Page 35 of Delta (Alpha #12)

"Rush, you don't have to even ask. This is what we do, and we're the best in the world at it.

We'll get your daughter back and we'll make Pugli pay for his sins.

And you can trust me when I say I'm not going to be leaving justice up to the courts.

" Harris's voice is cold and vicious. "I have assets in the UK mobilizing as we speak.

Give me an address and they'll start the investigation.

I've got Lear doing his thing—he'll be able to track their movements and give us a place to start. "

"I can't wait for an investigation, Harris," I snap. "I need to find my daughter. I need to find Pugli."

"You can't do both, son." His voice is stern but not unkind. "You're gonna have to trust us to handle one of them. You call it. Are you going after Pugli or your daughter?"

I look at Bryn—the guilt ravaging her beautiful face is utterly heartbreaking. "I trust Bryn and she trusts you. If you can promise me you'll track her down and get her to safety, then I’ll take the promise and go after Pugli."

"Rush, you have my vow—as a man, as an operator, and as a father, I will personally rescue your daughter. I'll find her, I’ll kill those who took her, and I won't let her out of my sight until she's back in your arms."

My throat is hot and tight. "That's good enough for me. Get me a lead on Pugli."

"Done. You'll have something shortly."

"Harris, sir—"

"Save it, son. I know who you are and what you do—I've had a better look at your file, and even with what's been redacted, it's obvious you're one hell of an operator.

So now it's time to do what we do. Set your personal feelings aside.

Trust me and my men to do our jobs, and you do yours.

And right now, you have one fucking job: hunt down and kill Roberto Pugli. "

When you've spent the kind of time I have in the military, you automatically respond to the tone of authority. This man's voice snaps with that authority. I find myself straightening. "Sir, yes sir."

"Good man. Now. Hang up and keep this phone ready. And tell my daughter…" There's a significant, heavy pause. "Tell her Daddy's on the job. And for god's sake, son, take care of her."

“With my life, sir."

"Harris, out." Click.

Even in the circumstances, I can't help but find it funny that the man ended the call with "Harris, out."

Bryn notices my half-hearted sniff of laughter. "He said it, didn't he?" She shakes her head, bemused. "He can't help it. Mom and I have both told him repeatedly how cringey it is when he ends a call with 'Harris, out', but he just can't help himself."

I take her hand. Hold her gaze. "It's not your fault, Bryn. I don't blame you."

The humor in her eyes and voice evaporates. “Yeah, well…I do."

"I know. But you shouldn't. There's no one to blame but the people who did it." I scrub my face. "I should've known better. I should've hidden her or gotten one of my old mates to watch the house or something. I didn't do nothin'. I underestimated how evil that man is."

"Will he…" she stops, shuddering. "I can't even think it."

'Will he actually hurt her?" I nod, shrugging.

“Got to assume he will. The stories I've heard?

I heard one about this gypsy lad who crossed Pugli, tried to investigate him, take him down.

Pugli hogtied him, pried his eyes open, and made him watch as his wife and infant children were burned alive in front of him. "

Bryn covers her mouth, shakes her head. "My god, no. What? How can—how could anyone do that?"

"Mankind is capable of incredible acts, Bryn," I say. "The worst evil and the greatest good. And Pugli takes a twisted sort of joy in being the evilest cunt who ever lived."

"I know you're British and it's different over there, but I really hate that word," Bryn says. “In this case, however, I'll make an exception."

"Your dad told me to tell you he's on the job, by the way."

"Alpha One Security is the best in the world at recovering kidnap victims," she says. "It's how Dad got his start. Well, that and working for Uncle Val."

I can't help a snort. "I'm not sure I'll ever not find it amusing that you refer to the richest man on the planet as Uncle Val."

"So what do we do?" she asks, ignoring my non-sequitur about Valentine Roth.

"Your dad is getting us a lead on Pugli's location. We go after him."

She nods. "Good. Dad will take care of Eliza. You can count on that. He's never once failed."

That does make it a bit easier to breathe, but I won't be able to take a full breath until I’ve got Eliza back in my arms.

It ends up being two hours later before Lear pings over a last known location, along with a contact number for Alexander, who has been brought in to help so Lear can focus on finding Eliza.

Within forty minutes of receiving that message, I've stolen us another car and we're heading out of Barcelona—Pugli is heading for Italy and Lear thinks he knows where he's going. We just have to get there first.

Alexander helps us evade border security, taking us into Italy via a long, slow, circuitous route, which I take at ill-advisedly fast speeds. Bryn says nothing, just stares out the window, stewing.

Blaming herself.

I know the feeling—I blame myself, as well.

Pugli's destination, as best Lear can figure, is a country estate in Tuscany.

It's another beautiful place that we've no time or emotional space to appreciate—I blast up and down the hills at breakneck speeds, pushing the battered old Lancia I stole to its limits.

We're only half a dozen or so miles from the estate when the sat phone rings.

Bryn answers it, puts it on speaker. "What's up, Uncle Lear? You're on speaker."

"Perfect. I have some updates. The original six are en route via hypersonic jet to Europe.

I've tracked the van the kidnappers took Eliza in across the Channel.

They're heading east. We have Sasha on the ground with two more fire teams loaded for bear.

We have a plan, and will intercept them.

" He pauses, typing. "Second, I’ve confirmed that Pugli is arriving at his estate in Tuscany as we speak. You two are not to engage on your own. He traveled with at least thirty men; I have eyes in the sky on his estate now, and I’m seeing at least that many more.

No matter how badass you may be, Rush, that's beyond any one man's ability to deal with.

And Bryn, I know you've done some training, but—"

"If you think for one bloody fucking second that I'm gonna sit on my bloody fuckin' hands while those cunts have my bloody fucking daughter, you ain't been payin’ attention to the sort of bloke I am, mate."

Lear hesitates. " Sixty men, my guy. I've got RMI crews en route to your location as we speak—they're coming from Rome via Osprey. Just…be smart. You do your daughter no favors by dying. She'll need her dad when this is over, Rush."

"RMI?" I echo. "As in Johnny Raze and that lot?"

“Yes."

"Fuck me, you bastards are well fucking connected, ain'tcha?"

"Yes. We are." Lear pauses, typing again.

"Raze's crew is led by Chico. I know him personally, and he's a hard-ass motherfucker who also happens to have four daughters.

When I tell you he's pissed off on your behalf, you should be very, very glad he's on our side.

He says they're thirty minutes out from target. "

"I've heard stories about that lad," I mutter. "Be glad to work with him." I scrub my face with one hand as I pull over onto the shoulder. "Fuck me. I'll wait thirty minutes, but if I've not heard from you by then, I’m dealing with these fuckos myself."

"Not by yourself," Bryn snaps. “If you think you're going in without me, you haven’t been paying attention."

Lear chuckles. "Yeah, good luck with that one, kid. Bryn doesn't do 'no.'" He hums, thinking sound. "Oh, by the way, when you see Chico, tell him Cuddy says fuck you."

"Will that get my block knocked off?" I ask.

"Preface it with 'Cuddy says' and you should be fine."

“ The Cuddy is your wife ? Jesus," I mutter. "Wound up in the Premier League, haven’t I?”

"Alright, kids," Lear says. "That's it for now.

I'll give you a heads up when Chico and company are close.

Sit tight, don't forget to breathe, and remember that Pugli himself doesn't have your daughter.

We'll have her in hand…" he goes quiet as he consults something or other on his end.

"By eighteen hundred at the latest, according to current data. "

"The second you know anything about Eliza," I say.

"The very instant, Rush. Trust us. This is what we do."

"Well, what I do is violence," I say. "And I'm about to fuckin' pop. So your boy Chico had better be here on time or I'll take out these sick fucks with my bare fuckin' hands."

"I hear you. Thirty minutes."

The call ends, then, and I'm left antsy, agitated, and fidgety—my pulse hammers with anticipation and fury, making each second last hours.

When thirty minutes nears, I'm pacing circles around the old Lancia as the late afternoon Italian sun beats down mercilessly, sat-phone in hand.

Eighteen hundred hours, the man said. I check my watch yet again—sixteen-thirty. Almost two hours to go, still. Fuck.

Knowing Pugli, he wants to do the honors himself, so my guess is that Eliza is unharmed for now. And as long as she stays out of Pugli's hands, she should stay that way.

But Pugli won't live long enough to know anything's gone wrong.

Exactly thirty minutes on the dot from Lear's update, I hear the distinctive sound of an Osprey—it's flying low and fast, skimming the hilltops like a dragonfly.

It roars overhead, flares to a halt, the rotors rotating upright to let it hover and then descend.

Its door opens and ten figures clad in full battle rattle emerge, jogging toward us.

The lead figure is short and stout, carrying a black duffel bag that looks heavy from the way he's carrying it.

Once the men are on the ground, the Osprey takes off again and is gone in a cloud of swirling dust.

The lead figure approaches me; he's brown-skinned, with a shaved head and a thick black beard. His dark eyes are hard and restless, scanning our surroundings, taking in the things operators take note of—possible cover, where an ambush might come from, where you'd dig in for a prolonged firefight.

He drops the bag at his feet and extends his hand to Bryn first. "Miss Harris. I am Chico. I know your father and mother." His accent is Latin American. "I am hearing that there is a sick fuck who has stolen an innocent child."

I step toward him, give him my hand. "Chico, I'm Rush. And you heard right—Pugli kidnapped my daughter."

"Pugli?" His expression darkens with fury. "I hear of him. He is a bad, bad, bad man. I am glad to be part of killing someone so evil as him." He indicates the bag. "I bring goodies. Tony, what is the latest intel?"

A tall bloke with a nasty scar curling his upper lip into a permanent sneer steps forward, tablet in hand. "Same as before, sir." His voice makes him from the American South. "No movement, no additional arrivals, no departures. An estimated sixty targets."

I'm rummaging in the bag—there's vests, assault rifles, mags, sidearms, shotguns, grenades, flashbangs, NV headsets…he brought the goodies alright. I speak while sorting out my kit. "What's the target like? I assume he's got defensive measures of some sort."

Bryn is alongside me, pulling on a vest and choosing weapons.

Tony answers. "Bet your ass he's got defensive measures. Walls around the house, for one. Fuckers posted at the corners, the gates, all over the place. No easy in, that's for damn sure."

"We will get closer and do some recon," Chico says. "But I think we will have to come up with some kind of clever plan. We are too few to directly assault this place."

“Well then," I say. "Let's get clever, shall we?" I pause, a hand on Chico’s shoulder. “By the way, Lear told me to tell you Cuddy says ‘fuck you.’”

Chico gives me a flat stare, and then bursts into laughter. “Oh, Cuddy. I miss that loca putana .” He hesitates. “Please do not tell her I called her that.”

Yeah, nah. Not on your life, mate. I’ve heard the stories.

Pugli is no one's fool. He expected us. This place ain't an estate, it's a small fuckin' fortress is what it is.

He's got men posted on the walls with sniper rifles covering all lines of approach, and there ain't no cover to be had for miles in any direction.

More men patrol the grounds beyond the walls in ranged patrols.

I'd also wager he's got a bloke on the inside with a shoulder-launched SAM or some shit like that in case we decide to try and fast-rope in.

Once we've established the situation, we retreat half a click further back to come up with a plan.

"So, as you said, a direct approach is suicide," I say to Chico. "Using the Osprey to get closer is risky too—I wouldn't put it past the bastard to have some sort of defenses in place against aerial attacks." I give Chico a long, hard look. "So, mate, what's our clever plan, then?"

Chico stares into space over my left shoulder, gaze vacant as he considers the problem.

I can almost see the wheels turning in his shrewd brain.

Definitely not a bloke I want to be on opposite sides of, I can tell you that without having watched the man work.

Sometimes, you can just get the measure of a person at first meeting.

And, as advertised, this is a hard, confident man who knows what he's about.

"Guerilla warfare, I think," Chico says.

"Pick off their snipers, for a start. Pick off the roving patrols.

Keep them wondering where we are. Draw his men out.

Perhaps even draw him out, force him to try to flee this place, and then when he does?

" He mimes firing a shoulder-mounted rocket. "He dies. Bada-boom."

"Right, so we split up into groups," I say. "Surround the place and make him wonder how many we have."

"What if he doesn't come out?" Bryn asks. "What if he's set up to be able to outlast exactly this kind of thing?"

"We pick off his men until we have cut away his numbers and we can attack," Chico answers.

"It is not the fastest solution, but it is the one that prevents us from wasting our lives.

We can get supply drops from our Falcon One—food, water, ammunition, things like this. He can maybe last, but so can we."

"Well then," I say. "Let's pick teams and start doing violence."