Bodyguard Confessions

Chapter Three

“You are being foolish,” came the irritated reply. Anna couldn’t see him, but she felt him, his body vibrating with barely suppressed anger. “Without my help, you risk yourself and the baby.”

“I have no reason to trust you or anyone else.” Another jab. This time the giant hissed. “So back off.”

“I am Quamar Bazan, Miss Cambridge. Do you remember me?”

“Quamar—” Her jaw snapped shut.

Of course she recognized the name. Quamar Bazan had worked as an agent with Labyrinth, a black ops organization connected with her father. One she hadn’t found out about until recently. “I’m supposed to take your word for that? When I can’t see your face?” She jabbed at him again for emphasis.

Quamar quickly grew impatient. “I can prove it, if you will allow me.” It was one thing to distrust him, quite another to keep poking at him with her blade. “But I must reach into my pocket.”

“All right. But slowly or you’re going to lose some fingers.”

Quamar heard the tremor in her voice, then the bite as she clamped down her fear. She was terrified, yet she maintained her stance.

She has courage, he admitted silently, almost reluctantly, as he pulled his light out of his pocket. And she would need it to see her through the next few hours.

He thumbed the switch, igniting the lighter. The dim fire cast an amber glow between them.

Beautiful, he thought, before he could stop himself. Even the streaks of mud over her brow and across the soft curve of her cheek didn’t detract. She studied him with blue eyes that were big and set apart, wide enough to balance the feminine cut of her chin, soften its stubborn edge. Her lips were full and wide with the balance toward top-heavy. Enough to entice most men, he imagined, to taste.

Slowly, she lowered her knife.

“Quamar.” There was no relief in her voice or fear. Just anger.

And his name trembled with it.

Since he’d expected the relief, her anger surprised him. But it shouldn’t have. He had been critically wounded a year ago while on an assignment to protect Anna’s grandmother from an assassin. And he had failed.

He, more than most, understood that past transgressions were never forgotten.

“You could have told me earlier.” She brushed her hair out of her face. Mud-splattered, it spilled down her back in a stream of blond tresses that curled between her shoulder blades. Thick enough to bury a man’s hand under its weight.

When his fingers itched to do the same, he tightened them on the lighter. “When was I supposed to tell you?”

“Outside, where I could’ve seen you.”

He growled, a harsh grinding of his vocal chords. “If I had, I would be dead. And you would be Zahid’s prisoner,” he snapped with more abruptness than intended, resenting her anger and the connotation behind both. “Or dead, too.”

“I could have killed you,” she said, her tone matching his. With jerky motions, she sheathed her knife in her waistband.

So, he thought, that is where the anger came from. Her fear of almost hurting him.

Not from their past.

“No, you could not have,” Quamar responded, his mind back on their position. It had been years since he’d explored the tunnels. Erosion could have weakened the passages for all he knew.

“In the future, do not warn your enemy before you strike,” he said, deepening the tone to soothe, allowing his words to settle before he pushed the blade away. “Strike to kill.”

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t.”

“It was not luck,” Quamar answered with forced equanimity. Quamar was a patient man by nature. The desert life killed those who weren’t. But somehow with Anna Cambridge the edge of his patience became slippery, making it difficult to hold on to.

“Where did you come from, Quamar?”

“The desert,” he answered abruptly.

“I see,” she said, frustration underlining her response. But when he wasn’t willing to give more information, she asked, “Where in the desert?”

“Where I was before does not matter. What matters is we are here and cannot stay.” His eyes ran over hers, checking her for injuries. “Rashid did not cry over the explosion.” He pulled open the sling, allowing the light to shine on the boy. “Is he dead?”

Anna felt his body tighten, the only give of emotion.

“Only sleeping,” she said, sensing rather than seeing him relax at her explanation. “His nanny drugged him for his own protection.”

“I understand,” he said, and let his hand drop.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“We get you both out of Taer safely.” He motioned toward the baby. “And to do so, you will need to trust me, Miss Cambridge.”

“Trust you? When just minutes ago you were talking ransom to Zahid? I’ve only met you once, and you were unconscious at the time. That isn’t a foundation for trust.” The harshness was gone, but wariness kept her eyes wide, the bow of her lips tight and pale.

After her grandmother’s murder, Anna had visited Quamar at the hospital. He remembered the cool flutter of her fingers on his hand. The brush of a kiss against his lips—an act of forgiveness that he did not deserve.

Over the past months, he had thought of that one kiss a thousand times. “I was not unconscious,” Quamar remarked. “Tell me now, do you ever do what you are told? Or do it without argument?”

“Do you?”

This one wasn’t startled easily. Cool, collected. But he had surprised her. He saw the flush rise over the pale cheeks.

“Yes, I do,” he lied without qualm before his eyes moved to the baby.

“Quamar,” Anna said with impatience. “I have promised to see Rashid to safety. I do not make promises I can’t keep. So I will trust you. Only because I have no other choice. But do not expect me to follow you blindly. Not with Rashid’s life at stake.”

Her jaw tightened, hardening the stubborn lines. Still, the trepidation was there in the shadows of her eyes.

Something pulled at him, deep from his belly. A familiar tug, one he’d felt before and many times since.

The threads of fate.

Quamar pushed the feeling away. “Agreed.” He shut off the lighter and pocketed it.

Catching her elbow in a viselike grip, he urged her forward. “We have wasted enough time. We must go.”

They traveled in silence, occasionally stopping to listen and wait. The air turned dank and the chill seeped through the soles of her feet, making her bones ache, her body shiver. The sling bit into her neck and shoulders. Without thinking, she shifted the baby, relieving some of the pressure.

“How is he?”

He must have sensed her movement. Instinctively, Anna’s arm tightened over the baby. “He hasn’t woken yet.” Her hand went to Rashid’s nose, felt the tickle of his breath against her skin. “But his breathing is even.”

“You have done well protecting him,” Quamar acknowledged. But before Anna could digest the compliment, or the warmth it invoked, he asked, “What are you doing here, Miss Cambridge?”

“Running for my life, it seems.”

“In Taer,” he corrected, but she heard the sigh in his voice. “What are you doing here in Taer?”

Without warning, his hand slid down her arm and snagged her hand. The meaty palm engulfed hers, warmed her chilled fingers.

“Saree invited me. We went to college together. I have known her for years. Since my father was getting ready to negotiate with Jarek over Taer’s new oil discovery, I figured I would visit for a few days. See Rashid. Take in the sights.” Anna didn’t comment on why, because this was not the time to release inner demons. “Sort of a diplomatic vacation.”

Suddenly, Quamar turned a sharp corner, pointing them in a different path. Which direction, she wasn’t sure, having lost all bearing hours before.

She paused, wondering. “How do you know these tunnels so well?”

“Jarek and I are cousins. As well as Zahid. We played in them as children.”

“Cousins? You tried to kill your own cousin?”

“Yes.” Quamar’s answer was matter-of-fact. No explanations. No justifications.

“You would have killed him if I hadn’t been there.”

“Yes.” It was a rhetorical statement, but Quamar answered anyway.

“Your family reunions must be real fun,” Anna muttered.

“They will send men to cover the entrances. We need to be gone before.”

“They?”

“Hassan and Zahid.”

“Hassan? Zahid’s father?” Anna asked, unable to stop the disbelief in her voice. “You’re saying your uncle is behind the attack?”

“He will benefit the most. But he had help. A traitor among Jarek’s ranks. Hassan could not have disabled the palace security from the outside, not long enough for the attack. Only someone from inside could have made them vulnerable.”

“How many people had access to the codes?”

“Half a dozen. Maybe less.”

“Quamar, a good portion of the palace soldiers turned on Jarek and his men,” Anna said. She’d seen it herself. Men killed with swords or bullets in their back.

“Something Jarek would never have expected,” Quamar acknowledged. “Jarek innately believed most people of Taer loved the country, honored it as much as he did. Were loyal to his father and the crown. It was a flaw I had warned him about. And now it has cost him his life.”

In the few short days she had known Jarek, she had come to respect him and his views. He epitomized royalty. Not just in looks, although his features were defined in a mixture of the sharp angles and broad planes of his ancestors. But more. Jarek wore his royal heritage like one wore an expensive suit—custom-tailored to fit the long, thin lines of his frame. And he had worn that heritage well.

“We must hurry. A short distance from here is a fork in the tunnel that leads out into the city,” Quamar said, his voice grim.

“And once we escape to the city? What are we going to do?”

“Survive.”

Chapter Four

Farad Al’ Neyum was a man driven. Not by honor or faith.

But greed.

Above him, he could hear the distant rap of a machine gun, the bellows of the soldiers as they hunted their enemies. Farad grunted with disgust. All fools who believed in an empty cause—to rid the people of Taer of antitraditionalists.

A cause brandished like a sword from a wealthy man who wanted no more than power and further riches.

Riches he had yet to see himself, Farad admitted while he pushed against the sewer grate above his head. With caution born from years on the street, he poked out his head and scanned the alleyway surrounding him.

Empty. Pleased, he set his gun out on the cement and levered himself out of the drain hole. He could taste the rot of sewage, feel the sludge stick to his skin, soak into his robes. But the stench didn’t bother him. Hadn’t in years. In fact, he’d become accustomed to the more fetid scents of the city. It wasn’t every man who owned his kingdom, even if it was the sewers of Taer. For even the rich needed somewhere to wash their garbage away.

Farad was a small man. In truth, no taller than the hind leg of a camel, and rather plain with a sharp nose, pointed ears and gaps between his teeth.

But he wasn’t one to dwell on his lot in life. He placed the grate once again over the drain.

With his size came an above-average intelligence—a quality lacking in the local law enforcement. One he used to his advantage.

Quickly, he moved down a nearby alley. Every so often he stopped and listened. In the distance sporadic gunfire sounded, but not close enough to be dangerous.

Feeling better, he stretched the tight muscles in his back. It had been a long evening, but a profitable one. With a smile, he lifted the leather pouch at his waist, tested its weight, heard the jingle of coins. Jewelry and money he had found on the dead. Paltry, considering. Not enough to last through the week.

His gaze skimmed over the rooftops of the souq—Taer’s marketplace—until it rested on the golden crest of the palace in the distance, still lit in all its glory. A glut of treasure waited beyond the long line of its columns and archways, protected just underneath the rise of its domes.

Praise Allah, he thought with derision.

Even an above-average thief didn’t risk the loss of one’s hands or head for palace riches. Especially during a revolution. Too many people would be suffering before the dawn broke over the horizon again.

No one ever cared about a thief’s lot in life. And Farad wouldn’t lose any sleep over others’ woes. He sighed and scratched his armpit, wondering if he’d picked up a flea or two from bedding down with the camels the night before.

Tonight, at least, he’d have money for a mat on a warm floor. And some hot mint tea.

Abruptly, a rock bounced, its sharp rap echoing off the cobblestone. Farad froze mid-scratch. He grabbed his rifle from the ground and edged to the corner of the building.

Blond-white hair caught in the yellow wash of the streetlamp. A woman adjusted the bundle in front of her, her fingers fumbling in her haste. Suddenly, she glanced over her shoulder and Farad caught the full image of her face.

Her features—delicate, with the traditional lines of the Westerners—were now pinched with fear, her body covered only in flimsy attire, her feet bare.

Leaving his rifle, Farad slid along the pavement, careful to stay down within the shadows of the street’s gutters. Deftly, he shuffled forward on elbows and knees, stopping twenty feet from the woman. Excitement set the hairs on his neck straight. Anna Cambridge. He had seen her many times on television, in the newspapers.

Within seconds, a man—a true Goliath—caught her arm and pulled her into the shadows. The man’s warrior stance, his panther-like quietness, seemed familiar. Instinctively, Farad shifted farther into the sewer’s trench.

Patience, he reminded himself.

The couple slipped into a nearby alley. Farad followed them even while excitement bubbled within, forcing him to resist the urge to clap with pleasure.

The giant posed a problem, but not so big a problem Farad couldn’t resolve it profitably.

After all, he had waited a lifetime to find the treasure beyond all treasures. And now, it stood less than twenty feet away.

His thin lips twisted with satisfaction.

Praise Allah.

THE CITY OF TAER WAS NO MORE than a tangled network of narrowed lanes and tightly compressed buildings.

“Where are we going?” Anna whispered.

Intermittent streetlamps glowed dully throughout the streets. Each block contained pastel-colored shops with apartments of white stone squeezed sporadically in between.

They had stopped, cloaked by shadows and a doorway. The pungent smell of cumin and stale grease permeated the air, telling Quamar he should have chosen something other than a bistro for rest.

The pain in his head increased, a chisel scraping between skin and skull. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping for a little respite, but the heavy scent of spices antagonized the ache. He thought about the pills in his pocket, knowing they’d bring temporary relief. But the relief would come at a price. Slower reflexes, impaired judgment.

“We are going to a friend’s,” Quamar answered, the censor obvious in his tone. He scanned the area, searching the shadows for danger.

“Your friend or mine?” Anna muttered under her breath, but not low enough for Quamar to miss.

“Mine.” His eyes flicked over her, daring her to make another comment.

Anna frowned, her hand patting the baby’s back for courage. “Why not the airport? Or maybe steal a jeep?” She kept her words low, doing a damn good job at imitating his censured tone.

“The airport will be guarded and all the roads shut down. A vehicle will only be a hindrance where we are going. Do not worry, Miss Cambridge. I will get you to safety. But first, you need clothes.”

Her chin lifted at the insult. “I’m not worried,” she responded in a harsh whisper. “Just uninformed.”

She didn’t bother hiding her annoyance. And somehow she managed to look down her nose at him, even though he towered over her by a good foot.

Maybe later, that trick would impress him. Right now it only irritated him.

Quamar had spent most of his life keeping his thoughts and emotions hidden. But it took most of his control to bite back the snarl that rose in his throat.

He understood her fear, better than she did. The more information she had, the more she believed she controlled the situation. Uninformed, as she put it, kept her balanced on a precipice of fear. He didn’t have time to alleviate her fears now. First, he needed to get the two of them off the street.

But even terrified, the woman wasn’t easy to intimidate.

And she was definitely a woman. The sling covered most of her chest and abdomen, but not enough to disguise the fact that Anna Cambridge had soft, feminine curves and a waist no bigger than the span of his hands. Desire bit at him with sharp, jagged teeth, annoying him further. “If you must know, we are going to my father’s camp. But first we need a satellite phone. And supplies.”

Sirens sounded—announcements blared from loud speakers warning the citizens to stay in their homes or risk being shot.

He grabbed her hand, engulfing it once again in his own. “Come.” His command was clipped, leaving no room for argument while he pulled her along. “And be quiet.”

Her immediate gasp told him she’d been insulted, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she tried to yank her hand away. He caught her wrist, this time in a firmer grip.

The rumble of engines grew in the distance. “Trucks,” Quamar murmured. “More soldiers to patrol the streets. We must hurry.”

He picked up his pace, pleased when Anna did the same and did so quietly. After several minutes, Quamar stopped near an apartment building. Larger than most, it stood at the end of the street—ten floors of modern steel and glass towering over the shops in the souq.

An Al Asheera soldier sat on the front stoop, his scarf lowered to allow a cigarette to hang from his mouth. His rifle rested nearby, propped against the door.

“Wait here,” Quamar murmured, his lips brushing against the soft shell of her ear. When she shivered against him, his muscles tightened in response. Biting back a curse, he jerked away.

Quamar snagged a rock from the ground. He tossed it once in his hand, testing its weight, then threw it at a nearby garbage can. The soldier shot to his feet, his eyes darting back and forth. With hesitant steps, the Al Asheera approached.

Quamar waited with his back tight against the wall, the corner only inches from his face.

The man stepped past, his rifle raised. Quamar knocked the weapon away, heard it clatter on the street. He grabbed the man’s head and twisted. The sound of bone cracking split the air.

Anna cringed, fighting back the bile that rose to her throat. Quamar snagged the man’s turban, handed it to her along with the rifle. “Hold this.” He picked up the body and tossed it toward the back of the alleyway as if it were little more than garbage.

After he placed the dead man’s turban on his head, the scarf over his face, he grabbed back the rifle. Hesitating, his eyes bore into hers. “Are you going to faint?”

“I don’t faint,” she responded, swallowing back more bile. Her legs wobbled for a few moments, but she stiffened her knees to stop their shaking. She’d be damned if she gave in to the weakness.

She expected to see anger but she saw nothing but a dark void in the giant’s irises. No emotion. No regret.

Like most weapons, Quamar was clear, concise, cold.

And, God help her, right now she was grateful for it.

He led her through a lobby, decorated tastefully, if not minimally, with scarlet drapes, Persian rugs and the occasional potted plant.

Automatically, Anna moved toward the elevator only to be pulled short by a hand on her shoulder. “Stairs,” Quamar murmured close to her ear.

With quiet feet they climbed each flight of pristine-white steps—the vague scent of ammonia still clinging to its tiles.

Quamar stopped them mid-step. A door creaked somewhere beneath. Someone coughed and Anna’s nerves snapped and sizzled, like live wires beneath her skin. The slap of shoes echoed throughout the stairway only to fade seconds later when another door banged open.

Perspiration beaded at her temples while her muscles remained tight. Only when he tugged her forward again did she dare breathe.

When they reached the seventh floor, Quamar stopped and cracked open the door. A bright light pierced through the semi-dark stairway. Anna squinted until her eyes adjusted.

Quamar studied the hallway with care, noting one Al Asheera at the end of the corridor. The man sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall and a rifle across his lap.

His eyes were closed.

A decoy?

A dozen doors stood between them, six on each side. Each door potentially hiding more Al Asheera.

Quamar studied the doors, looking for any jarred open or for fresh foot tracks by their thresholds.

Anna shifted behind him but otherwise remained silent. The woman was astute and learned quickly. That simple fact might save her life, he thought grimly.

In the stream of light, Quamar placed his forefinger to his lips, then pointed to Anna’s feet. “Stay,” he mouthed.

One short nod told him she understood, but her frown told him, once again, she wasn’t pleased about it.

Soundlessly, Quamar crept down the hall, picking up the light scent of polish, the stronger scent of sweat and tobacco.

The guard’s eyes flickered, then opened. But when he caught sight of Quamar, he scrambled to his feet rather than firing his rifle. A fatal mistake.