Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Shh, mi vida,” he crooned. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’re turning all the dirt on your face back into mud.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She reached across the aisle and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close until they were both leaning over their armrests. “Oh, Carlos,” she whispered, choking. “Can you ever forgive me?” Her brain buzzed. Her skin crawled. And her chest felt like she’d sliced it open with a rusty shovel. And even though he was filthy, he still smelled good. Like healthy sweat, like clean jungle earth and big, wonderful man. She breathed deep through her tormented tears, knowing this was the last time she’d be this close to him.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t mean to get yourself kidnapped,” he said, completely misunderstanding her.

  “No.” She pushed back. She wished her tears weren’t blurring her vision. She wanted to look at his handsome face and see him clearly one more time, one more time while he still loved her. “That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it?” he asked, a little vertical line appearing between his brows.

  She opened her mouth, but, try as she might, she couldn’t force the words out.

  His scowl deepened. “Whatever it is,” he said, pushing back a few strands of muddy hair that’d fallen over her forehead, “you can tell me. You can tell me anything. I love you, neña.”

  She closed her eyes against the burn of tears. “You shouldn’t,” she whispered over the whine of the engines, over the soft thunking sound of the wheels lowering in preparation for landing.

  “What?” He raised his voice to be heard above the noise. “Why?”

  She opened her eyes as the plane touched down with a hard bump. The jet’s engines screamed in reverse, the flaps straining against the atmosphere outside. And for a couple of seconds as the aircraft fought against its own momentum, she simply held his confused gaze, a hand braced against the seat in front of her. Then they slowed and turned off the tarmac, taxiing toward the hanger. And she finally spoke the truth she’d kept secret for eight long years. “Because I killed your sister…”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Black Knights Inc. Headquarters

  Chicago, Illinois

  2 days later…

  “Where’s this firecracker of a wife I’ve been hearin’ so much about, Boss?” Leo Anderson asked, stopping to rub a hand over the leather seat of one of the custom motorcycles parked against the shop’s soaring, brightly painted, three-story brick wall. He hummed his approval of its soft texture.

  Lt. Leo Anderson and his team were on their way to their next assignment: something to do with a mounting brouhaha at an American embassy in Pakistan. But as Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright had said upon their arrival outside the big wrought-iron gates that surrounded the old menthol cigarette factory and various outbuildings that made up BKI’s headquarters, “We had to come see with our own beady eyes what all this super-secret, private government defense firm fuss is about first.”

  And so Steady, Dan, and Boss had been showing Leo and his Alpha platoon boys around the warehouse space for the last twenty minutes. After Boss—BKI’s founder, head honcho, and a former SEAL teammate to Leo and the guys—had set them back on their feet following a manly round of back-slapping bear hugs and obligatory jokes told at each other’s expense, that is. Both of the latter being pretty much par for the course between any group of men who had lived and fought together for years.

  They had started the tour with the third-floor bedrooms, where those BKI boys still living on site—Steady included—managed to catch some Z’s between missions and when Becky, the all-around superstar bike builder and woman Leo had asked about, didn’t have them down in the shop, grinding metal or installing break lines. Then they had moved to the second floor, the heart of the operation, where the many offices, conference room, and state-of-the-art electronics belied the true nature of their work. And, now, finally, they stood on the shop floor, where all the custom motorcycles were made and where the civilian front for Black Knights Inc. began and ended its domination.

  Put together, the place was a sight to behold. Underscored by Leo’s low whistle when he stood at the second-floor railing, taking it all in, including the newly painted UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter with its red BKI logo visible through the windows on the huge garage doors at the opposite end of the shop. The helicopter was ostensibly used to promote the custom bike business—sí, just go ahead and insert an eye roll of disbelief there. But in reality, that logo peeled off in an instant, turning that badass war bird back into…well…a badass war bird.

  “She’s out buying a leg of lamb to cook up for Angel’s homecoming tomorrow,” Boss said, motioning them over to the next custom bike and ripping Steady from his thoughts.

  “Angel?” Leo asked, squatting to look at the bike.

  “You don’t know him.” Boss waved a hand of dismissal. “But the long and short of it is, he joined us a couple of years ago, happens to be Jewish, and for reasons beyond me, my wife has since made it her mission in life to learn how to cook kosher. With varying degrees of success, I can assure you.” He made a face that caused the scar cutting up from the corner of his lip to pucker, and Steady found himself smirking. He loved Becky Knight, née Becky Reichert, to death. And the woman was many things. However, a kosher chef she most definitely was not.

  “As for the rest of the crew,” Boss continued, “they’re out on missions or else otherwise occupied with family matters. In fact, I don’t know if you guys have heard, but that asshat Jake ‘The Snake’ Sommers had the gall to up and marry my baby sister and put a bun in her oven. They’re at the doctor’s office right now getting a final ultrasound before she’s due at the end of the month.”

  Leo hooted as he pushed to a stand. “I had heard they finally tied the knot. When Snake left the Teams, he was hell bent on gettin’ her back. It was all he talked about. And, don’t kill me for this”—he winced when Boss scowled at him—“but I always kinda thought those two belonged together.”

  “Unfortunately”—Boss was unable to hold on to his severe expression. His mouth curved into a lopsided grin—“I did too.”

  “Well, as this Angel fellow would probably say”—Leo slapped Boss on the back—“mazel tov. And speaking of glad tidings, what have you heard on your injured man, the one still back with the carrier group? Anything?”

  Boss’s smile disappeared. And just like it had the moment Steady laid eyes on that gruesome wound on Ozzie’s thigh, just as it had every time he’d checked on his best friend’s status since, his heart sank like a stone. And if he ever got his hands on Umar Sungkar, he vowed to tear the guy so many new assholes, he wouldn’t be able to remember which one was the original.

  “He kept his leg,” Boss said. “And as soon as he’s stable for travel, he’ll be transported back here.”

  “That’s good.” Leo nodded, whistling again when they moved to the next bike and he saw the intricate, chrome wheels whose spokes were a series of chains woven around five-point stars. The motorcycle, aptly named Ranger, was Steady’s pride and joy, a nod to his time in the Army. And every time he looked at the glistening green camo paint covering the fenders and gas tank, or the killer front forks truncating in brass .50 caliber bullets, or the chrome battery box that was stamped with the Ranger motto—Rangers Lead the Way—he felt a punch of pride. Then there was the exhaust: three twisting, twining, glistening pipes that put out a roaring rumble that was the audio equivalent of a full-on, body-shaking orgasm.

  Not that all the bikes at Black Knights Inc. weren’t hardcore, mind you. They were. But Ranger? Ranger was one badass mofo.

  “Shit yeah. We’ll be glad to have him home,” Boss continued, running an agitated hand back through his thick crop of dark hair. “But as of right now, we’re not sure what his combat status will be.”

  Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes had months of PT—physical therapy—ahead of him. And even then, it wasn’t a given he’d ever be mission ready again. The kinds of job
s they were required to do for the president and his JCs demanded the utmost in physical fitness. A gimp leg was pretty much a career killer.

  Mierda.

  And Ozzie knew it, too. The few times Steady had managed to get through to him via satellite phone, he’d heard it in the man’s voice. The despair, the desperation, the…fear.

  “Fuckin’-A.” Mad Dog shook his head. “That sucks.” And Steady figured that was putting it in the mildest of terms. “And it always seems to happen to the best of us, doesn’t it?”

  This time Steady was the one to answer. “Sí. If by the best of us, you really mean all of us. I don’t know one guy who’s quit because he wanted to. Injury seems to be the way we all go out eventually.” Which was just one of the tough truths about being a million-dollar, government-trained, spec-ops warrior. Once Uncle Sam turned a man into a machine of destruction, it was hard…no, not hard…it was damn near impossible for him to be anything else.

  “But not us. Right, LT?” the SEAL nicknamed Romeo said, turning to Leo. “After this last mission in Pakistan, we’re out.”

  “The hell you say.” Boss’s big jaw jerked back like Romeo had socked him on the chin.

  “It’s true.” Leo grinned, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding. He unhooked his aviator sunglasses from the collar of his gray T-shirt and slid them onto his face with dramatic flair. Then he wiggled his eyebrows until they bounced above the mirrored lenses. “We’re buggin’ out, boys. Kissin’ the Teams good-bye and headin’ down to the Keys to take over my family’s salvage business…and do a little treasure huntin’.”

  “Wait, treasure as in pirate treasure?” Dan said, his tone and the smirk on his lips broadcasting just how hilarious he found this idea to be. “Pirate treasure as in argh!” He closed one eye to indicate the thing might be missing and covered with a patch.

  “Yuck it up, asshole,” Leo told him. “You won’t be laughin’ when—”

  Boss’s cell phone came to life in the front pocket of his jeans. “Excuse me for one sec,” he said after pulling it out and glancing at the screen. Steady could tell by the look on his face that the president was on the horn. Boss’s mouth always pinched in a certain way, his eyebrows nearly touching over the top of his nose when POTUS called.

  “Hey”—he jogged after Boss, who’d started toward the metal staircase that led up to the second floor—“tell him he better start answering my frackin’ phone calls!”

  Boss frowned back at him, waving him off. But Steady thrust out his chin, sending Boss a look that very succinctly conveyed, I’m not fucking around.

  After Abby dropped her bomb, he’d sat there, staring, blinking at her in dumbfounded disbelief for all of about ten seconds. But that’s all it had taken for the door on the jet’s fuselage to burst open and admit a glut of Secret Service agents. The suit-wearing throng had immediately gathered Abby and Agent DePaul up, bustling them off the aircraft before he had the chance to ask Abby what the hell she’d meant by that statement. Because I killed your sister…

  Huh? I mean, what the ever-loving huh?

  She hadn’t killed Rosa. A terrorist had killed Rosa. End of story.

  He’d tried to go after her, but one of the SS agents had placed a firm hand in the middle of his chest, shaking his head. “That’s a negative on leaving the aircraft,” the guy had said. “The press has gotten wind of Miss Thompson’s abduction, and they’re waiting on the tarmac. As such, the president insists you remain onboard during refueling. The pilot already has the go ahead to drop both you and you’re…uh…compatriot,” this was the part where Dan had glanced back at him, raising a brow and mouthing compatriot, “back in Chicago.”

  And even though every single one of Steady’s instincts had been screaming at him to go after the woman he loved and demand she explain herself, the fact of the matter was, he couldn’t risk the presence of the press. Black Knights Inc. may have been forced from the closet, its operators’ identities revealed to the DOD and some of its subordinate agencies, but they could never, repeat never, divulge themselves to the civilian press. Doing so would be the equivalent of a death knell, ringing in the end of the BKI’s clandestine operational capabilities.

  And so, good little soldier that he was, he’d stayed aboard the jet, allowing himself to be ferried back to Chicago where he’d immediately begun leaving messages for Abby.

  But given she was being hounded by reporters seeking the inside scoop on her recent ordeal, it was no big surprise she’d had her cell phone disconnected. Which had left him no other recourse but to leave a half dozen messages for el Jefe himself, insisting on an explanation for Abby’s outburst.

  So far? Radio silence. On all fronts. And for the last two days he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was pushing a wheelbarrow full of shit up a very steep hill.

  He crossed his arms, shaking his head when Boss stopped near the foot of the staircase, turning to shoo him away. “Fuck no,” he said. “I’m not moving until he agrees to answer my questions.” He’d already decided when he awoke this morning that he was giving everyone twenty-four more hours to start talking, or he was mounting up on Ranger, roaring his way to Washington, and demanding an audience.

  Boss rolled his eyes, then said into the phone, “I don’t know if you’re aware, sir. But the Alpha platoon boys are here with us.” He listened for a little while longer before, “Yes, sir. Just wanted to make sure you were okay with their presence here.” Then he reached out to slam his hand over the big red button above the ten-drawer rolling toolbox behind him.

  A loud beep, beep, beep similar to the reversing sound made by the small forklift truck they kept onsite for moving the larger of their machinery around echoed through the expanse of the shop, bouncing off the soaring leaded glass windows. A red light beside the staircase blinked out a warning, and Steady lifted a brow, a question without words. Boss nodded, answering him in the same vein before clicking off his phone and sliding it back into his hip pocket.

  “What the fuck?” Leo Anderson breathed as one entire twelve-foot by twelve-foot section of bricks on the far wall punched out and slid to the left, rolling noisily against the metal tracks. Within seconds, the big motor operating the door—the thing was known to be unreliable, but today it seemed to be working just fine—finished its task and the secret tunnel that ran from Black Knights Inc. under the north branch of the nearby Chicago River to a similar hidden access point in a parking garage two blocks west was revealed.

  The SEALs shuffled closer to the yawning black hole as a unit. Then, “Holy shit!” Leo laughed, whipping off his sunglasses and glancing over at Boss as the shop filled with the smells of damp concrete and stale, fishy air. “Who the hell do ya think you are? Batman or somethin’?”

  “Or something.” Boss winked, turning to watch as a yellow wash of headlights appeared in the tunnel. “You know as well as I do, guys in our line of work often have need for an extra bolt-hole. Plus it’s a fucking handy-dandy little thing to have onsite when, say, the president of the United States wants to make a covert visit.”

  Now it was Leo’s turn to whisper, “The hell you say.”

  Boss nodded, then turned to watch a lumbering black SUV pull out of the mouth of the tunnel. After the vehicle rocked to a stop, all four doors opened simultaneously. From the front seats poured two guys in off-the-rack suits and slicked down Don Draper haircuts—Secret Service. From the back emerged President Thompson and Navy General Pete Fuller, the head of the Joint Chiefs. Both men were dressed in the civilian garb of jeans and polo shirts. But there was absolutely no mistaking who they were.

  President Thompson had a full head of silver hair that the press liked to say made him look trustworthy, and a confident smile that had won over the hearts of Americans not once, but twice. And Pete Fuller? Well, he had a buzz cut that would do any drill sergeant proud. And when you added that to the perpetual scowl he wore, a person was almost forced to both fear and respect the guy in equal measure.

  Steady hi
d a grin when the SEALs snapped to attention, their hands stiffly lifted to their heads in salute, their chests puffed out like a bunch of peacocks.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” General Fuller said after returning their salutes.

  Leo and the rest of the Alpha platoon boys lowered their hands only to formally lace them behind their backs, spreading their feet and keeping their eyes straight ahead in the standard military pose. Sí, it’d taken Steady a while to get over that particular bit of training after he’d joined BKI and began seeing the president and the general on a fairly regular basis. He’d finally stopped the day the general told him, “Cut that shit out, will you, Soto? I’m saluted so often, I’m developing tennis elbow in my right arm. And you standing there, staring straight ahead, not meeting my eyes, makes my asshole pucker.”

  Pete Fuller had a way with words. No doubt.

  “Welcome back to BKI, General. Mr. President.” Boss stepped forward to shake both men’s hands. Steady did the same, lifting a brow at the leader of the free world.

  “I wanted to tell you again how much I’m indebted to you for saving my daughter,” the president said, pumping his fist. Sí, sí. But that’s not what he wanted to hear from the man. Then President Thompson leaned in close, his expensive aftershave tunneling up Steady’s nose. “And I received your messages. You’re right. You deserve an explanation. But first, we need to deal with another issue.”

  And that’s what Steady had been waiting to hear. The relief that poured through him was nearly enough to bring him to his knees. Regardless of the hard-assed front he’d been wearing these last couple of days, the truth was he’d been beside himself with worry. Worry for Abby and how she was dealing with the press. Every news headline had been some mishmash of the words “President” and “Daughter” and “Abducted.” Worry over why in the world she’d think she was the one responsible for Rosa’s death—he didn’t even entertain the possibility that it might be true; not Abby, not sweet, wouldn’t-harm-a-flea Abby, not the woman he loved both heart and soul. Worry over whether or not she loved him. I mean, she never came out and said it. And perhaps she’d let him take her in that hot jungle hut not due to love, but due to some grossly false assumption that she somehow owed him because of her confusion surrounding his sister’s death.