Bodyguard Lockdown

by Donna Young

  Sandra jerked around, her heart in overdrive, until realization hit.

  Booker hadn’t missed her. He’d been protecting her.

  Her heart jerked, just a bit.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. Or disappointed.

  But she was. On both counts.

  A man stood outside the car, his own gun slowly lowering.

  “So is kissing a woman in the middle of nowhere.” He stepped back, his gait hindered by a severe limp.

  Sandra noted the light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the cold black eyes that scanned the horizon behind them, before they rested back on Booker.

  “You look like hell, McKnight,” the man commented when they stepped out of the car.

  Sandra leaned back through the door, and grabbed her medical bag.

  “Aaron Sabra,” Booker cut in. “Doctor Sandra Haddad.”

  “Mr. Sabra.”

  He noticed she didn’t offer her hand and smiled. “Aaron works, Doc.”

  “Doctor Haddad,” Booker corrected. Sandra raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Aaron paused, then nodded once. But his smile widened. “This way, Doctor Haddad.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you properly,” Aaron said when Sandra and Booker joined him. They walked toward the far side of the village. “You’ve quite a reputation in this part of the country, Doctor.”

  Surprised, she glanced up at him. “Reputation?”

  “Delivering medical supplies, clothes and food to some of the smaller villages. Of course, you’re using the Al Asheera, who are my competitors. For the supplies that aren’t quite available through more legitimate distributors, I mean.”

  She ignored Booker’s scowl. “You deal in the black market?”

  “Among other things,” Aaron mused. He led them into a nearby building. The only one, Sandra noted, that had four solid walls and an actual roof.

  “It isn’t much, but it’s home.”

  It was a sparsely furnished room, no more than ten feet square. A battered desk and chair at one end, a cot at the other. A table and three more chairs in the middle.

  Aaron sat down behind his desk and lifted his leg up on a nearby stool.

  “I don’t have much to offer except maybe some lukewarm coffee.” He nodded to a potbellied stove in the corner. On its burner sat a blackened teakettle. “You are welcome to it and whatever else I have at hand.”

  He gestured to the small wooden table nearby. Some sweetened bread, fruit and cheese filled two plates.

  Sandra’s stomach growled. She sat in one of the straight-back chairs and sliced a thick piece of the bread, then offered it to Booker.

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe the doctor would like a change of clothes and somewhere to wash up?” Aaron commented.

  “I might.” Sandra took a bite of the bread, enjoying the traditional spicy sweetness, even as her eyes remained on the two men. “After I hear how you two know each other.”

  “Aaron worked at the drilling site for a while,” Booker admitted.

  “Until I hurt my leg in a rigging accident,” Aaron commented. “And realized I preferred desert living to drilling. So I got into supply and demand. Booker and I exchange favors from time to time.”

  “A necessary relationship. But not always a trusting one,” Booker quipped.

  Aaron leaned back in his chair, a small smile on his lips, one that didn’t quite reach the black of his eyes. “Almost like the two of you, I suspect.”

  “I doubt it,” Sandra scoffed, then remembered the shared kiss in the car. She stood, suddenly needing time alone to think things through. She’d let them hash out the car situation. “Would you have any clean clothes I could add to his tab of favors?”

  “Of course,” Aaron replied, a grin on his face. “Any friend of Booker’s...”

  Chapter Five

  Aaron found a change of clothes for both Sandra and Booker.

  The men stepped outside the mercantile to give her privacy. Without warning, Booker shoved Aaron back against the wall and gripped his throat.

  “I want to know how you found out about Trygg’s plan to kidnap the doc.”

  “I hear things,” Aaron gasped, but he didn’t move. “It goes with my occupation. A friend of a friend of a friend. Someone overhearing a conversation. Sometimes, even as pillow talk.”

  Booker’s grip tightened. “Who told you?”

  “One of the mercenaries who took her.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “You think I’d stand by while Trygg kills innocents?” Aaron snapped back. “Killing women and children is not my style. And that goes for your woman. I didn’t lie when I said she’s got a lot of support from the locals around here. She helped a lot of people, McKnight. Most who’d given up hope for a better life. Any kind of life.”

  Booker studied his face, then slowly released his grip and stepped back. “She isn’t my woman.”

  “Sure, she isn’t. And this isn’t a windpipe you almost crushed.” Aaron rubbed his throat for a moment. “Number-one rule. Don’t make it personal.”

  “Like you haven’t?” He glanced around. “Seems to me, the doc isn’t the only one providing shelter and food around here.”

  Aaron reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He flipped the lighter open, held the cigarette to the flame, then snapped it shut.

  “I met Trygg once in Leavenworth while doing my time, right after he’d been incarcerated,” Aaron acknowledged, then took a long drag on the cigarette. “Trygg isn’t a sane man. And those following him are fanatically loyal.”

  “Sometimes it’s loyalty.” Booker turned on his heel and headed for the well in the middle of the settlement. “And sometimes it just takes putting the right amount of money in the right hands.”

  Aaron fell into step beside him, blew out a stream of smoke. “Like I said, you are too close to the situation. It has become too personal, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend,” Booker answered, his words clipped. He hung a clean shirt—an army issued khaki T-shirt—over the well wall and pulled up the bucket from the water.

  “And it was never anything but personal.”

  “You know what I think?” Booker pulled his shirt off and dropped it to the ground. “Maybe you need to find a hobby.”

  “Or maybe I should fall in love with a woman,” Aaron argued, then grinned. Booker hesitated for a split second, enough for Aaron to know his insinuation hit its mark.

  “She’s a means to an end.” Booker splashed the cool water on his face, scratched the whiskers that scraped against his palm. “I had little choice.”

  Booker splashed more water on his chest and armpits.

  “I don’t blame you. She’s smart. Beautiful. And rich.”

  Booker grabbed his clean shirt, dried off with it, then put it on. “You keep going and you’ll have two limps to deal with, Sabra.”

  “Love makes things complicated, doesn’t it?” Aaron mused, staring at the tip of his cigarette.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You are in love with the woman who might be responsible for your wife, Emily’s, death.”

  Booker faced Aaron, his hands fisted. “How the hell did you get ahold of that information?”

  “All it takes is putting the right amount of money in the right hands.” Aaron repeated Booker’s earlier words, his features sharpening. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

  “No.” Booker’s eyes narrowed. “And if she finds out—”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Over the last few months, I’ve grown found of Dr. Haddad and what she’s done for the desert people. Enough that I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Booker!”

  Sandra stepped from the doorway. The sun caught her hair, deepened the black until it shimmered. With quick fingers, she twisted her hair up and secured it in a loose bun. Then wrapped a white linen scarf around her head and
neck for protection.

  “Men’s clothing never looked so good on a woman, has it?” Aaron said.

  The light cotton pants and shirt were man-sized. A small man, Booker realized, noting that the clothes fit snug over the hips, and stretched across her derriere.

  He clenched his jaw, just for a moment, remembering how his fingers cupped the round curves earlier in the car. His body tightened with need—and frustration.

  She made her way to the nearest horse trough. Once there, she adjusted the medical bag back farther on her shoulder, leaned over and washed her hands.

  “Doctor Sandra!” Suddenly, a group of children ran toward her. Their mothers followed. Within moments, Sandra was surrounded by many of the villagers. Some hugging her, others showing her an injury or talking rapidly in an attempt to explain—what, Booker didn’t know.

  It appeared most just wanted to wish her a warm welcome. Sandra hugged the women, then knelt down and hugged the smaller children. The boys and girls too old to hug, she would tug on a lock of hair beneath a scarf or pat them on the head.

  “I told you, she is loved by these people whom Taer and its king have forgotten.”

  “Do you think he has really forgotten? Or just remembers differently?” Booker asked. He had to admit, he’d never seen Sandra so happy.

  It seemed to him that when she could not find her place among her own family, she found another out in the desert.

  Sandra broke away from the crowd and waved to Booker. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I want to use the outhouse.”

  “No,” Aaron shouted before Booker gave his approval.

  “Why?” Booker asked, then watched Sandra start toward them instead.

  “I’ve got two prisoners locked in there. I was just getting ready to question them when you pulled in.”

  * * *

  BOOKER SWUNG AROUND, angry. “Prisoners?”

  “Two men arrived about an hour ago. They offered quite a lot of money for the capture of Doctor Haddad. And even more for your dead body.”

  “How much money?”

  “A few million,” Aaron answered, then laughed. “I almost considered claiming the reward when I saw you in the car. But after that kiss...well, I do consider myself a romantic at heart, McKnight.”

  Booker grunted. “Sometimes I wonder which side you’re on.”

  “Right now?” Aaron’s mouth twitched. “Her side.”

  Booker followed the other man’s gaze until his own settled on the doc as she approached.

  “Then for right now, we’re on the same side.”

  Sandra walked up. “Did I miss something?” She eyed the two men.

  “Sabra has two prisoners locked up in the outhouse,” Booker said. “They might work for Trygg.”

  “Wait here,” Aaron replied. “I’ll have them brought to my office for you to question.”

  Aaron walked toward two men watering camels by the trough. He waved them over to the outhouse.

  “What are you planning?” Sandra asked.

  “Sabra said they were offering a high price for our capture,” Booker answered, deliberately leaving out the fact Trygg wanted him dead. “I want to ask them a few questions.”

  “Give my men a few minutes.” Aaron leaned against the side of the sports car and crossed his arms. “We can use the time to negotiate my price.”

  “Price?” Sandra asked, not sure she understood.

  Aaron flicked his cigarette away. “I get the sports car.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Sandra scoffed. “What happens if the owner comes looking for it?”

  “The owner has insurance. The only thing he’ll be looking for is a newer model to replace it.” Aaron leaned in the window and studied the custom leather seats, the state-of-the-art dashboard. “I’ll give you food, water and transportation. Enough to get you across the desert.”

  “Deal.” Booker glanced at the camels taking their fill of water from the trough. “And the transportation better have wheels.”

  “Whatever you’d like.” Aaron smiled, then straightened when one of his men waved them over. “Give me a minute, then follow me in.”

  Booker waited until Aaron entered the hut, then turned to Sandra. “No matter what happens, Doc, you don’t move from this spot until I give you permission.”

  “I haven’t needed permission to do anything for quite a while, McKnight,” Sandra snapped. “This is my problem. I will not be left out of it.”

  “I can’t protect you and question them at the same time.”

  Sandra pulled a pistol from her medical bag. “I don’t need your protection. I have my own.”

  Booker stared at the 9mm Glock in her hand. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Aaron’s desk drawer. I don’t usually steal, but I figured he had a warehouse full somewhere.” She started toward the hut. After a few moments, she looked back. “Are you coming?”

  A gunshot ricocheted through the air. Booker reached for his gun. “Stay here!” he barked.

  Before she could answer, he slipped around the corner and into the mercantile.

  One of the men was dead on the floor, his pistol still in his hand. Aaron had the other man sitting down in a straight-back chair, a Sig Sauer pointed at his chest.

  “The one on the floor had a gun hidden. He tried to shoot me,” Aaron said, his features slanted with anger. “I shot first.”

  Booker recognized the man in the chair. “Kalroy. What brings you so far out from the palace?”

  “King Jarek sent me. I tried to tell him that we are on the same side,” the man responded, his voice more of a whine than angry. “That I was here to retrieve Doctor Haddad. Is she here?”

  “Right behind you,” Aaron mused.

  “Kalroy.” Sarah stepped through the doorway, took in the situation, her gun lowered but in her hand. She glanced at the dead man, noticed the army fatigues.

  “He’s not Jarek’s man, is he?” she asked.

  “No,” Booker replied. He looked at Kalroy. “Your dead friend on the floor is one of Trygg’s mercenaries, isn’t he?”

  Aaron checked the dead man’s pockets. “He has no identification.”

  “How much did Trygg pay you?” Sandra asked. “To peddle a reward for my capture?”

  Kalroy shook his head. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Booker dropped the barrel of his gun to Kalroy’s left knee and fired.

  Kalroy screamed. He rolled onto the floor and clutched his knee. Sandra bit her lip but did not say anything.

  “Try again,” Booker suggested, his tone low, almost guttural.

  “Trygg’s man, Rayo, paid me six months’ salary to bring his man here.” Sweat beaded Kalroy’s face. Pain etched his features.

  “And if you found her?” Booker demanded.

  “We were to kill you, and take her to Tourlay. Then collect the reward.”

  “Where in Tourlay?”

  “Only he knew,” Kalroy answered, then nodded to the dead man. “I wasn’t told.”

  “All right.” Booker shrugged, then lowered his gun. “I believe you—”

  Suddenly, Kalroy lunged for the dead man’s pistol. Booker fired into the back of the traitor’s skull.

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Sandra asked. “You knew Kalroy would reach for his gun.”

  “I’d hoped,” Booker said flatly, then looked at Aaron. “You have the sports car. I’m taking their car. Consider us even. You can do whatever you want with the bodies.”

  Chapter Six

  There weren’t too many duties Jim Rayo hated.

  Acting as delivery boy, however, was at the top of his list.

  He parked his jeep at the crest of a nearby dune, and studied the perimeter. The sun hit the top of the sky, turning the Sahara into miles of molten gold.

  He’d been here before. Many times over the years. But most of those times, blood stained the sand, clogged the air. And bodies littered the dunes.

  He�
��d followed Riorden Trygg for twenty-five years. A little more than half his life. Desert Storm. Operation Freedom. Several known occupations and others not so known.

  Through it all, Trygg had saved his life more than a dozen times, bailed his butt out of bad situations countless more.

  When Trygg had first found him, Jim had been barely in his twenties. He’d been tried and convicted for manslaughter after a drunken brawl escalated into a knife fight.

  Trygg walked into his cell like he owned Leavenworth. He’d been a colonel back then. His chest crammed with metals, his hair short and tight, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. And a half a dozen more shoved in the shirt pockets of prison guards.

  Trygg gave him a choice. Thirty years in prison, or his full rank back and an opportunity to serve his country the way he’d always intended.

  The only thing Trygg required was Jim’s word. His sworn loyalty.

  From that day, he’d followed Trygg throughout numerous countries, campaigns and, finally, to Capitol Hill. Neither man had broken his promise.

  He even shared Trygg’s goal of creating the perfect soldier.

  But all of it had changed with CIRCADIAN.

  The whir of a helicopter split the air. Jim watched the bird land several yards away, the pilot giving him the high sign.

  Jim waited until a slight, mousy man jumped from the opening. Military gear hung on his small frame along with a briefcase strapped over his shoulder and a gray gym bag gripped in one hand.

  “Colonel.” Doctor Lewis Pitman tossed the gym bag into the back of the jeep and slid onto the passenger seat. “Are we on schedule?”

  “Yes.” Jim started the vehicle. “We’re in the last stages.”

  “Good. Good,” Lewis said. He placed his briefcase at his feet and fastened his seat belt. “And Dr. Haddad? Is she at the camp?”

  “No.”

  Pitman frowned. “If we are in the last stages, we need her within the next forty-eight hours. I need time to adapt my systems. You realize that, right, Colonel?”

  “Yes. And so does the general,” Jim reminded him. “We expect she’ll be joining us within the next twelve hours.”

  “Joining us?” Pitman sneered. “This isn’t a goddamn tea party.”