Bodyguard Lockdown(26)

“Not yet.”

Jon swore silently. “Omar. I will contact my man and get the status on your daughter. She will be fine.”

“You gave me your word, Mr. President, that she’d be safe from Trygg. That is the only reason why I agreed to this situation.”

“She will be fine.” Jon said a small prayer that he’d be right. “If she is with Booker McKnight, he’ll keep her safe.”

“Booker has every reason to want her dead,” Omar argued. “You and I both know that. If he finds out what I’ve done—”

“He won’t,” Jon lied, suspecting Booker already knew. He needed Omar’s assistance and the man’s focus on the situation. “I understand you and Elizabeth are probably out of your minds with worry. I’ve been there. But the best thing to do at this point is follow our original plan. Concentrate on that. I’ll take whatever precautions necessary to make sure Sandra is kept safe.”

“You gave that same promise five years ago—”

“And I will keep that promise, Omar,” Jon interrupted. He shifted, uncomfortable with his next sentence. Yet he had no choice. “You have my word.”

After a long moment of silence, Omar sighed over the phone. “All right. Two hours. Make sure your man is ready.”

“I will,” Jon Mercer replied.

“After this, we are what you Americans call square. I am no longer in your debt.”

“We were square when you gave me your daughter for this project. Now I will be in your debt, Omar.” Jon waited for the line to click off, then he punched in another number.

It answered after the first ring. “Cain MacAlister.”

“You have exactly twenty minutes to get your butt in my office,” Jon snapped. “After that, I’m having you arrested for treason. You got me, MacAlister?”

The silence lasted only a few seconds. Jon knew Cain was weighing his options. “Yes, sir.”

Jon hung up.

“It appears as if you and Cain are starting your day early.” Shantelle Mercer hugged him from behind. “Do you want me to order up some coffee, chéri?”

They both knew Cain was like a son to Jon. Still, he would not tolerate disloyalty among his ranks. Personal relationships or not.

Jon turned in his wife’s arms, seeking comfort. Shantelle Mercer stood just past his shoulder, a small woman with delicate features and a temper that did her French heritage proud.

Jon kissed his wife’s forehead. “If I handle this wrong, a young woman will lose her life.”

“You are not God, mi amore.” Shantelle squeezed him slightly, having loved this man all of her life. “You have no control over the choices that others make.”

He thought of his daughter Lara, now married to Cain’s brother Ian. “I might not be God but I am still a father.”

“Well, then, I guess that means Sandra Haddad will be fine.”

Jon pulled back, frowned. Obviously, his wife heard more of the conversation than he’d thought. “Why do you say that?”

“Because, while you are a wonderful President, Jon, you are an amazing father.”

“I hope so, my love.” Jon gave her another kiss, this time, softly on her lips. “I will take that coffee.”

“Give me a few minutes.” When Shantelle stepped back into the bedroom, Jon closed the patio door. He punched in one more number on his cell.

This call could not be overheard by anyone.

“Yes?” The one impatient word shot across the private line.

“Why didn’t you tell me Booker had Sandra?”

“I told you, Sandra Haddad is in good hands,” the man answered. “I never said they were my hands. Booker will take care of her better than I could.”

“I don’t agree—”

“He is in love with her,” the man interrupted. “They have less to worry about when they are together. With me she would have been constantly wondering about him.”

Jon didn’t agree with the reasoning, but understood this far away there was little he could do.

“All right,” Jon replied. “I just received word. You’ll make contact in two hours. Is everything in place?”

“Yes, sir,” the man answered grimly.

Jon understood. This had been a long time coming. Twenty-five years. “I want that son of a bitch brought down, Sabra.”

“That’s the plan, Mr. President.”

* * *

THE PALACE GARDENS HAD taken on a new look with added blooms of roses and lilacs. A touch of Jarek’s wife, Queen Sarah’s, green thumb, Quamar thought.

Peaceful, beautiful.

The grounds remained silent. No laughter or chatter of the tourists wandering in and out. No children running along the paths.

Security had shut down the tours, shut down the gates against those who did not hold security clearance.

Five days had passed, and still he could not locate his friends.

The weight of his problems shifted between his shoulders.

Quamar stretched against the restlessness. He missed his wife, Anna, and their children. He worried about Sandra.

And Booker, he admitted silently. He had come to like the Texan.

Something whispered past him. The brush of a pant leg against a bush, the soft step of a shoe on the pebbled path.

Quamar reached for his gun and stopped. Cold steel prodded the base of his neck.

“Hello, Quamar.” Aaron Sabra’s voice drifted over Quamar’s shoulder. “Raise your hands slowly until I can see your fingers wiggle.”



Quamar brought his hands up to shoulder level but refused to comply with the finger movement.

Aaron Sabra laughed, then stepped to the side of the path, his gun held high, pointed at Quamar’s chest. “You have no sense of humor, Bazan.”

Quamar glanced down at the other man’s leg, immediately noticed the absence of Aaron’s limp. “Not bad for a cripple.”

“Helped keep me off the radar.” Sabra grinned and placed more weight on his bad leg. “You’re smarter than your friend Booker.”

“Don’t count on it,” Quamar replied. “Did you injure any of my men when you let yourself in?”

“Not injured enough to require a doctor, if that’s what you mean. Most are just taking an unexpected siesta.”

“Why should I believe an ex-military convict from Leavenworth?”

Aaron’s eyes went cold, flat. “You believe me, or you wouldn’t have bothered to ask.”

Quamar looked beyond the eyes to the man beneath. He’d known Sabra long before his defection from Labyrinth. Long enough to dismiss the rumors surrounding the man’s short stint at Leavenworth.

“Tell me why you are here, Sabra,” Quamar stated, deciding to listen.

“I am simply a messenger this time. Requesting assistance from a third party.”

“And this third party?” Quamar asked. “Is it someone I know? Because if not, I have some personal matters that need my attention—”

“I want the same answers that you, Jarek and Cain are after, Bazan,” Aaron interjected.

“I have no knowledge of what—”

“I heard Cain MacAlister paid you and the king a visit.”

“From who?” Quamar’s eyebrow rose, but his tone stayed noncommittal.

Aaron ignored the question. “Did they tell you that Trygg had been sent to prison because he killed Booker’s men?”

“And if they did?”

“Did they tell you that Booker’s wife also died that day?”

Quamar’s eyes narrowed on Aaron. “Booker’s wife died from complications of a pregnancy. It was in his background check I completed before we hired him.”



“That’s half the truth,” Aaron stated. “Very few are privy to all the details. When I say few, I can count them on one hand.”

“And I am supposed to take your word for this?” Quamar demanded. His instincts rose from the base of his spine, telling him Sabra spoke the truth. “Motivated by your sense for fair play? Just because I believed you did not harm the palace guards does not mean—”



“Believe what you want.” Aaron pulled a folded manila envelope from his pocket. “Or you can believe this.”

Quamar took the envelope, opened it and pulled out an autopsy report. His eyes scanned the words.

“It was an airtight case against Trygg, Quamar.”

“Trygg was tried for treason and the deaths of fifty military personnel,” Quamar replied. “Emily McKnight was not mentioned in any of the files.”

“Senator Keith Harper is Emily’s father,” Aaron explained. “He pulled some major strings to keep her death out of the public eye. And out of the military trial because her murder wouldn’t have made a difference in the outcome. Trygg was sentenced to death based on the death of Booker’s men. His execution date was set for less than a year away from now.”