Full Throttle(95)

“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!