Bodyguard Lockdown(13)

He jabbed a finger at the mountains in the distance. “We should hit the foothills right about the same time. If I have my bearings right, there is an oasis hidden in the crevices at the base.”

“Malaquo,” Sandra murmured, forcing herself not to rub the ache in her heart. “I know it pretty well.”

Unable to sit close to her, he set her forward and slid off. Deftly, he swung the reins over the horse’s head. “Time to give the horse a break.”

When Sandra shifted to slide off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay. You don’t weigh enough to make a difference.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt for a little distance, right?” she observed, still smarting from the moment.

“The only distance I’m worried about right now is between us and Trygg’s hired guns. Whether they are Al Asheera or mercenaries,” Booker replied. “How much do you know about desert survival?”

“Enough to know we’re in serious trouble.”





Chapter Eight



“Watch out!”

A wail of temper hit the air and jaws snapped at Booker’s shoulder.

“Damn horse,” he roared, then glanced at his shoulder, saw the small line of red marring the T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” Sandra patted the horse’s neck from her seat in the saddle, felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch.

“Something’s got him spooked.”

Her eyes scanned the stretch of sand around them, glaring in the evening sun.

Booker grabbed the reins, held them tight in his hand. Then talked in low, easy whispers. The horse tugged once, then lowered his head with a snort.

“Now we have an understanding.” Booker rubbed his nose, then loosened the reins. “Good boy.”

“How are you with kids?” Sandra asked jokingly, but the soothing tone, the gentle movements, caught at her. She found herself wondering if he’d be a good father.

Booker swung up behind her. “Don’t know any kids,” he answered. “I understand horses because I spent most of my childhood on Texas ranches.”

“You don’t know—” Sandra’s jaw tightened. “Quamar and Jarek’s children?”

“I don’t have the same kind of relationship with the royals that you do, Doc. I’m the hired help,” he said, the stern edge back in his tone, the aloofness rigid in his muscles.

“You’re more than that to them. I know for a fact Quamar and Jarek consider you a good friend.”

“I imagine they are rethinking their position right about now.”

“I’d be disappointed in them if they did,” she answered softly.

Booker’s gaze met Sandra’s, and he tried not to read too much into the flash of truth.

“Tourlay is a day of travel from here by horse,” he explained, directing the conversation back to their predicament. “We can get there by midnight. About an hour beyond Tourlay is the airstrip.”

“Why the airstrip?”

“You’re going back to the States,” he answered. “After you give me your best guess at their location.”

“And the cylinders? Where do you think they’re going?”

“With me,” he replied.

“Those cylinders are worthless without me,” she managed through her anger.

“I don’t care. Your life—”

“Is mine, alone,” Sandra snapped, cutting him off. “And I’ve been living this nightmare for five years. Now I have the opportunity to correct what mistakes I can.” She turned in the saddle. Her eyes narrowed. “And nothing, especially you, McKnight, will stop me.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” She gripped the pummel in fisted hands and resisted the impulse to punch the arrogance from his face. “That’s right.”

She turned to the front, her spine rigid, her eyes forward. “We’re in this together or I do it alone, Booker. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Without warning, the horse cried out and reared back.

“Hold tight!” Booker yelled, but the order came too late. The horse jerked, breaking the reins free from Booker’s grip. Sandra grappled to keep her seat.

Booker reached for her, but the animal shifted in one violent, sweeping movement.

Sandra screamed, grabbed for the horse and caught only air. She hit the ground hard, the breath punched from her lungs.

The horse came down, stamping the ground with his hooves.

Booker dived under the horse, hit the ground and rolled over Sandra, putting himself between her and the horse’s hooves.

The horse stomped. The hoof hit the back of his head. Pain exploded through Booker’s skull.

“Booker!” Sandra reached around, hugged his head with her arms, then struck at the horse with her heels.

The horse howled, then took off over the dunes, the reins dragging behind him.

“I should’ve shot the stupid—” Booker swore, blinked against the blurred vision. “Look around, Doc. Find what spooked him.”

Sandra scanned the sand, saw the shift. A red tidal wave across the sand.

“Fire ants. Swarm,” she gasped. “Too wide to dodge on foot.”

Nausea swirled in Booker’s stomach, slapped at the back of his throat. He staggered to his feet. The pain cleaved his skull; blood trickled down the back of his neck.

Sandra looked at his eyes, saw the lopsided dilation.

“Booker.” She grabbed his chin, checked first one, then the other eye in the morning light, caught the haze of confusion in his gaze. “Hold on, damn it.”

Quickly, she checked for other injuries. Blood pooled at the back collar of his shirt; she probed the cut at his hairline with her fingers.

“If you lose blood, we could be in trouble,” she murmured.

“You have no idea.”

She stopped, frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m AB negative, Doc,” Booker retorted. “Rare blood types can mess a guy up when he’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Damn it, Booker—”

“Leave it. We need to move,” he snapped weakly. “I’ll be fine. Been hurt worse.”

He took a step, and his knees buckled. Sandra grabbed his arm to keep him upright. “Hold on.”

“Fire ants have scouts,” he warned. “We’ve got to put distance between them and us.”

“I know. I was raised here, remember?” Once a scout ant attached itself to her or Booker, the others would swarm them. A swarm of fire ants had been known to envelop livestock, pick it clean and move on in mere minutes.

Booker grunted, but managed to move his feet through the sand. “Over the dune...rock formations. Higher ground. Give us time.”

“No.” She scanned the area for brush, trying to keep her head as the army of ants drew closer. “We fight fire ants with fire.”

“Fire,” he grunted, trying desperately to gain his equilibrium. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a lighter. “Use this and my knife. Cut the brush. Circle it around us.”

She moved them closer to the rocks, sat him on the nearest one. Pulled the knife from his sheath. Quickly she hacked at the nearby brush, relieved when the branches broke dry and brittle.

“Be ready. Smoke can be seen for miles,” Booker muttered.

“One enemy at a time.” She placed the brush low in a ten-foot circle around them and struck the lighter.

The flames leaped to life, giving her a moment of safety. Booker shifted, then groaned. His face whitened.

“I need to examine your wound.” She lifted her medical bag from her shoulder.

“We have more important problems right now. The damn horse took the supplies and water. Besides, I can see the concussion from this side,” he snapped, but his words were badly slurred. He locked his legs under him to stand.

“Hold on, damn it.” But she was too late. Booker’s head lolled back and he slumped back onto the ground, unconscious.

“If you’d just given me a minute,” Sandra muttered. Anger and frustration clashed, setting her jaw. “Arrogant superhero stereotype—”

Sandra stopped. Engines roared in the distance. She jumped the fire ring and scrambled up a nearby boulder.

Time had run out.

Two jeeps. Four men. Rifles. Just over the nearest dune.

Sandra jumped from the rock, made her way back to Booker. The sea of ants stood between them and the jeeps, giving Sandra some time.

Quickly, she plowed up the sand at the base with her hands. She rolled him into the shallow hole, tossed his pistol beside him and shoved the scrub over him, praying the smoke, brush and rock hid him.

Suddenly a flamethrower ignited; its flames spewed over the army of ants, burning them.