Bodyguard Lockdown (12 page)

When she sighed—a trusting sigh that almost brought him to his knees—Booker gathered her close,
tucked her head beneath his chin.

“I almost lost you.” He hadn’t meant to say the words. Hadn’t even realized he’d thought them until they’d passed his lips. But it was there, in the pounding of his heart, the trembling of his fingers, the raw need to protect.

Slowly, she tilted her head back, found the glitter of truth in his blue irises.

Years of questions, fear and distrust all
broke loose under a tidal wave of understanding and tenderness.

“Not tonight.” She lifted her chin, brushed her lips against his.

The taste of honey and spice slid over his tongue, caught at the back of his throat.

“Not tonight.” His fingers threaded her dampened tresses, cupped the sides of her face.

Desire spread through his body, a hot lava that infused his limbs, rushed
through his veins.

“Heat.” Sandra curled farther into him, made him tremble. “We need more heat.”

“Any more and I’ll burst into flames.”

“I’ll save you,” she whispered. Her mouth moved over his neck, nibbled his jaw. Then she was kissing him. Hot, moist, openmouthed kisses that had the blood rushing from his head, pooling just under his gut. The movement made him hard, made him
groan.

He tried to push her away, but instead his arms tightened around her. His hands delved into the soft folds of her hair, let the damp locks catch around his fingers.

“I have a better way to keep us warm,” she whispered, her voice raspy, urgent.

“I think...” His arm slipped under her knees, lifted her up into his arms. He settled them both on the ground, with her on top, chest
to chest, hips bumping hips. “...it might take a while.”

Her hand snaked down between them, stroked the hard length of him, unsnapped his pants. “It might take all night.” Booker let out his breath in a long hiss.

Electricity crackled the air, skimmed over her skin. This time it wasn’t the storm outside, but the one between them.

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere.” Her hands found
the bottom edge of her shirt, yanked it over her arms and head.

His mouth latched on to her nipple, and his tongue rubbed the hard point through the thin cloth of her bra.

Sandra leaned back, let his hands catch her at her ribs, held her in place while he nuzzled, nibbled and stroked.

Her fingers curled in his hair, pulled him closer.

The damp smell of her skin, her hair, enveloped
him, drove his senses to a fever pitch, his body to the precipice of his control.

Then she was kissing him, using tongue and teeth, fanning the heat into a firestorm of desire.

Booker broke under the onslaught. His arms clamped on to her, making her finish what she started.

Needing her to...

His hands swept down her back, over her pants. Suddenly, they were off and his fingers
stroked until her skin burned, her nerves jumped.

He nudged her legs apart. She rose above him, the fire at her back, the muted hues surrounding her, flickering over her skin, softening the shadows, turning her into an exotic creature of the night.

He groaned, locked his hands on her hips and buried his arousal at the apex of her thighs.

“Now, Booker.”

Her fingers fluttered,
finding his zipper, tugging and pulling with jerky movements—tormented by the raging desire.

His fingers delved into the moist center between her thighs, touching, stroking until she writhed with pleasure.

She raised up, arched, stretched and, with trembling limbs, accepted.

* * *

S
ANDRA
AWAKENED
SLOWLY
.
More from the sudden chill of air over her back than from the soft rustle
of branches.

She blinked hard. The shadows shifted; her eyes adjusted.

The storm raged, battering the cave entrance.

When she shivered, Booker was there, pressed up against her back, his arms around her.

For the first time in a long time, Sandra felt safe.

“I just added more branches to the fire,” Booker whispered, his breath warm and moist against her ear.

When she
shivered, he tightened his hold. His teeth nibbled her ear. Goose bumps tripped down her spine and settled at the base. She nestled into the crook of his arm.

“Go back to sleep. We need to get some rest while we can.” He slid his arms under her. Slowly he pulled her on top of his chest, let her legs tangle with his.

“Rest?”

Sandra kissed his chest, settled her head just over his
heart, finding the steady beat reassuring, the tickle of hair against her cheek soothing.

“How far are we from the cylinders, Doc?”

She’d known the question was coming, expected it. Sad that their moment had been so brief. “I’m not quite sure. Maybe a half day’s ride up the ravine.”

“You’re not sure?”

She could’ve just stalled, waited until he was distracted, but suddenly Sandra
was tired of all the secrets. The walls that still remained steadfast between them.

“I have to check my map, Booker,” she said quietly.

“What map?” His muscles stiffened into granite planes, leaving her skin cold, her heart aching.

“The one I made five years ago. It shows the location of the cylinders.” She shifted back, needing some space, readying herself for the rejection.

Slowly, he rolled her back onto the ground, then looked down on her.

“It was an insurance policy in case something happened to me. I know his men were loyal and hadn’t been rounded up after he’d been sent to Leavenworth. Especially Colonel Rayo. He’s Trygg’s right-hand man—”

“I know who Rayo is, damn it.”

Sandra saw it then, what she missed. The cold anger in the blue eyes. A
familiar sadness swept through her chest, making it tight, leaving her heart aching. Nothing had changed. Would change.

“Where is this map?” Booker demanded. “In your medical pack, right?”

“In the lining,” she admitted, but didn’t flinch when his fingers tightened on her shoulder. Instead she tossed him the bag. Watched him rip it open. “That’s why I never left it behind. I couldn’t
risk trying to remember. If I had forgotten...”

Booker stared at the information on the cloth. He let out a sting of curses.

Her chin came up, defiant. “I did what I needed to do, Booker. And I don’t regret it.”

“When were you going to let me know?”

“Now,” she snapped. “Or did you miss the confession a minute ago?”

Before he could answer she added, “You have no right to
be angry, damn it. How much have you kept from me, McKnight?”

Booker forced himself to let her go. He grabbed his clothes and tugged them on. The dampness did little to cool the heat of his anger.

“I have every right,” Booker bit out. “I wanted you safe.”

“I told you before. I’m safest with you.”

“No, you’re not!” His tone was low, the words terse. “I followed you here, Doc.
Four years ago! I didn’t do that because I was told to, or because I was concerned, or even because I was madly in love with you. I followed you four years ago because I knew that Trygg would eventually escape from prison. He had too many contacts, too much backing behind him not to. I studied his profile, damn it. I knew.”

“You followed me because of Trygg?” She stood, feeling too vulnerable
sitting on the ground naked. With quick, jerky movements, she grabbed her clothes off the boulder, tugged them on over her bra and panties.

“Once he escaped, who do you think he’d come after?”

“Me,” she admitted. “So all of this...” She pointed her finger back and forth between them, not able to finish. Not when his face hardened, his gaze swept over her semi-naked
state.

“You
were my bait, Doc. Nothing more.”

She’d paid a high price for what she’d done, what she’d risked for CIRCADIAN. Her family. Booker. Love.

But this? Her knees buckled. Only sheer willpower and pride kept her upright.

She zipped up her pants, pulled her shirt over her head.

He’d used her.

He’d slept with her. And used her.

Sandra widened her stance to keep her feet
under her, the mortification at bay.

Her fingers shook, but she forced herself to ignore them and slipped on her caftan.

“Be ready in five minutes.” The command was sharp, his features set in granite.

He had no right to be angry. He’d
used
her.

Bait for Trygg.

Then why was she still standing here, damn it? The thought ricocheted from the back of her mind.

More than
once they had faced Trygg’s men. Each time he could have used her by informing Trygg’s men he’d negotiate. But he didn’t. He killed them or left them behind. No negotiation.

He wanted the cylinders and her home.

A person can’t be bait when they’re placed out of harm’s way.

Chapter Fifteen

The phone vibrated the nightstand.

President Jonathon Mercer ignored the light switch on the lamp and grabbed the receiver instead. He glanced at the digital clock. Four in the morning.

In his eighth year of presidency, he’d long become accustomed to calls at all hours of the night. Especially on his private line.

“Mercer.”

His wife shifted onto
her elbow, her blue eyes questioning, more curious than startled.

“Mr. President, it is Omar Haddad.”

“One moment.”

Jon patted his wife’s hip, telling her to go back to sleep. She nodded, gave him a soft kiss on his cheek and turned over.

He slid from the bed and stepped onto the balcony. The air stirred around him. He noted a few of the Secret Service doing their job, but
none were in earshot.

“I can talk now, Omar. What the hell is going on? Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“I’ve been a little busy, Jon, locating my daughter.”

“I told you that I had a man on the inside keeping an eye on her.”

“I hope that man is Booker McKnight because he’s the one who has her.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jarek informed me after a visit he received
from Cain MacAlister. The king assured me that McKnight would keep my daughter safe. As if I would believe that nonsense,” Omar scoffed.

“Jarek met with Cain?” Jon clarified, the anger immediate but controlled. A five-year operation suddenly at risk.

“Yes,” Omar answered.

His temper snapped then. “Without notifying me first?”

“The last time I checked, Mr. President, the King
of Taer wasn’t obligated to share that kind of information with you.”

“Cain MacAlister is.” The Director of Labyrinth reported directly to the President of the United States.

“Jarek considers this a domestic problem. Trygg is in his country. It makes him Jarek’s problem, not yours.”

Jonathon let it go. For the moment. “Where was Sandra and Booker’s last known location?”

“Tourlay.
Until they blew up a warehouse, stole a vehicle and left the city. I’ve been with Bari, trying to locate them through village contacts,” Omar continued. “All I know is that they are somewhere on the run in the desert.”

“Bari knows the desert and its people,” Jon reasoned out loud. “And he hasn’t found them?”

“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.”

* * *

T
HE
P
ALACE
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.”

“Why didn’t
Senator Harper want her name included with the list of the victims?”

“Privacy. Emily was pregnant,” Aaron said after a moment. “That part of Booker’s file was true. Emily went to find Booker at the base the day of the deaths. She used her father’s name to get through the security gates. The guards were green. Most of the victims were. Trygg didn’t want any of his experienced military men
killed.”

“Of course not,” Quamar said derisively.

“It appeared to be a series of mishaps,” Aaron explained.

“Appeared to be?”

Aaron shrugged. “Let’s just say that I don’t believe in mishaps or coincidences when Trygg is involved.”

Quamar grunted. “Go on.”

“Booker had been called away at the last minute to deal with another security matter off-site. Emily didn’t know
that, of course, and the guards failed to tell her. By the time anyone realized she’d breached security, Trygg had already pumped the area full of CIRCADIAN.”

“I saw what the coroner reported.” Quamar stared past Aaron’s shoulder for a moment, processing. “She died sixteen hours later. First, she miscarried. After, the doctors could not stop the hemorrhaging.”

“That part was true. The
CIRCADIAN caused them both.”

Silence filled the air between the men. Quamar studied Aaron for a moment, trying to figure out his motivation for sharing this information.

“Did you notice who the coroner was, Quamar?”

The giant glanced at the signature. His gaze darted back to Aaron. “Omar Haddad.”

“A close personal friend of Senator Harper. And missing in action, as of three
hours ago,” Aaron stated, his tone grim.

“Omar has disappeared?”

“He and I were supposed to meet up earlier and approach you together,” Aaron replied. “He never showed. Could be he’s switched sides.”

“His disappearance does not confirm Omar is guilty of conspiring with Trygg, Sabra—”

“I’m not done,” Aaron interrupted, his voice hard. “Booker wasn’t on base at the time of the
poisoning, because he received last-minute orders. Orders to escort Omar Haddad back to Taer.”

“For what reason?”

“A personal favor for General Trygg.”

“What are you saying?”

“Trygg used Sandra to control her father.”

“Booker knows of Sandra’s involvement,” Quamar stated. “If Omar thinks Booker would harm his daughter, he’d stop him.”

“Booker knows. Somehow he got
ahold of Trygg’s file,” Aaron admitted. “I haven’t figured out how yet. It had been a closed military trial. No one except essential military personnel were allowed access. And all were ordered to remain silent.”

“People talk, given the right persuasion. And files can be stolen,” Quamar stated. “Booker had five years to do both.”

“It took him less than two months.” Aaron laughed with
derision. “Booker found out almost immediately. He joined Labyrinth and headed over here within the first year after Emily’s death.”

“You and he could have had the same source. Who did you get your information from, Sabra?” Quamar demanded. “This kind of information just does not land at your feet.”

Aaron’s lips twisted into a wicked grin.

“I sold an airbus to a very important person
in the United States government. An airplane that has a tracker located in its belly.”