Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  Abby’s fingers twitched fretfully, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, but he could do nothing to comfort her. Not when his every fiber was focused on the terrorists. He knew what they sought: the tracks left behind by the Ducati.

  Sonofafuckingcocksuckingbitch!

  Although, given the poor condition of the logging track, it was always possible they’d be unable to find what they were looking for. He could only hope. Because the alternative—dragging Abby on a madcap journey through a dense Asian jungle filled with tigers and rhinos and snakes, oh my!—was too awful to contemplate.

  He once more slowed the movement of his lungs, steadied the beat of his heart as one of the men ambled in their direction. With each of the militant’s steps, with each drop of sweat that trickled down Steady’s spine, his dread grew.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the jungle behind them. Searching…searching…searching for an escape route. Why did I choose to park the bike there?

  His backpack, with the food rations, iodine pills for purifying water, and medical supplies, was slung around the bike’s handlebars. And the bike was parked in the direction of the militants. If he and Abby were forced to make a run for it, they’d be heading directly opposite his equipment and provisions.

  Abby curled her fingers so tightly around his, her nails bit into the back of his hand. Carefully, he returned his attention to the road where the terrorist had spotted the tire tracks leading into the jungle. The militant’s gaze followed the trail, then seemed to focus right on the place where he and Abby were hiding.

  The guy turned and yelled something in Malay to his compatriots. Then he shouldered his weapon and started jogging in their direction.

  Steady released the control over his breathing and heartbeat, released the reins on his adrenaline. It poured through his body, burning his veins, making his muscles twitch. There was a saying in the spec-ops community: “Fear” stands for fuck everything and run. Well, by Dios, that was exactly the plan.

  Jerking Abby to her feet, he swung her around, hissing, “Go!”

  Chapter Eight

  Had Abby really entertained the foolish notion that there was nothing that could scare her as long as she had Carlos by her side? Was she completely crazy?

  Or maybe, at the time, she’d still been experiencing the lulling effects of the sedative. Because, baby, what she was doing right now, sprinting at breakneck speeds through the jungle with armed terrorists hot on her heels? Well, it was straight-up, no-holds-barred terrifying. If it was beating any faster, her heart would probably explode. Just, blam! And down she’d go.

  Speaking of going down…

  “Damnit!” Carlos cursed when she tripped over yet another vine. Using her hands to keep her skirt pulled up around her hips meant she couldn’t employ them to steady herself as she raced through the undergrowth. It was a problem.

  Of course, leave it to Carlos to solve it. He jerked her behind the huge trunk of a towering tree. Thrusting his hand between her thighs—wha?—he grabbed the back hem of her skirt and pulled it through her legs. Tucking it into her waistband, he yanked the extra material through the newly created leg hole, then brought that up to tuck it into her waistband again. Huh. Well, he’d quite effectively made a pair of poofy shorts. Her long tunic-like top dropped down to bunch above the shorts, and runway ready the new outfit certainly was not.

  But now was not the time to worry about fashion. Not when a group of militants were scattered through the wet brush behind them, bent on retaking her hostage and killing Carlos…or maybe killing her, too. Shadow Man didn’t seem the sort to forgive her for the trouble she was causing him. Quite the contrary, he seemed the sort to take out his frustrations by way of a beheading broadcast worldwide on Al Jazeera.

  She shivered despite the heat of the jungle air and the sweat slicking her skin.

  Craning her head around the tree trunk, she struggled to see their pursuers. But a field of green was the only thing to meet her searching eyes. Their raised voices told her they were close, and the sudden rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire solidified her belief that they weren’t too concerned with recapturing her alive. But, fortunately, it seemed the terrorists didn’t quite have a bead on their location.

  She sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. Small miracles and whatnot…Amen!

  “You okay, neña?” Carlos whispered, dipping his chin to peer into her eyes.

  She gifted him with a classic Kermit the Frog flattened face expression. “You’re kidding, right?”

  That seemed a good enough answer, because he nodded brusquely before yanking her back into a run. Without the long skirt hampering her movements, she was free as a bird. She veritably sailed over the huge, log-like roots of a tree, landing lightly and never breaking stride. Fear and adrenaline coursed through her system, fueling her to run faster and faster and faster.

  They blew through the undergrowth, crashing past bushes and vines, skirting the occasional rock or fallen tree. But when she glanced to her right, she could tell Carlos was tempering his pace to match hers. Sure, his big arms were pumping, his muscled thighs churning, but the controlled twitch of his jaw, not to mention the studied, almost robotic way he analyzed their surroundings, assured her he could be doing all this at a much faster clip.

  “This way,” he whispered, grabbing her wrist and tugging her to the left. They stumbled onto a tiny trail cut into the forest, and he pushed her in front of him, putting himself between her and the threat at their backs. “Faster!” he encouraged.

  Any faster and her poor legs would start pinwheeling Road Runner style. But, by God, she’d give it her best shot. Channeling a little Lauryn Williams, she turned on the afterburners. Leaves slapped at her knees and ankles, beating out a rhythm that matched her racing heart. Her soft-soled shoes pounded into the spongy earth, providing little protection from the occasional seedpod or rock in the path. Yet there was no pain. Later, once the adrenaline subsided, she was sure she’d feel plenty. That is, if she lived that long…

  “The bridge!” Carlos hissed at her back.

  Their path sent them flying directly beneath a band of big-nosed proboscis monkeys. The gang let loose with a string of hacking calls as they scattered higher into the trees. Son of a mothertrucker! And that was basically a neon sign pointing the militants in their direction. Any minute now the terrorists were going to be on their asses like stink on a Burning Man porta-potty. She renewed her efforts at speed.

  “The bridge!” Carlos growled again from behind her. “Do you see it?”

  Huh? What bridge?

  And then she did see it. The jungle to her right opened around a wide, fast-flowing river, the water rumbling and roaring as it tumbled over massive piles of rocks. Spanning that river, about twenty yards downstream, was a feat of human engineering that looked like it’d come straight out of the helicopter rescue scene in the movie The Deer Hunter. A series of ropes supported a few rickety boards. To call the structure a “bridge” was pretty charitable. The whole thing looked like it’d blow away in a stiff breeze.

  Her lungs hitched when she realized he intended for them to cross it. But, then again, who was she to question him? He probably spent most of his days doing exactly this while she spent most of her days quietly planting seedlings or laying down mulch.

  The bridge it is!

  Following the path to the water’s edge, slipping and sliding on the loose soil of the embankment, she gritted her teeth as she stepped onto the rudimentary structure’s first board. It groaned beneath her weight but, to her utter amazement, held. The rope supports were rough and scratched her palms as she raced and skipped from one set of rotting wooden slats to the next. The river, some twenty feet below, snarled and thrashed and sent up sprays of tea-colored water that turned the boards beneath her feet slick. It smelled like fish and sediment and the promise of a watery death.

  “Don’t stop,” Carlos commanded when, some seconds later, they miraculously made it to the middle of th
e thing. The whole contraption was swaying violently from side to side, bouncing up and down with each of their footfalls. Abby gripped the rope handrails until her knuckles turned white. One more step and she feared she’d go plunging into the swirling river below.

  Thwack! Rat-a-tat-tat!

  Alrighty, then! Automatic weapons fire was just what she needed to overcome any second thoughts about continuing her journey. Jumping to the next set of boards, and the ones after that, she ducked when a spray of bullets bit into the river below. The terrorists were fifty yards upstream, letting loose with everything they had and advancing fast.

  “Go, go, go!” Carlos yelled, as—Boom! Boom! Boom!—he returned fire.

  Go? She didn’t need to be told twice. She raced across the remaining expanse like one of those Jesus Christ lizards that walk on water. But just when she thought she was home free, the last set of boards disintegrated under her weight.

  The sudden shock of losing her footing made it feel as though a million cockroaches raced over her skin. And the blood rushing between her ears outroared the raging river. But, luckily, she had a firm hold on the support ropes on either side of her head. She managed to catch herself before belly-flopping into the river and, swinging Tarzan-style, she landed on the opposite bank with a teeth-clacking thud. She fell to one knee but was up like a shot a nanosecond later.

  Carlos made landfall right behind her, his big boots sinking three inches into the soft soil. “Take cover!” he yelled. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wrench his knife from the clip attached to his belt loop.

  Again, her mama didn’t raise no fool. She didn’t hesitate to duck into the relative safety of the jungle, positioning herself behind a large tree. The rope supports on one side of the bridge were tied around its trunk and, an instant later, Carlos was there beside her, sawing frantically at the lines as rounds continued to crash into the river not three feet from him. Then a few bit into the dark earth of the embankment.

  “Hurry, Carlos,” she breathed, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her above the thunder of gunfire and the rumble of the river. “Hurry, hurry, hurry…”

  She repeated the mantra over and over, her brain buzzing with fear for him. He was partially exposed, and those rounds were getting closer. She’d never forgive herself if—

  Snap!

  The rope gave way beneath his sharp blade, and one of the supports on the bridge fell loose. He raced to a second attachment on a nearby tree, ducking the spray of bullets as he went. He started slicing at the rope just as a half dozen or so militants made it to the opposite bank. Abby peeked from her cover in time to see them rush onto the expanse of the swaying bridge. They continued to fire wildly despite having to concentrate on crossing the sagging structure. A round bit into the tree she was hiding behind, sending bark flying. She jerked back, digging her nails into the wood until her fingers ached.

  “Come on, come on, come on…” A new mantra circled through her overloaded mind, and she watched, heart pounding, breath bated, as Carlos worked. Tendons and veins bulged in his arms, sweat dampened his forehead and hair, and his jaw gritted so hard she could see the striations of the muscles beneath his face. The man’s courage seemed to glow, stitching through him like lightning blazing through the darkness. And like lightning, he was glorious to watch in action.

  Then…Snap! Whack!

  The second rope came loose, causing the third and fourth to take the full weight of the structure. They unraveled a half second later, severing the bridge and sending the militants plunging into the boiling river. Their yells and cries were a welcome sound as she skirted the tree and triumphantly watched them thrash and struggle to remain afloat as the seething current caught them and washed them quickly downstream. See ya! Wouldn’t want to be ya!

  “It’s going to be okay now, neña,” Carlos said from beside her, tilting his head from side to side as if to loosen the muscles in his neck. It was a gesture she recognized from years ago. A kind of tick that would always remind her of the handsome, would-be doctor who’d been the first man to touch her girlish heart. “The bastards who don’t drown in the river will have to find another spot to cross. And, according to my maps, there isn’t another bridge within a twenty-mile trek on either side of us. We’ll be well over the border before they ever set foot on this side of the bank.”

  His black eyes were fierce, bright with the fire of battle. And while his neck-cracking was wonderfully familiar, that particular gleam in his eye was strangely foreign. It made her realize that this was a Carlos she’d never seen before. A warrior. A champion. And although it was a little scary knowing who he was now, what he was now, it also stirred something inside her, something that harkened back to prehistoric times and rode along on that pesky double-X chromosome. “But, just in case, let’s get a move on, shall we?”

  When he began to turn away, she grabbed his wrist. From one second to the next, her fear and tension—and that quick kiss of sexual awareness she felt looking at him standing there all big and bad—was replaced by the weight of her guilt. It dropped atop her shoulders like a thirty-pound bag of fertilizer, and tears she had no business shedding, tears she knew she didn’t have time to shed, burned behind her eyes.

  “Abby?” He lifted a dark brow. “What is it?”

  “I almost got you killed.” Her voice cracked as the truth of that really set in. “I might still get you killed!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If we hadn’t stopped so I could pee, none of this—”

  And then he made everything so much worse—or better?—when he dragged her against his chest, palming the back of her head so her nose was buried in the soft fabric of his tank top.

  “It’s not your fault,” he crooned. “Nothing is your fault.”

  Oh, if only that were true…

  * * *

  Umar Sungkar was going to kill someone…

  Again.

  Because it was bad enough he had to suffer the indignity of that stupid American anak haram—the word for bastard in Malay was so much more satisfying to both think and say—finding his jungle hideout and injecting him with his very own serum. But to make matters worse, five minutes ago he’d heard his men firing recklessly into the foliage!

  Didn’t they understand the only way to ensure the release of their brethren—of his brother—was to keep the woman alive? Didn’t they realize this time their objective was leverage, not revenge? Was he the only one among them with an ounce of brains?

  Stupid, uneducated, blood-hungry imbeciles! They treated this war he waged against the West as children would treat a game of police and thieves. Something fun and distracting that allowed them to carry around assault rifles, act tough, and frighten people.

  He cursed his weakened muscles as he pushed open the truck’s passenger-side door and stumbled out. Reaching in behind him, he grabbed the strap of his weapon and dragged it along. What usually felt like an extension of his own arm was suddenly almost too heavy to lift. But lift it he did. After he skirted the vehicle, propping himself against the front bumper, he brought the butt of the Kalashnikov to his shoulder…and waited…

  The minutes crept by. And with every one of them, he thought of another reason to put a bullet into the brain of the first of his men to emerge from the bush. He had never suffered fools lightly, evidenced by the fact that, after he regained consciousness, he had been swift to order the execution of Abdullah.

  The first slurring words out of his mouth had been a demand to know how their encampment could have been found. He had removed the woman’s clothes himself, seen to their disposal. And her entire security force should be dead, dying, or severely wounded by the incendiary devices he had placed in their hotel rooms. So how had the anak haram found them? How? Had they missed something?

  Shuffling feet and shaking heads had been the only responses to his questions. And then Abdullah, the young recruit from the Philippines who had been brought into Umar’s organization solely for his ex
pertise in the chemical alchemy of creating homemade anesthetics—Umar had needed something strong enough to render the American woman unconscious but not strong enough to risk overdose; her death would gain him nothing—had hesitantly stumbled forward. Digging in his pocket, Abdullah produced two pieces of jewelry.

  At first glance, the glittering stones appeared to be diamond earrings. But upon closer inspection, it was clear they were something else entirely.

  Transmitters…

  Transmitters that had not been listed in the file on the president’s daughter that Umar had nearly bankrupted himself and his entire extended family to buy.

  “C-crush them,” he instructed one of his men, watching furiously as the devices were pulverized to dust between two stones.

  “We have to run,” another of his men had the gall to proclaim. “The Americans must be coming! They must be—”

  “Silence!” Umar commanded, thinking, reasoning. “If they were s-sending in their soldiers, we would already be s-surrounded.” Damn that stupid drug and what it has done to my tongue! “My guess is the man who g-gave her the earrings, the man who had the s-s-supreme arrogance to come here”—and insult and threaten me—“was somehow w-w-working alone.” It would also explain why the mysterious American had not been listed as part of her protection team and why those damned earrings had not been indexed in the file. An independent security contractor, perhaps? It was the only thing to make sense. “Now, Abdullah,” he turned to the young recruit. “Tell me wh-what happened.”

  Abdullah tearfully admitted to thinking the stones were real and stealing them off the woman at the night market. After he’d been late delivering the additional syringes of the serum. You see, the narcotic took precision equipment—equipment that had been delayed by weeks—to make, as well as hours to mix. Abdullah had only had time to cook up one dose before Umar and a handful of his men were forced to depart on the mission to abduct the woman. But Abdullah had assured him there would be many more doses waiting at the night market.