Bodyguard Lockdown - By Donna Young Page 0,2

was hard muscled—and hardheaded, if a person listened to those who knew him.

He’d been born among the oil fields of Texas, spent his youth traipsing around the Chihuahuan Desert with his father, working when they could, fending off hunger when there were no jobs to be found. His mother died long before he could form vivid memories of her. But the vague ones, recollections of soft scents and softer words, he carried in the deepest part of his soul.

At eighteen, when the snap of a steel cable took his father’s life, Booker traded the oil rigs for military combat zones, the searing heat of the desert for the muck and brush of the jungles and the beleaguered inner cities of third-world countries.

For twenty years, he breathed in the scent of blood, tasted its metallic bite against the back of his throat, choked on the acid remnants of gunpowder. Lived with the cries of the wounded and tortured in his nightmares.

A car roared past, skidded to a halt just down the street only yards back from his SUV.

Booker eyed the platinum finish, the sleek lines—the license plate.

Home-grown.

He shifted back into the shadows, confident his black shirt and trousers blended well with the darkness.

A young couple slid out of the car, darted up the deserted street, their heads down, their arms linked, laughing as they fought the wind.

Booker wondered if he’d ever been that young, or that carefree.

A door caught the wind, slammed against the wall. A string of curses hit the air. American.

Booker tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife.

A man walked past, his shoulders thick, his gait cautious. A black scarf covered his head, hung loose from the man’s face. An AK-47 assault rifle rested in the crook of his arm.

Booker stepped behind the man, hooked his forearm around the exposed neck and yanked. The spine snapped, the muscles slackened. Booker dragged the body to the farthest part of the alley.

“Where are your friends?” Booker whispered, then tugged the scarf from the man’s head, looped it around his own, leaving only his eyes uncovered.

He grabbed the machine gun and eased against the back door of the five-story apartment building. Three windows of the third-floor rooms flickered with lights and shadows.

Which room are you in, Doc?

An image of Doctor Sandra Haddad flashed through his mind.

Long, silky hair the color of a starless midnight sky, delicate features.

But it was her eyes—big and brown, intelligent-sharp— and the warm, sun-kissed skin that caught a man’s eyes, stayed in his memory.

Haunted his dreams.

Booker tugged on the back door, found it locked.

The storm strengthened. A gust of wind slammed a nearby shutter against a second-story window. One...two...

He aimed the weapon at the lock. Three. Booker pulled the trigger. The lock burst.

He shifted his shoulder against the door and shoved.

No lights.

Booker waited in silence with machine gun raised, his eyes focused on the darkness just beyond.

A moment later shadows shifted, objects formed into patterns. He noted a hallway, the door at its end—the slit of light at its base.

Booker eased up to the door, heard nothing from the other side. The sharp scent of antiseptic cleaner and stale cigars slapped at him. Slowly, he swung the door open.

The lobby’s light cast a dull yellow glow on a scuffed tile floor, bare gray walls. Rows of mail slots flanked the front entrance that fed across a long, narrow room and ended with a staircase against the far wall.

Booker made his way up the stairs to the third floor, his stance loose, poised.

Three men guarded the hallway. All ex-military, with the cropped hair, pumped-up muscles and sweat-stained military fatigues.

Two leaned outside one door, flanking its sides, while the other sat on the floor, head resting against the wall, his eyes closed—his finger on the trigger of the AK-47 in his lap.

An inner door slammed shut somewhere in the protected room. The first guard, a short man sporting a scar across one eye, smacked his buddy on the back and laughed. “I think Milo will have a good time. Then it will be our turn, no?”

“I would only kill her,” the other growled, and limped toward the sleeping guard.

Her.

Sandra.

Rage rippled the air around him. Rage at her. More rage at himself for letting them take her.

The attack had been unexpected. He’d been too far from her. Had underestimated their speed, their abilities at the airport.

He wouldn’t again.

The shortest of the three set his rifle against the wall. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, his