Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(49)
Dropping to the ground after having tested that the rope would hold his weight, he dusted off his hands and turned to catch Azahari and Noordin exchange a look.
“You do not think it sturdy enough?” he asked his men, narrowing his eyes. Though he was no longer feeling the effects of the serum, it had left him overly tired, in turn making him overly irritable. Then again, his poor mood could simply be a result of knowing his months of careful planning—not to mention the small fortune he had spent—might all be for naught. And that his chances of ever seeing his brother again were slipping farther and farther from his grasp with each passing minute and each additional step that anak haram and the woman took toward the Thai border.
“It is not that,” Azahari assured him, reaching forward to lay a hand on his shoulder.
Umar looked down at the offending appendage. Then glanced at Azahari, lifting his brow.
Azahari quickly removed his fingers, and Umar secretly smiled when the man’s throat worked over a quick, uncomfortable swallow. Yes. You are walking the knife’s edge with me. Turning, he made sure to include the other men in the threat shining from his eyes. You all are.
Only when his two soldiers bowed their heads in submission did he glance back to Azahari. “Then what is it?”
“It is the jungle,” Azahari admitted. “It is filled with tigers and elephants. Did you not hear one trumpeting earlier?”
“Yes. I heard.” Umar once again narrowed his eyes. “What of it?”
“There are stories of people being killed by—”
“It is not the jungle you should fear,” Umar warned, stepping close to Azahari. He hated that the man was taller than him, forcing him to lift his chin. But what Umar lacked in height, he made up for in intelligence and ruthlessness. Azahari would do well to remember that.
“We are not afraid,” Noordin was quick to assure him. “And we will not fail you, Umar.”
Azahari nodded vigorously in agreement. “Noordin speaks the truth. But, still, would it not be better to wait for the others to arrive? They should be here in less than half an hour. And we will be safer in numbers should we happen upon—”
“No,” Umar silenced him with one word, his hand slicing through the air. Fools. To be afraid of the jungle like children. And, yes, he understood that most of his men had been born and raised in cities—where some of the more dogmatic mosques had schooled them to hate and revile the West—but still, that was no excuse for their infantile fear of the bush. Did they not see what he had just accomplished? Did they not understand the jungle was his turf? “We will not wait. We will not allow the Americans to gain another minute of ground ahead of us. The others will simply have to catch up.” He could tell by Azahari’s expression that the man wanted to say more. “What is it?” he demanded, growing more impatient with each ticking second.
“The others will be hesitant to follow,” Azahari said, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the column of his throat. “Not only do they fear the jungle, but they fear the RTAF. This close to the Thai border—”
Umar had reached his wit’s end. Grabbing Azahari’s shirt in a fist, he snarled into the man’s face. “They will follow. Or, by Allah, I will find them when this is all done and I will kill them myself.” Stepping back, he pointed an angry finger at the rucksack slung over Noordin’s shoulder. “Get on the satellite phone and tell them as much.” When Noordin hesitated, he screamed, “Now!”
Noordin fumbled with the pack, extracting the large, clumsy satellite phone and dialing the number. After he chokingly relayed Umar’s message, he nodded vigorously. “It is done. They will follow as soon as they arrive.”
Of course they would. They knew he did not make empty threats. “Good.” He nodded smugly. Then he turned to Azahari and pointed to the rope. “You first.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Orang Asli village of Semaq Ulu
Ten miles from the border of Thailand
“These things are delicious,” Abby enthused, a growing pile of rambutan skins and seeds forming at her feet. Rambutan was a red fruit about the size of a small plum. Its thick outer coat was covered in fine, green hairs—not at all an attractive sight, really. Though she was not going to complain over a lack of aesthetics when the little buggers tasted like manna straight from heaven.
Sitting on a wicker stool in the middle of the village—which consisted of around fifteen bamboo huts constructed high atop stilts and covered with dried palm-leaf roofs—she was amazed to find the tiny piece of furniture was wonderfully comfy. Then again, given the ache of her tired bones and the fatigue in her sore muscles, a bed of nails would’ve probably felt like a goose down comforter.
Carlos lounged to her left on an identical stool, doing a better job of remembering his table manners. He reached over to wipe a drop of rambutan juice from her chin, and the pad of his calloused thumb felt deliciously abrasive. It highlighted the fact that even though he had the beautiful hands of a surgeon, they were also the seasoned, battle-roughened hands of a soldier. Yum! And, grrr.
Because now that he’d made it clear he returned her unbridled feelings of…okay…let’s just call it what it was…lust, keeping him at arms’ length was going to be just that much more difficult. And she had to keep him at arms’ length. If she didn’t, she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to tell him what she’d done. And seeing him again after all these years, seeing how brave and selfless he was, had convinced her she must come clean. Carlos deserved the truth.