Bodyguard Lockdown(19)

Startled, Sandra glanced at him. “Booker—”

“I ordered you to stay in the doorway.”

“It was an order?” she quipped, not quite catching the light tone. “I thought it was a suggestion.”

The second man struggled to get up. Booker kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. At least now someone else’s headache would be worse than his. “Time to go.”

* * *

THE WAREHOUSE STOOD AT the edge of the desert, nudging the main rail yard and its web of tracks.

“You need to stay out here.” Sandra spoke in hushed tones. The building stood twenty feet tall, its walls spider-cracked cement, its compound fenced and deserted.

And pitch-black.

“I don’t want to spook them.” She lifted the latch on a small gate cut in the fencing, cringed when it squeaked in protest.

“The hell I am,” he growled. He pulled the Glock free from his waistband, thumbed off the safety.

She slapped a hand on his chest, pushed enough to get his attention. “Listen to me. I can do this.”

The blue eyes darkened, and his heartbeat strengthened beneath her palm. Its tempo slow, steady. She curled her fingers, just a bit, until the warmth of his skin penetrated the thin cotton of his clothes, seeped into her palm until her nerves jumped.

“You have no idea what you’re asking.” His hand moved over hers, stroking the wrist with his thumb. Her pulse jumped, her own heart raced.

Her eyes snapped to his, not sure they were still talking about the warehouse. “I’m asking you to trust me. Give me five minutes by myself.”

“And if I think the situation is getting out of control, you’ll do what I ask?” His thumb continued to stroke her wrist, muddling her thoughts. She tugged her hand free. Resisted the urge to shake the tingling away.

“Yes,” she agreed, realizing he’d make them stand there all night out of stubbornness. “But if I’m right and arrange everything we need, you’ll let me make more of the decisions. Deal?”

“Let’s get through this first.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, Doc.”

“It’s all I’m going to need.” In a quick trot, she crossed the yard and slipped through the warehouse door.

Booker counted a slow ten, then followed her in.

Stacks of wood crates surrounded him. Some topping fifteen feet. Some shorter. Some left solitary by the nearest wall.

Most smelled of gas and fresh wood. And something else. Booker inhaled. Gun grease.

He pried the top off a nearby crate with his knife.

AK-47s.

He moved to another. Pried the top free.



Rocket launchers. Land mines.

Booker swore. What the hell was Sandra thinking by getting in the middle of this?

Quickly, he searched the shipment, found explosive disks similar to those he used against the helicopter. He grabbed the nearest one, noting its slightly larger size, the advanced detonation device.

American made, he thought grimly.

He punched in a time span on its small digital keypad, then shoved it between two of the crates filled with the land mines.

With light steps, he made his way to the office. A giant with no neck and a hairy face stood by the door. An M16 short-stocked machine gun crooked in his arm.

Sandra’s scream ricocheted through the walls.

The giant’s teeth, broken and yellow, split into a big grin. Booker peered through the narrow window at the top of the office door.

“Hey, ugly.”

Startled, the big guy swung around, his machine gun leveled. Booker stepped in, grabbed the gun and shoved the barrel under the giant’s chin.

His finger pinned the guard’s against the trigger. Slowly, he applied pressure.

The giant’s eyes widened.

“You can move your hands off the gun, or eat a bullet. Your choice.”



Slowly, the man dropped the weapon and raised his hands above his shoulders.

“We’re going through that door,” Booker warned, leaving no doubt that the giant would be his human shield. He patted the man down, tossed away the knife hidden at his ankle, then took the set of car keys from the giant’s pocket and shoved them into his own.

“Let’s go.” Booker waved the gun toward the door. “Quietly.”

The guard nodded, then opened the door.

Two men stood across the room. Both holding M16s. Both pointed at Sandra.

“Friends of yours?” Booker asked Sandra, his eyes on the two men.

“Don’t you dare say it,” she snapped, her features flushed pink with either humiliation or rage, he didn’t know which.

“That I was right?”

“Don’t push me, Booker.” Her black eyes burned.

Definitely rage, Booker mused.

“If I may interrupt?” The oldest of the two stepped forward. He was a squat man, at least two feet shorter than his companion, with a round belly that strained the buttons of his sweat-soiled khaki shirt. His hair, peppered gray, hung long and thin just past his ears and framed a ruddy, square face with a fairly large nose and bug eyes.

Booker glanced from the older man to the younger. Noted the same nose and eyes.

Relatives. Always a touchy situation.

Since Ugly wasn’t blood, Booker knew his bargaining chip just lost its value.

Booker slammed the weapon handle against the back of the giant’s head. The man slid to the floor unconscious.

“Booker, meet the Contee brothers,” Sandra said, her tone derisive. She jabbed a thumb toward the older, shorter brother. “This is Madu. The other is Boba. It seems they both are aware of the contract on our heads.”

“And your friend?” Booker nudged Ugly with his foot.

Sandra shrugged. “Never met him before.”

“Yemesi. Our boss felt the need for us to have added protection,” Madu admitted with a shrug.

“Your boss needs to have another look at his staffing list,” Booker remarked. “This man barely understands how to hold a gun.”

“I agree. So you understand why we don’t care if you killed him,” Madu replied, his lips twisting into a slight sneer.

The office offered little space to maneuver. A steel desk was stamped with the U.S. Army logo, its top buried under piles of take-out cartons and papers. Behind it stood matching swivel office chairs on rollers and a single column of filing cabinets.

Booker’s gaze shifted over the room, touched briefly on the chair behind Madu before he spotted the red scarf.

Booker dropped the pistol onto the floor near his feet. “The doc says there is good Al Asheera. I take it you’re not one of them?”

“Our boss said you were smart. That we needed to be extra careful with you,” Boba observed with a frown. Taller than Madu by six inches or more, the younger brother sported less of a belly and a more expensive hairstyle—slick against his scalp. But not enough to cover the receding hairline.

“Shut up, Boba! You talk too much.” With a quick warning glance to his brother, Madu moved to the desk and settled himself into its chair.

Boba frowned. “Bloody hell, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve got them, don’t we?”

“You do.” Booker held up his hands. “I give up. Before you kill me though, I’d like to at least know who ordered my death.”

Sandra inhaled, reminding herself Booker had probably dealt with this situation a million times.

“I don’t think you’re so smart, McKnight.” Madu raised his gun slightly, until the barrel pointed at Booker’s forehead. He leaned back on his chair and placed his feet on the small clean corner of his desk. “Our orders are to bring you back with us. Not to kill you. We just didn’t expect you to make our job so easy by walking through our front door.”

“You’re lying,” Booker said quietly. “You knew Doctor Haddad would need supplies, and that you’d be one of the people she’d turn to, considering you’ve helped her in the past.”

“The doctor, yes. Not you,” Madu admitted. “When the boss said you wouldn’t be far behind, I didn’t believe him.”

Sandra shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“The reason you finally made contact with Madu last year, Doc, is because someone realized that the time would come that you’d need to trust the Contee brothers. This setup has been in the works for a year now.”

“But all those families we helped—”

“We were ordered to help you.” Madu snorted. “Of course, it’s a bonus when it helps our people, too.”

“Let me guess who your boss is,” Booker stated flatly. “Minos?”

“Exactly,” Madu admitted. “He hasn’t been around long, but he has single-handedly brought possibility and pride back to our people. We will take back what is rightfully ours. With your help, of course.”