Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  * * *

  “The rain has washed away their tracks,” Noordin complained, his whining tone traveling from the end of Umar’s spine up his vertebral column to detonate at the base of his skull. When he turned, he found Noordin’s face was still dripping from the hard deluge they had trudged through for nearly an hour. Then again, it was possible that was not rain but sweat. With the passing of the storm and the baking of the sun, the humidity in the air was almost palpable. Those who were unused to the oppressiveness of the jungle, like Noordin, tended to disintegrate into soggy, disgusting messes.

  “We should wait for the others to arrive,” Noordin continued, swatting at a mosquito. The man was too miserable to heed the warning glinting in Umar’s eyes. The fool. “During the last call on the satellite phone, they said they are only thirty minutes behind us. If we delay until there are more of us, then we can spread out to search. It will be easier than fumbling around in circles in the middle of this hot—”

  “Do you value your life?” Umar asked, tilting his head. Although the expression he donned was curious, the edge in his voice alerted Noordin to the precariousness of his situation. Umar could tolerate many things. Bellyaching, as the American’s called it, was not one of them.

  Noordin gulped as a muscle near his eye twitched fitfully. “Of course.”

  “Then you will close your mouth and refrain from speaking until I give you leave to do so. Do you understand?”

  Noordin nodded vigorously, the other two men carefully keeping their eyes trained on the narrow jungle path lest they incur any residual spillover from his wrath.

  “Good then.” He turned to point out a bush with a couple of crushed leaves near its base. “And, yes, the rain did obscure their path. But only if you do not know what to look for. You see there?”

  The three men bobbed their heads obediently but didn’t say a word. Umar fought a smile. It had taken him years to engender this kind of fear in his subordinates. Years of maneuvering and fighting and killing. But it had all been worth it for moments like these. Moments when he could wield his superiority and power without ever having to touch the weapon slung over his shoulder.

  Leaning forward, he pushed back the branches on the shrub, revealing the small footprints on the ground beneath. The plant’s leaves had protected the imprints from the fury of the storm. “As you can see, we are still on the correct path, and—”

  The shrieking laugh of a child somewhere nearby cut him off. He cocked his head, listening…

  There it was again!

  “Follow me,” he hissed, breaking into a jog. Winding his way through the undergrowth, he hopped over twisting roots and dodged snaking vines. His men were not nearly as dexterous. In fact, he was pretty sure the quiet curse and muted thud he heard was Azahari falling to the ground behind him. He did not turn to check. Instead, he skidded to a stop at the edge of a clearing. One look at the crude little village cut into the middle of the jungle told him immediately what he was dealing with.

  Orang Asli, the backward forest dwellers of Malaysia. The types of tribal people he considered barely better than the monkeys hanging in the trees. Poor. Dirty. Ignorant.

  His lip curled as he grabbed the strap of his Kalashnikov, effortlessly lifting the weapon to his shoulder. The butt was a familiar pressure. The trigger rubbed smooth by the continual presence of his finger. “Azahari and Noordin, you two will come with me. You”—he turned to the third man—“will stay back here and provide a lookout.”

  Stepping from the clearing, weapon raised, he slunk into the center of the village where a circle of wicker stools sat empty. A group of children laughed and danced in the hazy air down by a stream while the adults gathered in a small, defoliated gap in the nearby forest. Down on their knees, the women were busy spreading wet rice onto mats—which they would later pull out into the sun to dry—and the men were kicked back against the trunks of trees, smiling and talking, cracking a joke here and there if the occasional burst of laughter was anything to go by.

  Simpletons, Umar thought with disgust before loudly clearing his throat.

  Twenty pairs of wide, terrified eyes turned in his direction. The men pushed away from the trees, the women scrambled to their feet. “Where are the Americans?” he demanded in Malay, making sure his tone adequately conveyed his intent to kill them all should they refuse to answer. “I know they came through here. Where are they? Which direction did they go?”

  North toward the border was a given. But whether the anak haram and the woman continued on a straight trajectory through the jungle or whether they decided to take an easier, yet more circuitous route on one of the logging paths was key. This close to Thailand, he could not afford to guess. Catching them before they crossed over was already going to be a very close thing.

  “Answer me, you smelly, witless pigs!” he bellowed, taking a few menacing steps forward, feeling Noordin and Azahari shadow his every move. The barrels of their machine guns were a welcome sight in his peripheral vision. “Answer me!” he screamed again.

  The women shrank back upon his advance, crying out in alarm as the men arranged themselves in front of them in what Umar figured was supposed to be a wall of opposition.

  What? Do they think they can glare me to death? It was almost laughable. And if he had not been in such a hurry, he might have allowed himself a good chuckle. But the clock was ticking…

  He opened his mouth to make another demand when the frightened cry of a child caused one of the women to push past the screen of men. Tears streaming down her face, the ugly little shrew yelled something in that ridiculous, clipped language of hers to the little girl running toward her.

  Noordin swung his weapon in the child’s direction, and that was more than the woman could stand. She broke away from the group of adults and raced for the girl. But Umar was on her in an instant, catching her by the arm and using her own momentum to jerk her off her feet. He smiled with glee at the grunting whoosh of air that pushed from her lungs when he slammed her spine into the ground. From the corner of his eye, he could see the other adults shuffling anxiously, though stupidity and terror—and the fact that Azahari kept them pinned beneath the evil black eye of his AK-47—stopped them from interfering. Placing one foot on the woman’s abdomen, her stomach muscles quivered beneath the tread of his boot when he pointed his machine gun straight between her eyes.

  “Where are the Americans?” he asked. This time, he kept his voice low. So only she could hear. “You may not speak Malay, but you understand that word. Americans,” he stressed.

  She shook her head, causing the orchid stuck in her ridiculous mess of fuzzy black hair to quiver. Crying pitifully, she babbled something he did not begin to understand. Rolling his eyes, his patience having frayed to near nothing, he turned to Noordin. “Grab the girl,” he instructed. “Maybe that will encourage this bitch to grow a few more brain cells.”

  Noordin did as he was told, swooping down on the little girl and lifting her into his arms despite her banshee shrieks and violent flailing. Azahari stepped up to Umar. “I do not think she understands, abang,” he said. “I do not think any of them do.”

  “She understands enough,” he growled, hauling the woman to her feet and shoving the barrel of his AK under her chin. “Place the girl on the ground, Noordin,” he said when the man stopped next to them. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he had been so annoyed with Noordin, who followed orders so very, very well. “And be careful to keep the end of your weapon in contact with the child’s head.”

  Noordin completed the maneuver succinctly. The little girl stood still as stone, despite the hiccupping cries that shook her little chest. In that respect, she was much like her…mother? Umar tilted his head to look into the woman’s face. Hmm. It was hard to tell. All the Orang Asli looked alike to him. Moon-round faces and wide, smashed features. Repugnant.

  “Now.” He motioned with his chin toward the child. “Where are the Americans?”

  The woman didn’t
hesitate this time. Lifting her arm, she pointed toward the northwest side of the clearing. Umar turned in the direction of her extended finger, squinting his eyes, trying to remember if there was another logging trail in that direction.

  “Go see if she is telling the truth!” he yelled over his shoulder to his man waiting in the bush. From the corner of his eye, he watched his foot soldier break from the jungle and jog to the edge of the village. For a couple of interminable seconds, the man walked around, checking for tracks.

  “Yes!” he finally called excitedly, and Umar’s pulse leapt. “There are footprints in the mud. Definitely a pair of Western-style shoes alongside imprints from the soft-soled slippers the woman is wearing!”

  “Now, was that so hard?” Umar smiled down at the woman, loving the way she shrank away from him. Loving the absolute terror in her eyes.

  Shoving her away, he instructed Noordin to do the same with the girl. Then, keeping their weapons trained on the villagers—who just continued to stand there like slack-jawed imbeciles—they backed toward the edge of the jungle.

  “Keep drawing down on them,” he told his men as he slung the strap of his machine gun over his shoulder so he, too, could inspect the tracks. Squatting, he noted the deep impressions left in the mud. “These were left after the storm, when the ground was soft,” he muttered, as much to his men as to himself. “Which means we are not far behind…”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I may have been mistaken about the distance to my truck,” Yonus said. “I am now thinking it was more like two miles from the village.”

  Steady grinned at the young man’s back. “That’s okay,” he called. The guy was about ten yards out in front of him and Abby, due to their slower pace. Abby’s gams may be world-class, but they were also lacking a bit when it came to vertical inches. “When hitching a ride, beggars can’t be choosers. But I have to ask you, hermano, does this truck of yours come equipped with four-wheel drive?”

  Because the rain had turned the entire region into a big bowl of muck. And their hike from the village through the drenched, dripping jungle had been slow going from the start. Unfortunately, their progress had become more snail-like since they made it to the logging trail. The mud atop the rutted road was three inches thick and slick as snot. Which forced them to trudge awkwardly alongside the shoulder where the footing was more stable, and far more uneven.

  “Of course it has four-wheel drive. What do you take me for?” Yonus turned to flash them a quick smile. It was the exact same expression he’d given them after they crawled down the ladder from the ceremonial hut once the storm passed. Now, just as then, Steady couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he and Abby’s…uh…activities—and corresponding cries of ecstasy. Dios! Just thinking about that made him semi-hard and achy again—hadn’t been completely drowned out by the roar of the raging squall.

  “I take you for a lifesaver,” he called, putting a little jiggle and swivel in his step to covertly adjust himself into a more comfortable position.

  “It is my pleasure, my friends.” Yonus dipped his chin before turning back to continue up the trail.

  Steady glanced over at Abby, expecting to see her grinning after Yonus. The guy’s smile was the infectious sort, after all. But instead he found her frowning, her brow puckered with two vertical lines. “You okay?” he asked, reaching over to brush her fingers, trying not to think about what it was like to have that small hand wrapped around his cock or cupping his balls. Oh, and great. That did nothing for my semi. “Do we need to stop and take a break?”

  “No.” She shook her head, instantly smoothing away her frown. “No. I was just thinking about…” She trailed off, shrugging.

  “Your security detail,” he finished for her, careful to keep his voice low so Yonus couldn’t hear.

  She dipped her chin and made a face. “Among other things. They were good people. Brave people. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

  “Well of course they didn’t. But there was nothing you could have done to stop what happened. You know that, eh?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he caught her hand, jerking her to a stop. The sun, dappling through the tree limbs that were trying so desperately to bridge the gap over the logging road, shone down on her golden hair, creating a halo effect that took his breath away. He braced himself for the one-two punch of her eyes.

  But she didn’t meet his gaze, instead staring at the hollow in his throat like it was a rare species of flower or something else she might find equally fascinating. He was forced to grab her adorable chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing it up. “You do know that, right?” he demanded.

  Sighing, she pointed to her head. “I know it here.” Then she placed her hand over her tunic, above her left breast. “But this part of me remains unconvinced.”

  And, sí, he knew all about that. He’d seen and done things in the Rangers and working for BKI that were easy to rationalize in his mind, but not so easy to accept in his heart. “That part is always trickier. But you know how you make their sacrifice worth it?”

  She blinked at him. “No. How?”

  “By living. By loving. By laughing. Their job was to make sure you were always around to do all three. And you honor them anytime you do.”

  One corner of her mouth pulled back. “You know, I used to think you missed your calling to be a Calvin Klein underwear model by going to med school and then joining the army. But now I think you should have studied to be a psychiatrist. You may not say much, Carlos Soto.” She reached forward to place her hand over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel that it beat only for her. “But when you do say something, it tends to be the right thing.”

  “And that’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone for years.” He made a face, grabbing her fingers and lifting them to his lips. Then, “A Calvin Klein underwear model? As my mother used to say, Dios no lo quiera. Heaven forbid.”

  She laughed, and the sound was like church bells ringing.

  “That’s better.” He winked at her before turning to continue after Yonus.

  For a few moments they hiked in silence, letting the humming, buzzing, screeching chorus of the forest sing them a tune. And for the first time in probably…well, ever…he discovered himself not necessarily enjoying the jungle, but not exactly hating it either. It was still hot as hell. The humidity was still so high it’d likely bust a hygrometer. The frackin’ mosquitoes were still as big as city buses. But Abby was by his side. And not too long ago she’d given him the kind of sex that made his head spin, his heart ache, and his dick swell and pound inside his pants with the need for more. Much more.

  He wondered what Boss would say to him taking off for a week or so once they got back stateside, when a florescent-green bird with bright-blue feathers on its chest buzzed by him. The brilliantly plumed fowl was hot on the trail of a fuchsia-colored dragonfly that darted and dipped as it raced toward the safety of the jungle on the opposite side of the logging road.

  He smiled after the pair despite the fact that they were locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse…uh…bird and dragonfly? And that’s when he realized he was…happy. He was still itching to make it over the Thai border. Still concerned with who might be the mole. Still scared to death for Ozzie. But all those things played second fiddle to the fact that Abby adored him. She adored him!

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked, dragging him from his thoughts. Then her gaze pinged down to the fly of his cargo pants, where he was still semi-erect. “Never mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course that’s what’s behind that goofy grin. What else would it be?”

  It was so good to hear her sling a gibe that he refrained from reaching over to throw an arm around her shoulders and smack a kiss on her soft, wonderful lips. Instead, he decided to play along. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in mock warning.

  “That as a gender, your minds, when not occupied with the task of making war somewhere, are usua
lly either filled with thoughts of sex, beer, or the latest baseball scores.”

  “That’s not true,” he informed her, lifting his nose haughtily.

  “It’s not?” she asked.

  “No. Most times we’re thinking about all three at once.”

  Snorting, she nudged him with her elbow. He, of course, nudged her right back.

  “Stop it,” she told him, feigning a frown.

  “You stop it,” he retorted. And now the grin he wore had nothing to do with thoughts of sex. Instead, his mind was filled with love.

  “Gah!” She shook her head, mistaking his expression. “And there’s that grin again.”

  “Don’t act like you don’t like it.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, slowly giving her a wink. “Because I know for a fact that you do.”

  “And why would you possibly be suffering under that delusion?”

  “Because Rosa told me you once told her that my smile was the sweetest you’d ever seen. And that my dimple should be outlawed.” And you had better believe that had stayed with him through the years. There’d been times when he thought he wouldn’t make it out of this battle or live through that mission that he closed his eyes and relived the memory of the day his sister fed him that delicious little nugget, imagining Abby’s adorable face as she confessed.

  He expected her to hit back with one of her patented jabs. So watching her face blanch and then crumble caught him completely off guard. “Ah, hell. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No.” She shook her head, lifting a hand to stop him. “Please don’t apologize for anything. Really.”

  Back in the hut, he’d noticed she had a difficult time talking about his sister. And the question of why she was still mourning Rosa so vigorously bothered him. It’d been eight years. His own grief had mellowed from a sharp, searing pain that nearly brought him to his knees to a soft, blunt kind of remorse that was almost wistful in its melancholy.