Full Throttle(31)

Steady slowed his breathing; his heartbeat followed a scant second later. It was an old spec-ops trick, a way to effectively control and utilize adrenaline. But Abby had no such training. He could hear her breath catching with each inhale, see the frantic beat of her pulse in her neck when he slid his eyes over to her.

Slowly, carefully, his movements almost imperceptible, he transferred his Beretta to his left hand and threaded the fingers of his right through hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t look at him, but she licked her lips. And as silly and inappropriate as it was, the dart of her pink tongue…well…it did things to him.

It made his dick twitch, his breath hitch, and his heart skip a beat.

So much for that disciplined spec-ops instruction I received in Ranger School. It might hold up well under a sky raining mortar fire or ducking for cover in the middle of a gun battle, but it was no match for one cute, petite blond.

He got distracted from thoughts of Abby—thank goodness—when the clutch on the big vehicle whined as the rig came to a jolting stop not fifteen yards down the road. Okay, not thank goodness. And as the late, great Amy Winehouse would say, What kind of fuckery is this? But he already knew. It was the bad kind. He watched as the JI militants poured out of the back of the truck, swinging the straps of their AKs over their shoulders and intently scanning the black dirt on the road beneath their feet.

Abby’s fingers twitched fretfully, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, but he could do nothing to comfort her. Not when his every fiber was focused on the terrorists. He knew what they sought: the tracks left behind by the Ducati.

Sonofafuckingcocksuckingbitch!

Although, given the poor condition of the logging track, it was always possible they’d be unable to find what they were looking for. He could only hope. Because the alternative—dragging Abby on a madcap journey through a dense Asian jungle filled with tigers and rhinos and snakes, oh my!—was too awful to contemplate.

He once more slowed the movement of his lungs, steadied the beat of his heart as one of the men ambled in their direction. With each of the militant’s steps, with each drop of sweat that trickled down Steady’s spine, his dread grew.

Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the jungle behind them. Searching…searching…searching for an escape route. Why did I choose to park the bike there?

His backpack, with the food rations, iodine pills for purifying water, and medical supplies, was slung around the bike’s handlebars. And the bike was parked in the direction of the militants. If he and Abby were forced to make a run for it, they’d be heading directly opposite his equipment and provisions.

Abby curled her fingers so tightly around his, her nails bit into the back of his hand. Carefully, he returned his attention to the road where the terrorist had spotted the tire tracks leading into the jungle. The militant’s gaze followed the trail, then seemed to focus right on the place where he and Abby were hiding.

The guy turned and yelled something in Malay to his compatriots. Then he shouldered his weapon and started jogging in their direction.

Steady released the control over his breathing and heartbeat, released the reins on his adrenaline. It poured through his body, burning his veins, making his muscles twitch. There was a saying in the spec-ops community: “Fear” stands for fuck everything and run. Well, by Dios, that was exactly the plan.

Jerking Abby to her feet, he swung her around, hissing, “Go!”





Chapter Eight


Had Abby really entertained the foolish notion that there was nothing that could scare her as long as she had Carlos by her side? Was she completely crazy?

Or maybe, at the time, she’d still been experiencing the lulling effects of the sedative. Because, baby, what she was doing right now, sprinting at breakneck speeds through the jungle with armed terrorists hot on her heels? Well, it was straight-up, no-holds-barred terrifying. If it was beating any faster, her heart would probably explode. Just, blam! And down she’d go.

Speaking of going down…

“Damnit!” Carlos cursed when she tripped over yet another vine. Using her hands to keep her skirt pulled up around her hips meant she couldn’t employ them to steady herself as she raced through the undergrowth. It was a problem.

Of course, leave it to Carlos to solve it. He jerked her behind the huge trunk of a towering tree. Thrusting his hand between her thighs—wha?—he grabbed the back hem of her skirt and pulled it through her legs. Tucking it into her waistband, he yanked the extra material through the newly created leg hole, then brought that up to tuck it into her waistband again. Huh. Well, he’d quite effectively made a pair of poofy shorts. Her long tunic-like top dropped down to bunch above the shorts, and runway ready the new outfit certainly was not.