,” Jim replied. “I’d be surprised if Booker didn’t go after Trygg. Hell, I’d do the same in his shoes.”

“I’m not talking about his men, Colonel. I’m talking about his wife, Emily,” Pitman stated bluntly. “I told Trygg killing Harper’s daughter along with his men was an unnecessary risk.”

“The general always weighs the options,” Jim prodded, keeping his voice even, his expression blank. “Emily Harper’s death was unavoidable. She snuck on the base to see Booker without authorization.”

“Unavoidable? Trygg knew that Emily was on the base,” Pitman scoffed. “How long have you served under General Trygg? That man doesn’t do anything without a purpose.”

“What do you mean?” Jim turned, backed Pitman up against the stairs.

Pitman’s eyes widened. “I understand that circumstance made Emily’s death a last-minute decision, but it wasn’t unavoidable.” Fear made his voice shake. “When Trygg received the call up in the airplane that Emily crashed the gates, we hadn’t dropped the cylinder yet. I told him he needed more time to think it through. That killing Harper’s daughter would bring attention to our operation. He disagreed.”

Jim’s jaw tightened. The trouble was he couldn’t trust Pitman. The man was a rat; he’d kill his own children to save his skin.

“General Trygg understood the importance of the situation,” Jim said flatly, but was unable to dismiss the doctor’s theory. He stepped back, giving them both room—and Jim time to think over this new information.

Pitman cleared his throat, used the moment to gain his composure. “Don’t get me wrong, Colonel. I agree with Trygg’s reasoning. Those who died did so for a good cause whether they knew it or not. Harper’s daughter was just another casualty of war,” Pitman acknowledged. “I’d just prefer it if Booker McKnight wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows.”

* * *

RIORDEN TRYGG STOOD at the opening of his tent and sipped his coffee, enjoying the bite against his tongue.

It didn’t matter, jungle humidity or desert heat, Trygg drank his coffee strong and hot.

Harper had pulled some strings on the Hill, managed to acquire a mobile electromagnetic pulse emitter. Or what the higher-ups called an EMP Transportable.

The senator said it would be delivered today, Trygg thought. He glanced at the sun at the top of the sky. Today was half-over.

Rivet guns punched the air, shaking the earth, sending a lizard scurrying over his feet.

In less than twenty-four hours, the airbus would be a fully operational mobile laboratory for the CIRCADIAN.

Trygg wanted the plane secure, the army tank secure. They’d gutted the inside, filled it with the necessary equipment, but it was not worth the effort or the money if all it would take was one missile to bring her down.

The EMP, while limited in range, would emit enough electromagnetic pulse to fry most electronic instruments in a five-mile radius. Including surface-to-air missiles or fighter jets.

Trygg took another sip of coffee. From his position, he watched the men maneuver on the scaffolds beneath the netting. He’d wait a few hours, until the heat from the sun had worn off, before he inspected the day’s results. A necessary duty, with pleasing results.

Trygg was more than satisfied with the progress on the airplane. But then again, he expected nothing less than top results from those he hired.

Jim had recruited the best. Promised them money beyond their dreams.

The fact they’d never live to see their payoff lay easy on Trygg’s conscience.

Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

Lewis stepped down from the plane, giving orders. Two men followed him to the plane’s underbelly, where the bay door stood open.

Trygg didn’t trust Pitman. But one didn’t have to trust a man to appreciate his usefulness.

The wind picked up, making the walls of the tent shudder. Trygg caught the scent of hamburger and grease from the mess tents a few hundred yards away.

Lunchtime soon.

He had forty men supporting him in this campaign. More than enough.

“From the satisfied look on your face, the mission is going as planned.” The voice spoke from outside the tent, just beyond his shoulder, catching Trygg off guard.

“Minos,” he greeted casually. But the hair bristled at the base of Trygg’s neck, and irritation pulled between his shoulders. The Al Asheera leader moved like a ghost. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Thought I’d see how the project was coming along.”

“We’re on schedule,” Trygg answered, his annoyance barely contained. He took in the other man’s scarf-covered features, the desert garb.

“And the cylinders?”

“All aspects of this mission are being handled,” Trygg replied stiffly. “To your satisfaction, I believe.”

Trygg turned on his heel and walked back into his tent.

“I have no complaints.” Minos followed, chuckling. He took in the massive desk, the leather straight-back chairs, the dining table complete with china and a fruit bowl, brimming with red apples, ripe oranges. “You live well, General.”

“I live civilized,” Trygg corrected. He placed his coffee on his desk and took his hat from a nearby coat stand. “You should try it sometime.”

“It’s not easy for me. I’m nothing more than a paid killer most times,” Minos replied slyly. “In fact, I was just paid one million dollars by Senator Harper to kill you.”

Trygg froze for a moment, his hat never making it to his head. “May I ask why?”

“I don’t care,” Minos replied. “So I didn’t ask. Not many men can manage three million dollars in bearer bonds as payment.”

He acknowledged Minos’s statement with a short nod before settling the hat on his head. “The amount doesn’t mean anything to Keith. He’s from old money.”

“It means quite a bit to me.” Minos tsk-tsked. “Did you two have a fight, General?”

“He might not have agreed with some of my past decisions,” Trygg acknowledged with deliberate vagueness. “Did you agree to take the contract?”

“I took his money. But we didn’t shake on it.” Minos shrugged. “I’ll take care of Harper so he stays out of your way. That was our deal.”

“Not all of it. You have the EMP?”

“Yes. My men left it just beyond the East Ridge. I didn’t want them accidentally mistaken for the enemy and shot during the transfer.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Trusting you wasn’t part of our deal,” Minos replied. He grabbed a red apple from the fruit bowl, tossed it in his hand. “Do you have McKnight contained?”



“I’ll tell my men to move the emitter.” Trygg stepped out into the open, caught the scent of moisture in the air. “We’re in for a storm.”

“Sahara storms are more common than most think.” Minos glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds swirled over the hilltops; electricity charged the air. “A hint of what is to come maybe?”

“For whom?”

“Depends on where a person is at the time,” Minos quipped. “One thing for sure, Harper may have stopped Cain MacAlister from sending men over here the other day.”

“You heard about that?”

Minos shrugged. “You still have a major problem on your hands, General.”

“And that would be?”

“King Jarek and Quamar. I wouldn’t underestimate them. Or their men.”

“I don’t,” Trygg replied, his tone razor-sharp. “That’s why I hired you. To take care of them. After all, who would know them better than their oldest enemy?”

“Who indeed?” Minos acknowledged, then glanced at the men standing guard over the plane. “By the way, your men have holes on your perimeter. You need to shore them up, or you’ll be done before this thing starts.”

“Where?” Trygg turned toward the plane. When he got no answer, he turned back, then swore.



He stood alone.

* * *

“THIS IS IT.” Booker parked the jeep at the base of the mountain. He leaned over the wheel and peered through the rain-spattered windshield. Fifty feet of rock and cliff surrounded them, divided by a ravine less than twenty feet wide.

“The ravine is too dangerous for the jeep. If this storm picks up, we’ll get washed away in a flash flood.”

The air, thick with moisture and hints of electricity, churned up the dust and grit, spattered it with drops of water.

“We don’t have much time, Booker.” Sandra pushed open the door, struggled against the strong gusts of wind and pelting rain.

Booker left the headlights on, then met her in front of the beams. Within moments, thunder cracked, the skies opened up and the storm broke free.

“We need to move to higher ground now,” he yelled over the downpour. “Before this wind kicks up more debris.”

“Here!” Booker shouted over the clamor of the storm. He pointed to a crevice off the ravine. In the dim light she made out the steep path to a higher ridge.

Lightning flashed. On its heels came another crack of thunder. Minutes passed and rain continued to pound the earth with heavy fists. Smooth surfaces grew treacherous; the wind whipped scrub and rocks into a frenzy.

They reached the twenty-foot ledge in unspoken urgency. The rain continued to rage. Water poured from the shadows and crevices into the ravine below.

Suddenly, the wind drowned under a muffled roar. Booker swore. “The water is coming! We aren’t high enough!”

They searched the side of the canyon, finding nothing but slick walls. Booker tugged Sandra’s hand, pulled her blindly into the shadows.

Without warning the wall broke free into a crevice that turned into a wide path up through the ravine.

“Booker!” Sandra yanked back on his hand. He turned, saw the narrow path that led up through some boulders.

“Go!” he yelled over the roar.

Sandra scrambled up through the rocks; sharp edges bit and scraped her palms.

She squeezed between two boulders, came out onto a path that led to a higher ledge. Ten feet higher. Quickly, she scrambled, praying Booker stayed close.

The wall of water hit. Rolling and pitching, the waves threw scrub and rocks, tumbling them like dice.

The water caught at Sandra’s clothes. Booker slammed his knife into a nearby crevice, anchoring the blade. He gripped the handle until his knuckles whitened, pinning Sandra between him and the wall.

Water rushed around them, slammed them against the stone, washed out the dirt beneath their feet.

“Hold on to me!” Booker yelled through the blast, gripping the knife, gripping Sandra.

She locked her arms around his waist—praying for the first time in many years.



Moments later, the water fell away, became a trickle at their feet. But the wind whipped, the rain poured.

Booker stepped away. Sandra’s muscles shook with fatigue, and she knew fear.

She eased away from the wall, her body stiff, her skin on fire from cuts and bruises.

But still alive.

Uprooted scrub lay snagged around the serrated rocks with only puddles left from the flood.

“That was easy enough,” she joked weakly, her teeth chattering. Her hand flexed on the strap of her medical bag, but for the first time she didn’t care about it getting lost.

Her clothes clung to her, cold and wet. Strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, clung to the back and sides of her neck.

“You all right?” He gripped her shoulders, rubbed some warmth into her icy limbs.



“Yes.” She clenched her jaw, kept her teeth from knocking together, locked her knees and willed the strength back into her legs.

“We can’t stop here. There are only a few more hours of sunlight. It’s best if we go higher, find a cave and rest for the night,” he explained gently. Without warning, he tipped his forehead until it touched hers. “Are you up for it, Doc?”

“Don’t be nice to me now, Booker. Or I’ll fall apart,” she whispered back. Tears pricked at her eyes; she blinked hard against the sting. “Just get me somewhere safe, so we can rest. Okay?”

“Okay.” He interlaced his fingers with hers, squeezed just a bit to give her back the strength she needed. “Watch the rocks. The flood softened the terrain making it unstable.”

An hour later, they found a cave. The entrance stood seven feet high and four feet wide, with a lip over the ground that hid a flat, earth-packed floor. A scattering of rocks and a fairly large boulder littered the space inside.

“Here.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a mini flashlight.

Booker thumbed it on and flashed it inside of the cave. “Stay close.”

She followed him, keeping her arms crossed, her body tight against the chill that settled in the night air.

The scent of damp earth and stale air tickled her nose. The pattering of rain grew, echoing off the wall.

“The storm’s picking up again.”

“We’re good. The flood level won’t reach this high.” Booker stopped abruptly, swore when she bumped into him and felt the icy skin of her hand against his arm.

They had nothing to stay warm. No blanket, no dry clothes. “Do you still have my lighter?”

Booker explored the cave, found dried branches and scrub behind the farthest rock. “There’s enough kindling here for a small fire. We can keep it going most of the night.” Within a few short minutes, flames glowed and flickered.

When she sighed—a trusting sigh that almost brought him to his knees—Booker gathered her close, tucked her head beneath his chin.

“I almost lost you.” He hadn’t meant to say the words. Hadn’t even realized he’d thought them until they’d passed his lips. But it was there, in the pounding of his heart, the trembling of his fingers, the raw need to protect.

Slowly, she tilted her head back, found the glitter of truth in his blue irises.

Years of questions, fear and distrust all broke loose under a tidal wave of understanding and tenderness.

“Not tonight.” She lifted her chin, brushed her lips against his.

The taste of honey and spice slid over his tongue, caught at the back of his throat.

“Not tonight.” His fingers threaded her dampened tresses, cupped the sides of her face.

Desire spread through his body, a hot lava that infused his limbs, rushed through his veins.

“Heat.” Sandra curled farther into him, made him tremble. “We need more heat.”

“Any more and I’ll burst into flames.”

“I’ll save you,” she whispered. Her mouth moved over his neck, nibbled his jaw. Then she was kissing him. Hot, moist, openmouthed kisses that had the blood rushing from his head, pooling just under his gut. The movement made him hard, made him groan.

He tried to push her away, but instead his arms tightened around her. His hands delved into the soft folds of her hair, let the damp locks catch around his fingers.

“I have a better way to keep us warm,” she whispered, her voice raspy, urgent.

“I think...” His arm slipped under her knees, lifted her up into his arms. He settled them both on the ground, with her on top, chest to chest, hips bumping hips. “...it might take a while.”

Her hand snaked down between them, stroked the hard length of him, unsnapped his pants. “It might take all night.” Booker let out his breath in a long hiss.

Electricity crackled the air, skimmed over her skin. This time it wasn’t the storm outside, but the one between them.

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere.” Her hands found the bottom edge of her shirt, yanked it over her arms and head.

His mouth latched on to her nipple, and his tongue rubbed the hard point through the thin cloth of her bra.

Sandra leaned back, let his hands catch her at her ribs, held her in place while he nuzzled, nibbled and stroked.

Her fingers curled in his hair, pulled him closer.

The damp smell of her skin, her hair, enveloped him, drove his senses to a fever pitch, his body to the precipice of his control.

Then she was kissing him, using tongue and teeth, fanning the heat into a firestorm of desire.

Booker broke under the onslaught. His arms clamped on to her, making her finish what she started.

Needing her to...

His hands swept down her back, over her pants. Suddenly, they were off and his fingers stroked until her skin burned, her nerves jumped.

He nudged her legs apart. She rose above him, the fire at her back, the muted hues surrounding her, flickering over her skin, softening the shadows, turning her into an exotic creature of the night.

He groaned, locked his hands on her hips and buried his arousal at the apex of her thighs.

“Now, Booker.”

Her fingers fluttered, finding his zipper, tugging and pulling with jerky movements—tormented by the raging desire.

His fingers delved into the moist center between her thighs, touching, stroking until she writhed with pleasure.

She raised up, arched, stretched and, with trembling limbs, accepted.

* * *

SANDRA AWAKENED SLOWLY. More from the sudden chill of air over her back than from the soft rustle of branches.

She blinked hard. The shadows shifted; her eyes adjusted.

The storm raged, battering the cave entrance.

When she shivered, Booker was there, pressed up against her back, his arms around her.

For the first time in a long time, Sandra felt safe.

“I just added more branches to the fire,” Booker whispered, his breath warm and moist against her ear.

When she shivered, he tightened his hold. His teeth nibbled her ear. Goose bumps tripped down her spine and settled at the base. She nestled into the crook of his arm.

“Go back to sleep. We need to get some rest while we can.” He slid his arms under her. Slowly he pulled her on top of his chest, let her legs tangle with his.

“Rest?”

Sandra kissed his chest, settled her head just over his heart, finding the steady beat reassuring, the tickle of hair against her cheek soothing.

“How far are we from the cylinders, Doc?”

She’d known the question was coming, expected it. Sad that their moment had been so brief. “I’m not quite sure. Maybe a half day’s ride up the ravine.”

“You’re not sure?”

She could’ve just stalled, waited until he was distracted, but suddenly Sandra was tired of all the secrets. The walls that still remained steadfast between them.

“I have to check my map, Booker,” she said quietly.

“What map?” His muscles stiffened into granite planes, leaving her skin cold, her heart aching.

“The one I made five years ago. It shows the location of the cylinders.” She shifted back, needing some space, readying herself for the rejection.



Slowly, he rolled her back onto the ground, then looked down on her.

“It was an insurance policy in case something happened to me. I know his men were loyal and hadn’t been rounded up after he’d been sent to Leavenworth. Especially Colonel Rayo. He’s Trygg’s right-hand man—”

“I know who Rayo is, damn it.”

Sandra saw it then, what she missed. The cold anger in the blue eyes. A familiar sadness swept through her chest, making it tight, leaving her heart aching. Nothing had changed. Would change.

“Where is this map?” Booker demanded. “In your medical pack, right?”

“In the lining,” she admitted, but didn’t flinch when his fingers tightened on her shoulder. Instead she tossed him the bag. Watched him rip it open. “That’s why I never left it behind. I couldn’t risk trying to remember. If I had forgotten...”

Booker stared at the information on the cloth. He let out a sting of curses.

Her chin came up, defiant. “I did what I needed to do, Booker. And I don’t regret it.”

“When were you going to let me know?”

“Now,” she snapped. “Or did you miss the confession a minute ago?”

Before he could answer she added, “You have no right to be angry, damn it. How much have you kept from me, McKnight?”

Booker forced himself to let her go. He grabbed his clothes and tugged them on. The dampness did little to cool the heat of his anger.

“I have every right,” Booker bit out. “I wanted you safe.”

“I told you before. I’m safest with you.”

“No, you’re not!” His tone was low, the words terse. “I followed you here, Doc. Four years ago! I didn’t do that because I was told to, or because I was concerned, or even because I was madly in love with you. I followed you four years ago because I knew that Trygg would eventually escape from prison. He had too many contacts, too much backing behind him not to. I studied his profile, damn it. I knew.”

“You followed me because of Trygg?” She stood, feeling too vulnerable sitting on the ground naked. With quick, jerky movements, she grabbed her clothes off the boulder, tugged them on over her bra and panties.

“Once he escaped, who do you think he’d come after?”

“Me,” she admitted. “So all of this...” She pointed her finger back and forth between them, not able to finish. Not when his face hardened, his gaze swept over her semi-naked

state.

“You were my bait, Doc. Nothing more.”

She’d paid a high price for what she’d done, what she’d risked for CIRCADIAN. Her family. Booker. Love.

But this? Her knees buckled. Only sheer willpower and pride kept her upright.

She zipped up her pants, pulled her shirt over her head.

He’d used her.

He’d slept with her. And used her.

Sandra widened her stance to keep her feet under her, the mortification at bay.

Her fingers shook, but she forced herself to ignore them and slipped on her caftan.

“Be ready in five minutes.” The command was sharp, his features set in granite.

He had no right to be angry. He’d used her.

Bait for Trygg.

Then why was she still standing here, damn it? The thought ricocheted from the back of her mind.

More than once they had faced Trygg’s men. Each time he could have used her by informing Trygg’s men he’d negotiate. But he didn’t. He killed them or left them behind. No negotiation.

He wanted the cylinders and her home.

A person can’t be bait when they’re placed out of harm’s way.