Bodyguard Lockdown(18)

“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.