Pulling up the detailed road atlas, he checked the compass on his watch, did some quick math in his head, and calculated they had roughly ten to twelve miles—as the crow flies—before hitting that border. Unfortunately, the logging trail they were on didn’t run due north, so he estimated they’d have to ride another fifteen miles, give or take, before he could finally heave a sigh of relief.
Switching to a different map, he studied the topography surrounding what he figured was their current location and wasn’t surprised to see nothing but miles upon miles of jungle split only by the sinuous brown length of a massive river. He’d just brought up another map, this one a hand-drawn reproduction of the Perak region along with the locations of all the tiny villages and native paths that’d been cut through the bush—Boss sure was resourceful when he wanted to be—when his iPhone suddenly decided it’d had enough. Its screen switched to the iconic swirling wheel before it dissolved to black.
But, no problem. It’d held on for long enough to—
A low rumble had his head whipping around. With narrowed eyes, he scanned the road behind him, but he could see no further than five or six yards back. After that, it was nothing but a vast canvas of multihued green.
Switching off the Ducati’s engine, he cocked his head, listening…
The steady hum of insects was the equivalent of a dull roar. The squawk of a nearby bird—probably the little one with brilliant plumage perched on the long leaves of a flowering bush—barely competed with the ruckus. Somewhere off to the left, a monkey called. And further still, another answered.
And then…there it was again! The unmistakable sound of a vehicle bouncing down the rutted road toward them.
He was off the bike in an instant.
Now, it was always possible that it was simply a logging truck ambling in their direction. But the good Madre María knew he couldn’t take any chances. That dickhead JI terrorist seemed the sort who wouldn’t take to heart the warning Steady had given him.
Pushing the Ducati off the rutted path, he wheeled the motorcycle a fair distance into the dense foliage. Far enough away so that its chrome components wouldn’t catch a stray beam of sunlight, flashing and drawing the attention of whoever was about to motor past them. He covered the bike with a few huge, fanlike leaves he yanked, roots and all, out of the soft forest floor, and whispered, “Abby? Abby, can you hear me? We’ve got company headed our way.” He didn’t dare raise his voice, and when she didn’t answer, he was left with no recourse but to prowl silently back to the road’s edge.
Proning out on the ground, blending into the flora surrounding him, he hoped Abby had either heard his warning or picked up the engine noise coming their way. This would all be for naught if she came tromping out of the jungle for the world to see.
And just in case that happened…
He reached into the holster strapped to his right thigh, removing his Beretta M9. The weapon was a familiar and comforting weight in his hand. Come on, Abby. Play it smart…
Then he realized he needn’t have worried about her when, a second later, her hand landed softly on his lower back. There she was, lying beside him, pulling the branches of a nearby bush over her for concealment, acting as though she spent every day crawling around jungle floors. Like…no biggie. Here were are bellied-out with the bugs and reptiles…
Ay Dios Mio! he admired her.
Raising a finger to his lips, he signaled for quiet. The look she sent him—big eyes and pursed mouth—was all about the well, duh.
He felt the tug of a smile as the vehicle lumbered into view. Damnit! It was a truck all right. But it wasn’t a logging truck. It was the same old-style military vehicle he’d seen parked at the JI encampment. The canvas covering over the bed had been removed, revealing the rig was loaded down with no fewer than ten Jemaah Islamiyah militants.
And there was Dickhead—seriously, if a douchebag and an asshole got together and created offspring, it would be this guy—lolling drunkenly in the passenger seat, still feeling the effects of the narcotic, although he’d obviously come out of his stupor pretty quickly. Which was probably due to fact that the dose he’d received was meant for Abby, who was a good thirty pounds lighter. What looked like an AK-47 was perched on the seat beside him. Go figure. That Russian special seemed to be the weapon of choice for every guerrilla rebel, rogue military faction, and terrorist regime on the planet. The assault rifle lacked accuracy, sure. But it made up for that by being extremely cheap and frustratingly reliable.
Abby ducked her chin as the vehicle trundled slowly past. They were close enough to feel the ground shake beneath the truck’s knobby wheels, to smell the diesel burning in its big engine, to see the whites of the militants’ eyes as they scanned the road ahead.