Bodyguard Confessions. Donna Young
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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,