Bodyguard Lockdown

by Donna Young

  He started to nod, then decided against it when the pain morphed into a concert of jackhammers inside his skull.

  “Just.” He shifted from underneath the lean-to she’d built, then glanced up at the sky, noted the direction of the sun above them, felt the prick of late-afternoon heat on his skin.

  “I saw your bruises.”

  Quickly she slipped into her semidry T-shirt and pants. “They look worse than they feel.”

  It took effort, but he stood, his legs shaking in protest. He cupped her cheek, ran a soft thumb over her jaw where the shadow of a bruise remained. “You gave better than you got, Doc.”

  The gentleness of his compliment nearly undid her after the worry she lived through the night before. Slowly, she turned her cheek away, watched his hand drop to his side, curl back into a fist.

  “You had a fever most of the night,” Sandra said, her voice even. She opened her medical bag and grabbed two pills. “Here, take these.” She handed him the pills and the water. “It will take the edge off the pain and ease the soreness. You’ll get your strength back quicker.”

  “Time is short, Doc.” Booker downed the medicine. “We need to get going. We can make Tourlay just after sunset.”

  “A day of rest is more important—”

  “Waseem told me that the Al Asheera are rising again. They have a leader. Minos. I can’t be sure whether Jarek knows about him. If this new leader has infiltrated Jarek’s people, I want to make sure you’re out of harm’s way before the war starts.”

  “I know of Minos, Booker. He is a peaceful leader. He cares for his people.”

  “They aren’t working for Trygg. He’s a tool for them to get close to you. One of the men in Trygg’s camp has ties to the Al Asheera. He’s been feeding Intel back to Minos.”

  “The Al Asheera would not risk a relationship with Trygg. It would put them in direct opposition to the crown,” she argued. Sandra had gotten to know these people. Some she even called friends. They would never follow a man like Trygg.

  “They want the cylinders,” Booker stated with derision. “They will destroy their enemies with one or two of the cylinders, then sell the rest to the highest bidder. The money will come in handy when they seize Taer.”

  “Destroy their enemies? You mean the royals?”

  “One tidy little package,” Booker scoffed. “Waseem had knowledge of your new weapon going on the black market. He didn’t know what that weapon was exactly.”

  “He could’ve been lying to you.”

  “He wasn’t lying,” Booker responded flatly. Waseem spent the last fifteen minutes of his life begging to stay alive. He would have betrayed his own mother to save his skin.

  “Minos and his followers have joined the game,” he said, not masking the truth this time. “Like I said, they might not know what you have, Doc, but they know you have something. And they know it’s a weapon.”

  “The Al Asheera are no longer vengeful.” A sadness stretched across her chest, a heavy band that tightened with each breath. “Waseem and some others must have broken away from the main tribe.”

  “They are all dangerous, until proven otherwise,” Booker commented casually, but those blue eyes were anything but as they swept over her pale features. “One, two, a half-dozen bad ones—any more than one just becomes a number.”

  “I can prove the Al Asheera are not in league with Trygg,” she stated, steel now in her tone, her feet back under her. She took a step to him, then another, until they were almost toe to toe.

  “It’s time for you to trust me.” Her chin lifted higher until her gaze locked with his. “I have connections in Tourlay. Connections that are not influenced by Trygg. We can stay here for twenty-four hours, then we’ll find my friends. They’ll help us get to the cylinders quicker.”

  “That is not going to happen.”

  “Give me one good reason why not?”

  “Let’s start with your capabilities,” Booker stated. “The reason I’m in this condition? Saving you. The reason it got worse? Saving you again. And that doesn’t even include the apartment the other night, when I saved you the first time.”

  “I didn’t ask—”

  “My turn,” he interrupted, the two words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “Now, back in the day of your ancestors, I’d own you.”

  “That’s ridiculous—”

  “Still talking,” Booker warned.

  Sandra placed her hands on her hips, not happy.

  “Now,” Booker continued, “because I respect your medical abilities—to a point—we’ll take a few hours, until the heat lessens, then we’ll move.”

  “You need rest,” Sandra replied, her voice hard with a doctor’s impatience. “Why on earth would you risk serious complications—”

  “Because frankly, I’m not up to the task of saving you a fourth time. And staying here too long will make us easy targets. Is that clear?”

  She couldn’t argue with that, as much as she wanted to.

  But it was the fatigue that overtook his features—just for a second. Just long enough to remind her that he was suffering.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes. You can tell me where the cylinders are, and stay put somewhere safe.”

  “No. We’re in this together.”

  “Noted,” he said grimly. He eased back against the rock, dismissing her. “Now if we’re done—”

  Frustration bubbled, until it spit angry sparks that sizzled and snapped at her nerves. “Not quite. You still need to tell me about Emily. And your baby.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Night covered the city of Tourlay. The streetlamps burned a dull, misty yellow, thickening the smoke spewing from the roof holes of nearby dwellings. Buildings that had years before lost their charm—their bricks now gouged, the paint long replaced with graffiti.

  “Follow me.” Booker kept to the shadows, peering in windows they passed.

  “Are you looking for a place?” Sandra asked, making sure she kept within a few steps. “Because I know of one up the street.”

  His eyes studied her face for a moment, but he didn’t ask how she knew. “Okay. Show me.”

  The dwelling was little more than a room with a roof, gutted long before by its original owners, or nomads like Booker and Sandra who sought shelter. Dirt floors, clay walls and a roof made of scrap lumber, it did little more than protect them from the elements.

  Sandra stepped through the door after Booker gave her the “all clear.” “The family that lived here, they had moved on to better things.”

  “You helped them?”

  “Not as much as I wanted to.”

  Booker nodded. “Stay here. Keep away from the windows and door. I’ll be back in a while.” Before she could respond, he stepped out into the darkness.

  In the back corner, near the only window, lay a small circle of stone for fire.

  With the dry wood for the roof, Sandra decided against tempting fate and hugged her arms to her chest.

  She was my wife, long before I met you. She died from complications when our baby miscarried.

  Also long before I met you.

  And frankly, its none of your damn business, Doc.

  That was it. That’s all he’d said.

  And he was right.

  It wasn’t any of her business.

  But the hurt was there, a razor-sharp edge that sliced the air between them.

  The door creaked. Before she could react, he stood in front of her.

  “Take this.” Booker handed her a bundle. Harsh woven cloth scraped against her palm.

  “A change of clothes,” he whispered. “Put it on.”

  “Where—”

  “A caftan from a nearby laundry line.”

  It took a moment, but she found the openings, slipped the garment over her head.

  “So we can move through the streets easier.” He pulled a duplicate over his head.

  Both were dark and blended well with the night. She
took a step, testing the length, pleased when the hem brushed against the top of her foot. If she had to run, she didn’t want to trip.

  Sandra drew a shabby scarf from the bottom of the bag, and noticed the flat bread and cheese. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I also found a place to stable the horse.” A pail clattered somewhere down the street. People shouted; a door slammed. Booker placed a finger to his lips, then peered out the window for a long moment.

  Two men, their backs hunched, hurried down a nearby alleyway. Obviously, they didn’t like the noise or the skirmish it caused.

  Sandra draped the scarf around her neck, then pulled out the food, divided it in half and put the first portion back in the bag.

  When he stepped from the window, she held out his share. A small piece of bread and cheese. “Digestion dehydrates. It’s best to have small meals.”

  Booker waved off the food. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You need to eat something.” She lifted her hand higher. “I won’t be able to carry you if you faint. So I’ll leave you where you fall and finish this...hunt...by myself.”

  “Hunt?” he questioned, but took the bread and cheese.

  “I’m sorry, should I have said ‘vacation’?”

  Booker took a bite of the cheese. His head pounded, tiny razor-sharp claws raking it from the inside every time his jaw moved.

  “The cylinders are in the mountains on the farthest side of Tourlay. Easily a full day by jeep from the city.”

  “We’re going to need supplies.”

  “My friends will provide them.”

  “Just how friendly are we talking here?” He took another bite, this time out of sheer stubbornness. The pain ebbed quicker, but not quick enough. He stepped over to the window, took another long look.

  “I know more people than you think,” Sandra argued. “Last year, I found the contacts, got introduced to the right people on the streets who could provide the services I required or the supplies I needed in cities throughout Taer.”

  “What do you mean? Right people?” Anger whipped his head around, but the dizziness had him locking his knees, grabbing the window’s edge with his free hand.

  “You need rest, Booker.”

  “I need a hell of a lot more than that,” he quipped. “Finish telling me about your contacts all over Taer.”

  “Tourlay had been one of the main cities I worked in. I’ve spent the last year relocating families, providing medical treatment.”

  Booker swore silently. “Who helped you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Guilt edged her eyes, but defiance lifted her chin. Obviously, it was her choice of penance.

  A dangerous one.

  “They’re wanted by Taer. They’re Al Asheera, Booker.”

  “Who are they, Doc?” His voice was silky smooth and razor-sharp.

  “I can’t tell you...I have to show you. They’ll only deal with me. It took me months to arrange my first meeting with them.” She folded her arms for emphasis.

  “All right.” He held out his hand, helped her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  She glanced at his hand, remembered the strength of his fingers against her skin....

  She tugged free, wiped her palms against her pant legs. His words replayed in her head.

  Suspicious, she studied him, searching for the hidden agenda. “You gave in too easy, McKnight. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. It’s logical. We don’t have the time for me to find someone through back channels. We’d lose several days. And we need supplies. Weapons. Climbing gear. We have no idea what condition the trails are in.”

  “So you’re agreeing with me?”

  “Looks like I am.” Booker scowled. “Don’t get used to it, Doc.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” She didn’t stop the smile.

  They slipped into a back alley down the street. “Go ahead of me,” he ordered softly.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” Booker snapped, his voice low. “I want to make sure we’re not being followed.”

  She glanced around, alert. “Fine,” she muttered. “I always wanted to be human bait.”

  “Not bait. Just a distraction.” Booker scanned the perimeter, keeping a few steps behind Sandra. “And I’ve got your back. So don’t worry.”

  “Should I whistle a happy tune?”

  When he didn’t answer, she sighed and started down the street.

  Booker counted to ten, then stepped from the shadows.

  Suddenly, two men emerged from the alley. They crossed the street, their faces covered by scarves.

  Booker kept out of the streetlights, followed along the edge of the buildings.

  Sandra stepped into the lamplight, her steps stiff. It took all her willpower, but she didn’t glance over her shoulder.

  Brave woman, Booker acknowledged. The men ate up the ground behind her, making their presence felt on the quiet street.

  Sandra kept her pace steady, her head straight ahead.

  Booker ducked down a nearby alley, one he’d traversed earlier. He jogged to the end, up another street and down another back street. He came out a few feet in front of Sandra. When she stepped past, he grabbed her arm.

  She didn’t scream, but she threw a punch. He caught her fist in his, locked her arms behind her.

  Her heel came down on his instep.

  “Damn it, Doc!” His breath hissed between his teeth as the pain shot up his leg.

  Her heart raced against his chest. “It’s me.” He shook her to break through the panic and fear.

  “Booker?” She swore, her fear now anger. He let her go and stepped back.

  Her hand free, she swung, connected with his temple. “You son of a—”

  “Stop it.” He gripped her wrist, ignored the jab of pain that pierced his skull, the razor-sharp stars that imploded in his head. “You hit me in the head, with a concussion.”

  “I’ll fix it later.” She yanked her hand free. “Next time whistle or something before you sneak up on me again.”

  “I’ll remember.” He jabbed a finger in the general direction behind him. “Go down the alley, and hide in the doorway on the left. Be quiet.”

  The annoyance morphed into anger. “That works well for you, doesn’t it? Telling people what to do.”

  “Only when they actually do what they’re told.” He eased up to the corner, took a look up the street. “So go. Now.”

  The men glanced around, searching for their target, their semiautomatic pistols out, ready.

  No talking, their footsteps light. Their hands up, signaling.

  Military hand singles.

  Not the Al Asheera.

  Trygg’s mercenaries.

  Booker waited until both breached the alleyway, then he stepped from the shadows. “Looking for me, gentlemen?”

  The first man swung his pistol toward Booker, but he was too late. Booker shifted, turned and twisted the man’s arm. He heard a snap of bone, the cry of pain. He rammed his elbow into the man’s throat, yanked the pistol free and let him fall to the ground.

  Booker swung around with a high kick. His foot connected with the other mercenary’s wrist. Again a snap, but this one took the pain with a grunt, then threw a fist.

  Booker’s jaw slammed shut, his head snapped back. He staggered under the explosion of pain that rocked his head, rattled his teeth.

  “That all you got, McKnight?”

  “No. He’s got me,” Sandra retorted. The man swung around. Sandra kicked him in the crotch.

  The man gasped, went down on his knees, then hit the ground, rolling in agony.

  Booker picked up the discarded pistols, spared the injured men a glance, his mouth grim.

  “I definitely will whistle next time, Doc.” Light-headed, Booker locked his knees. Bile slapped at the back of his throat.

  “Glock. Semiautomatics. Matching set. Same as your friends we ran into yesterday.” He hit the release, checked the clip. “Full
. Ready for battle.” He tucked one pistol in his belt, handed the other to Sandra. “Put this away in case you need it later.”

  “Really?” She took the gun, slipped it into the bag. “That must have been a hard decision.”

  “It would be harder to watch you hurt,” Booker admitted, annoyed.

  Startled, Sandra glanced at him. “Booker—”

  “I ordered you to stay in the doorway.”

  “It was an order?” she quipped, not quite catching the light tone. “I thought it was a suggestion.”

  The second man struggled to get up. Booker kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. At least now someone else’s headache would be worse than his. “Time to go.”

  * * *

  THE WAREHOUSE STOOD AT the edge of the desert, nudging the main rail yard and its web of tracks.

  “You need to stay out here.” Sandra spoke in hushed tones. The building stood twenty feet tall, its walls spider-cracked cement, its compound fenced and deserted.

  And pitch-black.

  “I don’t want to spook them.” She lifted the latch on a small gate cut in the fencing, cringed when it squeaked in protest.

  “The hell I am,” he growled. He pulled the Glock free from his waistband, thumbed off the safety.

  She slapped a hand on his chest, pushed enough to get his attention. “Listen to me. I can do this.”

  The blue eyes darkened, and his heartbeat strengthened beneath her palm. Its tempo slow, steady. She curled her fingers, just a bit, until the warmth of his skin penetrated the thin cotton of his clothes, seeped into her palm until her nerves jumped.

  “You have no idea what you’re asking.” His hand moved over hers, stroking the wrist with his thumb. Her pulse jumped, her own heart raced.

  Her eyes snapped to his, not sure they were still talking about the warehouse. “I’m asking you to trust me. Give me five minutes by myself.”

  “And if I think the situation is getting out of control, you’ll do what I ask?” His thumb continued to stroke her wrist, muddling her thoughts. She tugged her hand free. Resisted the urge to shake the tingling away.

  “Yes,” she agreed, realizing he’d make them stand there all night out of stubbornness. “But if I’m right and arrange everything we need, you’ll let me make more of the decisions. Deal?”