Bodyguard Lockdown (7 page)

A thunderous rumble shook the earth beneath his feet. Booker swore and looked to the horizon.

Horses. Fifty of them clambered over the dunes from all directions. Led by the men on their backs, their swords raised.

“Booker!” Sandra screamed from behind him. He swung around.
A horse rose on its hind legs in front of her, its front hooves punching the air mere inches from her head.

Booker scrambled after her. Two men jumped in his path. He punched one in the neck, grabbed the man’s rifle and clubbed the other.

“Stay there!” A man, Al Asheera, pointed his rifle at her with one hand while he tried to control the horse with the other.

Booker stopped, aimed
and fired. The man stiffened, then slid dead from the horse.

“Come on!” Booker grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet.

“Where—”

“Not now!” He dragged her across the sand to the horse.

He grabbed the reins, brought the horse around. “Get on!” he ordered. “In front.”

Men yelled, catching sight of the couple. Gunfire strafed the sand at their feet. Booker bent over, grabbed
her foot and hoisted her in the saddle before settling behind her.

“Hey ya!” he ordered, and hit the horse’s ribs with his heels. They shot across the dunes, racing across the desert, letting the darkness swallow them whole.

Chapter Seven

The dark sky softened slowly into the predawn light.

Booker stopped once, taking a few moments to get his bearings and search through the canvas sack attached to the horse’s saddle.

The man had left them nothing more than flat bread and cheese, a few containers of water and rifle ammunition.

Sandra slept against his chest, her eyes closed, her face
settled into the curve of his neck.

From the moment he’d found out Trygg had taken her, he lived with fear. Fear he wouldn’t get to her in time. Fear he couldn’t protect her.

Fear that he’d fall in love with her again.

Without thought, Booker’s arm tightened around her.

The wind whipped around them, catching her hair, just enough for a few wisps to tickle his cheek.

Booker
tapped the horse’s sides, picking up its gait.

Sandra shifted closer, her curves soft against his thighs, the tight muscles of his stomach.

His body strained against the intimacy, while the echoes of their earlier conversation went through his mind.

She insisted this was only about Trygg. He knew better.

His hand gripped the reins tighter. Anger was easier. If only she hadn’t
stolen those cylinders, hadn’t made herself a target...Booker never would have met her.

She sighed, snuggled her backside between his thighs. Booker gritted his teeth.

The desire, the need, had been there from the beginning.

The first time they had talked, had touched.

The first time she’d smiled.

When he’d lost his wife, Booker mourned. Dark days of grief, anger—guilt.

It took falling in love with Sandra for him to understand.

He’d never loved Emily like this.

He’d been attracted to her. He loved her spirit, her craving for excitement. Life was her playground and she was the princess.

Once they were married, he’d expected her to slow down, to settle into the marriage. But when she didn’t, it caused problems. Her flirting. The partying.

Their fighting escalated until, tired of it, Booker stayed away from home more often, not wanting to deal with her tantrums.

If he’d paid more attention to her. If she hadn’t followed him to the base. But he’d been caught up in his military career. Trying to prove something, make something of himself, at the cost of his marriage.

Emily had come looking for him that day. To tell him she
was pregnant.

And inhaled the CIRCADIAN.

Sandra’s head shifted back into the hollow of his shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck.

He’d watched Sandra for two years.

The woman who brought Trygg down.

Her habits. He’d bugged her phones, her apartment. She made a move, he followed.

She haunted him. His dreams, his nightmares. Emily’s red hair became a dark, rich
black. Her blue eyes darkened to a deep mahogany brown.

Soon Emily’s features blurred into Sandra’s. Stayed Sandra’s.

She burrowed in, her breath warm against his skin. Slowly, without thought, Booker held the reins with one hand and slid his palm over her rib cage, just inches from her breast. He felt adolescent, copping a feel, so he forced his hand to stop.

“Sandra, wake up,”
he whispered, hoarse with restraint.

Her eyes blinked open. Widened at the desire he didn’t hide from his features. The silent question that haunted his eyes.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Without a word, she shifted closer until her lips touched his.

Desire—held in check for far too long—broke free. With a groan, he pulled her closer. The rhythm of the horse set a sexy, heated
tempo as their bodies bumped, pressed, bumped.

Booker dropped the reins, let the horse have his lead.

Suddenly, Sandra found herself lifted and turned so that her legs straddled his waist. The hard result of their kissing pressed against the apex of her thighs.

His hands slipped under her shirt, slid over her back; his fingers ran up her spine, then down, until each hand gripped
a butt cheek and brought her in closer.

They both groaned.

His mouth found hers. His tongue was merciless as it stroked and burned inside her mouth.

Booker tapped the horse with his heels.

The horse stepped into a slow canter. Sandra gasped; her hands gripped his shoulders, felt the muscles flex beneath her palms.

Sandra lost all track of her surroundings. His hands grasped
her hips, holding her tight against him while their bodies matched the horse’s gait.

Heat pitted in her stomach. Liquid fire flowed between her thighs.

“Booker,” she whispered. Her hands slipped behind his head, bringing his mouth to hers. Her fingers shoved the scarf aside, buried themselves in the thickest part of his hair.

His hand delved between her cheeks, felt the wet, soft
center of her.

The sun broke free of the horizon. Sandra blinked into its harsh glare.

She pulled back, humiliated. “This won’t solve our problems.”

Booker shuddered and pulled away. “All right. We’ll play it your way,” Booker answered, his voice little more than gravel and glass shards.

“Now isn’t the time,” she said, straightening her shirt. “But our timing has always been
off,” she acknowledged with a weak smile.

“We’re tired,” he reasoned, his eyes on the horizon, not her. “We only have a couple more hours before the sun gets too hot for us to continue.”

He jabbed a finger at the mountains in the distance. “We should hit the foothills right about the same time. If I have my bearings right, there is an oasis hidden in the crevices at the base.”

“Malaquo,” Sandra murmured, forcing herself not to rub the ache in her heart. “I know it pretty well.”

Unable to sit close to her, he set her forward and slid off. Deftly, he swung the reins over the horse’s head. “Time to give the horse a break.”

When Sandra shifted to slide off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay. You don’t weigh enough to make a difference.”

“And it wouldn’t
hurt for a little distance, right?” she observed, still smarting from the moment.

“The only distance I’m worried about right now is between us and Trygg’s hired guns. Whether they are Al Asheera or mercenaries,” Booker replied. “How much do you know about desert survival?”

“Enough to know we’re in serious trouble.”

Chapter Eight

“Watch out!”

A wail of temper hit the air and jaws snapped at Booker’s shoulder.

“Damn horse,” he roared, then glanced at his shoulder, saw the small line of red marring the T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” Sandra patted the horse’s neck from her seat in the saddle, felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch.

“Something’s got him spooked.”

Her eyes
scanned the stretch of sand around them, glaring in the evening sun.

Booker grabbed the reins, held them tight in his hand. Then talked in low, easy whispers. The horse tugged once, then lowered his head with a snort.

“Now we have an understanding.” Booker rubbed his nose, then loosened the reins. “Good boy.”

“How are you with kids?” Sandra asked jokingly, but the soothing tone,
the gentle movements, caught at her. She found herself wondering if he’d be a good father.

Booker swung up behind her. “Don’t know any kids,” he answered. “I understand horses because I spent most of my childhood on Texas ranches.”

“You don’t know—” Sandra’s jaw tightened. “Quamar and Jarek’s children?”

“I don’t have the same kind of relationship with the royals that you do, Doc.
I’m the hired help,” he said, the stern edge back in his tone, the aloofness rigid in his muscles.

“You’re more than that to them. I know for a fact Quamar and Jarek consider you a good friend.”

“I imagine they are rethinking their position right about now.”

“I’d be disappointed in them if they did,” she answered softly.

Booker’s gaze met Sandra’s, and he tried not to read
too much into the flash of truth.

“Tourlay is a day of travel from here by horse,” he explained, directing the conversation back to their predicament. “We can get there by midnight. About an hour beyond Tourlay is the airstrip.”

“Why the airstrip?”

“You’re going back to the States,” he answered. “After you give me your best guess at their location.”

“And the cylinders? Where
do you think they’re going?”

“With me,” he replied.

“Those cylinders are worthless without me,” she managed through her anger.

“I don’t care. Your life—”

“Is mine, alone,” Sandra snapped, cutting him off. “And I’ve been living this nightmare for five years. Now I have the opportunity to correct what mistakes I can.” She turned in the saddle. Her eyes narrowed. “And nothing,
especially you, McKnight, will stop me.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” She gripped the pummel in fisted hands and resisted the impulse to punch the arrogance from his face. “That’s right.”

She turned to the front, her spine rigid, her eyes forward. “We’re in this together or I do it alone, Booker. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Without warning, the horse cried out and reared
back.

“Hold tight!” Booker yelled, but the order came too late. The horse jerked, breaking the reins free from Booker’s grip. Sandra grappled to keep her seat.

Booker reached for her, but the animal shifted in one violent, sweeping movement.

Sandra screamed, grabbed for the horse and caught only air. She hit the ground hard, the breath punched from her lungs.

The horse came
down, stamping the ground with his hooves.

Booker dived under the horse, hit the ground and rolled over Sandra, putting himself between her and the horse’s hooves.

The horse stomped. The hoof hit the back of his head. Pain exploded through Booker’s skull.

“Booker!” Sandra reached around, hugged his head with her arms, then struck at the horse with her heels.

The horse howled,
then took off over the dunes, the reins dragging behind him.

“I should’ve shot the stupid—” Booker swore, blinked against the blurred vision. “Look around, Doc. Find what spooked him.”

Sandra scanned the sand, saw the shift. A red tidal wave across the sand.

“Fire ants. Swarm,” she gasped. “Too wide to dodge on foot.”

Nausea swirled in Booker’s stomach, slapped at the back
of his throat. He staggered to his feet. The pain cleaved his skull; blood trickled down the back of his neck.

Sandra looked at his eyes, saw the lopsided dilation.

“Booker.” She grabbed his chin, checked first one, then the other eye in the morning light, caught the haze of confusion in his gaze. “Hold on, damn it.”

Quickly, she checked for other injuries. Blood pooled at the back
collar of his shirt; she probed the cut at his hairline with her fingers.

“If you lose blood, we could be in trouble,” she murmured.

“You have no idea.”

She stopped, frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m AB negative, Doc,” Booker retorted. “Rare blood types can mess a guy up when he’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Damn it, Booker—”

“Leave it. We need to move,” he snapped
weakly. “I’ll be fine. Been hurt worse.”

He took a step, and his knees buckled. Sandra grabbed his arm to keep him upright. “Hold on.”

“Fire ants have scouts,” he warned. “We’ve got to put distance between them and us.”

“I know. I was raised here, remember?” Once a scout ant attached itself to her or Booker, the others would swarm them. A swarm of fire ants had been known to envelop
livestock, pick it clean and move on in mere minutes.

Booker grunted, but managed to move his feet through the sand. “Over the dune...rock formations. Higher ground. Give us time.”

“No.” She scanned the area for brush, trying to keep her head as the army of ants drew closer. “We fight fire ants with fire.”

“Fire,” he grunted, trying desperately to gain his equilibrium. He reached
into his front pocket and pulled out a lighter. “Use this and my knife. Cut the brush. Circle it around us.”

She moved them closer to the rocks, sat him on the nearest one. Pulled the knife from his sheath. Quickly she hacked at the nearby brush, relieved when the branches broke dry and brittle.

“Be ready. Smoke can be seen for miles,” Booker muttered.

“One enemy at a time.” She
placed the brush low in a ten-foot circle around them and struck the lighter.

The flames leaped to life, giving her a moment of safety. Booker shifted, then groaned. His face whitened.

“I need to examine your wound.” She lifted her medical bag from her shoulder.

“We have more important problems right now. The damn horse took the supplies and water. Besides, I can see the concussion
from this side,” he snapped, but his words were badly slurred. He locked his legs under him to stand.

“Hold on, damn it.” But she was too late. Booker’s head lolled back and he slumped back onto the ground, unconscious.

“If you’d just given me a minute,” Sandra muttered. Anger and frustration clashed, setting her jaw. “Arrogant superhero stereotype—”

Sandra stopped. Engines roared
in the distance. She jumped the fire ring and scrambled up a nearby boulder.

Time had run out.

Two jeeps. Four men. Rifles. Just over the nearest dune.

Sandra jumped from the rock, made her way back to Booker. The sea of ants stood between them and the jeeps, giving Sandra some time.

Quickly, she plowed up the sand at the base with her hands. She rolled him into the shallow
hole, tossed his pistol beside him and shoved the scrub over him, praying the smoke, brush and rock hid him.

Suddenly a flamethrower ignited; its flames spewed over the army of ants, burning them.

The acid scent of fuel and burned insects caught in her nose. “Handy,” she muttered and palmed a nearby rock. “Why didn’t we have one of those?”

Two of the men hopped from their vehicles,
leaving the drivers of the jeeps to follow.

No use hiding. She wasn’t armed and couldn’t outrun a bullet. And she wouldn’t leave Booker, until she was sure he’d be safe.

The first one, the shorter of the two, smiled at her. The sweaty features and huge lips filled with conceit.

“Where is the man, Doctor Haddad? McKnight?”

“He’s dead.”

The man hesitated, his eyes scanned
the area briefly, touching on the boulder before moving back to her. “How?”

“Snakebite. Viper.” Sand vipers were a well-known danger in the desert. Their venom lethal.

The second jeep stopped a few yards away.

A tall man approached, and the arrogance of his stride told Sandra he was the leader.

“Good work, Itamar.”

Dressed in white with a red scarf wrapped around his head,
he’d left one end loose against his shoulder, exposing his features. His right eye was covered by a black patch, but the other black iris burned with anticipation.

“She said McKnight is dead, Waseem. Viper bite.”

“You’ve survived the desert on your own?” Waseem asked, disbelief in the glance he sent the other three men, the twitch of arrogance at the edge of his lips.

Her chin went
up. “Yes.”

“You don’t mind then, if I make sure,” he said, then turned to the two drivers. Both faces red from the sun. “Search the area and see if you can find his body. If he died, it hasn’t been that long. Even dead he is worth money to us.”

“We wait?” Itamar asked, frowning.

“No,” Waseem replied, his eyes scanning the terrain. “We’ll take her back to our camp and meet them there.”
The arrogance twisted into a tight, foreboding smile. “I have a few unanswered questions I wish to ask before we take her to Minos.”

“Minos?” Sandra questioned, surprised.

“Go to the rocks,” Waseem ordered the two men, ignoring Sandra. “Start there, then work your way out and around. If you don’t find him, get in the jeep and make the circle wider until you do.”

“You’re wasting
your time. He’s buried miles from here.”

“We’ll see,” the leader replied, his eyes on the drivers.

“Someone was here with her. If it was McKnight, he’s gone,” the first shouted from beside the boulder. “Whoever it is has left footprints. A male from the size of them.”

“Search the area,” Waseem yelled, then he turned to Sandra. “You lied.”

She shrugged, relieved Booker got away.
“Think what you want.”

“What I think is that McKnight hides behind a woman. That he left you here to die when he saw us coming,” Waseem answered. “I was told he was your protector.”

“I need no one’s help,” she snapped, but she couldn’t shake the thread of truth in the Al Asheera’s words. “Especially from a dead man.”

Waseem laughed, showing a row of white teeth. “How long did you
think you’d survive without any supplies?”

She nodded pointedly at the guns. “Your concern for my welfare touches me. But you needn’t bother.”

“Not you,” he mused, his grin now vicious. “What you represent. Profit. General Trygg will pay handsomely for your safe return—do you not think so?”

“King Jarek will pay you more than General Trygg ever could.”

“Is that so?” Waseem rubbed
the side of his nose thoughtfully. “Trygg put out a bounty of a million for you. And for your friend.”

Sandra laughed with derision. “How well do you know Trygg?”

“Well enough.”

“I know him better. Which is why he wants me so bad,” Sandra scoffed. “You’re an idiot. Trygg will kill you before he’d actually pay you.”

The punch came from nowhere. Stars exploded in her temple,
the pain jagged and mean. Sandra fell to her knees.

“You assume much, Doctor,” Waseem mused, his smile wicked. He shook out the sting in his hand.

A scream echoed off the dunes. An agonizing, almost inhuman scream that sent a chill up Sandra’s spine, nerves dancing in her stomach.

“What is it?” Sandra asked, suddenly more afraid of the scream than of Waseem.

Itamar swore. “Our
driver.” He raised his rifle and surveyed the terrain through the scope.

Waseem grabbed Sandra, pulled her in front of him. The leader searched for cover, spotting the jeep several yards away.

Itamar shook his head. “We’ll never make it. We’re caught in the open.”

Gunfire rang out, strafing the jeep radiators. Blowing them out. Making the vehicles useless.

“You have what is
mine, Waseem. Let her go and I might let you live.” Booker’s voice boomed off the sands, the tone harsh, the words clipped.

“How did he know your name?” Itamar asked.

“The drivers, idiot.” Waseem scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. “And if I don’t?” he yelled.

A gunshot ricocheted, punctuating the leader’s question.

Itamar grunted. He looked
down at his chest where blood blossomed across the white of his shirt. He sank to his knees and hit the ground face-first.

Another scream hit the air. Followed by whimpering. “Your drivers have been very cooperative. Surprising what losing a finger one at a time will convince a man to do,” Booker announced.

Waseem grabbed Sandra by her hair. She cried out in pain. He forced her down
on her knees and crouched beside her, placing his knife at her neck.

“That’s a mistake, Waseem,” Booker yelled from behind the dune.

The whimpering grew louder from the darkness. “Now your friends here, the ones crying like a baby? They’re already dead. But you can live if you let go of the doc. Immediately.”

“If you don’t come out now, McKnight, unarmed, Doctor Haddad will die
before I do.”

Steel bit into her neck, forcing Sandra to take shallow breaths. While his hand was steady, she felt his heart racing against his chest, his rapid breathing.

Fear?

Sandra decided to play into the possibility. Use it as a weapon. “He’ll kill you if you hurt me. The last man who touched me died with a knife in the back of his head.”

“I think he will do nothing while
I have you.” He tightened his grip until she cried out.

Sandra caught the whisper of movement. Heard Waseem grunt. Suddenly, the leader dropped her and his pistol. Blood poured from his arm, the wrist nearly severed.

Sandra stumbled away. She looked up, saw Booker holding a machete over the injured Al Asheera, who lay on his back, hugging his arm, moaning in agony.

Booker kicked
the pistol toward Sandra. His features were pale, drawn. She saw him sway a bit on his feet, understood how unsteady he really was. It added to the dangerous set of his features, the edge of his temper.