Bodyguard Lockdown(2)

“And the good doctor? Has she been detained?”

“Yes, sir.” Rayo signaled the other men into their cars and led the general to his ride. “The men seized Doctor Sandra Haddad an hour ago.”

“And?” Trygg asked, pausing at the car.

“You were right.” Jim opened the passenger door. “She put up one hell of a fight.”

“That’s promising,” Trygg replied. “After five years of waiting, I’d hate to think she’d make this easy for me.”





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.