Bodyguard Lockdown (3 page)

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.

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.

“Come in, Trizal,” Jarek commanded, his tone neutral, his temper curbed for the moment.

Jarek’s secretary stopped just inside the doorway. Once tall, his thin, willowy frame was now slightly bent with age. His
hawkish features now more sullen, the bones more predominant. But his hand remained firm on the door handle, his stern and strong voice familiar with its no-nonsense tone that sent many of the palace staff scurrying in fear. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Your Majesty, but you have unexpected visitors. Considering the urgency of Dr. Sandra’s disappearance—”

“He’ll see me.” Cain MacAlister,
the current director of Labyrinth, brushed past the royal secretary and into the private office.

The servant nodded stiffly, then turned to Jarek.

“Your Majesty?” His words dripped with indignation, his question quite clear. If Jarek ordered so, the secretary would have thrown Cain MacAlister out on his ear.

And Jarek knew he’d do it without help and with a great deal of pleasure.

“Thank you, Trizal. Please see that a suite is made ready for the director.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Trizal didn’t flicker one glance in the visitor’s direction, but instead shut the door behind him with an efficient snap.

“I don’t think he likes me, Your Majesty,” Cain mused, then shook Jarek’s hand.

“Sometimes, I don’t like you, Cain,” Jarek responded wryly, noting the
director hadn’t changed since the last time they’d seen each other in D.C. six months earlier. More silver maybe in the jet-black hair, but the steel eyes were sharp, steady. “Since our countries are on good terms, I feel I must tolerate you at best.”

Cain chuckled, then turned toward Quamar. “Hello, friend.”

“Hello.” Quamar pulled the American into a short hug. Both men had become friends
while working as Labyrinth operatives years before. “You heard about Sandra?”

“Yes.” Cain stepped away and frowned. “Why in the hell did you let her walk out of here?”

“There’s a difference between walking and sneaking,” Jarek replied. “Her choice to leave was unexpected.”

“Have you found her?”

“No.” Jarek indicated two high-back leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have you
captured Trygg?”

“No. But Intel has him on his way here,” Cain answered as they settled into their seats.

“When?”

“Our time, 0600 hours. Yours, 1500.”

“Twelve hours ago,” Quamar commented. “So he is already here.”

“I didn’t hear about the breach through the normal channels. It took time to verify my source.”

“What source?” Jarek leaned forward, his hand flat on the
desk. Self-control was taught to kings at a young age. It took forty years of practice to keep his fist from pounding the desk.

“One of the guards, a Sergeant Thomas Levi, survived the escape,” Cain explained. “Chest wound. Just missed his heart. I had to wait until he got out of surgery to verify what happened.”

“President Mercer informed me that Trygg escaped while being transported
from Leavenworth,” Jarek said. “Why was Trygg being transported in the first place?”

“We don’t know,” Cain managed, the anger, the frustration cutting off each syllable. “The orders to transfer Trygg disappeared. We’re tracking them down.”

“A federal prisoner transfer just doesn’t materialize out of nowhere, Cain,” Jarek snapped, and this time he couldn’t stop his hand from hitting the
desk. “It comes from the top. And it always leaves a trail of red tape.”

“If this one did, we’ll find it. You have my word,” Cain replied, his body rigid, his tone more so.

“I’m not worried that you and Jon Mercer won’t find your traitor, or Trygg,” Jarek countered. He’d known President Mercer for years. They’d worked together developing and maintaining Taer’s oil trade with the United
States. “I’m worried you won’t find them in time to save Sandra.”

“We’re running a check on the men who kidnapped Sandra against Interpol’s most-wanted list right now,” Quamar stated.

“You have someone in custody?” Cain asked.

“I found several men dead in a room on the outskirts of the city,” Quamar answered grimly. “We have a witness who placed her there.”

“So where is she
now?” Cain questioned.

“We believe Booker McKnight killed the men, then disappeared with Sandra,” Jarek added. “We haven’t figured out the ‘why’ yet.”

“Booker?” Cain sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“You don’t sound surprised,” Jarek observed.

“Because it makes sense,” Cain surmised. “This mess started several years ago on a research project called
CIRCADIAN. And
it involved both Sandra and Booker.”

“We know very little of CIRCADIAN,” Quamar said. “Only that Sandra’s involvement made her the main witness at General Trygg’s trial. After, when she came home, we took responsibility for her personal safety.”

“It was suspected he hadn’t given up his quest for CIRCADIAN. And he had many fanatical followers.” Jarek settled back into his seat, his fingers
locked across his lap. “But what does this have to do with Booker?”

“Sandra discovered, with CIRCADIAN, a possible way for individual cells to be treated and healed at an accelerated rate. With the help of nanite technology.”

“Nanites?” Jarek frowned.

“Miniscule sensory vessels, no more than a nanometer in size and composed of carbon,” Cain explained. “These particular nanites were
made specifically to have a compatible, yet invasive, accessibility to the human body.”

“How accelerated?” Jarek asked, his frown deepening.

“Twenty-four hours. Hence CIRCADIAN. It’s Latin for consecutive twenty-four hours.” Cain reached over and grabbed his briefcase. “The nanites are inhaled, flushed into the bloodstream through the lungs and delivered directly to the injured or sick
cells through hundreds of DNA programmed sensors that blanket the carbon. Given the nanites are smaller than a single cell, they can treat each cell individually.”

He thumbed the combination on the briefcase lock and popped open the lid. “Treated with the serum, most humans with an illness or injury healed at supernatural speeds. It was a viable concept,” he explained, then pulled out a thick
manila envelope and handed it to Jarek. “Within the first year of research, Trygg heard about it and used his clout to be the military liaison on the project.”

Jarek opened the file and glanced over its contents. “These are Sandra’s research notes.”

“I thought they were destroyed,” Quamar inserted.

“We very rarely destroy files. Especially the projects that show promise,” Cain replied
wryly. “We just let people believe they’re destroyed.”

“So Sandra was close,” Jarek commented, his eyes still on the documents. “How does that help us now?”

“CIRCADIAN falls in the scope of the Super Soldier image that Trygg was known to promote,” Cain clarified. “Heal a soldier faster. Get him back out in the field.”

“Kate was originally assigned as the lead on the research.”

“Kate?” Quamar asked. Kate MacAlister-D’Amato was the head of the Labyrinth Technology division and a leading scientist in antimatter energy.

She was also Cain’s sister, and a good friend of Quamar’s.

Cain nodded. “President Mercer’s idea. But within a few months Kate and Trygg clashed. Mercer pulled Kate and Trygg brought in another nanite specialist and made Sandra the team leader.
She worked tirelessly for the general. Eventually he found her a private lab and isolated her from the outside world. Including his superiors.”

Jarek glanced at Cain, surprised. “You’re saying she was a prisoner?”

“No. She loved her work,” Cain corrected. “And she worked for two years, pouring her soul into the research. But in the end, the results were unsuccessful. The serum attacked
healthy tissue at an accelerated rate, damaging internal organs until they hemorrhaged.”

“A painful death,” Quamar commented, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Cain agreed. “Sandra tried for months but she couldn’t find a way to correct the problem. Eventually, word came down from the Hill that Mercer wanted the project shut down. The serum posed too much of a threat as a weapon of mass destruction.”

“And Trygg?” Jarek asked him.

“Trygg disagreed with Mercer,” Cain answered. “He believed CIRCADIAN needed more funding.”

“When Mercer refused, Trygg stole the formula?” Jarek prompted.

“No,” Cain replied. “He didn’t need the formula, he had Sandra’s loyalty by then. What he needed was money to finance further research.”

“He had lost his American backing.”

“Exactly,”
Cain explained. “Trygg understood marketing CIRCADIAN as a weapon would prove profitable. Enough that he could stake more research on correcting the formula.”

“But Sandra stopped Trygg,” Quamar stated.

“Dead,” Cain replied solemnly. “Trygg is driven by his ego. Sandra worshipped the man. But toward the end of the research he made a major tactical error. His ego got in the way. He decided
her hero worship would make her an easy recruit into his Super Soldier project. When he approached her, Sandra played along, but secretly started gathering evidence to expose Trygg. At the end, she broke into Trygg’s office, downloaded his computer files with all his records and turned him in to the military authorities. And months later, testified against him.”

“Who was the nanite specialist
Trygg brought in?” Quamar asked.

Jarek glanced at the file. “Doctor Lewis Pitman.”

“The records couldn’t prove his involvement,” Cain advised. “Pitman disappeared from the grid soon after the charges were dropped. We haven’t found him yet.”

“So what does all of this have to do with Booker?” Jarek returned to the original question.

“Read the last few pages of the report,” Cain
answered. “By the time Sandra blew the whistle on Trygg, he’d already released CIRCADIAN on a test group days before. She didn’t know it at the time.”

Jarek flipped through the pages until he found the information. “It says here that Trygg kept the exercise a secret.”

“We believe Trygg had started suspecting Sandra’s behavior and kept the experiment from her.”

Jarek read a little
further, then swore. He glanced up at Cain. “Booker’s men?”

“This was a whole new biochemical weapon that nobody had heard of before. Trygg needed proof for CIRCADIAN to be marketable,” Cain explained. “He decided on human guinea pigs. So he sent several of his military units out on maneuvers at one of our abandoned military bases. Although they couldn’t prove it, I think Lewis Pitman dumped
the nanites from a plane. A million little micro bugs floating in the air. Fifty men died that day. Most were Booker’s troops.”