Page 41 of Delta (Alpha #12)

W ell this sucks.

These asshole have me trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, wrists bound behind my back with law enforcement-grade zip-ties, elbows tied together to force my shoulders back.

My finger hurts like a bitch, throbbing and pulsing, smearing blood everywhere.

Not that they care. I'm also gagged and have a smelly burlap sack over my head.

Feet bound, knees bound. No chance of escape; clearly, they're not taking chances of a repeat of what happened on the train.

Word must get around in the small world of villainous henchmen.

Stab a guy in the eyeball one time, and suddenly you're a problem.

The driver is driving like a bat out of hell, squealing around corners, braking hard at the last second and wrenching the wheel, then gunning the accelerator.

The net result is that I, not seat belted and unable to see where we're going or brace against momentum, am tossed this way and that violently, slamming against the window again and again, until my head is pounding.

To say I'm getting pissy would be an understatement.

The next turn throws me across the car, so I land against the guy in the back seat with me.

He pushes me away, but I react out of purely vengeful, childish, rash anger.

I lash out with my head, the only part of me that I have any control over.

I feel something soft crunch under my skull and it’s a very satisfying feeling, so I do it again.

And again.

And again.

As hard as I fucking can, feeling that soft wet something get softer and wetter and mushier.

The car brakes, tires squeal, and the car slews around to a tire-stuttering halt. Click.

Something hard touches my forehead. "You be still. No more."

"FUCK YOU!" I scream. Of course, I'm gagged so it comes out HUH OO , but still. I think he got the message.

The gun barrel presses harder against my forehead. "I am already paid." His voice is low and nasty, with an accent I can't place. "Be still." The gun moves to my knee. "Maybe I don't kill you. Hey? Which are you choosing?"

I don't move.

"Is what I am thinking." A sigh. "Fuck. He is dead?" A long, vicious flood of curses, or what I assume are curses in his language, based on the tone.

A door opens, and then the door back here. I hear rustling, and then the thud of a body falling to the ground. My door opens and I smell too much shitty cologne as my captor buckles me in. The door closes. The other door. The engine howls, tires squeal, and then we're bolting forward.

Holy shit, I killed the guy? With my fucking head? Nice one, Bryn. I feel pretty badass. Wait till Rush hears about that one.

Although now my head is sticky with hot, drying blood.\

Now that I'm not being thrown around the back of the car, I can properly consider my situation.

Clearly, that was a planned ambush. They knew exactly what they were doing.

That little girl was just a poorly timed distraction—Rush couldn't have done anything else, and I wouldn't have wanted him to.

But it did give Pugli's fucktards the chance to isolate me, which I think was the goal all along.

Being hogtied like this definitely makes things harder, but there'll still be an opportunity.

I just have to stay calm and be ready to seize it and make the best of it.

I have to steel myself against what I might endure, also.

No matter what, I have to stay alive. Rush will come for me.

Mom, Dad, my uncles…Pugli really doesn't have a clue what he's done.

Long minutes of this jackass driving like he's a stunt driver in a Tom Cruise movie. Which after several minutes of it, gets pretty tiring and boring.

But what can I do? Not a damn thing but tolerate it.

Eventually, he must feel like he put enough distance between us and my people, because he slows down and drives normally.

This lasts a long, long time. No clue how long, but my joints are sore and my shoulders hurt from the unnatural position, and my finger is on fucking fire. I can't believe my middle finger is missing a piece. No chance of reattachment, either.

I bark a laugh—I'm twinning with Uncle Puck, now. He'll get a kick outta that.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch. Nothing is funny."

"Huh Ooo, ish.”

"I said shut up, bitch.” The gun at my head again.

“Huh ooo, ish. Eye ee."

A disgusted sigh. "I don't know if you are worth the trouble. Maybe I leave you here, hey?"

I shrug. Fine by me.

The gun touches my knee. "Maybe I kneecap you first and then leave you."

Less fine.

I don't react, though.

We've stopped—I missed that, somehow. I hear and feel the earth-shaking roar of a jet taking off. Airport? They sound like civilian jetliners, so it's a public airport.

The door beside me opens, and hard hands haul me out of the car and set me on my feet. The gun presses into the back of my head. "I cut your feet loose, now. I will shoot out your brain, so do not be trying anything."

No promises, my guy.

I hear a knife blade snick open, and then the pressure binding my ankles and knees snaps away. I'm shoved forward.

"Walk." The hands guide me forward. "Stairs."

My feet clomp on steps; I hear jet engines whining nearby, which means I’m getting on a jet. Super.

I fight down the boiling ball of panic that rises in my throat. This changes nothing. They'll find me. They'll rescue me.

Stay calm. Stay alive.

Shaky, wobbly kneed and panting, I stumble forward—the noise from outside is hushed, and then goes muffled as the door closes.

"Anatoly, my god. No need to treat our guest like a savage." The voice is familiar, dark and smooth and dripping with arrogance and superiority.

"She kills Oskar with only her head, sir. While tied up as you see."

"Be that as it may, I feel confident I will be able to handle her. Let me see her face."

I'm shoved down into a luxurious leather seat—a private jet, obviously. The bag is whipped off my head, the sudden light blinding me.

Pugli. Patrician, handsome. Dark hair swept back and glossy. Clean-shaven. Dark eyes vicious and cruel and cold and amused, wearing a stone-colored suit with a white-button down and no tie. "Well, there you are." A sigh. "My god, you really are remarkably beautiful."

If I wasn't gagged, I'd spit in his face. As it is, I stare at him with all the hate inside me. Too bad looks really can't kill.

"Mmm," he hums. "Such fire. Such spirit. I really wish I could break you myself."

I can't help my face betraying my confusion.

He sees it. "Ah, you're wondering where we're going. And, most likely, who will be the one to break you, if not me."

The door to the cockpit opens, and the pilot pokes his head out. “We're ready to take off, sir."

"Very good."

With deft, nimble fingers, Pugli removes my gag, buckles me into the seat, and then buckles himself. A few minutes later, we're roaring into the sky.

I really hope Uncle Lear is watching.

Once we've reached a cruising altitude, Pugli unbuckles himself, but leaves me. \

"I would relish in your suffering, my dear.

Your screams, I think, would be delicious.

But alas, I've found a buyer for you. And what a bargain we've struck, Miss Bryn Eloise Harris.

What a bargain, indeed." His voice is low and smooth and articulate, educated.

Arch and crisp. Subtly accented with his Italian heritage.

When I don't betray my curiosity, he seems annoyed.

"You see, I have a problem. And there is a man across the Atlantic who can help me with my problem. But he, like me, has all the money he could ever want and much, much more. I’m a pauper next to this man.

So what bargain do you strike with a man who has everything?

" He flicks manicured fingers at me. "You cater to his…

tastes. And it turns out this Mercado fellow and I share certain…

predilections. Which is where you come in. "

Mercado? Never heard of him.

I stare at Pugli, waiting for him to keep monologuing at me like a James Bond villain. The pretentious fuck.

"He's quite a big deal, apparently. He controls much of the global drug trade, I'm told, but has recently fallen afoul of a certain organization of…

hmmm…unpleasantly altruistic former soldiers.

Not unlike your own family. So, we have decided to help each other, this Mercado and I.

I'm bringing some of my best men, and I'll help him eliminate his…

problem. He then will help me with mine, which is where our problems intersect.

And this is where you come in. You're a peace offering, of sorts—we're both suspicious men, you understand. Nature of the business and all. You also serve another purpose—bait. Your lot will surely come to save you, and that's when Mercado, relieved of the burden of those pesky…Broken Arrows. And they are pesky—I should know, after all, as I’ve recently tangled with them myself. But Anatoly and his crew will make quick work of them, I’m sure. Right, Anatoly?"

"Yes, boss."

"I've lost my train of thought. Oh, right.

Once Anatoly and friends have rid us of Mercado's and my Broken Arrow problem, we turn our attention to you, your boyfriend, and your family, who, I'm sure, will show up en masse to rescue you. Which is all part of the plan, of course.” Pugli looks at me, licks his lips.

"Once all the killing is over with, Mercado and I will trade.

I give him you, and he gives me a delicious little thing from his part of the world.

" He leans toward me, whispering conspiratorially, as if I were in on his joke.

"When I say I've been craving Mexican, I'm not talking about burritos. "

Oh god, gross.

Bile rises in my throat at how he's so casually discussing human beings like…like a commodity. Something worth less than a bag of French fries.