Donna Young - Bodyguard Confessions

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.