Bodyguard Lockdown(4)

No one knew Riorden Trygg better than Booker.

No one had a better reason than Booker not to trust her.

“I killed fifty of your men with the serum I created. I couldn’t ask you for help.”

“We’ve been through this. I don’t hold you responsible, Doc. I never did,” Booker snapped, then caught her hand in his fingers. He leaned down until his face was mere inches from hers. “You won’t believe that.”

She still didn’t. Not enough to stay with him. Trust him. Love him. Too much history, too many deaths lay between them.

It had been a year since she walked out. A year and two months, she corrected.

He’d changed since then. Leaner than she remembered. Timber-wolf lean, with shaggy brown hair that curled slightly over his back collar.

His face was the same, the cobalt eyes set beneath a high forehead, framed by the broad sweep of his cheekbones, and the hard lines of his jaw and mouth.

“Trygg’s on his way,” she said, then tugged her hand free. “Maybe if we wait. Catch him unaware. We could stop this all now.”

“I’ll stop it. But not with you around,” he stated, his tone now brisk, businesslike. “You’re going back to the palace.”

Muffled gunfire ripped through the night air, moving closer.

“Company’s coming.” Booker stood, his body unyielding, ready. Almost as if he welcomed the confrontation. He stepped to the window, peered through the two-inch gap between the curtains. Tires screeched on the street below. “A sedan. Four men.”

Doors slammed; men yelled orders.

“They’ll have the exits covered.” In two strides he was back at her side and he pulled her to her feet.

The streetlights glared through the window. She grabbed his arm, pointed at the long shadowy bars that crisscrossed outside the window. “A fire escape.”

“All right. Let’s go,” he said, checking the street again. “It’s clear.” He slid the window up.

“Wait! My medical bag.” She snagged it from the couch, slung the strap crossways from shoulder to opposite hip.

His eyes narrowed on the bag for a quick moment before shifting to her face. “Ready?”



“Yes,” she answered, her grip tight on the strap.

Booker pointed the machine gun at the street, then stepped out onto the wrought-iron platform.

Bullets strafed the wall above their heads, shattered the window, pelted the cement behind them.

Booker fired, heard the screams, then the silence.

“Stay close!” They flew down the steps, stumbled past the dead men, one on the ground, the other hung over the stair railing. Their eyes open, sightless.

Booker glanced at the one by his feet, noted the blood-soaked fatigues. “Another of Trygg’s mercenaries.”

“Not this one,” Sandra whispered, indicating the dark-suited man on the railing.

He grabbed the man’s face, tilted it toward the streetlamp, then swore.

“Do you know him?”

“Yes. He’s one of King Jarek’s.” Booker shoved the man away. “Follow me. My car is down the street.”

Booker stepped down a nearby alley, his gun raised, his focus on the shadows.

At the mouth of the alley, he stopped.

“What?” She peered around him, saw the SUV riddled with bullet holes. “How did they know it was your vehicle?”

“It’s a palace car. Jarek’s man must have recognized it.” He shoved the pistol into the back of his waistband.

“Let’s go!” He pulled her behind the SUV and popped the rear hatch. “Keep a lookout.”

He grabbed a backpack from the seat.

“I hope you have some artillery in there,” she quipped. The wind picked up, sending shivers down her arms. She hugged her chest. “Or warm clothes.”

“No clothes.” He slammed the hatch closed. “But I have these.” He held out three silver discs. “They’ll create a hell of a bonfire.”

“Very funny.”

“Not joking.” He shoved the explosive back into the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s keep moving. We need transportation.”

One block became three, then six. Her side protested, cramping, squeezing the oxygen from her lungs. When she stopped, Booker suddenly appeared beside her, grabbed her arm and pulled her along.

She stumbled against him, gripped the back of his shirt for balance. “I thought I was in good shape.”

“You were tied to a chair for ten hours.” Booker stopped midstep. “Look.”

A car pulled up across the street. Streamlined, small and sporty. Fire-engine red. A flag of defiance against the opaque browns of the desert city.

“How about that,” Booker murmured, a grim smile tugging at his mouth.

“What?” she asked, frowning.

“Our ride just arrived.”





Chapter Three



“We traced Sandra’s whereabouts to an old apartment building at the south edge of the city.” Quamar Bazan turned from the window and addressed his cousin, King Jarek Al Asadi. “We found six men, dead. But did not find Sandra.”

Quamar was a giant of a man, with a bald head, darkened features and substantial muscle. “Five mercenaries.” He paused, frowning. “And one of our own men.”

“What the hell was our man doing there?” Jarek asked. Leaner and just a few inches shorter, he shared his cousin’s hard jawline, the same keen brown eyes.

The same fear for Sandra’s safety.

“I am not sure. But it appears he wasn’t there to help Sandra,” Quamar replied, and crossed to the desk.

Jarek’s office had changed little over the years. Deep reds and indigo blues patterned the thick carpet, the velvet drapes. Mahogany, scarred from decades of service, gleamed bright with polish. Its lemon scent still strong from the previous morning’s cleaning.

“Omar Haddad is performing the autopsies.” Quamar rolled his shoulders, stretched the fatigue from the muscles. Tired from the night of searching, he would not sleep until they located Sandra. “The bullets do not seem to match any guns left on the scene.”

“Is that a good idea? Having Sandra’s father perform the autopsies?”

“It is his duty as acting Royal Physician and Coroner, now that Sandra is missing.”

Both men knew the two families’ relationship went much deeper than royals and subjects. Omar Haddad was their uncle, if not in blood, in respect and love.

“He insisted,” Quamar stated. “And he will be thorough.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“No. Most likely the remaining five are foreign,” Quamar stated flatly, his frustration barely contained. Quamar kept tabs on the less savory in Taer. It bothered him that he did not know these men. “I’m having them run through Interpol.”

“No witnesses?”

“One, possibly,” Quamar admitted. He poured himself a cup of coffee from a nearby serving cart. A taste he had acquired several years before while working as an operative for Labyrinth—a branch of America’s CIA. Black Ops. “Three hours ago, a car was reported stolen. The owner stated a couple forced him from his car. The woman matched the description of Sandra.”

He raised the cup, offering it to his cousin.

Jarek waved it off. “And the man?”

“The owner heard the woman call him Booker.”

“McKnight?” Jarek straightened, his spine rigid. “How in the hell did he get involved in this?”

“From the pile of dead bodies in the building, it looked more like he saved her,” Quamar corrected. “Not just from the foreigners but from our man, as well.”

He downed half the hot liquid in one long pull. Strong, it bit at the back of his throat before settling warm in his gut. He topped off the cup one more time, then turned back to his cousin.

“If he has her, why isn’t she at the palace? Why didn’t Booker bring her directly back here to me?”

“I am trying to find out.” Quamar ignored the arrogance of his cousin’s demand, knowing it came from concern.

“Omar and Elizabeth are asking for updates on Sandra’s situation.”

“Tell them she’s in good hands.”

Quamar raised a brow. “Lie to them?”

“You’re the one who said Booker’s protecting her,” Jarek retorted.

“I said that it appeared Booker saved her—”

“Damn it, Quamar. I won’t have them more worried than they already are—”

A knock at the office door stopped Jarek. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of his office. Three in the morning. Jarek raised an eyebrow at Quamar.

The giant shrugged and stepped over to the desk, forming a formidible barrier against the unwelcomed interruption.