Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Now normally,” the man said, cradling his weapon in one arm while scratching the blond beard covering the lower half of his face with his free hand, “me and Mad Dog”—he dipped his chin toward the soldier holding Umar hostage—“and the rest of the boys wouldn’t hesitate to just go ahead and let you eat a bullet.” And, as if on cue, four more soldiers emerged from the undergrowth, quiet as ghosts. “But as it happens, there are some folks back in the States who are just itchin’ to ask you a few questions.”

  “Noooo!” he yelled in English, spittle flying from his lips, his vocal cords flaying until his scream ended in a reedy whisper that sounded far too much like surrender…

  Chapter Twenty-three

  20,000 feet above Washington, DC

  Fifteen hours later…

  Penni leaned over her armrest, glancing down the cabin aisle of the private luxury jet to check on Abby. In the way any loving father whose daughter had been abducted and subsequently rescued would do, President Thompson had insisted Abby, in his words, “be brought home with all immediate haste.” So the SEALs had flown her and Steady straight from the jungle to the Kuala Lumpur airport before taking off again with their hostage/kidnapper and the poor, terrified Good Samaritan Abby and Steady had met in the jungle in tow. She and Dan had been waiting to hustle the couple onboard the hastily chartered Gulfstream G650, no stops, no detours, and no pause to pick up their belongings from the hotel. Just wheels-up and get the hell home ASAP.

  When POTUS gives an order, we follow it to a T, Dan said after Penni asked whether or not they should let Abby and Steady hit the showers in one of the airport’s lounges before climbing onboard the high-tech aircraft. And we do not deviate, he’d finished, shooting her a meaningful look.

  And so they hadn’t. Deviated, that is. But Abby didn’t seem to mind that she was still covered head to toe in dry, crusty mud. She was conked out in a seat four rows back, having fallen asleep less than ten minutes into the flight and having barely stirred since—even when they stopped to refuel in Beijing.

  Penni was glad for it. Sleep, and its amazing recuperative powers, was the best thing for the poor woman after everything she’d been through.

  Turning back around, she blew out a deep breath. Fifteen more minutes and they’d touch down in DC. There, she’d hand off the job of Abby’s security to the freshly showered, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Secret Service agents who were no doubt waiting to whisk the woman away. And then she could crawl under the covers back in her apartment and get some sleep. Probably cry herself to sleep, if she was being honest. She could feel the effects of the last two days, all the shock and the trauma, waiting for an outlet.

  Like the kind of outlet you were looking for in the ladies’ room? a little voice whispered.

  No, she answered angrily. Nothing like that. I just need to indulge in a good old-fashioned bawl-a-thon in the privacy of my own home. That’s all. And then, maybe, I can start—

  “You didn’t get any sleep?” Dan asked, stretching and yawning in the seat across the aisle. The muscles in his shoulders bulged into hard balls when he lifted his arms over his head. His T-shirt rode up the tiniest bit, just enough to reveal the light brown love trail that led from his belly button into the waistband of his jeans.

  Hello! Her blood stirred at the sight, but she studiously ignored it. “I already fell down on the job of protecting Abby once,” she told him. “I’ll be damned if I do it again. I’ll get some sleep once I’m officially released from duty.”

  Dan tilted his head, one corner of his luscious mouth quirked. “Tell me something, Agent DePaul. Were you always this tough?”

  Tough? Tough? If he knew even a fraction of what was going on inside her, the turmoil of her emotions, the absolute last thing he’d think her was tough. “Growing up on the mean streets of Brooklyn with a police officer for a father pretty much ensures a backbone of steel.”

  But even steel has a melting point. And she had just about reached hers. Christ, she couldn’t wait to get off this plane.

  “Cop for a father, huh?” he asked, rubbing two fingers under his chin. The stubble on his face rasped against his knuckles, and his expression said he was poised to question her further about her past.

  Because he was actually interested? Or because he felt somehow obligated to ask?

  Either way, it doesn’t matter. As soon as we’re on the ground, he’ll go his way and I’ll go mine. After all, she was looking for human connection, and he was a black-ops warrior… So, no. There was no need for them to break into that whole let’s-get-to-know-each-other song and dance. Besides, for whatever reason—call it insanity or accelerated attachment due to the crisis they’d been through together—it was going to be hard enough saying good-bye to him. Throw in a touching little heart-to-heart right here at the end, and it might turn mad impossible.

  “He worked the same beat for nearly thirty years,” she said, then quickly changed the subject. “So, I just got off the phone with my superior. He said agents from the U.S. embassy in Kuala Lumpur have picked up both Rajen and Irdina, and they’re sending someone to look after little Jaya. The decision has been made to cover the cost for Jaya’s treatment while they’re trying to determine what, if anything, should be done with Irdina.”

  “That’s good.” Dan nodded. “And as it should be.”

  Penni agreed. “If ever I doubted Uncle Sam could be magnanimous, that little bit of news restored my faith in him.”

  Dan smiled, and she had to look away so he wouldn’t see what that expression did to her insides. “Like any powerful man,” he mused, “ol’ Uncle can be equal parts brutal and kind.”

  “Mmm.” She nodded noncommittally, figuring he’d know better than most.

  “And Rajen? Our illustrious hotel security director? What’s to become of him?”

  Unconsciously fiddling with the buttons on her blouse, she said, “He underwent additional questioning once his wound had been patched up. But according to my superior, he’s as much of a dupe as we thought. They’re coordinating with the Malaysian government on how to handle his punishment.”

  Dan nodded, and she glanced over to find him letting loose with another massive yawn. “So that leaves?” he asked around a noisy exhale.

  “Yonus Amani,” she said, “the young man who tried to help Abby and Steady escape the JI’s clutches. He’s been debriefed. And my boss didn’t come right out and say it, but I get the feeling he’s been paid a pretty impressive sum to keep his mouth shut about anything and everything he saw out there in the jungle.”

  “Good for him.” Dan nodded and one corner of his mouth quirked. “He deserves every red cent.”

  Penni nodded. “Which brings us to Umar Sungkar.” Just saying the man’s name made her lip curl. “Initial reports say he’s a nasty piece of work. A fanatical militant through and through. My supervisor didn’t know the exact location, but Umar is being transferred to what I can only assume is one of our black sites to undergo more vigorous…uh…questioning about where he got his Intel.” And by questioning, she meant interrogative techniques that skated very close to the lines international laws had established more than sixty years ago. And that was the brutal side of Uncle Sam that Dan had spoken of.

  “You mean one of the black sites that traitor Winterfield didn’t disclose to the press?” Dan asked, his expression having gone from tired and lazy to hard and vicious in an instant.

  For a couple of months now, the whole country had been reeling from the documents leaked by one former CIA agent named Luke Winterfield. It was all over the news, day and night, the exact locations of the safe houses, interrogation sites, and catch-all bolt-holes the U.S. kept throughout the world. And anyone who had ever held a position of affluence in either party, or who had worked in a classified post within the government, felt betrayed by the man’s perfidy. Although there were some, mostly in the civilian sector, who lauded Winterfield for exposing the locations of those super-secret international facilities. Those people de
clared—quite loudly, usually—that it was only right they should know everything their government was up to.

  And she would go ahead and label that No Stinkin’ Way. The world didn’t run on rainbows and glitter and unicorn farts. And in every corner of the globe, there were bad men ready and willing to do bad things. And the only way to catch them before they did those things was to have people who operated in the dark—people like Dan—and to maintain places, secret places, special places where those people who operated in the dark could take those bad men should the need arise.

  “I mean exactly one of those.” She nodded, pretty sure her expression mirrored Dan’s. “Winterfield couldn’t have known the locations of all them, right?”

  Something…strange flashed across his handsome face.

  “What?” she asked, cocking her head. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  He was quick to shrug. Maybe too quick. “I just think if a guy is gonna sell out his country in one area, there’s not a lot stopping him from doing it in all areas.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded, getting the distinct feeling he wasn’t telling her the whole story. Her mind flashed back to Steady’s hotel room and the cryptic “he” the two guys had briefly discussed when trying to determine who the mole might be and where he might have come from. “You don’t think it’s possible Winterfield was the one to give Umar his information, do you? I mean, how would he have come across that Intel? The Secret Service doesn’t usually have dick to do with the CIA. Separation of powers and interests and whatnot.”

  “I guess we’ll hafta wait and see what they get from the guy,” Dan mused. Then, “So what’ll you do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, once you get back to DC?”

  Uh, non sequitor anyone? Anyone? Bueller? But she didn’t call him on it. “Well, after eighteen or so hours of sleep, I’ll do exactly what my father taught me to do.” She clenched her hands into fists to keep from reaching up to rub her nose. She’d noticed anytime she did that, Dan cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ll get right back to work.” What she left off the end of that sentence was and try with all my might to forget about you.

  He nodded, his lips twisting.

  What’s that look for? She didn’t think she wanted to know. Especially when he opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again before hesitating.

  All right already. Here it comes.

  And right on cue. “I know you said you didn’t wanna talk about—”

  “Still don’t.” She raised a hand, cutting him off.

  He looked like he was inclined to argue, but the captain came over the intercom telling them they’d begun their initial descent into Reagan International Airport, and the moment was lost…

  * * *

  Abby cracked a lid, peeking over at Carlos in the seat next to her. Huh. I thought super-secret black-ops warriors were supposed to hop-to from a dead sleep at the slightest rustle. But even the captain’s announcement wasn’t enough to stir Carlos. His head was thrown back against the window, his mud-crusted arms crossed over his filthy tank top, his legs stretched across the aisle where the toe of his left jungle boot touched the brace on her seat. The quick-and-dirty field dressing the SEALs had applied to his frickin’ bullet wound—scratch or not, it was still a frickin’ bullet wound!—stood out in sharp white contrast to his dark, swarthy skin.

  He looked awful. And wonderful. And so damn heroic. Which made sense considering that’s exactly what he was. A hero. Her hero. She could not believe he’d been willing to sacrifice himself for her.

  Oh, wait…

  Yes, she could. Because that’s exactly the kind of man he was. And that was the whole reason she’d been feigning sleep for nearly fifteen hours. She couldn’t bring herself to face him and all his gallantry and courage and…love?

  Just as it’d being doing the whole plane ride, her heart fluttered and flitted around inside her chest like that group of sphinx moths that had moved through the Botanic Garden last May. And like those moths—who had died when a late-season frost set in—she worried the sorry organ wouldn’t survive what was coming next.

  Had he told her he loved her right before he walked out into the middle of that logging road? Sitting there, eyes closed, not moving, barely breathing, she’d replayed the scene in her mind’s eye time and again. This is our only chance, he’d said, following that up with, And by the way…what? It had sounded like I love you. But no matter how often she rehashed it, she couldn’t believe it.

  I misheard him, right? It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  After all, they hadn’t seen each other in eight years. And great sex—the most amazing, mind-bending, soul-shredding sex—aside, they were still virtual strangers.

  Except we’re not…

  The truth was, she knew everything about him. The important things anyway. That he was gallant and loyal and true. Funny and so wonderfully smart-alecky when he wanted to be. And he knew her, too. Because despite that one thing, that one unforgiveable thing, she was still the same young woman he’d teased and tormented, laughed and joked with.

  So maybe it was possible he loved her. For heavens to Betsy’s sake, twenty-four hours ago she’d thought it unimaginable he could actually want her, see her as anything but that naive young girl she’d been. And look how wrong she’d been about that.

  Her mind jumped back to the hot, humid hut. To salacious words whispered in her ear. To hard hands stroking her trembling flesh, and soft lips teasing and tormenting her as he thrust the long, thick length of himself inside. So deeply. So forcefully. So—

  She shook away the memory when a rush of liquid heat pulsed between her thighs. Back to the question at hand. The question of whether or not it was possible Carlos might actually be in love with her. Because she sure as shit loved him. Loved him with every breath she took, every move she made, every bond she…

  Holy ass, and now she was channeling an old Sting song. No, no. That was back when Sting was still with the Police, right? And…what the leaping lizard dung did any of that matter? Except to prove how exhausted, how flat-out bone-tired she was. Her brain was mush, her synapses firing out a bunch of nonsensical…uh…lizard dung. Oh, and lookie! They were obviously stuck in a loop, too.

  Good. Great. Gah!

  She shifted, her elbow aching where it was pressed against the armrest. And just like that, Carlos’s eyes flew open. He hadn’t flinched when the captain’s voice boomed over the intercom, hadn’t stirred when the plane started its descent and the pressure inside the cabin caused her ears to pop. But the instant she moved…bam! He was awake. Dark, sparkling, completely lucid eyes focused on her.

  “Good morning, neña.” His mouth curved into a slow, sexy grin. She had to look away.

  Glancing out the window, she noted how the sinking sun cast a golden glow over the city below, shining over the Capitol building and the Washington Monument. It bathed their white exteriors in a rosy pink hue. She should be happy to be home. But for the life of her, she could take no comfort in the familiar sights. Because the end of her time with Carlos was quickly approaching.

  “I think it’s more like good evening,” she said, apropos of nothing.

  “Mmm.” He stretched, lifting his arms above his head and yawning mightily before pushing into a seated position. Tilting his head from side to side, the little snapping sounds of his vertebrae were heartbreakingly familiar. And he was so frickin’ beautiful. So wonderful and fierce and kind and…perfect. And hers. At least he had been for a little while. But that was all about to change. Just as soon as she told him the truth about Rosa.

  Which was another reason she’d been feigning sleep. She’d wanted…no…she’d needed a few more hours to gather her courage, to gather her wits, to try to find the right words to tell him—

  The plane dipped, beginning its slow, lazy turn as the pilot aligned it with the runway. “Mierda. Are we here already? Did I sleep the whole way?”

  “You
needed it,” she said. “You deserved it.”

  “Mmm,” he hummed again, then reached over to touch her wrist.

  She turned her hand palm-up to lace her fingers through his. His skin was so amazingly warm, roughened by calluses, and deeply tan compared to her own pale flesh. This is probably the last time I’ll ever touch him, she realized. And, closing her eyes, she tried to burn the memory into her brain.

  Then after a few more rare, wonderful moments, she told herself, It’s time to stop being a coward.

  “C-Carlos,” she began, swallowing because his name was barely a whisper, inaudible above the loud throb of the jet engines as they throttled back for landing. But he was turned sideways in his seat, his temple pressed against the headrest, staring at her. So he saw her lips move.

  Lifting his head, his mouth quirked. “What is it, Abby?”

  Come on. Come on. Don’t chicken out! “There’s s-something I want to t-tell you,” she managed with a little more volume.

  His smile softened. His expression becoming sympathetic, almost…understanding. “I think I know what it is.”

  Her heart went from fluttering wildly to a dead stop. All the blood drained from her head. “You do?”

  “Sí.” He winked. “You want to tell me you love me, too.” He reached over to push a crunchy, mud-caked lock of hair behind her ear.

  So she hadn’t misheard him back in the jungle. He had said he loved her. Carlos Soto…the doctor, the soldier, the hero loved…her…

  And just like that, all the horror, all the pain, all the lies and heartbreak could no longer be held at bay. They rushed through her as surely and unstoppably as a stream filled to overflowing by spring rain. She burst into tears in an instant, her sobs wracking her body until she thought it was a wonder she didn’t snap in two. Oh, if only that was what she needed to tell him. If only it could be that simple.