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  Like now…

  She concentrated everything she had on not letting the tears prickling behind her burning eyes fall. She couldn’t let them fall. Because once she started, she figured she might not be able to stop for a full week.

  One second stretched into two. Two became three. And then she lost count. Time seemed to warp and expand like the taffy she’d seen pulled on the machines in the confectionary shops along the boardwalk as a kid. In fact, she was so lost in herself, so lost in simply taking one breath after another, that she jumped, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor tile, when Dan laid a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder.

  “You don’t hafta stay in here for this,” he assured her. “We can handle the—”

  “No,” she cut him off, raking in a slow, measured breath to make up for the twenty shallow, fast ones she’d taken. Christ, she was losing it, becoming completely unhinged. Unconsciously, she lifted a finger and quickly ran it over the little bump on her nose. It grounded her…a little. “I need to hear what she has to say for herself.” She tilted her chin toward Bertha Bomber. “I want to hear what she has to say. I owe it to Abby. I owe it to…the others.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I don’t understand what those shitbird militants—what did you call them?” Abby asked, then grumbled under her breath when a low-hanging branch slapped her on the arm after Steady brushed by it. He glanced back to make sure she wasn’t hurt, then scolded himself for not being more careful.

  They’d been slogging through the undergrowth for over an hour, and it had to be hell on her. She’d already been physically drained from the drug coupled with lack of food, and that was before the energy-sucking heat and humidity of the jungle had a chance to go to work. But she was a trooper if he ever saw one. And, Dios, he admired her for it. Admired her and craved her and damned if he could think of anything other than the hot, hungry gleam in her eye when she’d stared at his penis.

  As if the silly thing knew he was thinking about it—or else it, too, was simply remembering the expression on her face—it twitched behind the fly of his cargo pants. Bueno. Because the only thing worse than sporting a stiffy while riding through miles of potholed logging trails, was sporting one while hiking and hacking through the jungle.

  Uh…so, what had she asked again? And then he remembered. “They’re called the Jemaah Islamiyah, or JI for short.” He stepped over a gigantic, snaking root and pushed aside the slick leaves of a large bush so Abby could easily pass by without tripping. When she wasn’t looking, he surreptitiously reached down to adjust himself into a more comfortable—and less chafing—position.

  “Yep.” She lithely hopped over the root. “The JI. That’s right.” The excess material bunched around the tops of her legs made her slim thighs look almost skinny. It highlighted how small she actually was, and made every protective instinct he had stand up and howl like his father had done every New Year’s Eve after a couple shots of top-shelf Puerto Rican rum. “But I don’t understand what they hoped to gain by kidnapping me. My father has always said he doesn’t negotiate with terrorists for anything. Not for friends, not for family, not for all the tea in China or oil in Saudi Arabia.”

  “But that was before he was due to leave office in a few months,” Steady told her. “It’s harder to stick to your guns when it really is your baby girl’s neck on the chopping block, and you know you’ll never have to run for office again, so what’s the harm in going back on your campaign promises.”

  Her expression turned contemplative as he slid by her to resume his place as trailblazer. His arm inadvertently touched hers, and the zing of awareness that detonated through his system did nothing to dissuade his erection. Mierda! He checked the compass on his watch to make sure they were still heading due north. Baseball bat of a stiffy aside, it was easy, too easy, to get turned around in the jungle. And as dead tired as he knew Abby was, he’d be damned if he made her take one step more than was needed. Not to mention the fact that that last map check had indicated a due north trajectory would land them directly in the middle of the Bang Lang National Park, only a few hundred yards from the little town he was aiming for.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she said to his back. Then, “And speaking of Dad leaving office, what will happen to Black Knights Inc. when he does? I mean, you’re his group, right? He’s the one who founded you guys?”

  “Technically, it was the head of the JCs, Navy General Pete Fuller, who rubber-stamped the inception of BKI,” he told her, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow. “And how do you know so much about all that anyway? I would think our existence was something your father kept close to his vest. In fact, until about a year ago, even the DOD had no idea we existed.”

  Had his head not been turned, he would have missed the fleeting look of…what was that expression exactly? He couldn’t be sure, but it looked remarkably close to guilt dancing across her face. He stopped in his tracks, which caused her to slam into his back. “Son of a blue-balled biscuit eater!” she snarled. “What’s with the air brakes all of a sudden?”

  He really, really liked the feel of her pressed against his back—and as soon as they made it out of this godforsaken jungle he was going to make sure he pressed her against his front; that is, if she still wanted him once they were back in the real world; please Dios, yes—but that didn’t stop him from taking a step back in order to turn and fully face her. “First off”—he had trouble controlling his smirk—“I’m trying to imagine what a blue-balled biscuit eater looks like. Maybe a guy holding his nads in one hand and a Pillsbury buttermilk biscuit dripping with grape jelly in the other?”

  She shrugged, fighting a smile. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “And secondly…” Now his smirk was nowhere to be found, though his hard-on was still firmly in place; yippee! “What aren’t you telling me? Because in case you didn’t know it, cariño, you have a terrible poker face. And I figure you better spill the beans about whatever it is you’re—”

  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 t
he 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.

  Señor 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 Señor 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.”

  Señor 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!” Señor 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.”

  She frowned, swatting his arm.

  He swatted her—gently—right back.

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “You stop it.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

  Señor SP turned into the undergrowth, gesturing for them to follow.

  “Can we go with him?” she asked, and damned if Steady could ignore the note of hope in her voice. She hadn’t complained once since they started out on this humid, airless hike, but he’d heard her stomach growling like it was trying to gnaw its way through her backbone. “I-I’m really hungry. And I could use a break. And there’s a good chance—”

  “How do you know he’s not working for the JI?”

  Her head tipped back and to the side. “Well, because the Orang Asli aren’t interested in political affiliations or terrorist pursuits. They’re a peaceful people. Probably stems from the fact that they’re a matriarchal society.” She nudged him. “See what putting women in charge will get you?”

  “You mean besides ridiculous T-shirts and big hair?”

  She swatted his arm again.

  He swatted her back.

  “Stop it,” she hissed.

  “You stop it,” he repeated, his stomach muscles twitching with repressed laughter.

  For a moment, they just stood there, smirking at one another, the years of separation having melted away. Then she shook her head, frowning. “But seriously. What use would the JI have for them? The Orang Asli have no weapons, no money, and no military training.”

  “Not to mention the fact that they’re seriously vertically challenged.”

  Abby glanced over at Señor SP. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think they’re actually a pretty average height for the region. This guy is just particularly…uh…petite.”

  “Why are you whispering?” he asked. “He can’t understand you.”

  Her chin jerked back. “Whatever,” she huffed. “Can we go with him, or what?”

  Steady weighed his options. On the one hand, Abby had yet to steer him wrong. So his instincts told him to trust her on this occasion, too. On the other hand, he really, really wanted to cross that border. He wouldn’t rest easy until they were safe and sound in Thailand.

  Then again, they might not make that border without getting some food in her. For all her grit and bravado, the dark circles under her eyes—not to mention the sunken look to her cheeks—told him she was getting very close to reaching the end of her rope. Even Señor SP seemed to understand that, because he glanced back at Abby, frowned, and motioned again for them to follow him, once again pantomiming taking a bite of something.

  Hue puta! His decision was made. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go get some food, eh? But I warn you, if he makes me eat a grub worm, I’m never forgiving you. I’ve managed to go my whole career without noshing on creepy crawly things, and it’s a trend I’d like to see continue.”

  Some of the guys he’d trained and worked with over the years took great pride in their ability to make a meal out of just about anything they stumbled across. Grass, bugs, fungi, moss. But Steady’s background in medicine gave him a natural aversion to things abounding with bacteria or loaded with weird unprocessed chemicals. And his beliefs were solidified the time he watched a fellow Ranger who ate a bad mushroom hallucinate for six hours straight. The wild-eyed dude had pulled a knife on his fellow soldiers, threatening to cut off everyone’s balls—not something any man took lightly, but particularly not a group of beefed-up GIs—and the result had been that the guy came out of his delirium to find himself hog-tied by a bunch of carabiners and bungee cords, and with a length of duct tape slapped over his mouth.

  “The Orang Asli don’t eat grub worms, silly.” She nodded and motioned for Señor SP to lead the way. “Their diet consists of fish, rice, and fruit.”

  “And you know this because?” he asked.

  She grinned over her shoulder at him. Weaponized. There was no other way to describe that smile of hers. It gave his heart a workout harder than any PT—physical training—he’d ever had to do in Ranger School. “Because of those art—”

  “Articles you read,” he finished for her again. “Of course.”

  She nodded and turned away, and all he could think was Ay Dios mio, I sure do like her.

  Then again, like seemed like such a vapid term for the warm, fuzzy, relentless feelings she provoked in him.

  Could it be love? The question seemed to come from nowhere. But, miracle of miracles, and contrary to what he would have expected, it didn’t fill him with dread.

  Huh. Will you look at that? Was it possible he was falling in love with her? Or…maybe he already had fallen in love with her? All those years ago
? The good Lord knew he’d never held a torch for any woman as long as he’d held one for her.

  Watching the determined swing of her arms and the dogged way she followed Señor SP, he let the idea percolate like the healing tinctures he’d practiced making back in med school…and enjoyed the resulting warmth that spread inside his chest.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Jaya is her son,” Vanessa’s voice, pinging from satellite to satellite, took a split second to reach them. Dan glanced over at Penni, not surprised to see all the color still drained from her face. She’d been pale as the frosted doughnuts his fellow teammate and friend, Ace, liked to buy from the bakery down the block from BKI headquarters in Chicago. The dude was addicted to pastries. And, back in the dark days—that’s how Dan termed the twelve months he’d lived as hammered shit—Ace had tried to get him hooked on the sweet culinary treats as opposed to the whiskey he’d swilled by the gallon jug.

  It hadn’t worked, of course. Sugar was no substitute for high-octane grain alcohol when it came to staying obliterated for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But Dan gave the guy massive points for trying.

  “Penni.” He drew her attention away from the maid. Her brown eyes were wide and glassy, revealing how exhausted she was. And the bloodshot red tinting the whites was evidence of the tears she refused to shed. She was one tough cookie. He’d give her that. Because if all his friends had suddenly and brutally been taken out, he’d probably be blubbering like a goddamned baby, not sitting there all ramrod straight and quietly stoic. “We really can handle the rest of this interview if you’d rather not hear—”