Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “We’re being targeted by JI militants,” she said, sorry as hell to see the sweet young man dragged into her own personal shitstorm. And add one more item to my long list of Things to Feel Awful About. Luckily, Carlos was standing next to her, no doubt formulating some sort of brilliant, super-secret spy-guy plan to foil the militants.

  “But Carlos here is a special operations warrior,” she added. “He’s like Superman, Batman, and Captain America all rolled into one.”

  “That may be pushing things,” Carlos muttered, taking a peek from behind the trunk, only to duck back quickly when a loud pop and a whiz sounded right before a bullet slammed into the road in front of them.

  Yonus tried licking his lips. But the way his tongue stuck told her he had that whole high-noon, desert-dry mouth thing going on. Weird how terror and confusion had that effect on the human body. “I th-thought you said he was a doctor,” he hissed.

  “He’s that, too,” she assured him, comforted, despite their current predicament, by the feel of Carlos’s back muscles flexing against the fingers she’d tucked into his waistband. “A man of many talents.”

  The whites of Yonus’s eyes blazed in the dark shade of the overhead canopy, and it was obvious he didn’t share her confidence that Carlos would be able to get them out of their current predicament alive. But that’s only because he didn’t know Carlos. If he did, he’d know that Shadow Man was a few minutes away from being turned into crap on a cracker.

  “What do the Jemaah Islamiyah want with both of you?” Yonus asked, his chest rising and falling with rapid-fire breaths.

  “Not Carlos,” she whispered. “Just me.”

  “What do they want with you?”

  “Leverage,” she said, taking a page from Carlos’s Book on Brevity.

  Yonus frowned. “How could they possibly use you as leverage?”

  “Because I’m the daughter of the president of the United States.” I mean, she figured it was only fair Yonus knew exactly what he’d gotten involved in.

  “Oh, no,” he husked, but didn’t have time to elaborate because right then, Shadow Man called out from his hiding spot.

  “Give us the woman and no one has to die!”

  Alrighty then. Sure. And where had she heard that before? Oh, yes. It was a line in every B-rate thriller movie. The kind where everyone—or nearly everyone—ended up dead by the closing credits regardless of any promises made by the villain.

  “The only one who’ll be dying here, pendejo,” Carlos called back, “is you and any rat-faced fucker you brought with you!”

  Rat-faced? Hmmm. All right, so given Shadow Man’s beady black eyes and long, skinny nose, she could maybe see the resemblance.

  “Your one gun,” Shadow Man retorted, a hint of arrogance in his tone, “against my four!”

  A second passed. Then two. “Did he really just give away how many men he has with him?” Carlos whispered incredulously, almost to himself.

  “And I have more men coming!” Shadow Man quickly added, forcing Abby to wonder if that was the truth or if he’d simply realized his mistake and was looking for a way to cover it. “Send out the woman now, and no one gets hurt!”

  Carlos listened to the response with his head cocked in such a way that she knew he was busy getting a bead on Shadow Man’s location. See…straight up superhero stuff. “I don’t believe you!” he yelled back. “You already tried to kill her by the river! You were shooting at us with everything you had!” Again he cocked his head, waiting for the response.

  “A mistake made by my overzealous compatriots, I assure you!”

  “And when you took a shot at her now?”

  “Not her!” Shadow Man called. “You! You know as well as I that the woman is no good to me dead! Just send her out!”

  She swallowed, curling her fingers more tightly around his waistband. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, cariño. I’ll get you out of this.”

  “I know,” she whispered, trusting him implicitly. She lifted a hand to squeeze his arm reassuringly. He needed all his wits focused on the terrorists, not worrying about whether or not she was about to disintegrate into a puddle of terrified goo around his jungle boots. “I know you will, and I—Oh my God! You’re hit!”

  Her hand came away from his arm wet with warm, sticky blood. And when she glanced down, she saw it dripping from his fingers, speckling the big roots of the tree snaking beneath their feet. Just like that, the world titled on it axis. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, it spun crazily in its orbit. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  So much for not turning into a puddle of goo around his jungle boots. She knew from experience that what came next was something straight out of a Pitbull featuring Ke$ha song. She was going down. Although, as far as she could figure, no one was yelling, “Timber!”

  Chewbacca’s flying shit, Abby! Don’t do this now! But no matter how she gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, little flashes of white strobed behind her eyelids, the precursor to lights-out.

  “Abby.” Carlos grabbed her arm, giving her a little shake. “Take a breath. It’s nothing. Just a nick, eh?”

  Yep…just a nick. With a lot of blood.

  No! She wouldn’t pass out. She couldn’t pass out. She might be the damsel in distress. But by God, she refused to act it. Concentrating everything she had on remaining vertical, she planted her hands on her hips and forced great gulps of air past her constricted throat and into her lungs. Oxygen rushed to her brain in a dizzying whoosh, and the forest instantly stopped doing its best impression of a merry-go-round. Although, when she opened her eyes, little specs of light were still flashing in her peripheral vision.

  Not exactly great. But better.

  Not daring to glance down at Carlos’s wounded arm, she grabbed the hem of her tunic and raised the material to her teeth. Finding a seam, she bit down hard, and yanked. A long strand of cotton tore free, and the curious quiet of the jungle caused the subsequent riiiiiip to sound ridiculously loud. Before she could think about what she was doing—and have another go at performing the ol’ Pitbull/Ke$ha timber maneuver—she wound the material around Carlos’s bicep. Doing her best to tie it off without really ever taking a good, long gander at the furrow of shredded flesh that leaked long streaks of—gulp; Oh, God!—blood down his forearm.

  “You okay, mi vida?” he asked when she lifted her hand to her head.

  “Yep.” She nodded vigorously. Too vigorously obviously when the jungle did another slow tilt. Gah! “Sorry. I’m no good around blood anymore.”

  Just don’t look down at his arm. Just don’t look down at his arm. Just don’t look—

  “No worries,” he told her. “I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” And if that was true, the man definitely needed a new razor. “But thanks for the field dress—”

  “Uh, I hate to interrupt,” Yonus said politely, as if it were every day he found himself smack dab in the middle of a Mexican standoff. Malaysian standoff? “But I think someone is trying to sneak up on us. I saw a flash of movement over…over there.” He pointed.

  Carlos’s chin swiveled in the direction of Yonus’s finger. Then, “Stay with her,” he told the young man. “As long as you do, you’ll be safe. You heard him. They won’t kill her. They need her alive.”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm—his uninjured arm; don’t look down, don’t look down. “You can’t go out there by yourself.”

  “Trust me.” He chucked her on the chin. And then he did it again. He frickin’ winked at her. She opened her mouth to tell him they needed to have a serious discussion about which circumstances were and were not appropriate for winking, but he cut her off. “I do this kind of thing all the time.” And with that, he pulled that deadly sharp knife from the clip on his waistband and disappeared into the undergrowth behind them.

  Yep, he might do this kind of thing all the time, but he’d never done it for her. To protect her. And for the first time since they made that madcap dash across that rickety bridge, sh
e considered the possibility that Carlos could very well die while trying to spirit her across the border to Thailand.

  No. God, no. Don’t let that happen. And although she’d gotten pretty good at praying over the years—mostly for Carlos—the pact she made at the moment with the big man upstairs would have her down on her knees every single night for the rest of her days…

  * * *

  Steady flattened himself behind a tree less than twenty yards away from Yonus and Abby and waited…

  Yonus was right. Someone was trying to flank them. Fortunately, whatever else this JI asshole was, stealthy he was not. Steady could hear each of his footfalls disturbing the debris littering the forest floor. And every time he moved a little closer, the clip attaching his AK-47 to its strap clanked quietly. The man obviously hadn’t learned the trick of wrapping the harness around his wrist and arm. That little maneuver both kept the weapon attached to the body should the shooter lose his grip and also kept the accoutrements from jangling against one another.

  And thank you, Ranger School, he thought as he listened intently to every subtle rustle, every tiny clink that told him his target crept closer and closer.

  As it had the tendency to do when a person’s life was nearing its end, time seemed to slow and stretch. Each of Steady’s heartbeats took an infinity, each of his breaths lasted a millennia. And during this strange time without time, he took the opportunity to clear his mind, clear his heart, wipe clean his soul. In an instant, he became nothing but a blank slate. A thing. A machine. A soldier. One without feeling, without regret, and without remorse.

  It was a practice he’d learned very early in his stint with the Army when facing an enemy down the length of his sights or head-on in hand-to-hand combat. Because as a doctor, he was trained to protect life, to save life. But as a Ranger and a spec-ops warrior, he was often tasked with just the opposite, dispatching life with swift and oftentimes brutal precision. So in order to do that, in order to keep his true self from hesitating and giving his adversary an opportunity to get the upper hand, he’d learned to turn off, empty out, let go of Steady and simply…act.

  The tree against his back was rough. The air in the jungle hung heavy with the scent of wet foliage and exotic flowers. And the sweat slicking his skin ran down his temples and the groove of his spine. But he sensed none of it. His entire being was focused on one and only one thing. His target. And, then, it was time…

  The militant crept by him, crouched low and advancing slowing. Steady slid out from his position behind the tree and slunk onto the heels of the terrorist like the dark specter of death he was. One hand grabbed the man’s perspiration-damp forehead as the other expertly pulled his knife across the guy’s throat. Flesh, muscle, tendon, and vein gave way to the impossible sharpness of his blade. And a soft, surprised gurgle was the only sound to breach the silence of the forest.

  Steady held the dying terrorist against him for a brief moment as the man’s lifeblood quickly drained from him. Then he carefully, gently lowered the body to the ground. Which is when he spied the man’s small backpack. Quickly unzipping the main pouch, he pulled out an old, plastic satellite phone the relative size and shape—and weight—of two bricks. Punching in the number for BKI headquarters, he crossed his fingers for a connection. But a double beep told him the damn thing’s battery had run out. Hell. Tossing the useless piece of equipment aside, he grabbed the strap of the AK and slung the machine gun over his shoulder—in a situation like this, a man could never have too many weapons.

  Without a backward glance, he stalked in the direction of the one he loved, and thought, without guilt or apology, One down. Three to go…

  * * *

  Abby was so relieved to see Carlos materialize from the foliage it took everything she had not to run to him. Of course, along with the fact that exposing herself in any way would be beyond stupid, there was the dark, deadly gleam in his eye, the hard clench of his jaw, and the way he wiped his blade against the front of his cargo pants, leaving behind a—holy shitpickle—dark, wet stain that helped to keep her rooted to the spot.

  Blood…

  She didn’t need to be told what had happened out there in the eerie green screen of the jungle. One look at him and the newly acquired machine gun slung over his shoulder and she knew the whole story. He had killed. For her. And as grateful as she was that he was walking toward her, so big, so tough, so very capable, a part of her couldn’t help but regret the fact that he’d been forced to take a life in her name.

  Why did so many have to die? And when will it all stop?

  Her treasonous lower lip threatened to tremble, so she clamped it hard between her teeth. And the tears pricking behind her eyes she quickly, angrily blinked away. She couldn’t have him mistaking her expression of sadness for condemnation or disapproval. That was so far from the truth. He was everything fine and good and brave. So when he took a position beside her—his heat radiating out to her like gentle fingers—she didn’t hesitate to meet his gaze straight on. “Is it taken care of?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

  He dipped his chin once, a muscle tightening in his jaw.

  “Good.” She raked in a deep breath. “So what’s next?”

  She thought she saw his eyes clear, just a little. And if she wasn’t mistaken his shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit. But instead of answering her, he turned and yelled in the direction of the logging road, “In case you were wondering, you’re down one man! And if my math is right, now it’s your three guns to my two!”

  A muffled bark of rage came from across the road some distance behind them. Further along, Shadow Man hissed something in Malay, obviously a command for whoever was moving in their direction to keep quiet. Abby watched as Carlos glanced quickly around the tree, calculating range and scope and probably a whole slew of other variables she couldn’t possibly comprehend.

  After a couple of seconds, Shadow Man called back, “I still like my odds!”

  “Which just proves what a fucking idiot you really are!” It was obvious Carlos was taunting the guy, and Abby could only assume he was trying to force Shadow Man into acting irrationally. Or else he was simply trying to keep track of everyone’s location. She didn’t have time to ask him which one it was because he turned to Yonus, whispering, “They’re trying to get ahead of us, likely to keep us from making a break for the truck. Which is why we need to move. Now!”

  With one hand gripping his pistol, and the other wrapped around her arm, he pulled her away from the tree and deeper into the undergrowth. She glanced over her shoulder to see Yonus hesitate. And just as she was about to tell Carlos they had to wait, they couldn’t leave the young man behind, Yonus gulped and dashed toward them. He caught up just before they slid out of sight.

  Darting from tree to tree, the three of them quietly jumped over roots and slapped aside creeping plants that tried to snag their arms and legs as they paralleled the logging road. And all the while, Carlos led the way just as the tattoo scrawled across his back said he would. Ever-ready, ever-steady, and ever-deadly.

  Which he proved when a terrorist jumped out at them from behind a large bush. Abby couldn’t hold back the scream that tore from her throat when a machine gun pointed straight at Carlos’s chest. But she didn’t have time to do more than that. Thank goodness Carlos’s reflexes were quicker than hers. Before the man could squeeze off a round, Carlos booted the weapon from the militant’s hand with a roundhouse kick that would’ve made Jackie Chan proud.

  For a couple of seconds, the two men stood there, facing each other, both blowing like they’d run a race.

  “Don’t do it,” Carlos hissed when the guy reached for the knife on his belt.

  Yonus yelled something in Malay. Probably stop or no! But the JI goon didn’t heed his warning. With a snarl and a demon yell, the skinny terrorist launched himself at Carlos, his silver blade glinting in the dappled light, his free hand curved into a claw.

  No, no, no!

  Abby bent to pick up the
dropped machine gun, surprised by its weight and the warmth of the trigger’s metal against her finger. But she didn’t have time to straighten or aim when a loud boom echoed into the treetops. She lifted her gaze to see Carlos’s pistol faintly smoking and the terrorist crumpled on the ground in a heap of dirty clothes and mahogany skin.

  Again, Carlos’s tattoos had proved correct. The JI militant had messed with the best and he’d died like the rest. She shook her head, swallowing. It was so senseless. All this killing. All this…dying.

  “Don’t look,” Carlos warned, turning to offer her a hand up. With a brief glance—and you can bet your bottom dollar it was only the briefest of glances—she noted the deep-red blood that had snaked and dripped from around his fingers was dried to a crusty brown.

  Good. That’s good. Because it meant her slapdash field dressing had stopped his bleeding.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” she gulped, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

  “Did you hear that, you motherfucker?” Carlos tilted his head back, yelling into the canopy. “Now I have three weapons to your two! You want to keep playing this game?”

  Silence met his call. And that was somehow worse than the sound of Shadow Man’s wretched voice.

  “He’s moving in,” Carlos whispered, taking the machine gun from her hands and slinging it over his shoulder to join the one already hanging there. A chill of foreboding snaked up her spine as he continued, “Let’s go! QQS!”

  Abby didn’t bother to enlighten Yonus as to what the letters stood for. She figured he got the general gist. And a few more seconds of dodging and jumping and running brought them to the edge of the tree line, directly beside Yonus’s Chevy pickup truck circa 1960-something. Rust had eaten away at the edges of its wheel wells. There was a massive crack snaking across its rear window. And the paint was an odd mix of faded yellow and primer. But the big, knobby wheels looked new. And it’d made the trip out here from the highway, so Abby was crossing her fingers it would make the trip back.