Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Okay.” Carlos glanced left and right. Then he stared straight at Yonus—poor Yonus who’d suddenly found himself stuck in the middle of some deadly international tomfuckery. The guy probably wished he’d stayed in bed this morning. “I’ll step out, lay down covering fire, and you and Abby hop in the truck. Once you’re in with the engine running, I’ll jump in the back.”

  Now hold the mothertrucking phone. “Wait a minute,” she hissed, her heart going from a wild jog to a full-on sprint. This was the grand plan she’d been giving him so much credit for? “You can’t just step out in the open. You’ll be shooting blind while basically wearing a big ol’ bull’s-eye on your chest.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “No.” She shook her head, holding up a hand she discovered was shaking. “No, it’s not. We could come up with something else, and I—”

  “You have your keys ready?” he asked Yonus, completely ignoring her.

  “Yes.” Yonus lifted the ring and the keys attached to it jangled quietly. In the continuing quiet of the jungle, they sounded like the frickin’ bells of Notre Dame chiming the hour…and giving away their position.

  She winced, making a face, but undo noise was currently the least of her worries. “Damnit, Carlos. This isn’t—”

  “If things go sideways”—he interrupted again, his black eyes boring into her with enough force to bring her to her knees. Luckily, blood was the only kryptonite to her Superman. Pushy, courageous, idiotic men she was completely immune to. Well, at least outside of the bedroom—“I don’t want you playing the hero, mi vida. You make a run for that border just as quick as you can.”

  Uh, yep… And she would file that under Hell No.

  “If things go sideways?” she stressed. “See, you think this plan is just as crazy as I do.” She grabbed his arm, giving it a shake, growing more and more desperate with each passing second. Desperate and scared. No, desperate and terrified. Her pulse pounded through her veins, burning like it was full of weed killer, and her brain buzzed like she’d wrapped it in a string of outdoor electric lights and flipped the switch. “So there has to be another way to—”

  “Abby,” he stopped her with a finger on her lips. “This is our chance. And by the way, I love you.”

  Um…wha?

  Had she heard him correctly? Surely not, because in what world did those six words ever go together? By the way belonged in sentences that ended with I forgot to fold the clothes in the dryer or your mother called to see if you wanted to go to brunch next Sunday. By the way did not go with the words I love you.

  But before she had time to dig a finger in her ear and ask him to repeat himself, he bent to press a quick kiss to her lips, his warm breath so sweet she almost wept. Then the brave, beautiful sonofabitch raised his sidearm, shouldered one of the machine guns, and stepped out into the road…

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Steady laid on the Kalashnikov’s trigger and sawed a continuous arc of hot lead across the jungle and road behind the beat-up pickup truck. Globs of mud jumped from the surface of the logging track, bark splintered on the trees, and leaves ripped to shreds under his steady barrage. The constant rat-a-tat-tat of the rusty Russian special was a deafening roar. Luckily, he’d learned long ago to ignore the distracting thunder of gunfire and concentrate instead on the task at hand.

  “Now!” he yelled over his shoulder to Yonus and Abby. “Go now!”

  He didn’t see them emerge from the brush, too preoccupied with dropping the weapon when the clip ran dry and quickly shouldering the remaining AK. But he could feel them race into the open. His heightened senses telling him they’d left the tree line as surely as if he’d seen them with his own two eyes. And that was more than enough impetus to have him squeezing the trigger, gritting his teeth against the bruising pressure of each recoil, and raining a Rambo-style path of destruction in a violent arc down the road in what he hoped was the direction of the remaining terrorists.

  Was he scared to stand out in the open when he wasn’t sure where the enemy was? The quick answer was no. He was a spec-ops soldier, a strange breed of man who’d lived and worked so close to the edge that life-and-death situations no longer engendered in him the usual—some would say sane—emotional response.

  But the thought of Abby catching a stray round? Dios mio. Now that filled him with the kind of terror he hadn’t experienced since his very first combat mission. Or, quite honestly, maybe ever. Never before had he had so much to lose. When he’d joined the Rangers, his parents had already been dead for five years, he’d just put his twin sister in the ground, and the one girl he wanted more than his next breath had soundly rejected him—or so he’d thought at the time.

  But now?

  Now he had so much ahead of him. In the midst of the chaos, he could see it so clearly. A big, white wedding—if Abby would have him. And a whole passel of kids—if she’d have them. A lifetime of loving and laughing and teasing and screwing. And it was the fear of losing it all to one misplaced bullet that made him dizzy with relief when he heard the truck’s passenger-side door groan open a second before the big engine turned over with a choked growl.

  Okay, on to step two…

  The second AK spit forth its final bullet, and he dropped it to the muddy road at his feet. Squeezing the trigger on his M9 with focused precision—Boom! Boom! Boom!—he aimed each bullet at the trees he figured the militants were most likely to be hunkered behind. And all the while he backed toward the truck’s tailgate.

  He was maybe five feet from the vehicle when he saw movement in his peripheral vision…just a second too late. He felt the gaping black hole of the Kalashnikov’s barrel focus on his head before he had a chance to position himself to return fire. And in that split second, he had time for a million regrets. Starting with him not being around to call in the weekly order to have fresh flowers put on Rosa’s grave, and ending with him never hearing Abby tell him she loved him. With a sense of sad acceptance, he braced himself for the crack of the bullet—the last thing he’d ever hear. But instead, the faint and wonderfully familiar click of a jammed weapon sounded instead.

  Sonofa—

  He spun in an instant, his finger tightening on his trigger, but not before the terrorist standing on the side of the road grabbed the barrel of his AK and swung the entire weapon baseball bat–style, like he was frackin’ Babe Ruth or something. A blast of white-hot pain rocketed up Steady’s arm when the metal of the machine gun met the bones of his hand. He cursed as the Beretta flew from his fingers and landed some distance away in the muck and mire. He had no time to make a grab for his Applegate-Fairbairn tactical blade before the JI culo launched himself in the air, grabbing his shoulders, and knocking them both to the ground.

  His breath whooshed from his lungs on impact with the roadway, stars spinning crazily in front of his eyes when his skull bounced off the track. But he still had enough wherewithal to dodge the blow aimed for his face—motherfucker!—as he landed one of his own against the man’s ribs. The terrorist groaned but didn’t do much else. Steady didn’t exactly have a good angle. And then the two of them devolved into a writhing mass of arms and legs, both vying for position, both screaming and grunting, both trying for the knife still attached to his belt.

  “Go, Yonus!” he managed to bellow as hate-filled eyes and gritted teeth filled his vision. The man reached back to try for another blow, but he caught the asshole’s flying fist right before it connected with his nose. Then…fuck! The militant managed to rip his knife from its sheath.

  “Go, go, go!” he yelled as he used both hands to grab the asswipe’s wrist. He fought against the weight bearing the blade down on him, his biceps burning, his tendons popping. The tip of the knife kissed the skin of his stomach, threatening to sink into his gut. And in that moment, he knew it could go either way. “Go, Yonus! Leave me!” he roared as adrenaline fueled him to fight harder. Fight smarter. Adrenaline and love. Because if he didn’t come out the victor here, at least he’d die
knowing Abby had gotten away.

  That is if Yonus would just Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here!

  He thought he heard Abby screaming his name as Yonus finally—gracias a Dios—did as he was told. The truck’s tires spun and kicked up mud in an earthy-smelling spray. It covered him in a cool, slick film, spattering across his face and the face of his assailant. Neither of them paid it any mind as they fought and spit and kicked. With a grunt and a heave, he managed to flip the terrorist onto his back. And for the first time, he was the one with the upper hand.

  “Carlos!” This time he was certain he could hear Abby screeching through the truck’s open window, her voice thick with tears as the vehicle fishtailed down the road. “No, Yonus! Stop!”

  Don’t you dare stop, Yonus, he thought as he gritted his teeth, squeezing the militant’s wrist with every ounce of strength he had, growling his fury and his fear until he could feel the man’s bones rubbing against one another. The terrorist yelped under the assault, his fingers loosening around the knife’s handle.

  Steady didn’t hesitate. Wrenching the blade from the man’s grip, he spun it neatly around on the flat of his palm, curled his fingers over the hardened nylon grip, and plunged the entire stainless steel length between the militant’s ribs at an upward angle. The tip of the knife pierced through the man’s pericardial sac and sliced straight into his beating heart. He was dead in an instant. His arms falling away and landing in the muck on the roadway with a couple of muted splats.

  “Damn.” Steady raked in giant gulps of oxygen, both in relief and disbelief. That’d been a very close thing. Too fuckin’ close.

  Yanking his knife free, barely noticing the sickening sucking sound it made upon retreat, he used the back of his wrist to wipe some of the dripping mud from his eyes. His heart raced so fast he had to fight to slow it, had to force himself to take steady, measured breaths even though his lungs longed to work like bellows. And despite his muscles aching and burning with spent adrenaline, he managed to push up to his knees, straddling the lifeless body of the terrorist.

  A quick glance told him the truck was still barreling down the road toward safety. Bueno. Because according to his count, there was still one JI goon—aka Dickhead—left to dispatch. He was in the process of getting his feet under him, his eyes scanning the roadway in search of his Beretta, when something up the way caught his eye.

  Holy fuuuuuuck! He watched in disbelief as the passenger-side door on Yonus’s truck flew open a second before Abby threw herself from the moving vehicle. And so much for calming his racing heart, the organ felt like it exploded inside his chest. He was surprised it didn’t take him to his knees again.

  “No!” he roared, terror shooting through his system like a poisonous drug as Yonus slammed on the brakes, the truck sliding in a slow arc that ended when the vehicle slid off the side of the road and rocked to a stop. “Oh, Dios! Abby!”

  But after a couple of bumpy rolls, the brave, stubborn, crazy woman hopped to her feet like a stuntman. And now she was running toward him, screaming his name. She looked like she’d been dipped in chocolate she was so completely covered in mud. And for one brief moment all he could do was stand there and stare. She was so beautiful. And fierce.

  His love for her filled him anew, filled him to bursting. His love and his fear, because—

  He didn’t have time to finish the thought when the hairs along the back of his neck twanged out a warning. Which was why he wasn’t surprised to hear Dickhead yell, “Don’t move!”

  Abby skidded to a stop in the middle of the road, slipping and going down on one knee. She was a full twenty yards up the way, but he could still see the whites of her wide eyes blazing through the mud covering her face.

  Oh, Abby, he briefly squeezed his eyelids shut, desperation and despair warring for supremacy inside him. Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance, mi vida?

  But he knew the answer. The wonderful woman was selfless and courageous. And damn her for it. Because he’d won. He’d seen her headed for safety, and that was all that mattered. But then she had to go and be all…well…Abby-like, and now he was back to square one.

  He glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, there was Dickhead, crouched low along the side of the road and advancing quickly in his direction. His shoulder blades itched where Dickhead’s AK was focused, and turning forward he calculated the distance to his Beretta, wondering how good of a shot Dickhead was and if the guy would be able to kill him before he had a chance to reclaim his weapon, take aim, and bring the fucker down.

  He liked his chances, he decided. Because even if Dickhead managed to mortally wound him, surely he could live long enough to return the favor. Surely.

  Taking a deep breath, he swallowed and dug the toe of his jungle boot deep into the mud atop the road, searching for solid ground and the traction it provided. His muscles coiled and shivered with readiness. But just before he pushed off, just before he launched himself toward his pistol, a deep muttering sounded overhead and he tilted his chin to see the canopy swaying violently.

  What the—

  Six combat-ready soldiers fast-roped in from above. And his relief was so overwhelming he nearly crowed a welcome. They hit the ground as a unit, unclipped, and aimed their M4s in the direction of Dickhead, who—no surprise—was already busting ass toward the tree line.

  Sí. If the sight of six fully geared-up U.S. spec-ops boys doesn’t put the fear of Allah into a man, then nothing will…

  “You call for the cavalry?” one of the soldiers yelled above the sound of the chopper’s rotors beating through the dense air overhead. His face was covered in camouflage paint, his aviator sunglasses nearly obscured by his floppy jungle boonie hat.

  And just call Steady Mr. Noodle Legs. Because first he stumbled, and then he decided screw it and went ahead and allowed himself to fall to his knees. “Sí.” He grinned, the need to laugh bubbling inside him. He stifled it. Figured the guy would think he’d lost his marbles if he let loose with it. “I sure am happy to see you boys.”

  “Happy to be here,” the soldier replied. Then he motioned with his bearded chin toward the jungle. “Approximate number of unfriendlies out there?” Were these the Navy SEALs Dan had spoken of, the ones who’d fought side by side with a handful of BKI operators back in the day? Steady would bet a dime to a dollar they were. They had that scruffy, barely leashed, and fully locked-and-loaded SEAL look about them. Hooah!

  “Just one,” he said. “But if he was telling the truth, there could be more headed this way.”

  “Ten-four,” Boonie Hat said. Then, with a series of hand gestures, he commanded his team to spread out into the jungle.

  Steady didn’t watch them go. Because right at that moment, Abby appeared in front of him. She slipped down to her knees, her arms thrown around his neck, her sweet lips peppering his muddy cheeks with even muddier kisses. And then, in true Abby form, she pulled back, her tears having left wet trails through the muck on her face. “You egg-sucking asshole!” she snarled. “If you ever try to do anything like that again, sacrifice yourself, I swear I’ll kill you myself!”

  * * *

  Umar could not believe it! All his hard work, all his planning, all the money he had paid to all those people had come to nothing. Nothing! His brother was still rotting away in a cell. And here he was running through the jungle with a squad of American soldiers hot on his heels. His only hope for escape was if somehow, someway, through the grace of Allah, his remaining men made it to him before he could be captured…or killed. Those soldiers had looked more than capable of the latter, although it was definitely the former he feared most.

  He sent up a silent prayer as he vaulted over a low-lying bush and ran smack into a wall of hanging vines. Growling his frustration, slapping the clinging plants away, he managed to free himself and immediately broke into another headlong sprint.

  Distance… Distance… He needed distance…

  Because if he was being quite honest with himself, the cha
nces of his men finding him were slim to none. The satellite phone had lost power before he could call in his last set of coordinates, and unless his fighters had heard the gunfire, they could very well be headed in the wrong direction. And if they had heard the gunfire? Well, it was not assured they would come to investigate. To say the majority of his men were unreliable was an understatement at best.

  Rage and fear fueled him quickly through the undergrowth, his heart pounding, his breaths labored. There had been a small ravine some distance back, yes? And perhaps if he could make it there, he could duck into one of the narrow rock alcoves, cover himself with foliage, and hide. Perhaps if he could—

  The sound of a stick crunching beneath a quickened step directly to his left had him ducking behind a tree. His chest burned like he had swallowed fire. His skin crawled like he had fallen into a bowl of maggots. No, no, no! This was not how it was supposed to end for him. He was a warrior of Islam, a jihadist who had so much more to accomplish! This could not be!

  Snap! Crack!

  He held his breath and tightened his finger on the trigger of his Kalashnikov. But just as he was prepared to jump from behind the tree and fire, the cool barrel of deadly weapon kissed his temple. His heart and his lungs stopped functioning, causing his head to spin with dizziness.

  “Don’t move,” a deep, growling American voice advised. From the corner of his eye, he could see the soldier staring down the gun’s sights at him. Blue eyes the color of the Oriental magpie-robin that used to nest outside his boyhood home, brooked no argument. But in that moment, Umar knew what he had to do. He would not end up like his brother. He would not allow himself to be taken only to spend the rest of his days behind bars. Better to die a martyr for the cause.

  Quickly angling the AK’s barrel beneath his chin, he closed his eyes and offered his soul to eternity. But before he could pull the trigger, his weapon was yanked from his hands by the blue-eyed soldier drawing down on him. He roared his fury just as another tall, brutal-looking commando materialized from behind a bush in front of him. The man was covered in camouflage…except for a pair of sunglasses that seemed to mock Umar because he could see his terrified reflection in them.