Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  Moving quicker than a Venus flytrap snapping closed on an unsuspecting insect, Steady spun Shadow Man and plunged the syringe into the guy’s throat with so much force it was a wonder the needle didn’t break in half.

  Huzzah! she silently cheered.

  “And I’ll leave you with this warning,” Carlos continued as the militant sagged in his arms. “You try to come after Abby again, and I will kill you. That’s a promise. I’ll put you in the ground so fast you won’t have time to make your peace with Allah.”

  Uh… can you say, wow?

  Carefully, almost gently, he lowered Shadow Man to the dirt floor of the hut. Then he was by her side, using his knife to cut away her bonds. The blood returned to her hands and feet in a rush of pins and needles. And a second later, bliss…

  Because she was pulled tight against Carlos’s chest and his strong arms were wrapped around her, making her feel safe for the first time in hours. Seriously, she was so happy to see him that had he not been holding her down, she may have levitated up to the hut’s grass ceiling. And maybe it was the elation that accounted for the hard shimmy-shake her numb body was now in the middle of completing.

  “It’s okay, cariño,” he murmured in her ear, his breath moist against the side of her face. Man, he smelled good. Like native jasmine, faint aftershave, and the open road. Like health and heroics—if heroics had a smell, that is. Like everything strong and wonderful and capable. “It’s okay. I got you, now. I got you.”

  He was rocking her back and forth, one of his big hands gently patting her back. She noticed something poking into her lower belly, about to cause her full bladder to burst wide open. “Is th-that an extra magazine in y-your pocket?” she asked. “Or are you j-just happy to see me?”

  Carlos wrapped his hands around her shoulders and leaned back, staring at her with one dark brow raised. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out an extra magazine. “Good to see that drug didn’t affect your winsome wit.”

  “Figures about the clip,” she feigned a pout. “You always did consider me nothing more than a pesky kid sister.”

  For a moment, he appeared startled and maybe a little bit…speculative? But then he shook his head. “Look, we’re working on a short clock here. This dickhead’s”—he hooked a thumb at Shadow Man’s inert form sprawled in the packed dirt—“friends are a few huts over in the middle of breakfast and distracted by some kind of Malaysian soap opera playing on an old tube television. But if he doesn’t return soon, they’ll send someone to check on him. We need to be long gone by then.”

  “We?” she stressed, her relief taking an instant hit. “As in, you and me? There’s not an entire platoon of Rangers waiting for us outside?” And would you look at that? She wasn’t stumbling over her words because her tongue was no longer twice its usual size. The drug may be fast-acting, but it was also short-lived. Praise be to Merlin’s beard!

  “That was the original plan.” He shoved the clip back into his pocket. “But as you know, shit happens. And now you’re stuck with little ol’ me.”

  Well, she could think of many worse people to be stuck with. Just about anyone else was worse when compared to Carlos, in fact. But in the same breath, and not to be ungrateful or anything, she sure would feel better about this little rescue mission if there were fifty or so armed servicemen waiting outside.

  “We’re going to move QQS.” He turned his back to her and pulled her arms around his neck. Standing, he took her weight against his back, then realized the drug’s effects still prohibited her from wrapping her legs around his waist.

  Yep. She was beginning to get the impression this rescue plan had been made on the fly.

  “What’s QQS?” she whispered when he sat back down on the bed, supporting her weight as he removed the army-green belt from the loops of his cargo pants.

  “Quick, quiet, and small.” He pushed up her long skirt and wrapped her legs around his waist so he could cinch his belt tight around her calves. This time when he stood, manacling her wrists over his shoulders with one strong hand and holding his weapon at the ready with the other, she was the human version of a backpack.

  To say the position was humiliating would be an understatement. And her complete and utter uselessness infuriated her. Here he was, risking life and limb to save her, and she could do nothing to help him. She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head—hallelujah, her neck muscles appeared to be working—to murmur in his ear. “In case I forget later, thank you for coming for me.”

  “Of course.” He glanced over his shoulder, his beard stubble rasping deliciously against her lips. “Did you doubt I would?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Not for one minute.” Even though they’d lost touch for so long, she’d always known he wouldn’t hesitate to come if she ever called. He’d promised her as much the last day they spoke. And she’d taken comfort in knowing he was out there, somewhere, keeping the world safe, ready to hop-to at the drop of a hat…the most wonderfully loyal, courageous man ever.

  The same man she’d foolishly and unforgivably deceived eight years ago…

  “Ready?” he asked, adjusting her weight. Thank God the stifling heat of Malaysia had put the kibosh on her appetite over the last few days, resulting in a not-unwelcome five-pound weight loss. Because even though Steady was built like a bull, stocky and strong, she didn’t suffer under the illusion that carting her around was going to be easy.

  “Let’s do this,” she told him, refusing to acknowledge the fact that her breasts were smashed against his broad back.

  “Good girl.” He covertly peeked from the rear entrance of the hut before jogging silently toward edge of the clearing.

  She bounced lightly with each of his quickened steps, reveling in the feel of him against her, so forceful, so sure, his body a smoothly working machine. She wondered idly why she wasn’t still scared out of her head. From the looks and sounds of it, they were a far cry from being out of the woods…er…jungle? But it was Carlos who’d come for her. Carlos…who she was pretty sure was the real-life equivalent of Superman, Batman, and Captain America all rolled into one. Nuclear fallout could be raining from the sky, and if she was by his side…er…on his back?…she was pretty sure she’d feel invincible.

  Good girl… His last words whispered through her head as he ducked into the jungle, dodging the slap of wet leaves and jumping over the snaking maze of roots that threatened to trip him.

  Good girl? Oh, how she wished that were true. How she wished it could ever possibly be true…

  * * *

  Logging Track 3B

  Seventy-five minutes later…

  So far, so good…

  The hum of the Ducati was reassuring, as was Abby’s tightened grip around Steady’s waist. They were riding down the devil’s own washed-out, rutted, rock-filled hell of a rubber tree logging road, and for the first ten minutes of the harrowing journey, while she’d still been suffering the lingering effects of the sedative, it was just as difficult to keep her on the bike as it was to navigate the frackin’ jungle track.

  But now they were clipping along at a steady, if decidedly slow, pace. No JI goons could be seen in his rearview mirrors—though it was hard to tell exactly, given the fact that the forest encroached from both sides and above. And if his calculations were correct, a half hour or so more should see them entering the lovely kingdom of Thailand.

  See, he wished he could call and tell Dan, sometimes it’s better to Lone Wolf McQuade things…

  Abby squirmed against his back, interrupting his thoughts and alerting him to the feel of her supple thighs pressed against the outsides of his hips and legs. Which, in turn, immediately focused his attention on her soft breasts—and distended nipples?—grazing his back.

  Okay, so who was he kidding? Like he hadn’t been keenly aware of each of those things since the first moment. Even while worming his way through the dense undergrowth of ferns and vines after escaping the encampment and hiking back to the Ducati, he’d been h
ard-pressed to concentrate on anything other than the feel of Abby squeezed all nice and tight against him. Abby’s soft skin touching his. Abby’s sweet smell—even sweaty and bedraggled, she still emanated a soft cloud of dryer sheets and cocoa butter lotion—filling his nose and making his head spin.

  That stiffy he hadn’t been able to finish off at the hotel was back to doing its best impression of a baseball bat—the imbécil. And you want to talk about one of the most pleasurable and uncomfortable rides of his life? It was this one right here. No contest.

  “Um… Sorry to say, but I have to pee again,” Abby proclaimed from over his shoulder. The poor woman, dehydrated because she’d been unconscious and sweating for hours without so much as a sip of water, had been emptying his hydration bottles one right after the other since the moment she regained control of her arms. They’d already had to stop once to let her stumble into the jungle and relieve herself.

  He felt for her. He really did. But he wouldn’t rest easy until they crossed that border…

  “You’re killing me, woman,” he called back to her as he throttled down. Coasting to a slow stop, he planted his boots on the earthen road and steadied the bike while she crawled off. Even in the sweltering heat, he missed her sweet warmth all along his back.

  “It’s a proven fact that we women have smaller bladders than you men,” she told him, stumbling slightly. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. She was still weak, but she was toughing it out just as he’d always known she would. Abigail Thompson might look fragile, but scratch her surface and what you found beneath was one hundred percent pure, brass-balled grit. As if to underscore his thoughts, she added with a smirk, “I think it’s to make up for our bigger brains.”

  He snorted, the wet earth and lush green scents of the jungle tickling his nose. He’d always thought Abby had it all, looks, smarts, charm… But it was her sense of humor he found most attractive.

  “Hop to.” He shooed her toward the jungle’s edge. “I want to make Thailand sometime before next year.”

  “Thailand?” she asked as she brushed aside the fronds of a humungous fern, disappearing into the forest a second later. It was amazing how the jungle could swallow a person in one verdant bite. Gulp! But even though he couldn’t see her, he had no trouble hearing her crashing through the undergrowth. She was wearing a traditional straight-cut Malay skirt, and it wasn’t exactly made for roughing it in the backcountry.

  “Sí,” he called to her. “How does homemade curry and a few hours of R&R while we wait on an extraction team sound, eh?”

  “Like heaven,” she answered, her voice muffled and slightly distant.

  Heaven. He knew a little about that. It’d been heaven to hold her in his arms back in that hut and know, no matter what, that he had her and come hell or high water, he wasn’t letting her go. Heaven to ride with her these last few miles, to feel her sweet breath huffing against the back of his neck, tickling the fine hairs that grew there.

  “Will this extraction team be my Secret Service people?” she called from deep within the bush.

  Damnit, he’d known the question was coming and had been wondering how to answer it. Taking a bracing breath, he gave her the truth. “No. It’ll likely be my people or else some SEAL team or Delta Squad force your father sends in.”

  “Oh,” her voice drifted to him, and he could just make out the hesitation in her tone above the soft purr of the Ducati’s engine. She sensed he hadn’t told her everything, and he wondered if she’d push the issue. When a few seconds of silence stretched out into an even dozen, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Digging his phone from his hip pocket, he thumbed it on and noticed he had only three percent battery life left and absolutely zero cell coverage. No matter. If he was quick, he could use the maps he’d downloaded, along with his relative speed and trajectory since leaving the JI encampment, to get an approximation of their location.

  Pulling up the detailed road atlas, he checked the compass on his watch, did some quick math in his head, and calculated they had roughly ten to twelve miles—as the crow flies—before hitting that border. Unfortunately, the logging trail they were on didn’t run due north, so he estimated they’d have to ride another fifteen miles, give or take, before he could finally heave a sigh of relief.

  Switching to a different map, he studied the topography surrounding what he figured was their current location and wasn’t surprised to see nothing but miles upon miles of jungle split only by the sinuous brown length of a massive river. He’d just brought up another map, this one a hand-drawn reproduction of the Perak region along with the locations of all the tiny villages and native paths that’d been cut through the bush—Boss sure was resourceful when he wanted to be—when his iPhone suddenly decided it’d had enough. Its screen switched to the iconic swirling wheel before it dissolved to black.

  But, no problem. It’d held on for long enough to—

  A low rumble had his head whipping around. With narrowed eyes, he scanned the road behind him, but he could see no further than five or six yards back. After that, it was nothing but a vast canvas of multihued green.

  Switching off the Ducati’s engine, he cocked his head, listening…

  The steady hum of insects was the equivalent of a dull roar. The squawk of a nearby bird—probably the little one with brilliant plumage perched on the long leaves of a flowering bush—barely competed with the ruckus. Somewhere off to the left, a monkey called. And further still, another answered.

  And then…there it was again! The unmistakable sound of a vehicle bouncing down the rutted road toward them.

  He was off the bike in an instant.

  Now, it was always possible that it was simply a logging truck ambling in their direction. But the good Madre María knew he couldn’t take any chances. That dickhead JI terrorist seemed the sort who wouldn’t take to heart the warning Steady had given him.

  Pushing the Ducati off the rutted path, he wheeled the motorcycle a fair distance into the dense foliage. Far enough away so that its chrome components wouldn’t catch a stray beam of sunlight, flashing and drawing the attention of whoever was about to motor past them. He covered the bike with a few huge, fanlike leaves he yanked, roots and all, out of the soft forest floor, and whispered, “Abby? Abby, can you hear me? We’ve got company headed our way.” He didn’t dare raise his voice, and when she didn’t answer, he was left with no recourse but to prowl silently back to the road’s edge.

  Proning out on the ground, blending into the flora surrounding him, he hoped Abby had either heard his warning or picked up the engine noise coming their way. This would all be for naught if she came tromping out of the jungle for the world to see.

  And just in case that happened…

  He reached into the holster strapped to his right thigh, removing his Beretta M9. The weapon was a familiar and comforting weight in his hand. Come on, Abby. Play it smart…

  Then he realized he needn’t have worried about her when, a second later, her hand landed softly on his lower back. There she was, lying beside him, pulling the branches of a nearby bush over her for concealment, acting as though she spent every day crawling around jungle floors. Like…no biggie. Here were are bellied-out with the bugs and reptiles…

  Ay Dios Mio! he admired her.

  Raising a finger to his lips, he signaled for quiet. The look she sent him—big eyes and pursed mouth—was all about the well, duh.

  He felt the tug of a smile as the vehicle lumbered into view. Damnit! It was a truck all right. But it wasn’t a logging truck. It was the same old-style military vehicle he’d seen parked at the JI encampment. The canvas covering over the bed had been removed, revealing the rig was loaded down with no fewer than ten Jemaah Islamiyah militants.

  And there was Dickhead—seriously, if a douchebag and an asshole got together and created offspring, it would be this guy—lolling drunkenly in the passenger seat, still feeling the effects of the narcotic, although he’d obviously come out of his stupor pretty
quickly. Which was probably due to fact that the dose he’d received was meant for Abby, who was a good thirty pounds lighter. What looked like an AK-47 was perched on the seat beside him. Go figure. That Russian special seemed to be the weapon of choice for every guerrilla rebel, rogue military faction, and terrorist regime on the planet. The assault rifle lacked accuracy, sure. But it made up for that by being extremely cheap and frustratingly reliable.

  Abby ducked her chin as the vehicle trundled slowly past. They were close enough to feel the ground shake beneath the truck’s knobby wheels, to smell the diesel burning in its big engine, to see the whites of the militants’ eyes as they scanned the road ahead.

  Steady slowed his breathing; his heartbeat followed a scant second later. It was an old spec-ops trick, a way to effectively control and utilize adrenaline. But Abby had no such training. He could hear her breath catching with each inhale, see the frantic beat of her pulse in her neck when he slid his eyes over to her.

  Slowly, carefully, his movements almost imperceptible, he transferred his Beretta to his left hand and threaded the fingers of his right through hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t look at him, but she licked her lips. And as silly and inappropriate as it was, the dart of her pink tongue…well…it did things to him.

  It made his dick twitch, his breath hitch, and his heart skip a beat.

  So much for that disciplined spec-ops instruction I received in Ranger School. It might hold up well under a sky raining mortar fire or ducking for cover in the middle of a gun battle, but it was no match for one cute, petite blond.

  He got distracted from thoughts of Abby—thank goodness—when the clutch on the big vehicle whined as the rig came to a jolting stop not fifteen yards down the road. Okay, not thank goodness. And as the late, great Amy Winehouse would say, What kind of fuckery is this? But he already knew. It was the bad kind. He watched as the JI militants poured out of the back of the truck, swinging the straps of their AKs over their shoulders and intently scanning the black dirt on the road beneath their feet.