Bodyguard Lockdown (2 page)

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.”

* * *

D
OCTOR
S
ANDRA
H
ADDAD
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.”