Page 28 of Delta (Alpha #12)

The butler returns with a black duffle bag in each hand. He sets the bags on the floor in front of Rush and then reaches into his tuxedo jacket pocket and produces a folded sheet of paper and a pen.

"Sign, and you're a free man," Pugli says. "And a million euros richer. Yes, I kicked in an extra hundred thousand to make it an even million. Call it a tip for bringing her to me early."

A million euros—the price of my life.

Rush inhales deeply, holds it, lets it out slowly, his eyes flickering down to mine.

There's no warning. Not so much as a twitch of his eyes.

His hand blurs— BAM! The butler's head snaps backward, blood and brain matter spraying.

BAMBAMBAM!

Pugli jerks and twists as the slugs hit his chest, three of them dead center.

"RUN!" Rush's shout is deafening.

The heavy doors creak open and the guards fill the space, assault rifles tucked into their shoulders. I don't know which way to run—Rush said outside, but the only way out is past the armed guards. Pugli is on the ground, writhing, gasping—there's no blood, though.

BAMBAM—BAMBAM!

The guards drop in near unison, twin holes in each of their chests over their hearts.

That's the only opening I need—I burst into a flat-out sprint, hurtling over the bleeding bodies, tripping down the stairs, and skidding on the gravel.

Rush's hard hand impacts the back of my left shoulder, spinning me to face right. "That way," he barks. "Go."

Shouts ring out somewhere in the house or behind us; I don't know from where—there are a lot of voices shouting.

I don't look back, I don't check to see if Rush is with me.

I'm under no misapprehensions that I could ever outrun him. I just run parallel to the wall, feet digging into the grass, sprinting for all I’m worth.

Which, apparently, is a million euros. Or, actually, three times less than that, since he tripled the cost at the last second.

Quick math, which is not my strong suit… three hundred thousand?

That's a little depressing. It's not exactly chump change, I'm aware of that.

But my perspective is a little skewed. I grew up on a private island with private jets taking me wherever I wanted to go.

My father has freaking fighter jets, for shit's sake.

Three hundred grand is peanuts, where I come from.

Rush accelerates past me as the far edge of the property comes into view—the wall.

Sunshine streams through the canopy of trees lining the road, glittering off the glass shards embedded in the rim of the wall.

With one of the Steyr-Augs slung across his back, leather jacket off and in one hand, he skids to a stop at the wall, leaps and tosses his jacket over the rim, and then lands in a crouch, back braced against the wall, fingers interlaced to create a basket.

I need no instructions for this—it's a standard part of training.

I don't slow my pace—I sprint harder. My lungs burn, my legs ache. But there's no time for weakness.

I take a leaping step, plant my foot in Rush's interlocked hands; I feel him lift as I leap, boosting me upward.

I go airborne, Rush's immense power launching me so hard I clear the wall entirely.

I windmill my arms, desperately flailing in an attempt to keep my body oriented.

The ground hurtles up to meet me, and I fight panic in the stretched-out instant before I land.

My feet hit the sidewalk and training kicks in—the hundreds and hundreds of reps of pratfalls, shoulder rolls, and drops from walls that Mom and Dad forced me and Killy to take part in show their value.

It's instinct to throw my weight and tuck my shoulder to absorb the momentum in a roll.

Shocked voices squawk at me in surprised, indignant French as I bowl through a forest of legs.

I make my feet just in time to see Rush plant his hands on his jacket and vault over the wall in a neat body roll, dropping the eight feet to land in a crouch like it's nothing.

"What are you, fucking Spiderman?" I mumble, annoyed at his physical prowess.

He just stares at me, expression blank and unreadable. He has the Steyr-Aug in his hands, which causes the formerly indignant passersby to scatter in fright. Well, that and the fact that a jacked, six-foot-four man carrying an assault rifle just vaulted over an eight-foot wall.

"Let's go," he growls. "They're tracking you."

"Tracking me?" I ask. "How?"

"GPS chip. Probably planted it in you when you were unconscious."

"So take it out?"

"Oh yeah, just like that? You know where it is? No? Me neither. And how, even if I did? Just cut it out with my fucking knife?"

Anger explodes in me, and I yank the knife out of my pocket, flip the blade out, and slam it against his chest. " Yes , asshole.

That's exactly what I fucking want. Better yet, just fucking cut my throat and be done with it.

" I take the knife back and put the edge to my throat.

"C'mon, Rush. Do it . You sold me to Roberto fucking Pugli.

You lied to me. Tricked me. You fucking sold me for three hundred grand! "

He moves so freakishly fast my eyes can't track his hand's movement—the knife is just gone and my wrist is stinging. "Don't fuckin' tempt me, slag ." His eyes blaze.

"Oh, there we go. Here's the real you." I shove him as hard as I can. "Slag. Cunt. Bitch. Got any more names? Hit me with ’em, Rush. I've heard them all from better men than you ."

Agony blazes across his face. "And well I fuckin' know it!”

"I can't help who I was born to!" I shout.

"Neither can I!" he shouts back, and then abruptly goes silent, head cocked. "C'mon, princess. This ain't the place for a row." He pronounces row to rhyme with cow . “Unless you'd rather go it alone?"

I wave a hand vaguely. "Just…fucking go. We'll have our row later."

He stalks forward a few steps and then stops, jogs back to the wall, hopping up to retrieve his jacket. "My best mate gave me this," he says by way of explanation, as if I'd asked.

"Wonderful." I follow after him.

A taxi is stopped a few feet down the road from us, and a well-dressed young couple is preparing to get in. Rush levels the rifle at them. "Fuck off, the both’a ya."

He shoves me toward the car and then plants his hand on the back of my head like a cop does to a perp on TV; I shake my head. "Get off me, asshole, I'm going. I know how to get into a fucking car on my own."

I slide over to the passenger side as Rush piles in after me. The driver, a young African man, glances nervously at Rush, who settles the rifle across his lap while barking out a clipped phrase in French.

The driver nods jerkily, planting the accelerator. The taxi jolts forward with a squeal of tires. I turn to look behind us—half a dozen suited men wielding assault rifles jog to a halt, watching us depart. One of them lifts his wrist to his mouth, giving a report that we escaped.

Rush exhales shakily, scrubbing his face. "I don't suppose you know anyone who can get that fuckin' tracker outta ya, do ya?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I'll have to contact my parents, though. I was hoping not to involve them in this." I glare at him. "Weren't you SAS? You don't have any contacts?"

"I wasn't exactly thrown a parade when I left, love."

"Do not fucking call me that shit, Rush. I’m not your fucking love . I'm not your fucking anything ."

That agony passes over him again. "I know." He closes his eyes. "Fuck. I fucked up. I really fucked up, Bryn."

"Selling me out to Pugli? Not sure ‘fucked up’ is a strong enough phrase. When did he get ahold of you, anyway? The bathroom? That was him?"

"No, Bryn." His voice is a razor-sharp whisper. "Well, yeah, it was him. But it was always me, luh— it was always me. From the start. Runnin' into you in Berlin wasn't an accident. I was sent to get you.”

"Jesus," I whisper. "I'm a fucking moron. A blind fool. Blinded by a pretty face and a hot body. God, I'm such an idiot . It was never real, was it? None of it. Just getting your rocks off before you sell me to a sex slaver."

“It was real.” I barely hear him. “Sellin’ you out wasn’t the fuck-up.”

"Bullshit." I frown at him. "So what was the fuck-up, then?"

"Savin' you."

“Oh. Wow. Okay. You wanna go back for the money?" I laugh. "How much do you want, Rush? Did you miss who my parents are? Who my aunt and uncle are? A million dollars, is that it? Give me your phone and I’ll have a fucking billion dollars in your account by noon."

He snaps, then. Lunges across the car at me, knife at my throat, face a rictus of rage and agony. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY!" he screams, his voice ragged and raw as if he’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

I go stone-still, not blinking, not breathing. Slowly, he backs away, dropping the knife to his lap from shaky fingers. "I'm sorry. Fuck me, fucking fuck me. I'm sorry, Bryn. I'm sorry."

I can't move.

"It ain't about any goddamn money."

"That was incidental, then, huh? I snap, my voice venomous, acidic. "Just a perk? The real payment was me , I bet. Getting to sample the merchandise ?”

"No. That was real."

"Right," I say with a bark of sarcastic laughter.

"You said triple it, and he gave you a million.

Threw in an extra hundred grand. That means nine hundred thousand.

Which means your original fee for coercing, tricking, and seducing me into Pugli's mansion was three hundred thousand dollars.

Sorry, euros." I snort, shaking my head. "But yeah, it's not about the money."

"Fine, yeah, it is. It is about the money, sort of. It's about two hundred and seventy-six thousand, four hundred and eighty euros and sixty-six cents. To be precise."

I blink at the specific number. "I…I don't understand."

"No, you don't. Coz you fuckin' can't ."

"So tell me."

"You…" he shakes his head. "Nah. You wouldn't fuckin get it, princess."

"Because I was born rich?"

"Because you've never had to fucking struggle!” he snaps. “You've never known. You'll never know."

"Oh for fuck's sake," I snap. "Fine. Keep your secret. What-the-fuck-ever. It's not like you sold me for it or anything. But no. I won't fucking get it because I was born into wealth. Fuck you, asshole.”

Silence, then.

Rush says something to the driver, who pulls over, looking relieved.

We're in a poorer section of the city now. No more elegant Hausmann buildings, no more quiet, tree-lined streets. Here, it’s tumbledown apartment buildings covered in graffiti and suspicious-looking men slouching in doorways smoking cigarettes as they watch us as we exit the taxi.

Rush leads us to an alley, which dumps us onto a narrow side street lined with parked cars, most of which are aging compacts. He stops at once, tries the handle. Locked. On the third attempt, the door opens…probably because the car is such a piece of shit the owner likely didn't care if got stolen.

Flicking his knife open, Rush pries open the steering column and has the car hot-wired in seconds. It's been less than thirty seconds from sitting down to pulling away from the curb. He settles the rifle between his leg and the car door.

Instead of driving like a maniac, however, he keeps a sedate pace, following the posted speed limits. He must sense my confusion. "I told you already—play it cool and you’ll likely get away. Driving like you stole it is what gets you nicked by the bobbies.”

I just stare at him, uncomprehending.

"Oh for…" he rolls his eyes. "Caught by the police."

"Right, but don't we need to get away from Pugli?"

"They're trackin' you, love. We can't get away till we get that thing outta ya's. So no point driving crazy. We're just putting miles between us and his goons till we can figure out a plan."

"So, if you were always assigned to bring me to Pugli, then why were those guys after me?"

"Pugli likes to double his coverage. Any job he needs done, he hires more than one crew or person to do it, but he don't tell them there's others.

If they brought you in, they'd get the payday.

If they killed me on the way, so what? No skin off anyone's back.

" He glances at me. "You sound like you know who he is. "

"My father is Nicholas Harris." I figure it's all I really need to say.

"Operator royalty, he is. Him and his men. They're all famous. Duke, Thresh, Puck, Lear, Anselm. Fuckin' the best of the best. And you grew up with 'em?"

I nod. "Those are the uncles I mentioned.”

He scrubs his forehead. "Jesus. And they trained you some, didn’t they?"

I nod. "They won't let me on the teams, though. Pisses me off." I make a snooty, disgusted face. "I'm not ready, they say."

Rush sighs. "You're their daughter, Bryn. The teams, military or otherwise, are deadly work. Even if you're the best in the world, bad shit happens. Did to me."

"I froze. That was my fucking moment, and I froze. I guess they're right, huh?"

“Not for that, nah. Promise you, every one of them uncles will tell you how they froze at some point. And when it really counted, when your skin was on the line, you did what you had to do. Like a fuckin' pro, love. They'd be proud."

“Proud? I don’t think so, Rush.” I shake my head, eyes blurring. "I ran away like a spoiled brat. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. After all my parents have been through, I pull that fucking childish stunt?" I bury my face in my hands, unable to stop myself from crying. "God, I'm the worst."

His cell phone appears in my eyeline. "Call 'em."

"What?" I lift my head, blinking away tears.

"Past time for playing about, Bryn. They're way past angry and into into full-on panicking by now, I'll bet. They're involved. Call and ask for help."

Goddammit.

I hold the phone, but don't dial. I stare at him. "Why did you change your mind? What changed?"

He sighs, leaning against the window, driving with his right wrist draped over the steering wheel. "Call 'em. Set something up to get that chip out your fuckin' neck or wherever the dozy pillocks put it. Then I'll tell you everything."

"Everything?"

He nods. "Every last sordid, cocked-up, bastard detail, Bryn."