Bodyguard Lockdown Page 18

  “Let me go, General, and we’ll experience it together. Side by side.” Booker pulled on the handcuffs, rattled them violently and slipped his finger over his watch, finding the shim.

  “So you can kill me?” The general laughed. “You are the hero, aren’t you? That’s why I didn’t recruit you years ago.”

  “Anyone who works for you ends up dead,” Booker answered snidely. “Jim Rayo, for instance.”

  “Other recruits are still alive. Omar Haddad for instance,” Trygg added slyly.

  “My father?”

  “Who do you think signed the obituaries? Helped me with the whole concept of making soldiers invincible?” Trygg questioned. “Ask Booker, Sandra. He’ll confirm what I’m saying.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She looked at Booker, the hurt, the rage, painful and obvious.

  “Probably the same reason why he didn’t tell you your serum killed his wife and child.”

  “You murdered them, not Sandra,” Booker replied, his voice hard.

  “Emily?” Sandra paled. Her gaze sought Booker’s.

  Booker refused to look at her. “The doc had nothing to do with it—”

  “Look at her face, McKnight,” Trygg snapped. “She even knows you’re lying. She developed CIRCADIAN. The same weapon that’s about to kill her family. Ironic really.”

  “Ironic?” Sandra whispered.

  “I read your profile.” Trygg smiled, vicious. “You want your father’s approval. You want to be just like him. Now look at you, helping in the demise of your family. The ones he wasn’t able to destroy himself.”

  Nausea swelled; bile caught at the back of her throat.

  “Like father, like daughter,” Trygg added. “He’ll be so proud.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Doc,” Booker ordered.

  “And who should I listen to? You?” Sandra demanded. “Emily hemorrhaged to death but it wasn’t because of the miscarriage. She was on the base.”

  “Doc—”

  “Tell me I’m wrong!”

  “She was there. But it’s not your fault,” Booker insisted.

  “I think I should get some of the credit.” Lewis Pitman spoke from a few feet away. “I’m the one who changed the programming on the carbon nanites.”

  “What are you talking about?” she argued. “The reports showed no change...”

  “He falsified his reports,” Trygg explained.

  Sandra’s eyes snapped to Trygg’s. “Lewis couldn’t have done that on his own. He needed—”

  “I authorized everything,” Trygg admitted.

  “Senator Harper supported him. They made quite a team,” Booker added.

  “The DNA programming in the sensors malfunctioned in one of the first series of experiments,” Lewis inserted. “The nanites ignored the unhealthy cells and attacked the healthy ones, causing the breakdown of tissues. I took the results to Trygg.”

  “Enemies slain by one type of nanite, while our soldiers are saved by the other,” Trygg commented with satisfaction.

  “The best of both worlds,” Sandra reasoned aloud. But with the realization came anger. “If you are relying on Pitman to reconstruct my equations, he hasn’t the ability.”

  “Then I will find someone who does,” Trygg countered.

  “I can reconstruct them.” Lewis stood, his face mottled with anger. “And improve on your equations. Accelerate the process, strengthen the results.”

  He reached over the console, punched the security code. A vault slid open. He pointed to the cylinders. “See those? They will be obsolete when I finish.”

  “Be careful, Lewis,” Booker advised. “Rayo, Harper and the pilot are all dead. You can easily outlive your usefulness, too.”

  “The pilot’s dead?” Pitman’s head shot up, his eyes on Trygg.

  “This information is a little premature.” Trygg sighed. “But true. The airplane is on autopilot.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Who is going to land us?”

  “Me,” Trygg stated. “So I guess you’d better make sure I stay alive.”

  Lewis glanced at the vault, realized his mistake.

  “But now that you’ve opened the vault, I guess I don’t need you anymore, do I, Lewis?”

  Lewis dived for the cylinders. A shot rang out. Lewis stiffened. A crimson target spread over the back of his white lab coat.

  Slowly, he slid to the ground.

  “You’re going to do this on your own?” Sandra asked.

  Trygg stepped toward Sandra and grabbed her chin. “There are far more scientists out there like Pitman, who can be bought, than there are of you—who can’t.”

  Booker broke free of the cuffs, grabbed the chains and kicked Trygg, knocking the gun free from his hand. Trygg bounced off the equipment, forced himself back on his feet.

  “We both know how this is going to end.” Trygg stumbled back, grabbed one of the cylinders. He twisted the top, held it in place. “If you move an inch, I’m going to release this canister into the air.” He reached down and grabbed Omar’s backpack, then with one hand, shoved two cylinders into its pocket.

  “Now, I’m going to walk past the good doctor and you,” he warned, and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Then up those stairs. And you’re going to let me do it. Because if you don’t, I’ll release the nanites.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Why did you let him go?”

  “Because by the time he gets anywhere, this plane will be blown up,” Booker said, and quickly unlocked her cuffs. “Did you get a good look at the computer controls?”

  “Yes,” She shook out her arms, rubbed her wrists, then hurried over to the console. “The lab is rigged for biological contamination. If he releases the serum, a biohazard alarm will engage.”

  “Where’s the EMP shield?”

  “By the radar.” She looked at the screen, saw the blips. “Three missiles are eight minutes out, Booker. They will enter the EMP zone...” She grabbed his wrist, glanced at his watch. “In two minutes.”

  “Can you shut down the EMP shield?”

  “Not without a ten-digit code.” She looked at the screen. “It will shut down automatically when the bomb is released to keep the tracking system from malfunctioning.”

  Booker picked up Trygg’s pistol, and leveled it at the console. “Step back.”

  When she did, he fired several shots.

  Sparks flew; lights blinked off.

  “That did it.” Sandra checked the radar. “The missiles are seven minutes out.”

  “Right.” He shoved the pistol in his back waistband. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sandra grabbed the last cylinder, held it tight in her hand.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.” Sandra’s face was set, determined.

  Booker grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “I know you heard a lot of information from Trygg, Doc. But don’t believe it all. Your father was on his way into this plane to destroy it with explosives. When he found out you were on board, he trusted me to save you and take care of Trygg.”

  “Thanks.” She kissed him softly on the mouth. “So where are we going?”

  “Cargo. Front of the plane. There are parachutes.”

  “The same place where Trygg is heading?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is that necessary?” she asked, using his own words from a moment ago.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  THEY FOUND HIM AT the galley’s emergency exit. He’d looped the backpack over his chest, strapped the parachute on his back, the canister in his hand.

  “Time to say goodbye, Doctor Haddad.” He jerked the latch, watched the door blow out into the air.

  “Here’s your serum.” Trygg threw the canister, then jumped out of the plane.

  The canister burst open at Booker’s feet. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Booker snagged the oxygen tank from the galley cupboard, pushed it onto Sandra’s face. “No!”

  H
er hands slapped at his arms. He grabbed her wrists, held them still.

  “Listen to me! We don’t have time.” He took a breath, knowing he was breathing in a death sentence.

  Sandra grabbed his shirt, hung on. “Booker! Don’t!”

  “I can’t watch you die, Sandra.”

  “So you’re going to make me watch you.” Tears filled her eyes, ran down her face.

  “Trygg left one parachute.” Booker grabbed it from the galley closet, slipped it over her back and buckled it.

  “Hold on to me. We’ll go tandem,” she pleaded. “If we get you to the hospital, I might be able to reverse the damage.”

  “All right. Tandem,” he agreed. He wrapped her in his arms, hugged her close.

  “I love you, Booker.” She cupped his cheek, waited.

  He caught her hand and pressed it to his skin but said nothing.

  “One, two, three. Go!” Booker stepped out of her arms and shoved Sandra out the open hatch.

  “I love you, too, Doc,” he murmured. Without another thought, he jumped into the open air, gun in hand.

  Booker dived, his arms tucked at his side. Air rushed at him. He searched for Trygg.

  A parachute opened below. Trygg’s...

  He hit the man in the back, rolled with him in the air. Trygg grabbed Booker’s throat. But Booker already had his hand in the backpack.

  The steel of the cylinders hit his hand. He grabbed them, then shoved Trygg away with his knees.

  Trygg scrambled for balance, but he was too late.

  Booker reached into his pocket, flipped the safety and hit the remote button.

  Trygg exploded into a fireball.

  Booker spread his arms, catching wind, and shot up. Suddenly, Sandra appeared, grabbed him midair.

  He looped his arms into her straps and nodded.

  She pulled the toggle and the chute popped open.

  “Don’t you dare die on me, McKnight!”

  Booker took the impact of the touchdown. Both grappled for a moment against the wind shear and the parachute. He pulled the cord, releasing the chute across the desert.

  “Hold on, Booker. They’ll find us and I’ll figure out how to save you.”

  “Doesn’t matter now, Doc,” Booker answered, suddenly tired. “You’re safe. Trygg’s dead.”

  * * *

  IT TOOK THREE HOURS for the helicopter to find them. An hour of which Booker lay unconscious in Sandra’s arms.

  She’d never felt so helpless in her life.

  Finally, the spotlight hit her. She waved her arms. “Hurry,” she whispered, knowing they couldn’t hear her over the helicopter’s blades.

  As soon as it settled, Quamar and Aaron jumped from its cockpit.

  “I need a stretcher!” Sandra screamed. Aaron turned back, waved at two men in the helicopter.

  “What happened?”

  “He breathed in the nanites.”

  “Then there’s nothing we can do, Sandra,” Quamar said quietly.

  “I can save him, Quamar,” Sandra insisted. “It wasn’t the serum that killed Booker’s wife. It was the nanites. Pitman skewed the programming to cause damage. I just need to find someone who is experienced in reprogramming the nanites.”

  “Kate MacAlister is in Taer. She flew in to take charge of disaster protocol, just in case the CIRCDIAN was released.” Quamar took his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll have her meet us at the hospital.”

  It took another hour to reach the hospital. “His pulse is weak,” Aaron stated, coming up on the women. He and Quamar handed Booker over to the waiting interns. “His breathing is erratic. I gave him oxygen.”

  “He’s fighting the onslaught. The body is moving into a self-induced coma,” Sandra explained, her tone urgent.

  Kate MacAlister met them at the main entrance. “We have the surgery room ready. Number two.”

  “Thank you.” Sandra waved two nurses to her side. “I need two interns. And the patient prepped. I want him ready when we’re done. No medication. Nothing. Not even for the pain. They’ll interfere with my nanites.”

  Two interns carried Booker down the hallway on the stretcher. She turned to Kate. “It’s over four hours.”

  “How many hours do we have?”

  “Twelve more. Outside. Before the damage is irreparable.” Sandra turned to the older woman. “I know I don’t deserve your help, but Booker needs it...” Her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”

  “Forgiven. Years ago.” Kate gave her a swift hug. “Now what do you need me to do?”

  “The nanites. They were the defective part of the procedure,” Sandra explained. “The flaw was in Pitman’s design. If we make the corrections, I can counteract the bad nanites with good nanites that match Booker’s DNA.”

  “A war of nanites in his body?” Kate asked. “Will he survive that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But he won’t survive otherwise.”

  “Is Trygg’s lab still intact?” Kate asked.

  “No.”

  “We need access to a nanite lab,” Kate said, thinking. “Nearest is London.”

  “Just so happens I know the Prime Minister,” Quamar said grimly. “Jordan Beck.”

  “That will work,” Kate said urgently. “Still, it will be close.”

  “I’ll get started on the DNA matching,” Sandra insisted. “Once his organs start shutting down, they might not be strong enough to counter and survive the battle.”

  “He’ll need blood. And a lot of it,” Kate insisted.

  “His blood type is rare,” Sandra remembered. “Call ahead, Quamar, tell them we need AB negative.”

  “And if they don’t have enough on hand?” Quamar warned.

  Aaron stepped up, his features set. “He can have all he wants of mine.”

  “AB negative?” Sandra demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Aaron replied. “And this one is on the house.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two months later

  The Al Asheera’s camp wound along the lowest ridge, a snake of canvas tents interspersed with wagons, small herds of goats and camels.

  The smell of coffee and baking bread drifted on the wind and reached Booker on the cliff above.

  His stomach tightened.

  He’d been traveling by horse for two days with little food and less sleep.

  He peered through his binoculars.

  It had been two months since they took Trygg down. Two months since Sandra forced the internal nanite war inside him. And saved his life.

  For the first week or so, he’d felt like a human punching bag. Kate MacAlister had told him just how close he’d come to dying. How hard Sandra fought to save him.

  Now it was his turn to fight for her.

  “Let’s go, Sam,” Booker murmured and nudged his horse down the slope.

  Less than an hour past dawn, but the camp was active. The men were lighting fires, tending to the stock. The woman tended to the children, and prepared the morning meal.

  He slid out of the saddle and onto the ground, then tethered his horse on a loose caravan wheel.

  “Are you here for something, McKnight?” Aaron Sabra strolled over from a nearby tent. “Or someone?”

  “Very funny, Sabra. Where is she?” Booker glanced at the rifle holstered in the saddle, left it there and swung around. “Where is the doc?”

  “Who told you she was here?” Aaron sipped some of his coffee.

  “Kate,” Booker replied, not amused. “I hope you’ve kept her safe.”

  “I’ve kept her busy.” Aaron smiled into his cup. “The only one she needs to be kept safe from is you.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “She’s a doctor. What do you think?”

  Booker stepped forward. “So help me, God, if she gets sick, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Hurt me?” Aaron’s eyes went slate-gray. “Do you really think anything my people could do would hurt her any more than you have already?”

/>   “I’m not here to hurt her. I’m here to make things right.” But the fact she’d been suffering didn’t sit well with Booker.

  “Fair enough.” Aaron lifted a negligent shoulder. “But she’s kept herself busy with my people.”

  “Your people?”

  “Yes,” Aaron explained. “Jon Mercer has persuaded me to help rebuild the Al Asheera into a productive tribe. One that works with Jarek, instead of against him.”

  “And Sandra?”

  “She’s spent her days vaccinating the young, healing the sick, comforting the elderly. She’s even delivered a few babies over the last couple of weeks.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “She went for a walk,” Aaron replied. “You’ll find her by the rocks, just outside of camp.”

  “Alone?”

  “Usually,” Aaron said, coughing to keep from laughing. “Just be back before noon meal. My people have grown fond of her, and will expect her for the noon meal.”

  “I do not think this will take four hours—”

  “You don’t think this is going to be easy, do you, McKnight?” Aaron laughed this time. The deep, hearty laugh of someone who’d been in the same quandary. “Groveling to the woman you love is a long, drawn-out process.”

  “For the record, Sabra?” Booker swung back up on Sam. “Your job protecting Sandra is over. For the rest of your life. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Aaron answered, grinning. “For your sake, I hope she’s alone.”

  “Why?”

  “If you have to grovel, you’re not going to want an audience.”

  * * *

  SANDRA SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the highest boulder, her gaze steady on the Sahara. The sun danced over the horizon, spinning gold from sand, turquoise from the cool morning air and blue skies.

  A new day.

  She rested her hands across her stomach, breathed deep to settle the flutter of nervousness, the touch of nausea.

  A new beginning.

  The wind tugged at her hair, whipped her tiered skirt around her legs. She brought her knees up to her chest, held her skirt close with her arms.

  She’d spent the past two months amongst the Al Asheera. Two months getting to know their way of life, and their families and bringing their babies into the world, and sometimes—she smiled—their livestock.