Bodyguard Lockdown

by Donna Young

“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 cust
ody?” 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.”

  “A death sentence,” Quamar muttered, his fist tight. “How did Booker survive?”

  “The report says Booker was called away on another assignment right before,” Jarek answered for Cain. “He hadn’t been on the base.”

  “The story gets worse,” Cain said, his voice grim. “Trygg managed to appear concerned enough to visit each of the men while they fought for their life. He caught the effects of the biochemical reaction on a hidden video camera. Along with the doctor’s reports.”

  “Documenting the result for his buyers,” Quamar stated, disgusted. “I have known many men like Trygg. Who feed off of human suffering.”

  “None of Booker’s men survived?” Jarek asked.

  “None. CIRCADIAN has no known antidote,” Cain answered. “Trygg told Sandra of the deaths while he was being arrested. I know—I was there. She held it together until the guards took him away. Then she collapsed.”

  “Booker will not let Trygg remain free. He’ll kill him first,” Jarek acknowledged. He stood, walked over to the window. In an hour or so, the sun would break across the horizon, a warm gold over the pitch and curves of the centuries-old city roofs.

  Through the years, he�
�d lost family. Quamar’s mother, and his own father and mother had been murdered. The thought of losing his people at the hands of a madman cut just as deep. “Hell, I would do the same.”

  “We all would,” Cain added.

  They’d all spent years in the field. They’d all been responsible for men who never returned home, for families and strangers who got killed, simply because they were in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

  “After Trygg’s conviction, Booker resigned from the military,” Cain explained. “I recruited him into Labyrinth on President Mercer’s recommendation. A few months later, he volunteered to serve in Taer. Because of his expertise in desert warfare, and his background in oil drilling, I approved his assignment.”

  “Booker’s request was no coincidence, Cain,” Quamar inserted, suddenly putting all of the pieces together. “He wanted to be close to Sandra.”

  “You’re right but I didn’t realize it at the time,” Cain agreed. “After the Al Asheera tried to stage that coup on Taer a few years ago, I ordered Booker home to the States and instead, he resigned.”

  “He said he needed a change of pace,” Jarek remembered. “So I kept him on.”

  “He must have anticipated Trygg’s escape,” Cain speculated. “Or wanted to keep an eye on Sandra.”

  “Or both,” Jarek inserted.

  “Trygg planned his freedom for five years,” Quamar reasoned. “To him, freedom without power and respect is a poor existence. For both, he will need to obtain the formula from Sandra, then eliminate her. Booker understands this.”

  “If Booker wants Trygg, he’d make sure Trygg came to him,” Cain added. “That’s what we’d all do.”

  “And there is no better way to do that than to stick close to the one thing Trygg wants,” Jarek agreed. “The only thing that would bring him out of hiding.”

  “Sandra,” Cain stated. “She’s Booker’s bait.”

  Chapter Four

  “Was that necessary?” Sandra demanded. “Hijacking the man’s car and leaving him sprawled in the street?”

  “You’re right, maybe I should’ve shot him,” Booker quipped, then pushed his foot farther down on the accelerator.