“Bullsh—”
“Rosa!” The girl was now standing directly in front of them, beaming at his sister with all the excitement and fervor of an eighteen-year-old. An. Eighteen. Year. Old. He had the feeling he was going to have to remind himself of that over and over again. “I’m so glad to finally meet you!”
“Abby.” Rosa reached forward to fold the girl in a quick hug. “Are you all settled in your dorm room?”
“Oh.” The girl…Abby…actually clapped her hands together. “I am! And guess what? I have a roommate!”
Rosa chuckled while jamming an elbow into his ribs. That’s when he realized his jaw was hanging open. “And that’s a good thing?” his sister asked, affording him the opportunity to reel up his lower mandible.
“It is for me,” Abby exclaimed. “With Dad running for office, I was told I’d have to room separately. You know, for security reasons.” She waved a hand toward a far tree, and that’s when he saw the two women dressed in black pantsuits with matching black sunglasses. Secret Service. And, suddenly, this girl’s identity became all too real. It was one thing to know she was the daughter of the man who was the next prospective president, another thing entirely to have effing Secret Service agents staring him in the face. “But I whined and begged, and they eventually caved. So now”—Abby bit her lip—“I’m going to have a real college experience!”
“You may wish you hadn’t whined and begged,” Rosa said. “My freshman roommate spent the entire year smoking cigarettes, eating SpaghettiOs, and watching reruns of The Big Valley and Leave It to Beaver.”
Abby’s nose wrinkled, and he couldn’t help but notice what an adorable little button it was. And now he was officially a big ol’ pervert.
“Abby,” Rosa said, “I’d like you to meet my twin brother.”
Rosa motioned to him, the look in her eyes telling him to get his shit together and be quick about it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. And that was probably a good thing. One, because keeping it closed seemed to hold in the drool. And two, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember his own name.
Another elbow landed in his ribs. “He’s really not a mute,” Rosa told Abby. “And in case you’re wondering, his name is Carlos. Carlos, meet Abigail Thompson.”
“Carlos.” Abby extended her hand. And there were those eyes again, holding his gaze and doing things to his man parts they had no business doing.
You, sir, he told himself, are stupido.
“Good to know things haven’t changed,” he murmured now, shaking away the melancholy and nostalgia the memory always evoked. Rosa…damn he missed her. Had missed her every minute of every day for the last eight years, although the overpowering pain had dulled to a subtle ache. But he couldn’t dwell. Not now. Not when he had to concentrate everything he had on Abby’s rescue.
Brushing aside the fuzzy pink seedpods of some weird Asian plant, he took a quick look up and down the muddy, rutted logging road that led from what passed as a highway into the jungle and the encampment where Abby was being held. When he satisfied himself that no prying eyes or eavesdropping ears were near, he ducked back into the wet, rich-smelling foliage and punched in Dan’s encrypted telephone number. Leaning against the leather seat of the motorcycle, he waited impatiently as the scant cell tower coverage struggled to connect his call.
A couple of clicks and beeps sounded before, without any preamble or salutation, Dan barked, “We’re zero-for-zero on the signals here in the city. Her kidnappers took her clothes to a night market and stuffed them into the carts of the hawkers. It was a good trick. It had us running all over God’s green Earth and wasted an assload of time, which I suppose was the whole point, aimed at sending any of the Secret Service agents who mighta survived the bombings on a wild goose chase. So, tell me you fared better.”
“I’ve found her,” Steady whispered, his chest swelling with relief. It wasn’t until that moment, when he actually said the words aloud and knew help was on the way, that he could draw a full breath. A full breath that was pretty much the equivalent of trying to inhale porridge.
Had he mentioned how much he hated the jungle? The heat? The humidity? The mosquitoes the size of Chicago Transit Authority buses? And speak of the devils…he slapped a hand on one of the little fuckers that had the supremely poor sense to try to make a meal out of his forearm.
“Good.” Dan’s satisfaction was palpable. “Let me just…” Steady could hear a rustling noise and then the tinny, long-distance sound of Dan’s next words told him he’d been put on speakerphone. “I can see by the location of your signal that you weren’t kidding about it being up past where Jesus lost his sandals. That was one hell of a trip.”
Steady nodded and then realized no one but the monkey lounging in a nearby tree and munching on a berry could see his gesture. “Sí,” he said softly. “And, if I’m not mistaken, we’re dealing with the—”
“JI,” Dan interrupted. The Jemaah Islamiyah, simply known as JI, was an indigenous Islamic terrorist group. They’d claimed responsibility for the Bali, Indonesia, bombing in 2002 that killed two hundred people, as well as the simultaneous 2009 bombings of the J.W. Marriott and the Ritz-Carlton hotels in Jakarta. Known to operate out of Malaysia, they had been growing more and more restive in the last few months. And it looked like they’d just added the abduction of the president’s daughter to their résumé.
“How did you know it was the JI?” Steady demanded. Then he answered his own question. “They’ve called in a ransom, haven’t they?”
“Roger that. Supposedly six of their members are being held at a super-max somewhere in Colorado. They want ’em released within twenty-four hours, or they say they’re gonna do to Abby what they did to her security detail.”
Just the thought had Steady’s stomach dropping into his boots. “But we’ll have her hell and gone long before then, eh, bro?” An odd silence met his question, and his stomach just went ahead and drilled a hole into the jungle floor. “What is it, Dan? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Okay, so before you go getting all bent out of shape, let me assure you our donkey isn’t in the ditch. He’s teetering on the edge of the road, sure, but he’s—”
“Drop the metaphors and get to the point, cara pincha.”
“I hate it when you call me dirty names in Spanish,” Dan declared.
“You’re stalling,” he accused.
“Fine. Okay. So Leo’s SEAL team has been delayed,” Dan admitted, by the sounds of it more than a bit reluctantly. “There’s one witch’s brew of a typhoon blowing in the South China Sea. Ozzie’s transport barely made it in before all flights were grounded.”
Steady digested the bad news and commented on the good. “But he made it? He’s in surgery?”
“Roger Dodger. No worries on that front.”
Okay, so that was a bright spot in this otherwise bleak situation. “And the SEAL team? What’s their adjusted ETA?”
“The carrier group is steaming for the edge of the storm, but it looks like Leo and his boys won’t be here for another six hours minimum.”
Steady looked down at his Victorinox Swiss Army Infantry watch. Six more hours of Abby lying on that filthy bed in that smelly hut. Six more hours of her being injected with whatever foul drug he’d seen them administer when he crept, quiet as a ratón, into the encampment just as the morning sun was peeking over the eastern horizon. Six more hours when any one of those hijos de putas could take it into his fool head to lay a hand on her.
No. Hell, no. It was untenable.
A plan began to form…
“The president is trying to scramble another team,” Dan continued, unaware of Steady’s racing thoughts, “but it looks like we’re simply gonna have to wait. In the meantime, Penni and I will scour through the hotel security footage and try to find out how those bastards were able to place the incendiary devices in the rooms and also how they managed to get the drop on Agents Tucker, Silver, and Bosco. If w
e find anything, we’ll keep poking the hive until we see which bees flight out. And, excuse the mixed metaphors, but maybe one of those bees will lead us to the mole inside the—”
“I’m getting her out,” Steady interrupted, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder while digging inside his backpack.
“Huh?”
“I’m Lone Wolf McQuade-ing it. I think that’s our best shot.”
“Steady…” Dan’s tone was full of warning. “Come on, man. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. In fact, it may be brilliant. Those JI boys are a sloppy bunch. They’re not even keeping watch over her except to slip in occasionally to administer some sort of sedative.” And, yes, it’d been incredibly difficult for him to leave her there when he realized her guard had no intention of returning to the hut anytime soon. But leave her he had…when he thought help was imminent. Things had just changed. “And besides, aren’t you always spouting that AA quote about not letting someone else do your dirty work for you?”
“Uh, that’s not AA, man. That’s my fellow Michigander and all-around Dirty Harry with a guitar and ponytail, Ted Nugent.”
Steady shook his head even though no one could see. Dan had always been proud of his upbringing on the mean streets of Detroit and was known to quote a lot of Eminem and Kid Rock. But now that he was in recovery, when he spouted little truisms, it was hard to tell if he’d picked them up at a meeting or from listening to the ramblings of some Motor City rock star.
“Whatever, hermano. The point is, I’ll duck in, grab her, duck out, and make for the Thai border before they even know she’s gone. It’s only fifty miles away. I…uh…liberated a Ducati Monster 1200 off the street in KL, and this bad boy”—he patted the seat of the Italian-made motorcycle affectionately—“will make the trip in no time.”
The bike didn’t have a big, throaty engine or the artistic flash of Ranger, his custom-made Harley chopper back home. But what it lacked in sheer badness, it made up for with full throttle, ball-busting speed. Exactly what he needed right now. And he’d make damned sure the poor schmuck he stole it from was richly compensated.
After he rescued Abby.
“You and I both know the JI won’t cross the border since the RTAF”—the Royal Thai Armed Forces—“tend to shoot first and ask questions later when it comes to militants,” he added.
“Yeah, but that’s fifty miles of open highway,” Dan argued. “And that Ducati may be fast, but it’s not fast enough to outrun a bullet.”
“So I’ll stick to the logging roads.” His plan continued to evolve as he loaded the extra clips into the various pockets on his cargo pants. “It’ll take longer, but the jungle will provide cover. Besides, what’s that old saying? Faint hearts never saved fair lady?”
“You’ve been hanging around Wild Bill too much,” Dan said, referring to their BKI teammate who had a penchant for quoting the classics. “And if I remember correctly, it’s faint hearts never won fair lady. If this plan of yours breaks bad, there won’t be—”
“I saw on the maps you had Boss send me that there’s a small village right across the border on the south side of the Bang Lang National Park,” he interrupted. Now that he’d decided on a strategy, he was itching to get Abby hell and gone from that godforsaken militant campsite. Every minute she remained in the hands of those filthy terrorists was one damned minute too long. “We’ll head there, lie low, and wait for you to come in with that SEAL team or whoever the hell else el Jefe manages to scramble to the scene.”
“Steady—”
“Oh, and I forgot to mention I somehow neglected to pack my sat phone. Also, my cell battery is about to die, so I’ll be going dark. Just follow my signal, and I’ll see you when I see you, amigo.”
“Steady!”
He punched the “end” button on his iPhone and noted he was down to five percent battery life. It didn’t matter. Escape and evasion maneuvers didn’t lend themselves to friendly phone conversations, anyway.
Taking a deep breath, he turned in the direction of the encampment, one thing and one thing only on his mind. Save the fair lady. And if he happened to win her, too? Well, that was just gravy…
Chapter Seven
Abby woke up for…gah, it seemed like the umpteenth time since she was carried from the stall in the night market. She readied herself for another dose of the drug as a traitorous little moan slipped from between her lips. But a couple of seconds passed and…nothing happened. No hot, sweaty hands reached out to roughly expose her neck. No sharp needle pierced her flesh.
And then it occurred to her that she was no longer bouncing around in the back of a covered truck with a handful of dark-skinned, mean-eyed men surrounding her like the other times she’d regained consciousness. Instead, she was blessedly still and lying on something soft and lumpy. When she tried to move, she discovered her muscles were still suffering the effects of the drug and mostly useless. Still, enough of her functions had returned to tell her that her arms and legs were tied spread-eagle. Terror detonated through her system, increasing her heart rate and compressing her lungs. Because it was an awkward position, to say the least. And a vulnerable position, to say the most.
Keep calm, she firmly instructed herself when her panic rose to near nuclear levels. They haven’t tried to rape you yet. And maybe, if you’re lucky and smart, they won’t rape you at all.
And in keeping with the smart part of that little pep talk, she made sure her eyes remained closed when a rustling sound alerted her to the presence of someone to her left. She needed to pretend unconsciousness so she could take stock of her surroundings. Knowledge is power, right? And perhaps the right knowledge might afford her the power, not to mention the opportunity, to attempt an escape. Not that she didn’t trust Carlos, her security team, and her father to do everything they could to find and rescue her. But the good Lord helps those who help themselves…
Alrighty, then. Easy does it. Forcing herself to rake in a soft, measured breath, hoping to slow her frantically racing heart, she noted how the dense air filled her lungs and tunneled up her nose. It smelled of wet earth, mildewing fabric, and rotting wood. Okay, so clue number one: she was somewhere hot and humid.
Well, cinnamon-toasted Jesus! That really narrows it down now, doesn’t it? Considering all of Southeast Asia is hot and humid?
Yep. Moving on…
She cocked her ears and recognized the whooping cry of some sort of animal—a gibbon, perhaps?—and the loud whirring that could never be mistaken for anything other than the drone of a million industrious insects. Clue number two: she was no longer inside the city limits of Kuala Lumpur. And, for no reason she could name—other than the fact that she was still high on the drug, dehydrated as all get-out, and so scared she was almost hallucinating—the line from The Wizard of Oz buzzed through her brain… Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…
Ahem, okay, so back on task.
Unfortunately, she realized the only thing left to do was open her eyes and take a look around. But the minute she did that, it was likely to be hello needle and bye-bye consciousness. Which meant she needed to be fast.
So, on the count of three. One, two, th—
“You so much as swallow hard, cabrón, and this here knife will shave off the top layer of your Adam’s apple.”
Abby’s eyes flew open. Like, seriously, it was a wonder her eyelids didn’t make a snapping sound. She realized she was lying on a narrow bed—or cot really—and Shadow Man was standing beside her. Her peripheral vision told her she was inside some sort of rickety wooden hut that was suffering a pretty severe outbreak of moss, but she took in that last bit subconsciously. Because her entire being, her every breath, her very heart was focused on Carlos and the flash of his black eyes as he glanced down at her, giving her, of all things, a wink. He was standing behind Shadow Man, holding a glinting blade to the guy’s throat, and he had the audacity, or the cojones, as he would probably say, to wink at her?
“You okay, neña?” he whispered, and the smooth sound of his voice, combined with his faint accent and that wonderfully familiar endearment, had her heart racing for a whole new reason.
He came for me! I knew he would!
“Not r-really,” she told him, her tongue still thick. “B-but I’ll l-live.”
“That’s my girl.” And as if the wink wasn’t crazy enough, now he had to gall to flash that smile of his. It deepened the dimple in his left cheek, the one she’d always thought was sweet enough to launch a thousand lady boners—it’d certainly launched a thousand of hers and—
Son of a silverback gorilla! Get it together, Abby! You’re not out of trouble, yet!
And that was evidenced by the fact that Carlos, never taking the shiny edge of his blade away from Shadow Man’s throat—did it make her a heartless shrew to feel a zing of delight when she saw a drop of blood?—grabbed the syringe the terrorist had been seconds away from using on her. Shadow Man opened his mouth, probably to call to his compatriots, but in an instant, Carlos twisted his arm behind his back, wrenching it so hard the militant was forced to his tiptoes. Now, the tip of Carlos’s blade was digging into the corner of Shadow Man’s mouth.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he admonished. “Let’s not make things worse than they already are. You do understand English, don’t you, cabrón?”
Shadow Man nodded, his eyes swinging wildly. The fear in them was crystal clear and Abby wanted to yell, Right on! How does it feel to be the one taken hostage? You like that, you evil mothersucker? Seriously, if karma was real, Shadow Man was due a terrible case of genital warts. Of course, not only would so many words be impossible with her mostly useless tongue, but they’d also be a distraction Carlos didn’t need. She satisfied herself with simply watching the terrorist squirm.
And squirm he did. Especially when Carlos whispered in his ear. “That’s good that you understand me, pendejo. Because while I’m itching for a fight—Did I mention I have enough ammunition on me to kill you and your friends every day for the next ten years?—the truth is Abby here isn’t much accustomed to gunplay. So, I’ll save her ears and delicate sensibilities and simply give you a little taste of what you’ve been giving her.”
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