Bodyguard Lockdown

by Donna Young

  “Let’s get through this first.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, Doc.”

  “It’s all I’m going to need.” In a quick trot, she crossed the yard and slipped through the warehouse door.

  Booker counted a slow ten, then followed her in.

  Stacks of wood crates surrounded him. Some topping fifteen feet. Some shorter. Some left solitary by the nearest wall.

  Most smelled of gas and fresh wood. And something else. Booker inhaled. Gun grease.

  He pried the top off a nearby crate with his knife.

  AK-47s.

  He moved to another. Pried the top free.

  Rocket launchers. Land mines.

  Booker swore. What the hell was Sandra thinking by getting in the middle of this?

  Quickly, he searched the shipment, found explosive disks similar to those he used against the helicopter. He grabbed the nearest one, noting its slightly larger size, the advanced detonation device.

  American made, he thought grimly.

  He punched in a time span on its small digital keypad, then shoved it between two of the crates filled with the land mines.

  With light steps, he made his way to the office. A giant with no neck and a hairy face stood by the door. An M16 short-stocked machine gun crooked in his arm.

  Sandra’s scream ricocheted through the walls.

  The giant’s teeth, broken and yellow, split into a big grin. Booker peered through the narrow window at the top of the office door.

  “Hey, ugly.”

  Startled, the big guy swung around, his machine gun leveled. Booker stepped in, grabbed the gun and shoved the barrel under the giant’s chin.

  His finger pinned the guard’s against the trigger. Slowly, he applied pressure.

  The giant’s eyes widened.

  “You can move your hands off the gun, or eat a bullet. Your choice.”

  Slowly, the man dropped the weapon and raised his hands above his shoulders.

  “We’re going through that door,” Booker warned, leaving no doubt that the giant would be his human shield. He patted the man down, tossed away the knife hidden at his ankle, then took the set of car keys from the giant’s pocket and shoved them into his own.

  “Let’s go.” Booker waved the gun toward the door. “Quietly.”

  The guard nodded, then opened the door.

  Two men stood across the room. Both holding M16s. Both pointed at Sandra.

  “Friends of yours?” Booker asked Sandra, his eyes on the two men.

  “Don’t you dare say it,” she snapped, her features flushed pink with either humiliation or rage, he didn’t know which.

  “That I was right?”

  “Don’t push me, Booker.” Her black eyes burned.

  Definitely rage, Booker mused.

  “If I may interrupt?” The oldest of the two stepped forward. He was a squat man, at least two feet shorter than his companion, with a round belly that strained the buttons of his sweat-soiled khaki shirt. His hair, peppered gray, hung long and thin just past his ears and framed a ruddy, square face with a fairly large nose and bug eyes.

  Booker glanced from the older man to the younger. Noted the same nose and eyes.

  Relatives. Always a touchy situation.

  Since Ugly wasn’t blood, Booker knew his bargaining chip just lost its value.

  Booker slammed the weapon handle against the back of the giant’s head. The man slid to the floor unconscious.

  “Booker, meet the Contee brothers,” Sandra said, her tone derisive. She jabbed a thumb toward the older, shorter brother. “This is Madu. The other is Boba. It seems they both are aware of the contract on our heads.”

  “And your friend?” Booker nudged Ugly with his foot.

  Sandra shrugged. “Never met him before.”

  “Yemesi. Our boss felt the need for us to have added protection,” Madu admitted with a shrug.

  “Your boss needs to have another look at his staffing list,” Booker remarked. “This man barely understands how to hold a gun.”

  “I agree. So you understand why we don’t care if you killed him,” Madu replied, his lips twisting into a slight sneer.

  The office offered little space to maneuver. A steel desk was stamped with the U.S. Army logo, its top buried under piles of take-out cartons and papers. Behind it stood matching swivel office chairs on rollers and a single column of filing cabinets.

  Booker’s gaze shifted over the room, touched briefly on the chair behind Madu before he spotted the red scarf.

  Booker dropped the pistol onto the floor near his feet. “The doc says there is good Al Asheera. I take it you’re not one of them?”

  “Our boss said you were smart. That we needed to be extra careful with you,” Boba observed with a frown. Taller than Madu by six inches or more, the younger brother sported less of a belly and a more expensive hairstyle—slick against his scalp. But not enough to cover the receding hairline.

  “Shut up, Boba! You talk too much.” With a quick warning glance to his brother, Madu moved to the desk and settled himself into its chair.

  Boba frowned. “Bloody hell, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve got them, don’t we?”

  “You do.” Booker held up his hands. “I give up. Before you kill me though, I’d like to at least know who ordered my death.”

  Sandra inhaled, reminding herself Booker had probably dealt with this situation a million times.

  “I don’t think you’re so smart, McKnight.” Madu raised his gun slightly, until the barrel pointed at Booker’s forehead. He leaned back on his chair and placed his feet on the small clean corner of his desk. “Our orders are to bring you back with us. Not to kill you. We just didn’t expect you to make our job so easy by walking through our front door.”

  “You’re lying,” Booker said quietly. “You knew Doctor Haddad would need supplies, and that you’d be one of the people she’d turn to, considering you’ve helped her in the past.”

  “The doctor, yes. Not you,” Madu admitted. “When the boss said you wouldn’t be far behind, I didn’t believe him.”

  Sandra shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “The reason you finally made contact with Madu last year, Doc, is because someone realized that the time would come that you’d need to trust the Contee brothers. This setup has been in the works for a year now.”

  “But all those families we helped—”

  “We were ordered to help you.” Madu snorted. “Of course, it’s a bonus when it helps our people, too.”

  “Let me guess who your boss is,” Booker stated flatly. “Minos?”

  “Exactly,” Madu admitted. “He hasn’t been around long, but he has single-handedly brought possibility and pride back to our people. We will take back what is rightfully ours. With your help, of course.”

  “Maybe you aren’t so smart, McKnight. You’re on the wrong side.” Boba smiled, revealing two gold incisors.

  “I really thought you were decent men.” Anger shook Sandra’s voice.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Doctor Haddad. We like you. You’ve done many good things for our people,” Boba admitted. “This isn’t personal. It’s business. Isn’t that right, Madu?”

  “That’s right,” the older brother agreed and cocked the revolver. “Now it’s time to take care of some other business, McKnight.”

  “We weren’t supposed to kill him, Madu.”

  “A million dollars will help a lot of our people, Boba,” Madu rationalized. “We’ll tell the boss you got caught in a crossfire trying to be a hero. You understand.”

  “Actually, Madu, I don’t think I do,” Booker drawled, then glanced at Sandra. His eyes flashed with warning. “Down!”

  Sandra dropped to the ground. The explosion pounded the air, sucking it dry of oxygen, clogged it with heat and smoke.

  The air buzzed around her head, muffled her ears.

  Booker rolled, grabbed his gun. Both Madu and his brother staggered to their feet. Madu groaned a
nd doubled over.

  Booker grabbed Sandra’s arm. “Go!”

  He pulled her out into the street and into a nearby alley. “What do we do now?” Sandra bent over, dragged oxygen into her lungs.

  Booker held up a set of car keys, gave them a shake. “Where did you get those?”

  “From Madu’s guard. Yemesi.” Booker clicked the button. Heard the beep of an alarm, saw the flash of headlights on a nearby silver-colored jeep.

  “I think we just found our ride.”

  * * *

  SENATOR KEITH HARPER TUGGED at his suit for the hundredth time. It was the middle of the night. The fact that he didn’t have to battle the heat was little consolation.

  Impatient, he reminded himself that this deal wouldn’t be made unless he traveled over to this forsaken land.

  He was a big man, more than six four, barrel-chested and broad shouldered. The muscle beneath was more solid than slackened from age.

  At sixty-five, his face was creased from years of stress and politics, not from the harsh elements of field operations.

  He’d come from ten generations of military strategists and diplomats, spent a few decades as a career officer, but many more as a senator on Capitol Hill, dealing with bureaucrats and their self-righteous rhetoric, buying their wives a nice dinner, their mistresses’ even nicer jewelry.

  The tent door rustled. A moment later, a man stepped in. He wore dark riding pants, a matching shirt and black leather boots. A scarf, bloodred, covered all but his granite-black eyes.

  “General. I’m sorry for the delay,” the man called Minos said, with no apology in the slow, drawn-out words.

  He carried a whip, touched it to his forehead in a friendly salute. “You understand that most in our position have very little time between business dealings.”

  Instead of approaching the general, he crossed to a table set at the far end of the tent.

  “Two hours is more than a little late, Minos.”

  “It could not be helped. One of my warehouses just went up in flames. I had to deal with the damage control. I lost thousands of American dollars’ worth of merchandise,” the Al Asheera leader stated unequivocally, then dropped the whip on the table. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, unscrewed the top and poured himself two fingers high. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No,” Harper replied, his tone sharp, his impatience clear. He lifted the briefcase up slightly. “You’ve wasted too much of my time already. I have a flight to the States later tonight. And I don’t want to be spotted here. Not when we are so close to our goal.”

  “You don’t need to be concerned. The Sahara is vast, General. The twin-engine planes traveling to and from my camp are never noticed. I make sure of it. It’s bad for business.” Minos set the bottle down, raised his glass in a silent toast, then downed the whiskey under the scarf in one gulp.

  “No one knows you are here.” The black eyes narrowed, opaque and cool. “Unless you told them, of course,” Minos said, his tone silky and sharp-edged.

  “And why would I do that? I’ve invested a lot of time and money into this operation,” Harper snapped. “I’m not about to watch it all go to hell simply because some random civilian recognizes my face.”

  He poured himself another drink. “My man offered you a face scarf and caftan. You turned him down.”

  Minos walked over to a nearby couch and settled back into the low, red cushions.

  Harper eyed the man, annoyed when the Al Asheera leader didn’t remove his scarf. “Keeping up this charade to the end?”

  “I find that it’s better for my...health, to let my skills build my reputation. One doesn’t need a face to establish credibility. Correct?” Minos asked.

  “I’d prefer to know whom I am dealing with—”

  “Then we’re done.” Minos rose from his seat. “All deals are off.”

  “I said I would prefer it—I didn’t say it was necessary, damn it.”

  Both understood the general had just retreated. Red flushed his cheeks. He did not like being on the defensive. But he needed this business taken care of.

  “Then I owe you an apology,” Minos said easily, but his eyes remained narrow, unyielding. “I misunderstood. Since we are in agreement with the boundaries of our partnership, we may continue.”

  “My point exactly,” Harper responded tersely. “We have wasted enough time.”

  “Please have a seat.” Minos waved to the closest velvet straight-back chair. “My men told me that you have brought the equipment.”

  “Yes. General Trygg needs it delivered tomorrow,” Harper replied. “Make sure it is not damaged in the transportation. It’s fragile and expensive equipment.”

  “And the other part of our transaction?”

  “I have it here.” Harper opened his briefcase on the table. Slowly, he turned the briefcase around until Minos saw its contents. “And three million in bearer bonds.”

  “For Booker McKnight, Sandra Haddad and Riorden Trygg dead,” Minos murmured. “That’s quite a bounty for three people.”

  “Do we have a deal?” Senator Harper handed Minos the piece of paper. “These are the coordinates to his camp.”

  “That leaves McKnight and Sandra Haddad.”

  “Chances are if you find Trygg, you will find McKnight and Omar’s daughter,” Harper snapped. “Trygg is hunting them down.”

  “He is that close?”

  “Close enough,” Harper replied. “Trygg is planning on moving his laboratory. Very soon. If that happens, you might not be able to track him.”

  “Move?”

  “He’s built his lab in the belly of the airbus we managed to acquire for him,” Harper explained. “I didn’t think the son of a bitch could pull it off, but he did. He plans on dumping the CIRCADIAN on Taer.”

  “He wants to wipe out the royal family?”

  “He wants to decimate them, along with most of the country,” Harper corrected. “And frankly, I don’t care if he does or not. Just so long as you take care of him soon. That’s our deal, Minos.”

  “Yes, General. We have a deal.” Minos paused, thinking.

  “Who knows, Minos? If you play your cards right, once Trygg hits Taer with the CIRCADIAN, there might be enough left for you to finally have the country for the Al Asheera.”

  “You can’t rule the dead, Senator,” Minos murmured. He took a short sip of his whiskey. “What about Omar Haddad?”

  Harper’s eyes went cold. “I am meeting with him in a few hours.”

  “A meeting?”

  “More like a conversation about old times,” Harper corrected. “Don’t worry about Omar. I’ll take care of him.”

  “He is not a man who is easily taken care of,” Minos pointed out. He placed his drink on a nearby table. “And he, like you, is a father who will stop at nothing to avenge his daughter.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They traveled most of the day until the heat of the sun forced them to seek shade.

  After taking a small break to relieve her bladder, Sandra settled cross-legged on a nearby boulder, closed her eyes and listened.

  The wind kicked and howled across the desert floor, stirring sand, loose scrub...and memories.

  Its restlessness touched something in her, made her feel connected to the desert more than anything—or anyone—could.

  She spent many hours sitting on top of the boulders, when the need to be alone became too much.

  One time, when she was no more than ten or eleven years of age, Bari joined her. “I see you up here on your perch, day after day. What are you thinking about, little bird?”

  “Daydreams mostly,” she said softly. “I imagine my wishes are caught up in the desert winds and taken across the sands.”

  “And where does the Sahara take your dreams?” he asked gently.

  Sandra shrugged, not ready to share something so personal. Instead she said, “Aunt Theresa used to tell me that the Sahara was a beautiful woman filled with magic and emotion. Do you think she w
as right?”

  Sadness creased the corners of her uncle’s eyes, deepened the brown to a black, mournful and lackluster.

  Theresa Bazan had been murdered only a few months before.

  Sandra’s older brother, Andon, was taken several years earlier than Theresa. Both had died at the hands of the Al Asheera.

  While Sandra was too young to remember her brother, she knew and loved her aunt.

  “Oh, yes.” Bari studied the horizon. “A beautiful woman, full of mischief and surprises.”

  “Mischief?” Sandra smiled.

  “And danger,” Bari warned. “Don’t ever forget that, Sandra.”

  “But only to those who don’t respect her,” Sandra argued. “Even so, the danger adds a sense of adventure. Doesn’t it?”

  Bari laughed. “You are loyal to the land, little bird.”

  “Not the land, Uncle. My home.”

  Bari placed his arms around her shoulder and gathered her close. “My Theresa would have agreed with you.”

  “I miss her, too, Uncle. I miss her so much.” Sandra was close to her mother, but in a different way. Unlike Sandra’s mother, who went from her father’s home to her marriage with Omar, Theresa Bazan had traveled the world. She’d been independent, a world-renowned Nobel Prize–winning photographer.

  As a Christian, she’d been unable to marry Bari, a royal. So she’d lived with Bari without marriage, and later had given birth to Quamar.

  Bari loved her, too. Enough that he’d given up his throne to travel the desert with her. Raise their son together. Until she died. Then Bari raised their son alone.

  “She loved you, little bird,” Bari murmured. “She was the one who called you that first, you know. She said that you reminded her of a small bird caught in a cage, relentlessly fluttering her wings, but never quite free.”

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “She said that?”

  “Yes,” Bari replied and patted her knee. “But it’s up to you to prove whether she is right or not. My Theresa never agreed with society’s rules.”

  From that day, her uncle always made camp near rocks. Over the years, it remained a private understanding between them. She loved Bari for that and so much more.