Читать книгу: «The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be»

For my sister, Peggie Autin Schommer, who encouraged me in the early days of my writing career...as well as when I decided to jump back into the fray after many years. For a real-life hero, Shannon Johnson, who shielded a coworker with his body during the San Bernardino massacre, saying, “I got you.” Not every man has it in him to be a hero, but Shannon Johnson’s action that day is the very definition of bravery—conquering your fear and doing what you have to do in the instant you have to do it...even at the cost of your own life. Requiescat in pace, Mr. Johnson.

And for Vincent...always.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Tahra Edwards grabbed her lunch bag from the refrigerator in the break room and headed for the elevator. It was too nice a day not to eat lunch outside, and the park across from the United States embassy in the heart of Drago was the perfect place. She ate there a lot, joining the native Zakharians, young and old, who also found the park the perfect midday escape.

She settled on her favorite bench in the shade of a massive oak tree, not too far from the preschool that bordered the park on its eastern side. She loved watching the children at play, even though the sight of them had been bittersweet for the past two weeks...ever since she’d turned down the marriage proposal she’d once prayed to receive. Knowing the children she’d dreamed of having with the man she loved would never be. Knowing she’d never watch her own children this way.

She was early—the playground was empty. But she’d deliberately come early to make sure her favorite spot wasn’t taken, as it had been on occasion. That wasn’t a problem today.

Tahra had finished her sandwich—the Zakharian bread from the bakery two doors down from her apartment building was worth the extra calories—and was just starting on her apple when the children poured out the door into the preschool’s fenced yard. Happy, high-pitched voices came to her as the children swarmed onto the playground equipment—swings set in motion, bodies whizzing down the slide, the more intrepid climbing to the top of the jungle gym.

She smiled to herself with a sense of nostalgia. Her older sister, Carly, had been the intrepid one growing up, daring anything. Tahra had always been the fearful one, afraid to climb so high, afraid of falling. But not when Carly was there. Somehow, when Carly was there, Tahra had found the courage to clamber until they reached the top, pretending she was as fearless as her sister. But Carly had known. And she’d understood. Carly had always understood.

Sighing a little, and missing her globe-trotting big sister a lot, Tahra stood up and walked over to the discreetly placed trash container, the motion taking her closer to the preschool and the children. She watched them for a moment from where she stood, wishing the world at large could see this playground and take a lesson from the blond, fair-skinned Zakharian children—no more than four or five years old—clutching the hands of the newest arrivals to their nation, urging them to join in their play.

Zakhar, like other countries within the European Union, was taking in as many of the refugees streaming over its borders as it could accommodate...at the express invitation of the king who could do no wrong in the eyes of most of his subjects. These dark-skinned children of refugees from war-torn countries in northern Africa and the Middle East had experienced things no child should ever experience, Tahra knew. Had seen things no child should ever see. But the open hand of friendship from the children in this preschool would go a long way toward helping those terror-filled memories fade with time. And though she wasn’t Zakharian, Tahra couldn’t help feel a tiny thrill of pride in the country she’d once thought would be her adopted homeland...if the man she loved hadn’t...

Tahra had just thrown away her trash when her attention was caught by a lone man standing next to the fenced playground, a knapsack at his feet. One hand clenched the metal fence, and he was staring at the children, who played on, completely oblivious. Something in his intent gaze made Tahra hesitate and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t put her finger on it at first, but then she realized the man was too old and too well dressed to be carrying a student’s knapsack.

The man turned suddenly and strode in the opposite direction, and Tahra started forward. “Sir!” she called in her rudimentary Zakharan. “Sir, you forgot your knapsack!”

The stranger cast one long look backward. Their eyes met across the short distance, and Tahra knew she’d never forget those eyes. Never forget that face. Then he turned away and continued walking, faster now. Almost running. Tahra watched him for a couple of seconds, then her gaze moved to the knapsack, sitting at the base of the preschool fence, and she knew. “Oh, my God!”

She darted toward the bag, only one thing in her mind. Away. She had to get it away from the children. She grabbed one of the straps and hefted the knapsack into her arms. It was heavy. Heavier than it looked. At first she ran away from the playground as fast as she could, until she realized how risky that was. She put both hands on the strap and swung backward, then heaved the knapsack as far away as possible. She turned toward the playground and screamed to the children at the top of her lungs, “Run! Run!”

She’d taken only two steps toward the fence when the world exploded behind her.

* * *

Captain Marek Zale was driving toward the base of the mountain where he liked to hike on his day off, when his pager went off at the same time his cell phone pinged for an incoming text message. He pulled over, checked the number on his pager, then looked at the text message, both from the same sender. He cursed long and low before hitting speed dial. “On my way,” he told the man who answered. He glanced at the clock on the dash. “Twelve minutes at the most.” He hung up, made an abrupt U-turn and headed for the royal palace.

He made it in ten minutes, then hurried inside to the palace’s security command post. “What do we know?” he asked the room. “Where is the royal family?”

“Safe,” Major Damon Kostya replied. “The king was just about to leave with Colonel Marianescu for a tour of the air force base outside Timon when we got the news. Major Branko is with him now in the king’s private office.”

Captain Angelina Mateja-Jones—head of the queen’s security detail, who’d just recently returned from maternity leave—answered next. “The queen was with the crown prince in the Royal Garden, but they are now safely inside, with the king. Reports are coming in from all over Zakhar. Four bombs have exploded so far in Drago. Six elsewhere.”

Marek closed his eyes briefly, trying but failing to suppress his anger at the cowardly terrorists who would do something like this, who would kill innocent victims to make their political statement—whatever that statement was. “Where?” he rasped. “Has any group claimed responsibility?”

“Not yet,” Major Kostya stated, answering the second question first. “All four bombs in Drago appear to be the same type—explosives packed densely inside a loose shell of fléchettes for maximum mortality. Reports from elsewhere in the country are still unconfirmed, but preliminary reports seem to indicate the same. So the working theory is this is a coordinated attack.”

Marek nodded.

“As for where,” Major Kostya continued, “here in Drago, one bomb exploded on a train from the eastern border, just as it was pulling into the main station in the center of the city. Twenty-three people are dead, more than a hundred fifty wounded, both inside and outside the train. Another bomb went off at the refugee processing center downtown. The death toll there is lower...for now. Nineteen dead for sure, but that number could rise. And there are roughly two hundred wounded.”

“Suicide bombers?”

Angelina shook her head. She was Angelina to Marek now that she no longer reported to him, now that they were captains together and he’d become friends with Angelina and her husband, the US embassy’s regional security officer. “Not to the best of our knowledge,” she said. “A third bomb detonated at a Zakharian National Forces training facility on the outskirts of Drago. Two training officers are dead and seventeen enlisted personnel—all new recruits. Twenty-nine are in the hospital.”

Major Kostya cleared his throat. “One of the dead and two of the injured were women recruits. But they do not appear to have been specific targets.”

Marek glanced at Angelina. “What about the fourth bomb?”

“A preschool near the US embassy.”

“My God,” Marek whispered. “Children?”

Major Kostya answered him. “Miraculously, no. Eyewitnesses in the park say someone spotted the bomb and got it away from the playground before it exploded. Only one person was wounded—the woman who saved the children. Apparently she saw the man leave the bomb, which was hidden in a knapsack. Then she—”

Angelina’s cell phone chirped, and she moved away to take the call. The two men watched her stiffen. “Yes, Alec,” she said in a husky voice. “Yes. He is here. I will tell him.”

She put her phone away, drew a deep breath, then turned to Marek, sympathy on her face. “There is no way to tell you except straight-out. It is Tahra. Tahra is the woman who saw the terrorist leave the bomb. She is the one who saved the children.”

Not dead, Marek pleaded with God in his mind as he steeled himself to hear the worst. Please, God, not dead.

“Alec just called me,” she explained, referring to her husband, who was Tahra’s boss at the US embassy. “Tahra is in surgery.”

“Where?” Marek was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. As if his world hadn’t just nearly ended.

“Saint Anne’s Hospital, near the cathedral.” He nodded as he took the information in, although his brain wasn’t really functioning. “Do you want someone to drive you there?”

“No, I... My duty is here,” he said automatically.

Angelina grabbed Marek’s arm and pulled him out of earshot of Major Kostya. “Admirable,” she said fiercely. “But stupid. Do you think I will let you anywhere near the crown prince in this state? Do you think that is what the king would wish? You are not capable of functioning as a bodyguard at this moment, and no one expects you to, least of all the king.”

She waited for that to sink in, then added, “You are not even supposed to be working today. Go to the hospital. Go be with Tahra. If the crown prince’s own father is not enough to protect him along with the men who are on duty, then I will personally make sure he is safe. Your duty is with Tahra. Go!”

* * *

Marek arrived at the hospital to find that Tahra was still in surgery. And the waiting room receptionist would tell him nothing of how she was doing. Even when he claimed this was a matter of national security and tried to invoke his authority as head of the crown prince’s security detail, she steadfastly refused to disclose anything until he lied. “She is my fiancée.”

The lie helped a little, but there wasn’t much the receptionist could tell him, except that Tahra hadn’t yet come out of surgery. “But the surgeons here—they are the best,” she reassured him. “She is in good hands—the surgeons’ and God’s.”

Marek collapsed into the nearest chair, abruptly aware his muscles were trembling. Relief flooded him, and he realized he’d been steeling himself to hear the worst. The worst that could still happen, but hadn’t yet. He glanced around the waiting room and was surprised—yet not really surprised—to see Alec Jones sitting across the room. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Was Alec waiting for a dying declaration, the way a policeman would be? When that thought occurred to him, that was when he saw the two other men in the waiting room. Plainclothes policemen for sure, he thought. Detectives. Which only made sense—perhaps they were hoping Tahra had seen something more than the knapsack she’d managed to get rid of before it exploded and killed the children the bomb had been intended for.

That brought it all down on him again—Tahra could be dying. His darling Tahra...who’d been right to accuse him of not trusting her with the truth. Why hadn’t he told her at some point during the past eighteen months, especially once they became constant companions? Because of Zorina, of course. As if Tahra could ever do what Zorina had done.

“Marek?” Suddenly Alec was standing in front of him, and he looked up at the other man. “The police wouldn’t tell me much about what happened,” Alec said, taking a seat next to Marek. “Other than to let me know Tahra was in the hospital here because she’d been wounded in a bombing. And the receptionist won’t divulge anything,” he added, inclining his head toward the same woman who’d guarded Tahra’s privacy from Marek. “Do you know anything more?”

Marek shook his head in automatic denial, then realized that wasn’t fair to the American. Tahra did work for him. Not only that, but Alec was also the principal security attaché and adviser to the US ambassador. Which meant he was entitled to know of any threat to the embassy’s security. “All I know is what the eyewitnesses in the park told the police. They saw Tahra grab something from the fence next to the preschool and throw it as far away as she could before yelling to the children to run. But she was not able to escape herself before the bomb—”

He couldn’t finish because the idea of a blast anywhere near Tahra threatened his composure. Zakharian men never cried. Hadn’t he been taught that since childhood? And yet...without that emotional release he needed something else. Vengeance. An eye for an eye. But right now there was no one on whom to wreak vengeance. No terrorist organization had come forward to claim responsibility for the attacks. That could change at any time, but for now...

Alec glanced away for a moment, as if to give Marek time to get his emotions under control. Then he said, “I heard you tell the receptionist Tahra’s your fiancée. Probably not the best time to say it, but congratulations—Tahra’s one in a million, and you’re a lucky man.” Alec and Angelina were the only ones who knew how Marek felt about Tahra. Not that he’d ever actually come right out and told either of them, but anyone who’d seen Marek and Tahra together—which Alec and Angelina had—would know...

Alec added, “Tahra didn’t mention the two of you were engaged, but I’ve been pretty busy lately. Guess she didn’t have a chance to tell me.” Something in Alec’s steady gaze told Marek the other man suspected he’d lied about being Tahra’s fiancé, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Yet. Not when the lie had garnered information about Tahra’s condition.

He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t quite sure—when a man in medical garb walked into the waiting room, spoke to the receptionist, then came over to where Alec and Marek were seated. Both men stood quickly.

“You are waiting to hear about Tahra Edwards?” the surgeon asked in Zakharan.

Alec spoke first. “Tahra works for me at the US embassy.”

“She is my fiancée,” Marek threw in, not even waiting for Alec to finish.

The surgeon nodded. “She is in recovery. Her wounds are serious, but not life threatening. There was internal bleeding, but no major damage to any vital organs. We were easily able to effect repairs without complications via a minimally invasive technique called a laparoscopy. She has a broken right wrist, but it was clean and we set it without difficulty. There will be some scarring, of course, from the fléchette rounds that pierced her body.” His lips tightened as if merely the idea of fléchettes angered him. “But she was turned away from the bomb when it detonated, so her face is fortunately untouched.”

He hesitated. “The only thing that concerns me is the head injury she received. Severe concussion. Apparently the force of the bomb blast threw her into a park bench, and her head took a terrific blow. There is some swelling of the brain, but there does not appear to be any internal bleeding inside her skull. We have induced a medical coma to allow her body to heal without the distraction of pain. We are monitoring her closely, however, and will deal appropriately with any cause for alarm.” He smiled reassuringly at Marek. “Your fiancée was a healthy young woman before this happened, and the prognosis for a complete recovery is excellent.”

How Marek was able to hang on to his stoic expression, he never knew. “Thank you,” he told the surgeon in a voice wiped clean of emotion. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Always glad to deliver good news,” the surgeon replied with a smile. “You can see her as soon as they bring her up to her room. She will not be able to respond, of course, but remain positive—it is always possible she can hear you even in a coma.” He glanced at Alec and switched to English. “You may also see her as soon as she is conscious, but she will not be returning to work any time soon.”

* * *

“She saw my face,” Sergeant Thimo Vasska reported to his superior officer in the headquarters of the Zakharian Liberation Front. “It is possible she could identify me.”

Before the lieutenant could reply, another man entered the room so quietly he was there before either man was aware. Sergeant Vasska stiffened, then nervously saluted the supreme commander of their revolutionary force.

“That is unfortunate,” Colonel Damek Borka said in his flat, emotionless voice. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Everyone in the Zakharian Liberation Front went by a pseudonym because the danger of disclosure was great...although more for some than for others. “Unfortunate...for her and for you.” The colonel said nothing more, but his face conveyed how badly the sergeant had screwed up.

Failure was unacceptable, the man knew. If the witness could not be silenced, the Zakharian Liberation Front would have no choice but to remove the link between the botched attack today and their secret organization. Sergeant Vasska nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting again. “It will be dealt with immediately.”

* * *

Marek stared down at the unconscious woman in the hospital bed, his emotions churning. Tahra, his darling Tahra, could have died today. And he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to prevent it.

He took her unbandaged left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Forgive me, he told her silently, aware that the nurse attending Tahra and setting things up could hear every word he said. But until you are conscious, I have no choice. I must protect you the only way I know how.

He waited until the nurse turned away, adjusting something on one of the machines monitoring Tahra’s condition, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tahra had declined his proposal, but that had changed nothing. She was still his mariskya and always would be. He had drawn back, wanting to give her time to see what a mistake she was making, but he’d had to repeat the lie he’d told the receptionist to hospital staff, that Tahra was his fiancée, or else he would have been shut out of her sickroom. And that he couldn’t have borne.

He surreptitiously slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand again. “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered in Zakharan. “I will keep you safe from this moment forward.”

Tahra slept on, oblivious, but he took comfort in the slight rise and fall of her chest.

Marek caught the nurse’s eye. “I have left my phone numbers with the main desk. Call me immediately, please, if there is any change in my fiancée’s condition.”

The nurse nodded, and Marek walked out, passing the two soldiers from the Zakharian National Forces posted right on either side of the door, returning their salutes automatically. He hadn’t even had to ask Colonel Marianescu to post guards, although he would have if necessary. The colonel was too smart not to realize the attacks today had to all be related and were a threat to national security. Which meant Tahra—a witness to the attack on the school—was also vital to national security. No one else had been close enough to the man who’d left the knapsack to identify him, but several witnesses in the area had indicated Tahra had been much closer to the terrorist. Anything she could tell them about the attack would be crucial. Which meant it was very possible her life was still in danger...and not from the injuries she’d received.