Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(45)

He stopped mid-sentence when her eyes focused behind him before bugging out as if she were, quite literally, trying to shit the proverbial brick. His M9 was in his hand, his finger poised on the trigger before he finished spinning around. And then there he was, drawing down on…

Huh. It appeared to be an Oompa Loompa with a massive ’fro. Even though Steady wasn’t overly tall by American standards—he topped out at just under six feet—he towered above the man standing in front of him. The little wrinkly guy—no telling his age; he could have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty—was wearing an oversized Tweety Bird T-shirt and a pair of crazily printed trousers. He was shoeless, and that hairdo? Well, that hairdo was enough to make Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Pulp Fiction slap him a high five. Be cool, Honey Bunny!

“Put it away.” Abby laid a soft hand on his forearm. “This man won’t harm us.”

“Sí. That’s pretty obvious,” he agreed. “Because unless this dude plans to bite our ankles, I can’t see how he poses much of a threat.” Holstering his weapon, he tilted his head at the guy who continued to stand there, eyeing them curiously.

“Hello.” Abby bobbed her head in a friendly greeting.

“Hello,” said the little Oompa Loompa… Okay, so Steady had to stop thinking of him in those terms. His skin wasn’t orange like the guys in the film, but a dark, mahogany brown like much of the country’s population. Of course, that’s where the similarities stopped. Because his flat, wide facial features made him look less Asian and more Aboriginal Australian. And what were the odds he spoke English? Praise be! But also…wince.

“Hi.” Steady extended his hand for a shake. “First of all, I’m sorry about the ankle-biting comment. That was…uh…my bad. And, secondly, can you tell us approximately how far we are from the border to Thailand?” Because a mile or two error in the calculations he’d made back on the logging trail could mean the difference between them making the border before sundown or having to make camp for the night.

Mr. Tweety Bird…that was only slightly better…stared at his offered hand, his brow knitted with confusion.

“I doubt he speaks English,” Abby said.

“What?” Steady’s chin jerked back. “But he just said hello.”

“Hello is the universal greeting in multiracial Malaysia,” she told him, nodding to the diminutive man.

“And how in the hell would you know that?”

“Because of all those art—”

“Articles you read,” he finished for her. “Got it.” And maybe he should have looked into doing more research on Peninsular Malaysia before he agreed to take this gig. Then again, tromping through the jungle hadn’t exactly been on the agenda, soooo…yeah.

Abby clasped her hands together as if to pray. Then she dipped her head in a gesture of respect. “Orang Asli?” she asked, keeping a warm smile firmly in place.

Se?or Snazzy Pants…sí, that’s the one…nodded, cracking a wide grin that revealed a boatload of missing teeth. Those that remained were brown and stubby. Obviously the man didn’t end each day with a quick scrub of Colgate.

“What did you ask him?” Steady murmured to Abby, mirroring her gesture. Hey, if it caused Se?or Snazzy Pants to smile—even though Steady could have gone his whole life without getting a peek into that toothless maw—he figured it wouldn’t hurt to follow her lead.

“The Orang Asli are the original people of Malaysia. They’re tribal, and prefer to remain mostly cut off from civilization.”

“Except when it comes to shopping for T-shirts, obviously.”

She twisted her lips. “He probably received that from a charitable donation or something. The Orang Asli make their living from the jungle. But with the cities growing by leaps and bounds and the forests being cut back, they’re becoming more and more marginalized, and more and more dependent on the government for assistance.”

“How many articles about Malaysia did you read?” he asked her.

“Enough.”

“I’ll say.”

Se?or Snazzy Pants said something that sounded like a sneeze followed by the name of a syrup used to induce vomiting. “Atchoo ipecac!” He gestured wildly.

“What did he say?” Steady asked from the corner of his mouth, keeping a wary eye on the animated little guy.

Abby turned and planted her hands on her hips. “I read a few articles.” She frowned at him. “I didn’t learn the different dialects for the whole frickin’ country. Sheesh.”

“Well, you seem to know everything else,” he said in his own defense.

“Atchoo ipecac!” Se?or SP said again, strolling forward to grab Abby’s arm.

“Whoa there, compadre.” Steady’s senses instantly went from high alert to code red. “Hands off the woman.”

The little guy didn’t need to speak English to recognize the warning in Steady’s tone. He lifted his gnarled, aged hand from Abby’s arm and bowed his head in acknowledgment, smiling that toothless smile. Then he raised his fingers to his mouth and pantomimed taking a bite of something.

“I think he wants to give us food.”

“Sí,” he agreed. “Without reading a single article, I was able to piece that one together all by myself.”