Читать книгу Bodyguard Confessions - Donna Young - Страница 8

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.

Quamar’s knife hit, sinking into the guard’s forehead, his surprised features a death mask as he slumped to the floor.

Expertly, the giant searched the man. Finding nothing, he shoved the body into a nearby utility closet, grabbed his knife and the rifle, then waved Anna forward.

Quamar tapped on the door.

Seconds ticked by. Quamar tapped again.

“Who is it?”

Quamar spoke too low for Anna to hear, but after a few words, the door opened.

A woman, no more than thirty, petite with feathered black hair just past her shoulders, waved them in.

“Quamar.” Relief underlined his name.

Quamar placed a finger to her lips, gave her one of the rifles. With silent steps, he made his way through the apartment, searching the adjoining rooms. A few moments later, he returned and motioned Anna into the apartment.

Tentatively, she glanced around. Luxurious by any standard, the apartment still managed a homey appearance. Muted, jeweled colors of sapphire, emerald and ruby draped the walls, covered the floors. A balanced blend of patterns and solids, mixed with the darker mahogany of the furniture, did more than relax—it soothed the senses.

“Your mother will be out in a moment,” Quamar said, before placing both rifles on a nearby dining table. “I caught her by surprise.”

For the first time, Anna took a good look at her rescuer.

Oh, he was tall, she’d known that. Even in the hospital bed, the blankets and bandages hadn’t been able to hide the height of the man. But they certainly hid the massive strength beneath.

The romantic in her recognized his stance as that of a warrior—taut, tense but poised. To protect, to rescue those he stood guard over—those he deemed defenseless. Her. Rashid.

Broad shoulders and bulging muscles were well defined under the flow of his black robe. Bare-chested, his rich, bronzed skin glistened with sweat and golden undertones where his robe parted into a V, framing the rigid abdominal muscles. He wore his dark pants loose and low on lean hips. But the cotton did little to conceal the firm, tight-muscled thighs beneath.

The woman in her took him in with one, slow stroke of her eye, recognizing instantly the attraction that fluttered in her stomach.

He’d taken off the turban, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Dark eyebrows framed onyx eyes and long, thick lashes. Their arch, concealed now with a frown, she imagined appeared with a vengeance once his humor surfaced. If he had one.

He kept his head and face clean-shaven, adding a smooth texture to otherwise masculine features. His jaw was chiseled with a slight cleft in his chin—cut from the same stone that carved his high cheekbones, the straight slant of his nose.

His mouth, beautifully sculptured from the Greek gods—hard and sexy, with just enough give to hint at something softer beneath.

“Miss Cambridge, are you all right?”

Startled, Anna looked up to catch Quamar studying her. The black deepened enough to indicate he’d been watching her awhile.

“I’m sorry.” Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yes, I’m all right.”

“How about you, Quamar?” the woman asked, frowning as she glanced between the couple.

“I am fine, Sandra.” Quamar’s half smile only brought a raised eyebrow from his friend. He bent down and kissed the woman’s lips. A brief kiss, one of reassurance. Not passion.

Sandra’s leather-brown irises narrowed with concern. “I’ll just make sure you all are. If you don’t mind.” She walked across the room and grabbed a large black bag.

“Anna, this is Doctor Sandra Haddad,” Quamar stated when the woman returned. “Her father, Omar, is the physician to the royal family. Sandra is Taer’s coroner.”

“My father? Is he…” Sandra paused, unable to go further.

“The Al Asheera won’t harm your father, Sandra.” An older woman stepped from a nearby hallway. Her accent placed her as British. Older by at least thirty years, her skin showed little of her age. She was trim and petite, barely passing Anna’s shoulder. A glance from mother to daughter showed they had the same hairline, the same brown eyes. “He is too valuable. There is need of him.” And, Anna noted, the same stubborn line in their brow.

The woman paused long enough to caress the top of the baby’s head.

When Anna took an instinctive step back, the older woman smiled. “I’m Elizabeth Haddad. A friend.”

Before Anna could answer, Elizabeth addressed Quamar. “Prince Rashid is not safe here. Nor is Miss Cambridge.”

“The baby, he has slept through everything?” Sandra asked, already reaching for her flashlight.

“Yes,” Anna answered, trying to keep her concern at a minimum. “His nanny drugged him.”

“How long has he been out?” Sandra asked, checking the baby’s pupils.

“Over three hours now.” Anna’s arm tightened, protecting.

“Not the best way, but it served its purpose.” Sandra opened the sling and snagged the bottle from the baby’s lap. She unscrewed the lid and smelled. “Passiflora Incarnata. Not harmful but concentrated. When he wakes, he’s not going to wake happy. She had to give him quite a bit to keep him out this long. He might even have a slight headache, not all that different to a hangover.”

“But he’ll be fine?” Anna asked.

“Yes. He’s fine.” Sandra stroked Rashid’s forehead.

“But you aren’t.” Elizabeth’s gaze took in Anna’s mud-caked clothes, her bare feet. “You’ve been injured.”

With a frown, Anna followed Elizabeth’s gaze to the floor. For the first time, she noticed the blood-smeared footprints behind her.

“You are bleeding?” Quamar noticed the red marks on the floor. “Where are your shoes?”

“Slippers. I lost them running in the tunnel. Going back for them would’ve slowed us down.”

Quamar swore. He opened the door, gave Anna a hard stare, then disappeared into the hallway.

“What was that about?”

Anna sighed. “That’s his ‘Don’t you dare move while I’m gone’ look.”

“Really?” Elizabeth mused. “I’ve known Quamar since he was a child, and I’ve never seen more than a ‘I’m not going to let my feelings show’ look.”

Anna would have laughed, but she couldn’t figure out if Elizabeth was being serious or not.

Before she could ask, Quamar stepped back in and shut the door. “The rug is red, which covered your marks. But the stairs are a different matter. One that worked in our favor. I cleaned them down to the fifth floor.”

He glanced at Sandra. “Who placed the guard outside your door?”

“Hassan,” Elizabeth replied with derision. “At least that’s what the guard said. Under the ruse of protecting us, of course. He is keeping us safe in order to force Omar to help his soldiers.”

“The guard is dead. We have very little time before he is discovered. I had no choice, he saw me. But I took him down to the fifth floor also.”

Sandra nodded toward Anna’s feet. “We’ll clean up our floors, too.”

“All the communication lines are down.” Quamar walked to the bay window, eased the curtain barely an inch and studied the street. “I am taking you to my father’s camp.” He turned back to the women. “But first I need your satellite phone, Sandra.”

“I don’t have it,” Sandra replied. “It’s at my office. I only use it for my field research.”

“Then we go to your office,” Quamar stated. “Right now, I need you both to get ready.”

“No,” Sandra said. “I have a better chance of retrieving the phone if I stay. If people are injured or dead, they are going to need me and I am going to need my office. Just tell me who to call.”

“You are not staying.”

“Yes, Quamar, we are. If they come to our door, I will tell them the guard never reported to us. The worst they will do is assign another man,” Elizabeth argued. “I’m not leaving my husband.”

“Quamar,” Sandra said. “Hassan won’t harm us. He needs us too much.”

Quamar looked at her for a moment. “All right, I will give you the number to an associate. And a message. Memorize both.”

Sandra brought him a pen and paper. Quickly, he wrote the information. “Roman D’Amato. Talk to no one else,” Quamar added.

Anna didn’t recognize the name. “Will your man be able to contact my father?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to say ‘no worries’ when he reaches my father.”

Quamar’s eyebrow arched. “A code?”

“A confirmation.”

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“It’s not like I didn’t mention it on purpose, Quamar,” Anna retorted. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Anna turned to Sandra. “When I refused having a Secret Service detail, my father devised this alternative,” she explained. “It will confirm you are a friend.”

Sandra nodded. “That’s easy enough.”

“Tell us, Quamar, how many have died?” Elizabeth asked.

“Many Taerians. Not near enough of the Al Asheera,” Quamar commented with a chilling finality.

“Your responsibility is to the prince and now, Miss Cambridge. Not revenge, Quamar,” Elizabeth advised.

Quamar’s features hardened. “First one, then the other.”