Bodyguard Lockdown(3)

Sandra clawed and jabbed and screamed and punched. But there were too many in the end. Blurred, shadowy features.

They injected her with a drug. She felt the pinch of the needle then remembered nothing else.

“So you are awake?”

The cover was jerked off her head. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sting of the bright light.

A man stood in front of her, a machine gun strapped to his back, the barrel tip jutting past his shoulder.

Dressed in a mixture of army fatigues and desert gear, the buttons of his shirt strained over a sagging belly, the tails loose and ripped at his waist. Both pants and shirt were stiff with dirt and sweat, and reeked of body odor.

“Good evening, Doctor Haddad.” The man’s gaze flipped up to her hands then down again. “Are you comfortable?”

Handcuffs, looped through a chain and anchored in the ceiling, cut into her wrists. Plastic ties dug into her ankles. Each secured to the sides of a steel folding chair. Small drops of blood slid over her ankle, tickled her skin.

“Extremely,” Sandra mocked, but fear kept her chest tight, her voice high.

Perspiration coated his bald, flat features. His jawline sagged into a nasty grin, thinning out his big lips over gapped yellowed teeth.

But the dried blood that caked his swollen, broken nose told her they’d met before. On the tarmac.

“General Trygg will be here within a few hours,” the man commented. “You can tell him how well you’ve been treated.”

Sandra hadn’t planned on staying that long. Trygg, while brilliant, was psychotic. And that wasn’t a good combination.

“Does he treat all his guests this way?” She tried to lift her shoulders, give her wrists some reprieve.

The man shrugged. “I do not know. You are the first I’ve held for him. The others I have killed.”

“That’s reassuring.” Sandra looked past the man’s shoulder to the room beyond. Searching.

“Looking for this?” He held up a medical bag, its black leather worn and scratched. “Nothing in here will help you.”

That much was true. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. “I’m a doctor. My bag is essential—”

“You are a paycheck to me.” With a flick, he tossed the bag onto a stained gold couch across the room. “Or an opportunity. Which will it be?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“You put General Trygg on death row. But he wants you alive. And he is offering a substantial amount of money to keep you that way.” He grabbed her chin, pinched the bones until she gasped. “Why go to Tourlay?”

“It’s a border town. The last place he’d search,” she scoffed. “Take it from me, anyone who helps Trygg ends up dead.”

“Or rich.” He laughed, then winced. His hand went to his nose, checked for blood.

“You should have that checked,” Sandra quipped. “I know a good veterinarian.”

He grabbed the collar of her blouse, drew her close until only his foul breath separated them. “You think you are safe until Trygg gets here? You are not.”

Sandra slammed her forehead into his nose. The man staggered back bellowing. Blood smeared his face, dripped from his chin.

“Untie my hands,” she spat. “We’ll see who is safe from who.”

“You bitch!” His fist came down. She tried to dodge the blow, but had nowhere to go. Pain exploded against the side of her temple, ricocheted through her shoulder as her chair toppled over.

She bit her lip against her scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The handcuffs held her, kept her knees from touching the ground. Her ankles remained bound to the chair’s deadweight.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back. A knife appeared in his hand, the cold steel pressed against the delicate curve of her throat. “I could kill you now and be gone before Trygg walks through the door.”

“You’ll be hunted down like the rodent you are,” Sandra managed, her voice rough, her jaw set against the pain. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“Neither do you, Dr. Haddad,” he snarled.

Without warning, the man jerked. Air burst from his mouth; surprise widened his eyes, slackened his jaw.

He slid to the floor without another sound, a knife protruding from the back of his skull.

“Honey, I’m home.” The soft Texan drawl reached her.

Sandra’s eyes snapped up, took in the black scarf that hid all but the ice-blue eyes.

“Booker?” Recognition, then relief came swiftly, followed by the pinch of tears and a shudder in her chest.

The sharp jab of uncertainty took a full second more. “How did you find me?”

“I followed the trail of stupidity.” He retrieved his knife from the dead body, wiped the blood on the man’s shirt, then straightened. “Why aren’t you safe at the palace?”

“You think this was my fault?”

“It isn’t?” He tugged the scarf from his face, left it on the floor beside her.



“Only you would blame me for getting kidnapped.”

Sandra took in the harsh, unbending features, the sculpted lips that rarely curved into a smile.

There’d been a time when love made his words kind, humor softened the sharp planes of his face. This was not it.

“You are one of the royal physicians. You live at the palace, surrounded by security. By family. And instead, when threatened, you go to the airport late at night, alone. Making yourself an easy target.”

Pride kept her from responding. Along with the small sliver of truth in his words.

Still, she had her reasons.

He sliced through the binds at her feet with the knife, sheathed the blade, then placed his hands at her waist. “Stand up. I’ll keep you steady. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint.”

“I’m the one with the medical degree. Not you,” she snapped, more impatient with herself than him. The longer it took her to recover, the longer they were in danger.

The position took the weight off her wrists. Blood rushed in, setting both on fire. When her knees buckled, he swore. Then brought her against him, held her steady.

“Give it a minute,” he ordered, the words harsh, the warmth of his body solid, reassuring.

It had always been that way. The strength of his arms, the force of his will. The only time in her life she’d truly felt safe.

The only time she’d truly felt anything.

“Try it again.” His hands gently gripped her hips, eased her away.

Her legs trembled, but held her weight. After giving them a moment, Sandra straightened. The pressure eased from her wrists, left her arms weak.

“Hold still. I’m almost done.” Booker pulled a handcuff shim from his watchband. His hands stretched to meet hers, his touch gentle but urgent.

Hip to hip, chest to chest, the air thinned, then hummed. But this time Sandra ignored the quakes that rippled down her back, kept her legs rubbery.

“Got it,” he murmured.

Her arms dropped and she cried out. A thousand needles stabbed at her. Sandra bit her lip, unable to lift either limb.

He sat her in the chair, then took her right wrist between his palms and rubbed. “You’ve been tied up for a long time. This is going to hurt.”

Sandra gasped as the needles morphed into white-hot knives, slicing through every nerve to the muscles beneath.

“Fight through it.” Booker didn’t let up. Rubbing her skin, forcing her blood to move beneath.

Seconds turned into a minute, then two. Her jaw tightened against another torrent of stabs and spasms. “This is taking too much time.”

“Let me worry about that.” He dropped one arm and grabbed the other. His hands worked the blood flow, warming her skin, soothing the needles beneath.

“You can stop now,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the pain or something far more dangerous. She couldn’t be sure. Didn’t want to find out.

She tugged her arm free. “I’m much better. Let’s go.”

Her chin shot up; her eyes dared him to argue.

Booker didn’t. Instead, he took in her ivory silk blouse, the matching dress slacks. Both cool in the heat, and a dead giveaway in the dark.

He glanced at her shoes, noted the flat, thinly strapped sandal over the feminine arch, the delicate ankle. “No wonder they caught you.”

“I wasn’t thinking ‘desert escape’ when I dressed this morning.”

“And yet, getting on a plane unprotected was your logical solution,” Booker countered. “You have an IQ bigger than my phone number, Doc. You couldn’t come up with a better strategy?”

“I had little time and very few choices,” she snapped.

“You could have asked me for help.”

Lord knew she’d thought about it. Almost called him twice. In a laboratory or with a patient, he’d never question her skill. In danger, she should have never questioned his ability to protect her.