Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(86)

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!

“Just one,” he said. “But if he was telling the truth, there could be more headed this way.”

“Ten-four,” Boonie Hat said. Then, with a series of hand gestures, he commanded his team to spread out into the jungle.

Steady didn’t watch them go. Because right at that moment, Abby appeared in front of him. She slipped down to her knees, her arms thrown around his neck, her sweet lips peppering his muddy cheeks with even muddier kisses. And then, in true Abby form, she pulled back, her tears having left wet trails through the muck on her face. “You egg-sucking *!” she snarled. “If you ever try to do anything like that again, sacrifice yourself, I swear I’ll kill you myself!”

*

Umar could not believe it! All his hard work, all his planning, all the money he had paid to all those people had come to nothing. Nothing! His brother was still rotting away in a cell. And here he was running through the jungle with a squad of American soldiers hot on his heels. His only hope for escape was if somehow, someway, through the grace of Allah, his remaining men made it to him before he could be captured…or killed. Those soldiers had looked more than capable of the latter, although it was definitely the former he feared most.

He sent up a silent prayer as he vaulted over a low-lying bush and ran smack into a wall of hanging vines. Growling his frustration, slapping the clinging plants away, he managed to free himself and immediately broke into another headlong sprint.

Distance… Distance… He needed distance…

Because if he was being quite honest with himself, the chances of his men finding him were slim to none. The satellite phone had lost power before he could call in his last set of coordinates, and unless his fighters had heard the gunfire, they could very well be headed in the wrong direction. And if they had heard the gunfire? Well, it was not assured they would come to investigate. To say the majority of his men were unreliable was an understatement at best.

Rage and fear fueled him quickly through the undergrowth, his heart pounding, his breaths labored. There had been a small ravine some distance back, yes? And perhaps if he could make it there, he could duck into one of the narrow rock alcoves, cover himself with foliage, and hide. Perhaps if he could—

The sound of a stick crunching beneath a quickened step directly to his left had him ducking behind a tree. His chest burned like he had swallowed fire. His skin crawled like he had fallen into a bowl of maggots. No, no, no! This was not how it was supposed to end for him. He was a warrior of Islam, a jihadist who had so much more to accomplish! This could not be!

Snap! Crack!

He held his breath and tightened his finger on the trigger of his Kalashnikov. But just as he was prepared to jump from behind the tree and fire, the cool barrel of deadly weapon kissed his temple. His heart and his lungs stopped functioning, causing his head to spin with dizziness.

“Don’t move,” a deep, growling American voice advised. From the corner of his eye, he could see the soldier staring down the gun’s sights at him. Blue eyes the color of the Oriental magpie-robin that used to nest outside his boyhood home, brooked no argument. But in that moment, Umar knew what he had to do. He would not end up like his brother. He would not allow himself to be taken only to spend the rest of his days behind bars. Better to die a martyr for the cause.

Quickly angling the AK’s barrel beneath his chin, he closed his eyes and offered his soul to eternity. But before he could pull the trigger, his weapon was yanked from his hands by the blue-eyed soldier drawing down on him. He roared his fury just as another tall, brutal-looking commando materialized from behind a bush in front of him. The man was covered in camouflage…except for a pair of sunglasses that seemed to mock Umar because he could see his terrified reflection in them.