Full Throttle Page 2

  Stay where? Where are you, Carlos? And then she answered her own question. He was sprawled atop her, covering her body with his own. Later she would think about how quickly he had reacted—how selflessly—because right now she needed to find out what was going on.

  “What’s happening?” she demanded, not surprised when her voice came out raspy and thin, barely above a whisper. No one heard her above the racket of a world in chaos. The blare of sirens screamed from up the street. The pounding of running feet was a stampede. And the fearful cries of a dozen people reverberated through the air, each one an acoustic assault. She swallowed, the metallic taste of blood slipping from her bitten lip down her throat, and tried again. “Somebody tell me what’s happening!”

  This time her voice actually had some volume behind it. Still, no one answered her. And her fear quickly turned into panic. She began to struggle.

  “Shh, Abby,” Carlos’s low baritone sounded in her ear, his hot breath fanning her cheek. “Stay still until the agents tell us it’s okay to move.”

  “What is it?” she begged him, a strange sense of foreboding tickling the back of her brain. There was something… “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell,” he said. “There was some sort of blast and—”

  The squeal of tires on asphalt echoed a second before the big knobby wheels of a black, government-issue SUV bounced over the curb not five feet from her head.

  “Okay, let’s go!” Agent Mitchell shouted as two of her bodyguards grabbed Carlos’s arms to haul him off her. The next instant she was plucked from the pavement as easily as she and her mother plucked the bad buds from the rose bushes planted around the beech tree back home.

  And it was strange she should make that comparison. Because as the agents wrestled her toward the open door of the waiting SUV, she was finally able to take in the scene around her. Glass and debris littered the sidewalk and street. Smoke and flames billowed from somewhere up the way. People were darting wildly this way and that or else huddled together in tight packs on the ground. And speckling everything, the road, the people, the wreckage, was a slick crimson substance the exact color of the roses on those bushes.

  Blood. That was blood. Jesus…

  She struggled against the agents, that sense of foreboding having morphed into a terrible, sickening dread. “Stop it!” she shouted at them, needing to get to Carlos. He was standing on the sidewalk, staring straight ahead. And the look on his face was indescribable, some sort of horrible mix of terror, disbelief, and denial. “Let me go! I need to—”

  “Abby?” He turned to her, his voice raspy and barely audible above the turmoil around them. “Was Rosa in the coffee shop?”

  The coffee shop? Had the blast come from there? No. No! It couldn’t have. But she couldn’t see to assure herself of that, not with agents and the SUV’s door blocking her view. Her heart was poised to explode inside her chest. “P-probably. I was running l-late,” she told him.

  She barely finished the sentence before he took off up the sidewalk, screaming Rosa’s name over and over again in a voice she was sure to hear in her nightmares. The very next instant she was shoved inside the SUV, agents piling in all around her and pinning her arms and legs when she fought them with everything she had, biting, hissing, scratching.

  Rosa! Oh God, no! The phrase blasted over and over again inside the confines of her skull, and with each repetition the very fabric of her soul ripped anew. “Let me go!” she yelled at her security detail. “I have to see! I have to find Rosa! I have to help Carlos! I have to—”

  “Abby!” Agent Mitchell bellowed from beside her, slapping his wide palm over her mouth. “There’s nothing you can do! We’re getting you out of here!”

  On that cue, the driver threw the vehicle into gear. She could feel the big tires spin violently before their tread gripped the pavement, shooting the SUV forward. Thrown back into the bucket seat with head-whipping force, she wailed, “No, no, no!” when Agent Mitchell’s hand fell away. Panic and shock had turned her into a wild animal that bucked and heaved and desperately fought for freedom. That is, until the gaping, charred hole that used to be the coffee shop buzzed by outside the window. She stilled as the full measure of what had happened dawned on her. And an awful, horrifying thought slipped through her mind.

  This is my fault…

  With that, she began to scream in earnest. Scream until her vocal cords shredded. Scream until a blood vessel in her right eye burst…

  Chapter One

  Hotel Novotel

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

  Present day…

  Carlos Soto, known to everyone in the spec-ops community as “Steady,” lounged at the end of the ritzy hotel bar, casually watching his best friend, Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes, work his masculine wiles on the cute off-duty Secret Service agent seated at a nearby table.

  “Ozzie is a serial seducer,” Dan Currington observed from the barstool beside him. Dan was the third and final member of Black Knights Inc. to accompany him on this mission. BKI being the covert government defense firm that operated under the guise of a custom motorcycle shop—okay, and sometimes Steady still had trouble believing such an entity actually existed; it was like something out of a bad spy novel.

  “Sí,” he admitted with an affectionate chuckle, smiling as Ozzie leaned over to whisper something into the shell of the agent’s ear. The woman blushed and giggled, and Steady could only shake his head. “But the ladies never seem to mind. I don’t know how he pulls it off time after time.”

  “You don’t?” Dan turned to lift a dubious brow as he took a leisurely sip of seltzer water. “I thought you two were neck and neck in that whole notches-on-the-bedpost race.”

  Steady frowned at the bottle of Tiger beer in his hand. It was true. For a couple of years there, he’d given Ozzie a run for the money in the bedding of bar bunnies. But recently the…er…hunt had lost its allure.

  “I think I’m about done with all that, hermano. It just seems so…” He twisted his lips, searching for the word. “Superficial, I guess. Unfulfilling? I don’t know.” He shrugged. “And besides, I was never as good at it as Ozzie.” He tipped his beer toward the table where the unrefuted king of casual relationships was now fiddling with the agent’s fingers. Julia Ledbetter. That was her name. And she resembled a Secret Service agent about as much as a Chihuahua resembled a Doberman. But Steady supposed that was part of it. Protection through subterfuge and meek-but-mighty camouflage. Although, if you asked him, there was something to be said for the fierce, bulldog demeanor that good ol’ Agent Mitchell had sported.

  He wondered what had happened to the guy. Come to think of it, he wondered what had happened to all the agents who’d been assigned to Abby’s protection detail back in the day. There wasn’t a familiar face among the seven in her current bunch.

  Then again, a lot could change in eight years. Just look at him. He’d gone from medical student to soldier to clandestine government operator in the space of that time. Hell, even his name was different…

  “Never as good as Ozzie?” Dan’s second eyebrow joined his first somewhere near his hairline. “Well, I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I hafta say, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a man admit his sexual prowess lacked in comparison to—”

  “That’s not what I meant, pendejo. And you know it.”

  Dan tucked his tongue in his cheek, nodding. “The beer bottle incident?”

  Steady fingered the small scar cutting through his scalp above his right ear. He’d received it courtesy of a one-night stand whom he’d thought understood the nature of their relationship. But when she caught him locking lips with a curvy little mamacita outside the back door of Red Delilah’s Biker Bar—his local watering hole in Chicago where Black Knights Inc. was based—she’d shouted obscenities that questioned his mother’s morals before hauling off and smashing a bottle of Bud over his head.

  “I told her I wasn’t interested in anything serious,” he said in his own
defense. “I don’t know how much more specific I could’ve been.”

  “Mmm,” Dan answered noncommittally, causing Steady’s scowl to deepen. His entire life he’d been accused by family, friends, and teammates of being oblivious when it came to dishing out details, but he disagreed. He said what needed to be said when it needed to be said. He just wasn’t all that elaborative, that’s all.

  “Look,” he continued, choosing to ignore Dan’s non-answer and getting back to the point. “I’m only saying I might be ready for something…more.” He blinked. A little astonished he’d climbed out on this conversational limb. After all, the Knights were a far cry from the touchy-feely sort. In fact, their discussions tended to center more on the latest weapons, motorcycle exhausts, and Chicago Cubs scores than anything that came close to resembling, you know, actual feelings.

  He waited for Dan to say something along the lines of whoa there, compadre, what are we? Girlfriends? So he was shocked when instead Dan went with, “Are you telling me you’ve sowed your last wild oat?”

  “I don’t know about last.” His frown kicked into a grin. “I’m not sure that’s even possible. I’m Puerto Rican, man. My oats are endless.”

  Dan rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe that Latin lover shtick actually works.”

  “What can I say? Chicks dig my Rico Suave.”

  “Rico Suave?” Dan turned, cocking his head to study him. “Nah. I’d say you’re more of a low-budget Enrique Iglesias.”

  Steady punched him in the arm before quickly reining the conversation back in. Experience had taught him it was either that or devolve into a good, solid hour of swapping insults. Fun? Sure. But not at all productive. “The deal is, I’m thirty-three years old. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s time to start thinking about”—he made a rolling motion with his hand—“commitment.”

  And would you look at that? He said the word without choking on it.

  Dan turned to face him, the picture of shock and awe. Seriously, George W. Bush would’ve been proud. “Well, well, well.” He shook his sandy blond head. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “I know.” Steady shrugged. “I’m a bit surprised myself. Or maybe I’ve been drinking too much of the Kool-Aid being served back home. I mean, you have noticed the rate at which our teammates are taking the plunge into happily-ever-after, haven’t you?”

  “Staggering, isn’t it?”

  In the last couple of years, six, count them, six of the BKI boys had strapped on the ol’ ball and chain. And talk about wonders never ceasing? They actually made the condition look…well…good. Preferable even. God help me.

  “Or maybe this sudden attack of fidelity has something to do with the way you’ve been staring at”—Dan glanced around to make sure they were out of earshot of anyone who might be listening—“you know who for the last three days.”

  The blood drained from Steady’s head, leaving his face cold and his forehead clammy. “What do you mean?” he asked, shooting his cuffs and tilting his head from side to side in an attempt to loosen the tension that gripped his neck. Suddenly his clothes were too tight. He wanted to chalk it up to the fact that he was accustomed to wearing combat gear or jeans and a biker jacket. But deep down he knew the real reason his suit coat was now a straightjacket, his necktie a silk anaconda, was because Dan’s assessment hit far too close to home. “How have I been staring at her?”

  “Like Winnie-the-Pooh stares at a pot of honey.”

  “Pssht. You’re imagining things. If I’ve been watching her, it’s only because that’s what we’re being”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“paid to do.”

  “Yeah, but there’s watching and then there’s watching,” Dan insisted.

  Steady squeezed the beer bottle so hard it was a wonder the thing didn’t shatter. Dan was right. Since President Thompson had tasked him with flying to the other side of the globe to help protect Abby while she attended the New Frontiers in Horticulture Convention—sí, it was a thing. Who knew?—he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. And although he hadn’t seen or heard from her in eight years, she was just as he remembered…

  Slim, blond, pretty in an all-American kind of way, which seemed appropriate given she was the youngest daughter of the president of the United States. She still had those arresting green eyes that’d stopped him in his tracks when he met her on the Georgetown campus all those years ago. She still had that same sweet, luminous smile that’d fueled his fantasies back then and most of his daydreams since.

  She’s too young for you, he remembered the scolding tone in Rosa’s voice. And even if she isn’t, she’s too far out of your league. You think her father wants her dating a maldito bori when he’s got a national election to win?

  He’d winced at the slur while at the same time knowing his sister was right. The difference between Abby’s age and his had seemed insurmountable at the time. A gulf in life experience as wide and impassible as the vastness of space. But she was all grown up now, wasn’t she? A woman, as in whoa-man. Everything guaranteed to rev his engine in one fair-haired little package.

  Unfortunately, that whole maldito bori thing hadn’t changed. Even with his multiple degrees and that Army Ranger pin stuck to the lapel of the uniform hanging in his closet back home, he was still just the son of uneducated immigrants who’d spent their lives slinging cervezas and serving rice in a greasy corner café in Miami. And any illusions he’d had that Abby didn’t care about such things was stripped from him the day of Rosa’s funeral.

  He’d gone to her thinking maybe she would be his hand to hold, his shoulder to cry on. He’d gone to her thinking they were friends…maybe more than friends, though she had still been far too young for him. He’d needed her so badly that day he’d been willing to ignore the gap in their ages, the impropriety of his making a move, because his remorse, his grief, his need to comfort and be comforted had outweighed anything else. But he’d been wrong to think she might consider him worthy of her affection. She’d made it obvious that Rosa, and Rosa’s position as her academic mentor, had been the only glue holding the three of them together.

  Abby may have exchanged her premed degree for one in botany, she may have traded in her scalpel for a garden spade, but like her appearance, nothing else about her was any different. She was still Abigail Thompson, the first daughter. America’s princess. And he was still…well…him.

  “So, are you gonna let me in on the history between you two?” Dan asked when Steady had been quiet for too long.

  “No history,” he quickly replied. At least none worth speaking of.

  “Yeah, I call bullshit.”

  And now it was his turn to pull out the ol’ Black Knights’ tried-and-truism. “So, what if it is? You think I want to talk about it? What are we? Girlfriends?”

  Dan rolled his eyes. “Then you’re happy we’re headed out tomorrow? Happy to wave your good-byes to her?”

  And that thought made Steady’s scalp itch. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times since we took this gig”—he kept his voice barely above a whisper—“but I don’t buy that nonsense about Abby’s big sister being the likely target of this prospective kidnapping just because she followed in her father’s political footsteps to become a congresswoman.” He used his thumb to pick at the beer’s label, succeeding in peeling the corner away. He attacked the glue left behind with the blunt edge of his nail. “Being a government bigwig doesn’t make Caroline any more attractive than Abby to those factions looking for leverage to use against the president.”

  “Look, man, you read the NSA Intel the president gave us as closely as I did. All signs point to Caroline.” Dan loosened his tie. They were here at the hotel under the guise of businessmen. Only the president, his JCs, and the Secret Service knew their real assignment—to provide auxiliary security for Abby when she wasn’t safely ensconced in her room for the night. Like she was right now.

  And Dan was right, of course. All signs did point to Caroline. And since that was the case,
President Thompson, who secretly ran Black Knights Inc. along with the Joint Chiefs, was only requiring Abby be given BKI protection when she was OCONUS—outside the contiguous U.S. Whereas Caroline had had a supplementary BKI force assigned to her every day of the last six weeks. Ever since the first peep of a possible kidnapping came over the wires.

  “Chin up.” Dan elbowed him. “By oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning we’ll be hopping on a plane. And then none of this will be your problem. It’ll be bye-bye bullet-catcher duty and bye-bye you know who.”

  Bye-bye you know who? After eight long years apart, was he really ready to bid farewell to her again so soon? The answer to that question shouldn’t make his heart ache. Mierda.

  He took a sip of beer, hoping the pain in his chest was simply indigestion brought on by the nasi kerabu he’d eaten for lunch—I mean, the blue rice should’ve been your first clue, pendejo. But the minute the suds touched his tongue, he grimaced. Plunking the beer on the bar, he scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips. “Madre de Dios,” he grumbled. “Why can’t they brew a decent beer on this side of the planet?” Dan’s expression hardened when his eyes landed on the abandoned bottle. “Sorry.” Steady winced. “I, uh, I guess any beer sounds good right about now, huh?”

  Dan “The Man” Currington had crawled into the bottle and stayed there for a full year after his wife was brutally gunned down inside the gates of the Black Knights’ compound. It’d taken ninety days of rehab and a dogged mental fortitude Steady couldn’t help but admire in order for Dan to pull himself back out.

  “It’s not the taste that tempts me,” Dan admitted, his tone stiff. “It’s the oblivion it offers.”

  Steady motioned for the bartender to come take the beer away. “And speaking of finding oblivion and sowing wild oats”—he tipped his chin toward the tall, lanky woman ordering a drink at the opposite end of the bar, happy to change the subject—“I can’t help but notice how you and Agent DePaul have been making googly eyes at each other for the last seventy-two hours. Why don’t you take a page from Ozzie’s book and use the fact that you’re both off the clock tonight to sow your wild oats. Seek oblivion in bed instead of the bottle. You know, get your freaky-deaky on.”