Page 40 of Delta (Alpha #12)

Bryn is edging around the back of the SUV as if about to make a break for it, but I hold out a hand to stop her. I don't need her here—the doorway isn't big enough for three adults and a scared child.

An RMI operative rises to send a burst over a hood—and takes a slug to the eyeball, rocking backward, dead instantly; an instant later, another operative retreats to the next SUV down the line, leaving Bryn isolated.

Pugli's men sense an opportunity and pop up in unison, laying down heavy fire.

I assume a firing position, one knee up, elbow braced on that knee, sending rounds at the enemy, but that only draws their fire my way—and toward the mother and child.

RMI guys are retreating—the tangos at the rear of our line are all gone, dead or wounded, leaving only the six now working in coordination. Bryn is alone. They're making a play for her.

"brYN! Retreat!" I shout.

"Not without you!" she shouts back.

"I'm fine! Go!" I gesture furiously at the RMI guys scuttling backward as they fire at the enemy—most of their rounds going high.

Stubbornly, Bryn refuses to retreat.

I've nowhere to go.

If I fire, I risk drawing their rounds this way, endangering the innocent mother and child. If I dart out, I'll make it maybe ten steps before I catch a round—the bullets whip back and forth in a thick, whining hail.

And caught in the middle is Bryn.

With Pugli's men advancing.

I peek out—there's another doorway a dozen or so meters further down. I hold the mother's eyes. "When I say go, you take her and you run like hell for that door down there. Understand?"

She nods, scooping the girl up in her arms and cradling her against her chest, crouching at the ready.

A round ricochets off the stone wall near my face, spraying my cheek with tiny stinging shards.

I roll out, raking the enemy line with a long burst. "GO!"

The mother darts out and sprints faster than I'd have thought possible for the indicated doorway, vanishing behind the meager cover just as more bullets whizz past, digging into the road and the wall.

The bastards are shooting at anything that moves.

Fury ignites in me. It's one thing to shoot at another armed combatant, it's another to fire on innocent civilians—women and children in particular.

Bryn rolls out from behind the SUV, firing in a low crouch.

I see it happen—the bullet striking the grip of her rifle, severing the tip of her middle finger.

The rifle goes flying, and she drops to a knee, clutching at her bleeding hand.

Another round smacks the road near her feet.

I fire at the enemy, but they're firing back, and I have to duck.

RMI is doing their best to lay down suppressive fire, but they've got no good angles and they're dragging their wounded with them.

One of Pugli's men makes a break for Bryn, sidearm raised and bucking.

No, no, no. I fire at him, miss, fire again, catch the side of his knee.

He topples, but not before a round from his pistol hits Bryn square in the vest, knocking her backward.

I finish him off, but then I'm taking heavy fire and have to shove myself into the opposite corner, and Bryn is writhing in agony from the close-range strike—she'll be alive but stunned, possibly a bruised or broken rib, depending on where it hit.

They know I'll make a play for her and they lay down a heavy tirade of fire, the rounds divoting and whining and shrieking off the walls and ground near me, keeping me huddled in the corner, helplessly watching as another Pugli's men sprints to Bryn, grabs her by the vest and hauls her across the blacktop.

She fights him weakly, helplessly, the air still knocked out of her.

RMI guys push forward, trying to assist, but it's too late. Pugli has Bryn.

Careless in my fury, I break out of cover, ready to throw my life away to keep Bryn out of their hands, but with bullets whipping past my face and snatching at my sleeve and trousers leg and snapping past my ear, I can do nothing but fire after them as I slam into the body of one of our bullet-riddled SUVs.

They drag Bryn behind their line. I hear her screaming, fighting. A gun goes off, and she goes silent.

A hard, heavy body crashes into me from the side, knocking me sprawling before I can make a break for the enemy line—Chico.

"You cannot, amigo," he murmurs in my ear, pining me to the ground. "They have her, for now. We must regroup."

" You regroup, motherfucker!" I snarl, thrashing in his grip. “Let me go! brYN! brYN !"

"RUSH!" Her voice is faint—I hear the pain, the rage, the fear.

"I'LL FIND YOU!"

An engine howls, tires squeal, and then I know Bryn is gone.

They've left three men to hold us—RMI makes quick work of them, now that we outnumber them.

Chico lets me up—I scramble to my feet and slug him on the jaw. He takes it without complaint. "You know I am right," he says. "But I know also your pain."

"Oh yeah?" My voice is nakedly skeptical.

He nods. "My wife was taken by the cartel. To make me work for them. I rescue her and kill them all…eventually.”

"Shit." I scrub my face, scanning the bloody, writhing bodies. Fucking Pugli.

Full of incandescent rage, I plug Pugli's wounded men from where I stand, finishing them off.

Harris's voice snarls in my ear, fed into my comms somehow by Lear. "What the fuck happened?"

"Ambush," I grit out. "They took Bryn. They have her." I choke, gagging on a hot ball of acidic rage. "I fuckin'…I let it happen."

"He could not have stopped it," I hear Chico say. "It was cleverly done. It was planned, I can promise you this."

"We’ve got no ride," I say, seething. "Everything's all shot to shit."

"I'm tracking them," Lear says. "We'll get her back."

Chico has me by the vest. "You did the right thing,” he says, holding my gaze. “The child. You save her. Bryn would say it as well."

I hear Harris growl a sigh. "The reports I'm hearing say you saved a little girl who got caught in the crossfire and took one to the vest in the process."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't very fuckin' well leave the innocent little thing stood there to die, could I? The fucking shiteaters were targeting her."

"Are you okay?" Harris asks.

"Fucking fine," I snap. "Must have been a ricochet or something, coz we all know these vests can’t stop a NATO round at that range.”

"Bryn was alive when they took her?" Harris asks.

"Yeah. Lost the tip of her middle finger and took a nine mil to the vest, but she was yelling for me.

She was alive." I feel the adrenaline flood out of me all at once, the reality that Bryn is gone hitting me like a mule kick to the belly.

I hit my knees. "I let them take her—I…I let them. I let them."

"Quit hogging all the fucking blame, Rush," I hear Harris snarl. "We've had you chasing that fucker thinking we had him on the run. This isn't on you. You could only have gotten yourself killed, son. All you can do now is sack the fuck up and find a way to get her back."

Chico hauls me to my feet. "Come. We have a plan."

Dazed, I let Chico haul me into a jog.

Pugli has Bryn—it's the only thought rattling in my stunned, exhausted, rage-addled brain.

Pugli has Bryn.

Pugli has Bryn.

Part of me, though, wishes I could be a fly on the wall to see what happens. I doubt he has any clue the kind of tiger he's caught by the tail.