Bodyguard Confessions. Donna Young

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ