Page 44 of Delta (Alpha #12)

T hanks to Alexander, we know exactly where Bryn is—the techno-wizard extraordinaire was able to remotely undo what he did, somehow.

He tried to explain it, but only Lear followed any of it.

The upshot of it we—the surviving RMI blokes and me—are doing my least favorite thing in the whole bloody damned world: waiting.

We're sitting around in a hangar at the arse end of a shitty, rundown old airfield just across the border in Germany.

It was likely a Nazi staging ground or supply depot back in the second World War.

The hangar, if you can call it that, is little more than an overgrown Quonset hut without a front, open to the elements and stuffed full of derelict aircraft parts.

I'm sitting on an old jet engine manifold, cleaning my rifle with a kit borrowed from Chico.

We're waiting for Bryn's dad to arrive in some sort of fancy super jet that's able to make the trip from France to Germany in a fraction of the usual time.

On board are the legendary original six Alpha One Security members; every operator on the earth knows their names: Harris, Thresh, Duke, Puck, Lear, and Anselm.

The baddest of the bad. Their exploits are damn near mythological, at this point.

Fuck me, I'm nervous.

I get jittery before a firefight, especially if I know I’m going into one. I feel fear when Death brushes up against me.

What I don't get is fucking nervous. Ever.

I wasn't nervous when I stood before Vivian's husband, the DSF; I was scared shitless I was going to be thrown in the brig, or worse— vanished into a blacksite, for example.

Officially, our lot don't use them. Unofficially?

There's always a place where undesirables can be disappeared and questioned using "advanced interrogation techniques.

" I was convinced I'd find myself on the wrong end of such a one.

So yeah, scared shitless. But not nervous.

This is nervous . I'm not afraid—they're not here to kill me, after all. Harris has assured me he knows Bryn's abduction wasn't my fault, and there wasn't shit I could've done to stop it. RMI vouched for that.

I'm just flat fucking nervous. Not just because these blokes are the most legendary operators on the planet, but because they're Bryn's family.

Bryn means something to me.

The longer she's gone, the more obvious that becomes. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to get her back, and I'll gut anyone who tries to fucking stop me. You don't feel that way for someone who's just a fun, easy fuck.

Of course, Bryn was never that. It was always complicated. Now, it's not complicated. She's mine. I'm hers. However you want to put it, that's what it is. I don't use the L-word except with Eliza. But consider it used.

And she's being held by fucking Pugli. To say I'm unhappy is a bit of an understatement.

A low rumble shakes the earth—an approaching aircraft. But this ain't your typical jet, I can already tell by the engine signature. The power of it even at this distance is just fucking bonkers.

The others are standing up, gathering their gear, stretching, doing the things career soldiers do once the hurry-up-and-wait period is finally over.

The rumble becomes an earth-shaking roar that shocks even me, and I've been around the most powerful aircraft any military can field.

The jet that approaches, however, puts all of that to shame.

It actually somewhat resembles an SR-71 Blackbird, the only aircraft I know of that can threaten this thing for speed—at least, that's what Harris told me.

I watch in awe as it shunts toward the ground almost recklessly fast, flaring at the last second to kill airspeed and then touching down as delicately as a butterfly landing on a daisy. Whoever the hell is at those controls is a right fucking master of their craft, I'll say that—a real artist.

Moments later, the long, low, sleek black aircraft—all angles to deflect radar—scuds to a halt outside the hangar, and a ramp at the rear lowers. Chico doesn't wait for a written invitation, jogging toward the ramp with the rest of RMI on his heels. I follow suit, mixing in with the pack.

The ramp leads up to a fairly small cargo space—enough to pack in luggage, gear bags, and shit like that.

Huge black duffel bags are secured to the walls…

six of them. Chico and his guys—and two gals, if you wanna be all politically correct about it, even though I use “guys” interchangeably—find places for their gear and move toward the door in the back wall of the cargo area.

So, I do the same, strapping my carbine with my bag, although I do keep my sidearm in its holster on my right thigh.

Through the door and into a different world.

Everything is white. White carpet, white ceilings with embedded, hidden lighting along the ceilings above the rows of individual captain's chairs. Which are white leather.

"Fuck my eyeballs," I mutter. "Bloody blinding in here, innit?"

I hear a laugh. "I've repeatedly asked Val to redo the interior so it's less…this." The voice is familiar—I've been speaking on the mobile with him regularly: it's Harris himself. "But so far, he thinks I’m being funny. You get used to it."

He's about six feet tall, built lean and rangy, with a buzzed head and piercing green eyes, a short blond beard dusting his jaw.

He's dressed in all black, with a sidearm on his thigh, a tactical knife on the opposite side, and another, smaller pistol in a shoulder holster.

He's in his late fifties, maybe early sixties—it's hard to tell, although I know it has to be closer to sixty based purely on Bryn's age, unless he was quite young when they had her.

His gaze rakes over me, scrutinizing me, assessing me. "Rush Bellamy. Nice to meet you in person."

I shake his hand, going for firm but not trying to prove anything. "You too, sir."

He rolls his eyes. "Harris. I've told you."

I wince. "I know. Habit. You know how it is when you’ve been in the service for a long time. Old habits are hard to break."

He chuckles. "This I know, son. Val was 'sir' to me for years, too.

I started out as his driver and bodyguard.

Eventually, I became his best friend, and now we're more like brothers.

So yeah, I do know how hard it is to kill old habits, especially ones ingrained into you by the military.

" He gestures for me to sit in one of the seats.

"Sit, sit. Mercedes is a stickler for that kind of thing. "

"Who's a stickler for what?" I ask, clicking my belt into place.

"Mercedes. My—well, Val's pilot. The pilot of this aircraft. She won't even taxi until everyone is seated and buckled, and she’s got a monitoring system up there, so she knows.”

I look around. "Everyone seems sat to me."

He raises his voice to address the aircraft at large. "If you are not buckled, please buckle now . We can’t taxi until every seat that bears an ass is buckled."

There's a chorus of clicks; the instant the last click sounds, the engines whine with an increase of power.

Harris grins at me. "Ever fly hypersonic?"

"No, sir."

"Hold onto your tits, kid. This shit is wild . We don't often fly at the threshold of this thing’s capabilities, but this is my daughter we're talking about. Mercedes is under orders to push as hard as she can."

"What is the threshold?" I ask.

"Mach…six? Seven? Somewhere in there. I know Val's got his engineers constantly tinkering with this thing, trying to squeeze every last ounce of speed out of it."

"Mach six ?" I mutter, stunned. "Jesus shits."

He fiddles with something in the armrest of his seat—I look at mine. It’s a small touchscreen with haptic buttons. Seat controls—tilt, recline, bolster, massage, heating, cooling, bed. Wait, bed ?

"What's the difference between recline and bed?

" I ask."Oh. Well, recline means lean back, but not flat.

Bed mode turns the seat into a cot, basically.

Pretty damn comfy, actually. Not that we'll be sleeping this trip.

" He winks at me, clicking his tongue. "Assuming Bryn keeps you, you might get a chance to try it out another time, though. "

Oh. Oh man. That was…weird. Awkward? Nicholas Harris is…awkward? I notice him watching me, though, and I get the impression he's playing a character or something.

Testing me? Checking me out? Seeing how I'll react to Bryn's dad being a bit of an awkward doofus? I mean, who winks at another man? Fucking weird.

When I don't react, Harris bursts into laughter. "Okay, you passed."

I frown. "Huh?"

“Oh, c'mon, kid. Bryn thinks I’m an awkward weirdo. The thing is, I just do it because she's so easily riled up."

"Oh." I sigh. "Sorry, mate. I'm a bit preoccupied."

The humor fades. "I know. You can't dwell on it. You'll go nuts. You gotta save your energy for the hunt, the fight." We've finished taxiing and have turned and halted at the end of the runway. A smooth female voice fills the cabin from hidden speakers. "Prepare for takeoff."

That's all the warning we get, and then the Fist of God smashes me back into my chair.

I flex every muscle in my body to keep the blood flowing as the pressure increases with our building speed.

My vision wavers and blurs, and it feels like my limbs are made of lead.

And that's just the initial burst to hit takeoff speed.

I feel my stomach drop away as we ascend.

Across from me, I see Harris straining to move a finger—he taps the screen in his seat's armrest, taps again, and then a third time.