Bodyguard Lockdown

chapter Two



The storm hit the midnight air, a blistering squall of dust and grit that clogged lungs, cut into eyes and covered the empty city streets of Taer in desert sand.

Booker stepped into a nearby alley, ignoring the bite of the wind, the slap of grit against his face. Rage and impatience—and just enough uneasiness—kept his footsteps silent, his senses alert, his knife in his fist.

He was a tall man, long in the leg, lean in the hips, but broad in the shoulder and chest. He was hard muscled—and hardheaded, if a person listened to those who knew him.

He’d been born among the oil fields of Texas, spent his youth traipsing around the Chihuahuan Desert with his father, working when they could, fending off hunger when there were no jobs to be found. His mother died long before he could form vivid memories of her. But the vague ones, recollections of soft scents and softer words, he carried in the deepest part of his soul.

At eighteen, when the snap of a steel cable took his father’s life, Booker traded the oil rigs for military combat zones, the searing heat of the desert for the muck and brush of the jungles and the beleaguered inner cities of third-world countries.

For twenty years, he breathed in the scent of blood, tasted its metallic bite against the back of his throat, choked on the acid remnants of gunpowder. Lived with the cries of the wounded and tortured in his nightmares.

A car roared past, skidded to a halt just down the street only yards back from his SUV.

Booker eyed the platinum finish, the sleek lines—the license plate.

Home-grown.

He shifted back into the shadows, confident his black shirt and trousers blended well with the darkness.

A young couple slid out of the car, darted up the deserted street, their heads down, their arms linked, laughing as they fought the wind.

Booker wondered if he’d ever been that young, or that carefree.

A door caught the wind, slammed against the wall. A string of curses hit the air. American.

Booker tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife.

A man walked past, his shoulders thick, his gait cautious. A black scarf covered his head, hung loose from the man’s face. An AK-47 assault rifle rested in the crook of his arm.

Booker stepped behind the man, hooked his forearm around the exposed neck and yanked. The spine snapped, the muscles slackened. Booker dragged the body to the farthest part of the alley.

“Where are your friends?” Booker whispered, then tugged the scarf from the man’s head, looped it around his own, leaving only his eyes uncovered.

He grabbed the machine gun and eased against the back door of the five-story apartment building. Three windows of the third-floor rooms flickered with lights and shadows.

Which room are you in, Doc?

An image of Doctor Sandra Haddad flashed through his mind.

Long, silky hair the color of a starless midnight sky, delicate features.

But it was her eyes—big and brown, intelligent-sharp— and the warm, sun-kissed skin that caught a man’s eyes, stayed in his memory.

Haunted his dreams.

Booker tugged on the back door, found it locked.

The storm strengthened. A gust of wind slammed a nearby shutter against a second-story window. One...two...

He aimed the weapon at the lock. Three. Booker pulled the trigger. The lock burst.

He shifted his shoulder against the door and shoved.

No lights.

Booker waited in silence with machine gun raised, his eyes focused on the darkness just beyond.

A moment later shadows shifted, objects formed into patterns. He noted a hallway, the door at its end—the slit of light at its base.

Booker eased up to the door, heard nothing from the other side. The sharp scent of antiseptic cleaner and stale cigars slapped at him. Slowly, he swung the door open.

The lobby’s light cast a dull yellow glow on a scuffed tile floor, bare gray walls. Rows of mail slots flanked the front entrance that fed across a long, narrow room and ended with a staircase against the far wall.

Booker made his way up the stairs to the third floor, his stance loose, poised.

Three men guarded the hallway. All ex-military, with the cropped hair, pumped-up muscles and sweat-stained military fatigues.

Two leaned outside one door, flanking its sides, while the other sat on the floor, head resting against the wall, his eyes closed—his finger on the trigger of the AK-47 in his lap.

An inner door slammed shut somewhere in the protected room. The first guard, a short man sporting a scar across one eye, smacked his buddy on the back and laughed. “I think Milo will have a good time. Then it will be our turn, no?”

“I would only kill her,” the other growled, and limped toward the sleeping guard.

Her.

Sandra.

Rage rippled the air around him. Rage at her. More rage at himself for letting them take her.

The attack had been unexpected. He’d been too far from her. Had underestimated their speed, their abilities at the airport.

He wouldn’t again.

The shortest of the three set his rifle against the wall. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, his meaty hands grimy and blood-spattered.

Sandra’s delicate features, flawless skin—both, Booker imagined, now bloody and bruised.

Gritting his teeth, he buried the rage, the fear, the guilt, all where his other ghosts lurked. Down in the darkest corner of his soul.

“Hey,” he whispered. The men swung around, surprised. He stepped into the hall, palmed his knife and threw it, all in one practiced motion.

With a sharp thwap, the blade imbedded in the limping man’s throat. The man grasped at the handle while he choked on his own blood.

The sleeping man started awake. Booker kneed him in the face, transforming the man’s warning cry into a pained grunt. With a twist on his head, he snapped the man’s neck and turned.

“Come on.” The shorter man kicked his machine gun aside, his features twisted in derision. He motioned Booker closer with a wave of his fingers. “Let’s play.”

Booker snagged his knife from the dead man and lunged.

At the last second, he dropped, then rolled. Booker’s foot rammed the other man’s crotch. “Tag, you’re it.”

The man’s knees buckled and he screamed.

“No?” Booker slammed him into the opposite wall. “Twenty questions, then. Is that the doc’s blood on your hands?”

The mercenary struggled, his feet lost traction. Booker’s hand tightened at his throat, cutting off his oxygen.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Booker taunted against his enemy’s ear. The scent of fear, of blood, of death permeated the air between them. Heavy. Sour.

“Game over.” He shoved the knife up into the man’s ribs and twisted. “You lose.”

* * *

DOCTOR SANDRA HADDAD clawed through the shifting blackness, caught up in a whirlpool of nothingness and pain until the pain bit back, dragging its teeth across muscle and bone.

Sandra set her jaw, waited until the worst passed.

Then she opened her eyes.

The darkness remained. Pitch-black and smothering. She felt it then, the heavy canvas against her nose and cheeks.

A hood.

She inhaled deeply through her nose until the scent of mildew and sour sweat choked off her breath.

Hysteria stirred at the back of her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Her hands hung high above her head. Her arms twisted, locked in place by her weight. Trapped.

She bit her lip, kept the fear, the whimper of fear, deep in her chest. If her enemies were near, she didn’t want to alert them.

Instead she concentrated on the silence beyond the cover, until her heartbeat slowed and the blood no longer pounded in her eardrums.

No sound meant no immediate danger. They weren’t interested in her right now.

They.

Who were they?

The kidnapping happened so fast that it caught her off guard. The sound of the door slamming shut, the scrape of metal, the vile scent of unwashed bodies.

Three men? No four, she corrected. Including the driver. Their van tinted dark, their faces covered with ski masks. She remembered the squeal of tires, the short burst of bullets that strafed the asphalt, probably to terrorize anyone who thought of helping. They snatched her from the airport tarmac, less than twenty feet from boarding the plane.

She bolted under the plane’s belly, but didn’t get more than a few yards. When they grabbed her, she broke someone’s nose with her elbow. Caught another in the instep of his foot, heard him cry out in pain when those bones gave.

Sandra clawed and jabbed and screamed and punched. But there were too many in the end. Blurred, shadowy features.

They injected her with a drug. She felt the pinch of the needle then remembered nothing else.

“So you are awake?”

The cover was jerked off her head. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sting of the bright light.

A man stood in front of her, a machine gun strapped to his back, the barrel tip jutting past his shoulder.

Dressed in a mixture of army fatigues and desert gear, the buttons of his shirt strained over a sagging belly, the tails loose and ripped at his waist. Both pants and shirt were stiff with dirt and sweat, and reeked of body odor.

“Good evening, Doctor Haddad.” The man’s gaze flipped up to her hands then down again. “Are you comfortable?”

Handcuffs, looped through a chain and anchored in the ceiling, cut into her wrists. Plastic ties dug into her ankles. Each secured to the sides of a steel folding chair. Small drops of blood slid over her ankle, tickled her skin.

“Extremely,” Sandra mocked, but fear kept her chest tight, her voice high.

Perspiration coated his bald, flat features. His jawline sagged into a nasty grin, thinning out his big lips over gapped yellowed teeth.

But the dried blood that caked his swollen, broken nose told her they’d met before. On the tarmac.

“General Trygg will be here within a few hours,” the man commented. “You can tell him how well you’ve been treated.”

Sandra hadn’t planned on staying that long. Trygg, while brilliant, was psychotic. And that wasn’t a good combination.

“Does he treat all his guests this way?” She tried to lift her shoulders, give her wrists some reprieve.

The man shrugged. “I do not know. You are the first I’ve held for him. The others I have killed.”

“That’s reassuring.” Sandra looked past the man’s shoulder to the room beyond. Searching.

“Looking for this?” He held up a medical bag, its black leather worn and scratched. “Nothing in here will help you.”

That much was true. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. “I’m a doctor. My bag is essential—”

“You are a paycheck to me.” With a flick, he tossed the bag onto a stained gold couch across the room. “Or an opportunity. Which will it be?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“You put General Trygg on death row. But he wants you alive. And he is offering a substantial amount of money to keep you that way.” He grabbed her chin, pinched the bones until she gasped. “Why go to Tourlay?”

“It’s a border town. The last place he’d search,” she scoffed. “Take it from me, anyone who helps Trygg ends up dead.”

“Or rich.” He laughed, then winced. His hand went to his nose, checked for blood.

“You should have that checked,” Sandra quipped. “I know a good veterinarian.”

He grabbed the collar of her blouse, drew her close until only his foul breath separated them. “You think you are safe until Trygg gets here? You are not.”

Sandra slammed her forehead into his nose. The man staggered back bellowing. Blood smeared his face, dripped from his chin.

“Untie my hands,” she spat. “We’ll see who is safe from who.”

“You bitch!” His fist came down. She tried to dodge the blow, but had nowhere to go. Pain exploded against the side of her temple, ricocheted through her shoulder as her chair toppled over.

She bit her lip against her scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The handcuffs held her, kept her knees from touching the ground. Her ankles remained bound to the chair’s deadweight.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back. A knife appeared in his hand, the cold steel pressed against the delicate curve of her throat. “I could kill you now and be gone before Trygg walks through the door.”

“You’ll be hunted down like the rodent you are,” Sandra managed, her voice rough, her jaw set against the pain. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“Neither do you, Dr. Haddad,” he snarled.

Without warning, the man jerked. Air burst from his mouth; surprise widened his eyes, slackened his jaw.

He slid to the floor without another sound, a knife protruding from the back of his skull.

“Honey, I’m home.” The soft Texan drawl reached her.

Sandra’s eyes snapped up, took in the black scarf that hid all but the ice-blue eyes.

“Booker?” Recognition, then relief came swiftly, followed by the pinch of tears and a shudder in her chest.

The sharp jab of uncertainty took a full second more. “How did you find me?”

“I followed the trail of stupidity.” He retrieved his knife from the dead body, wiped the blood on the man’s shirt, then straightened. “Why aren’t you safe at the palace?”

“You think this was my fault?”

“It isn’t?” He tugged the scarf from his face, left it on the floor beside her.



“Only you would blame me for getting kidnapped.”

Sandra took in the harsh, unbending features, the sculpted lips that rarely curved into a smile.

There’d been a time when love made his words kind, humor softened the sharp planes of his face. This was not it.

“You are one of the royal physicians. You live at the palace, surrounded by security. By family. And instead, when threatened, you go to the airport late at night, alone. Making yourself an easy target.”

Pride kept her from responding. Along with the small sliver of truth in his words.

Still, she had her reasons.

He sliced through the binds at her feet with the knife, sheathed the blade, then placed his hands at her waist. “Stand up. I’ll keep you steady. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint.”

“I’m the one with the medical degree. Not you,” she snapped, more impatient with herself than him. The longer it took her to recover, the longer they were in danger.

The position took the weight off her wrists. Blood rushed in, setting both on fire. When her knees buckled, he swore. Then brought her against him, held her steady.

“Give it a minute,” he ordered, the words harsh, the warmth of his body solid, reassuring.

It had always been that way. The strength of his arms, the force of his will. The only time in her life she’d truly felt safe.

The only time she’d truly felt anything.

“Try it again.” His hands gently gripped her hips, eased her away.

Her legs trembled, but held her weight. After giving them a moment, Sandra straightened. The pressure eased from her wrists, left her arms weak.

“Hold still. I’m almost done.” Booker pulled a handcuff shim from his watchband. His hands stretched to meet hers, his touch gentle but urgent.

Hip to hip, chest to chest, the air thinned, then hummed. But this time Sandra ignored the quakes that rippled down her back, kept her legs rubbery.

“Got it,” he murmured.

Her arms dropped and she cried out. A thousand needles stabbed at her. Sandra bit her lip, unable to lift either limb.

He sat her in the chair, then took her right wrist between his palms and rubbed. “You’ve been tied up for a long time. This is going to hurt.”

Sandra gasped as the needles morphed into white-hot knives, slicing through every nerve to the muscles beneath.

“Fight through it.” Booker didn’t let up. Rubbing her skin, forcing her blood to move beneath.

Seconds turned into a minute, then two. Her jaw tightened against another torrent of stabs and spasms. “This is taking too much time.”

“Let me worry about that.” He dropped one arm and grabbed the other. His hands worked the blood flow, warming her skin, soothing the needles beneath.

“You can stop now,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the pain or something far more dangerous. She couldn’t be sure. Didn’t want to find out.

She tugged her arm free. “I’m much better. Let’s go.”

Her chin shot up; her eyes dared him to argue.

Booker didn’t. Instead, he took in her ivory silk blouse, the matching dress slacks. Both cool in the heat, and a dead giveaway in the dark.

He glanced at her shoes, noted the flat, thinly strapped sandal over the feminine arch, the delicate ankle. “No wonder they caught you.”

“I wasn’t thinking ‘desert escape’ when I dressed this morning.”

“And yet, getting on a plane unprotected was your logical solution,” Booker countered. “You have an IQ bigger than my phone number, Doc. You couldn’t come up with a better strategy?”

“I had little time and very few choices,” she snapped.

“You could have asked me for help.”

Lord knew she’d thought about it. Almost called him twice. In a laboratory or with a patient, he’d never question her skill. In danger, she should have never questioned his ability to protect her.

No one knew Riorden Trygg better than Booker.

No one had a better reason than Booker not to trust her.

“I killed fifty of your men with the serum I created. I couldn’t ask you for help.”

“We’ve been through this. I don’t hold you responsible, Doc. I never did,” Booker snapped, then caught her hand in his fingers. He leaned down until his face was mere inches from hers. “You won’t believe that.”

She still didn’t. Not enough to stay with him. Trust him. Love him. Too much history, too many deaths lay between them.

It had been a year since she walked out. A year and two months, she corrected.

He’d changed since then. Leaner than she remembered. Timber-wolf lean, with shaggy brown hair that curled slightly over his back collar.

His face was the same, the cobalt eyes set beneath a high forehead, framed by the broad sweep of his cheekbones, and the hard lines of his jaw and mouth.

“Trygg’s on his way,” she said, then tugged her hand free. “Maybe if we wait. Catch him unaware. We could stop this all now.”

“I’ll stop it. But not with you around,” he stated, his tone now brisk, businesslike. “You’re going back to the palace.”

Muffled gunfire ripped through the night air, moving closer.

“Company’s coming.” Booker stood, his body unyielding, ready. Almost as if he welcomed the confrontation. He stepped to the window, peered through the two-inch gap between the curtains. Tires screeched on the street below. “A sedan. Four men.”

Doors slammed; men yelled orders.

“They’ll have the exits covered.” In two strides he was back at her side and he pulled her to her feet.

The streetlights glared through the window. She grabbed his arm, pointed at the long shadowy bars that crisscrossed outside the window. “A fire escape.”

“All right. Let’s go,” he said, checking the street again. “It’s clear.” He slid the window up.

“Wait! My medical bag.” She snagged it from the couch, slung the strap crossways from shoulder to opposite hip.

His eyes narrowed on the bag for a quick moment before shifting to her face. “Ready?”



“Yes,” she answered, her grip tight on the strap.

Booker pointed the machine gun at the street, then stepped out onto the wrought-iron platform.

Bullets strafed the wall above their heads, shattered the window, pelted the cement behind them.

Booker fired, heard the screams, then the silence.

“Stay close!” They flew down the steps, stumbled past the dead men, one on the ground, the other hung over the stair railing. Their eyes open, sightless.

Booker glanced at the one by his feet, noted the blood-soaked fatigues. “Another of Trygg’s mercenaries.”

“Not this one,” Sandra whispered, indicating the dark-suited man on the railing.

He grabbed the man’s face, tilted it toward the streetlamp, then swore.

“Do you know him?”

“Yes. He’s one of King Jarek’s.” Booker shoved the man away. “Follow me. My car is down the street.”

Booker stepped down a nearby alley, his gun raised, his focus on the shadows.

At the mouth of the alley, he stopped.

“What?” She peered around him, saw the SUV riddled with bullet holes. “How did they know it was your vehicle?”

“It’s a palace car. Jarek’s man must have recognized it.” He shoved the pistol into the back of his waistband.

“Let’s go!” He pulled her behind the SUV and popped the rear hatch. “Keep a lookout.”

He grabbed a backpack from the seat.

“I hope you have some artillery in there,” she quipped. The wind picked up, sending shivers down her arms. She hugged her chest. “Or warm clothes.”

“No clothes.” He slammed the hatch closed. “But I have these.” He held out three silver discs. “They’ll create a hell of a bonfire.”

“Very funny.”

“Not joking.” He shoved the explosive back into the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s keep moving. We need transportation.”

One block became three, then six. Her side protested, cramping, squeezing the oxygen from her lungs. When she stopped, Booker suddenly appeared beside her, grabbed her arm and pulled her along.

She stumbled against him, gripped the back of his shirt for balance. “I thought I was in good shape.”

“You were tied to a chair for ten hours.” Booker stopped midstep. “Look.”

A car pulled up across the street. Streamlined, small and sporty. Fire-engine red. A flag of defiance against the opaque browns of the desert city.

“How about that,” Booker murmured, a grim smile tugging at his mouth.

“What?” she asked, frowning.

“Our ride just arrived.”