Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(34)

So, yes. He was going to kill someone.

As if Allah was listening to his thoughts and granting his wish, Azahari, his second-in-command—his right-hand man as the Americans would say—appeared on the edge of the jungle. When he saw Umar aiming his AK-47 directly at his heart, Azahari cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he lifted his hands.

“What is it, abang?” Azahari asked, calling him brother. “Why do you point your weapon at me?”

“You are not my brother,” Umar growled, his finger tightening on the trigger. “My brother is rotting away in an American prison cell. And if you have killed that woman, if you have thrown away the only leverage I have—”

“We were not the ones shooting,” Azahari interrupted, then lessened the blow of the insult of speaking over Umar by bowing his head in submission. He lifted a hand to include the two men now lined up behind him.

“Then where are the ones who were shooting?” Umar demanded, refusing to lower his weapon even though the strain on his drugged muscles was immense. He hoped the young soldiers could not see him shaking. He had learned long ago never to show weakness of any kind. In his world, the weak were used most ruthlessly or killed simply for the pleasure of seeing the satisfying spurt of blood.

“They have been carried downstream,” Azahari told him. “They were trying to follow the Americans across the Sedikit bridge when the man cut the supports and sent them falling into the river. Those that survive the current will likely be dragged back to Ipoh.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Umar growled in English, spitting on the ground to convey his disgust.

Azahari tilted his head, not understanding.

“There is no equivalent translation,” he explained.

Azahari nodded, then motioned to one of the fighters. “If I may,” he said, asking Umar’s permission.

“Indeed.” Umar dipped his chin, finally lowering his weapon.

Noordin, another of his more reliable men, pushed an Italian-made motorcycle out of the undergrowth. Hanging over the handlebars was a black backpack.

“It appears in his haste to escape,” Azahari said, “the American left his equipment behind.”

A smile tugged at Umar’s lips. “So they are alone in the jungle without provisions?”

“It would seem so.”

Good. Very good. “Get on the satellite phone. Call the others,” he commanded. He had sent half his soldiers eastward, toward the highway, in search of the Americans while he headed west to the logging roads. “Tell them we have located the man and woman. Give them our coordinates and tell them they are to follow us into the jungle. We are going on a hunt.”

“But the bridge,” Azahari said, “it is useless. We’ll have to go back to—”

“Where were you born?” Umar interrupted, anticipation burning through his veins, charring away the last remnants of the drug, allowing him to stand taller, straighter.

“I was…I…” Azahari shook his head, confused by the sudden change in subject.

“Where were you born?” Umar repeated. “Where were you raised? What environment did you grow up in?”

“I…” Azahari glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him, then turned back and shrugged. “Penang,” he finally said.

“Ah.” Umar nodded. “A city boy, yes?”

Azahari swallowed, nodding hesitantly.

“Well, city boy”—Umar was now smiling in earnest—“lucky for you I was raised in this very jungle. Which means, as the Americans would say, I have more than one or two tricks up my sleeve. All I need is rope and a lot of fishing line. We have both in the truck, do we not?”





Chapter Nine


Steady was going to blame his erection on the adrenaline and not the fact that Abby felt phenomenal in his arms. She was so soft. So delicate and feminine and—

Sí, so the adrenaline obviously wasn’t the culprit here. The culprit was lithe arms, round breasts, sweet breath, and an adorable young girl who, in the last eight years, had turned into a sinfully sexy woman.

He had to adjust his stance. It was either that or she’d feel the hardened length of him pulsing insistently against her hip. Hello? he imagined his dick saying. Even though we barely escaped a group of crazed terrorists, and even though you’ve never expressed the tiniest bit of interest in me, I’d still like the opportunity to come out and play! So, how ’bout it, eh?

The male sex organ was an amazing thing in that it actually lived every day in a perpetual state of hope. Which reminded him of the comment she made back in the hut concerning the extra magazine in his pocket or him being happy to see her. Then that brought to mind her statement about him never seeing her as anything other than a kid sister.

What was she? Crazy? Or maybe she’d been too naive all those years ago to recognize the signs of ball-busting lust he’d been unable to hide. You know…the cartoonish bulging eyes and the lolling tongue. It’d been inappropriate as hell then, given her age. And it was inappropriate as hell now, given their precarious situation. But regardless of time or place, whenever he was near her, ball-busting lust was exactly what he felt. When he looked at her, when he really allowed himself to take in the wonder that was Abigail Thompson, he couldn’t help but imagine hot, hungry mouths opening over sweaty, quivering flesh. He couldn’t help but fantasize about what it would feel like to—