Page 27 of Delta (Alpha #12)

The butler or whoever he is leaves us, returning the way he came, touching his ear and murmuring in French into his left sleeve.

Minutes pass.

Abruptly, Rush speaks. "I can't do this."

I swallow hard, look at him. "What?"

He whirls to face me, shaking and trembling. "I can't do this. I can't fucking do this."

"Do what?" I ask. "Rush, talk to me."

The haze of horror clouding his face clears.

Resolve turns his eyes the color of cold steel.

"I'll ask you this only once, Bryn, and I know I’ve no right to ask, considering where we are and what I've done.

But…" he takes my hands in his, crush-gripping me until the pain brings smarting tears to my eyes. "Do you trust me?"

I have roughly a quintillion questions. But it's not the time—I sense that as clearly as I sense the awful miasma of evil in this place.

I hold his eyes, search him. I see guilt, fury, self-loathing, horror, rage, confusion.

And above all?

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

"Obviously I've made a terrible mistake in trusting you this far," I whisper. "But as they say, in for a penny, in for a pound. Yes, Rush. I will choose to trust you."

He barks a laugh. “God, you're mad, aren't you?" He shakes his head, amused—or perhaps bemused is the better word; his expression sobers, then. "Stay with me. Do as I say when I say without fucking hesitating. And just…be ready. Shit's about to pop off."

Footsteps again. Distant, measured. Unhurried. I didn't know mere footsteps could drip with malignant arrogance, but somehow, these do.

I notice Rush's right hand moving. Stealing behind his back and secreting his gun into his jacket pocket.

"When I say run," he breathes, leaning close so his lips brush my ear, "you fucking run like the devil himself is on your heels, because he fucking is."

"Which way?"

"Outside. I'll be behind you." He grabs my hand and presses his knife into my hand. "If by some chance you get captured, take as many out as you can and then cut your wrists."

I stare at him. "What the fuck , Rush?"

His gaze is humorless—deadly serious. "This cunt you're about to meet is the evilest human being I've ever met, and trust me when I say I've met some really fuckin’ evil people. He gets his hands on you, you'll beg for death. But it won't come."

"And you brought me to him?"

"I had no choice."

"There's always a choice, Rush."

"Folks like to say that, don't they?” His eyes are cold and hard.

“But it's not always true, is it? Sometimes, there's only one real choice to make, and you fuckin' make it, because you've got to.

" The footsteps are closer, now. "Don't say nothin'.

Not one fuckin' word, you 'ear me?" His Cockney is back and thicker than ever. Funny how it comes and goes, sometimes.

"I hear you." I take his hand, squeeze it. "I believe in you, Rush."

His eyes fly wide, shocked at my words. It's too late to respond, though. He yanks his hand free of mine and grabs my arm in a vicious grip that'll leave bruises on my bicep. His other hand in his jacket—on his gun.

I don't have to dig deep to summon the fear boiling my veins—I let it out.

All the fear, all the confusion. The horror of killing.

The exhaustion. Everything. I let it all out, and suddenly I'm hyperventilating, crying, struggling in his grip.

It's not fake. He's not letting go, even when I thrash as hard as I can, keening in my throat like a trapped wildcat.

"Rush, Rush, Rush." The voice is deep, stentorian, smooth, articulate, arrogant, condescending, authoritative.

"You came through. I have to say, I'm somewhat surprised.

I thought our lovely Miss Bryn Harris here would get her hooks in you.

" His accent is complicated—there's hints of Italian, French, and English in there.

He's imposingly tall—between my even six feet and Rush's six-four.

His body is lean and fit inside a hideously expensive bespoke suit.

His hair is jet black and swept back, glossy and gleaming.

Clean-shaven, his jawline is sharp and aristocratic.

His eyes, though—fuck me. They're black as coal and radiating pure evil.

The evilest human being I've ever met.

Yeah, accurate.

I swear the temperature in the foyer dropped by several degrees when he entered.

I've gone still, hanging from Rush's implacable grip, staring at the man.

I've seen his face.

I've heard the name.

Pugli…Pugli.

It comes to me in a flash—I attended a meeting Dad had with the heads of his various units.

This was last year, I think. Before Zero's death.

I shove that aside and focus on the memory.

Dad was giving a presentation, going over the dossiers of people he considered a threat—warlords, kingpins, arms dealers, traffickers in humans, traffickers in stolen or illicitly acquired information.

The worst of the worst. This man was in that presentation.

My excellent memory comes through: Roberto Pugli.

Interpol official, middleman between terrorists, arms dealers, and drug lords.

But not just a middleman, oh no. A terror in his own right.

The boogeyman. Some of the crimes against humanity Dad said Pugli is known to be responsible for were truly nauseating.

Words like "flayed alive" and "burned alive" and "melted in vats of acid" were used.

Those were just the crimes Dad could list without puking, and Dad has seen the worst the world has to offer.

I resume thrashing, flailing, kicking, spitting, screaming.

"For fuck's sake, Rush, handle her ,” Pugli snaps. "She's annoying me."

I prepare myself, knowing Rush isn't going to play this safe or nice.

He doesn't.

The backhanded smack is hard enough to make me see stars, rocking my head around. I sag in his grip, weeping, cupping my throbbing jaw.

“I thought you would have fucked some sense into her by now, honestly," Pugli says, gleeful at my visible pain; his hand goes to his crotch, fondling himself as if my pain is making him hard.

"Although, I must say I’m glad you haven't.

I like to take my merchandise through their paces before I sell them.

It's more fun if they're…still spirited. "

Oh god. Oh god. Now the knife and the warning make sense.

Rush still hasn't spoken.

Pugli sighs. "The silent treatment, is it? You're not really bitter, are you? You knew what you were getting yourself into the first time you took my money. You can't really have thought I wouldn't find out everything there is to know about you, can you?"

Rush doesn't answer.

Pugli is annoyed now—this is a man who likes to see his effect on people. "Hand her over, now. I'll get you your money and your contract."

"The price has tripled." Rush's voice is hard and low.

Pugli rolls his eyes. “Too late for that, I'm afraid."

"You're desperate for her," he says. "Means she's someone important. Triple. Or she dies, right here, right now."

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

Pugli just chuckles. "You've no idea who she is, do you?"

Rush stares, baleful and vibrating with wrath.

"Bryn Eloise Harris. Twenty-four years old.

Daughter of the one and only Nicholas Harris and his equally impressive wife, Layla Harris.

Who, together, own and operate the world's most successful security contracting service, Alpha One Security.

They're bona fide heroes, Rush. And do you know who she calls aunt and uncle?

None other than Kyrie and Valentine Roth.

" He tuts, mocking. “The poor thing has suffered a loss recently.

Her fiancé, a rather talented musician named Zero, died in a tragic car accident only a few months ago.

Now, what I can't figure out is how she ended up in that nightclub, and how those incompetent apes I hired managed to get their hands on a very real princess like this.

Even more interesting is her escape from the train.

Killed two men—one with a pencil. Imagine that!

A pencil! Unfortunately, my original merchandise was allowed to escape in all the hubbub, which is…

well, rather inconsiderate of you, Miss Harris.

" His black gaze meets mine, jovially depraved. "I had a buyer for her lined up. A deposit was laid out. And he doesn't want any… darkies , as he put it. I know, I know—how offensive. He’s a true reprobate, I don’t mind admitting, but we can’t judge who we do business with.

I don't ask questions, I merely provide.

I offered you to him at a significant discount, too, but no.

I'll have to acquire someone else who fits his desired profile. "

I'm so terrified and horrified that the disgustingly racist remark barely registers. It's the least of my concerns, at the moment.

He shrugs, then claps his hands. "Well, now. That's enough pleasantries. Rush, let her go."

"Triple the cash, and the contract first."

"I'll wire it to you. Hand her over."

Rush jerks me closer. “Cash. Contract. Now . Unless you want to see her brains splattered across your fucking floor."

With a heavy sigh, Pugli snaps his fingers. Moments later, the butler apparates from nowhere—Pugli murmurs to him, and the man nods, vanishes again.

"Triple!" Pugli says, conversationally. "Going to start a new life for yourself, are you?

Somewhere warm, maybe? Tired of the drab London weather, I suppose.

" He looks at me speculatively. “Did you tell her why you're doing this?

No? Well, I won't spoil it, then. I know how to keep a secret, and you can trust me when I say yours is safe with me, Rush. "

Secret?

Rush flinches at Pugli's words, his grip on my arm clamping down so hard I squeak in very real pain.

I hear a faint, muffled click —a hammer being pulled back. His grip is still viciously tight—it's a warning: be ready.