Page 47 of Delta (Alpha #12)

Duke nods, clapping me on the shoulder; again, it's like having an anvil give me friendly crushing; as I’ve said, I'm not a small man nor a weak one, but these blokes are just built different. "Feelings are tricky little fuckers, bud. The more you try an' ignore 'em, the more insistent they are."

"Tricky little fuckers, indeed," I echo, getting weirded out by the immediate familiarity with which these men are treating me.

Puck puffs on his cigar and then plucks it from his jaw, rests a hand on Thresh's mammoth arm to balance himself while he stubs it out on the heel of his well-worn combat boot, and then pops it back in his mouth, unlit.

"He's still in the denial phase, Dukey-Doo.

You can tell he's scared shitless of the weird, squishy feelings.

" He strides toward the SUV nearest us. "Let's go, young blood. Assholes don't kill themselves."

Duke stares after his friend with a pissed off expression darkening his features. "Little fucker. Told him a billion times to stop calling me that."

"It's Puck, bro," Thresh rumbles. "Listening is not one of his top attributes."

"I ain't afraid of the weird, squishy feelings," I mutter. "It's just new. And weird. And squishy."

Duke laughs at this. "Can't fight it, kid." He gives me a playful shove toward the SUV. "She forgive you?"

"Yeah."

"Then you're fucked.” He grins at me. “May as well just accept your fate as a kept man, now, kid.”

I climb into the third row to make room for the two massive bodies that are Thresh and Duke; Thresh, in particular, has to hunker down with hunched shoulders and a ducked head, even with his knees drawn up like a grown man sitting in one of those little kid seats at the library.

Puck is driving, Harris is in the front seat next to Puck, and Anselm is in back with me; the RMI guys take up the rest of the SUVs, behind ours.

"How'm I fucked?" I ask.

Duke just laughs. "Bro, c'mon. You tricked, lied, and manipulated her into the hands of a notorious trafficker in all things nefarious. A woman isn't going to just forgive that unless she's in love with you. Not even Bryn."

"Whassat mean, not even Bryn?"

"Oh, well, she's just…she burns hot, temperamentally.

Gets pissed off easily, but forgives and forgets just as easily.

Like her mama. You just don't want to get on her bad side, because if you do manage that, she won't ever forget.

" Duke rolls a shoulder. "Bryn is super understanding, kid.

Open-minded. Caring. But not especially given to handing out her heart.

She's never brought a guy around, except Zero. "

The Suburban goes quiet, then.

"R-I-P, Zero," Puck says. "You were a one-of-a-kind weirdo."

"She hasn't said much about him," I say. "Just that he died in a car accident not long before the wedding."

Harris sighs. "It's hard for her to talk about. He’s hard for her to talk about. We all got worried about her when that happened. She'd lived a pretty damn charmed life till then. Zero was…" he sighs again, shakes his head. "He was cool. I don't say that lightly. He just had this way of…I dunno."

"You wanted to hang out with him," Duke says. "He was one of those people that just has music inside them. It was as much a part of him as his name or his hands or whatever. He could play just about anything. Just pick it up and play, whatever it was."]

"Took some of us a bit to accept him for her," Puck says. "He was fuckin' weird. Goofy. Unpredictable. Fuckin'… zany . But yeah, he was the epitome of effortlessly cool. She loved the shit outta that boy. She was damn near ruined when he died. Didn't smile for months.”

"Layla had to physically drag her out of bed and force her to shower and eat," Harris answers, his voice heavy with memory. "We forced her to talk to a therapist. She hated us for that, but when she realized it was helping, she threw herself into it."

"That and training," Duke says. "She must've spent hundreds of hours at the range, practicing room clearing, sparring, stripping weapons, and all that shit."

"She's like both of us in that sense," Harris answers. "Needs to stay busy to cope. She was happy as a clam touring with Zero, acting as his manager and assistant, making his life easier so he could focus on music. When that ended, she didn't know who she was or what she wanted anymore."

"I think she's found it," I say.

Harris turns to look at me. "Meaning?"

I gesture at the occupants of the Suburban.

"This. The family business. I say this as an operator, not someone who's got feelings for her—she's a goddamned bloody natural at this shit. Cool under fire. Doesn’t hesitate—except that once, and we all know how that goes.

She does what needs doing, learns fast, and listens. Her aim is fuckin' spec tac ular."

Harris thuds his head against the headrest. "Wonderful."

I laugh. "Not happy with that news, ey?"

He rolls his head against the headrest. "Would you want your daughter to follow in your footsteps?"

I consider that. "Fuck no."

"Exactly."

"You have men watching them, yeah?" I ask. "My girl and her grandparents."

"Six of them. The house is being renovated after what happened, so Val sent them to Disney World. Private jet, armed escort, line passes, the works."

I lean forward. "Wait, what?"

He snorts. "Oh, I must've forgotten that part. My bad."

I rest my face in my hands. "I had plans of taking her to Disney World after her treatment." I savagely suppress my disappointment. "Glad she's getting to go, though, even if it's not with me. God, I've got a lot to thank Mr. Roth for, don't I?”

"Son." Harris's voice is surprisingly gentle. "After her treatment, you're gonna wanna take her home and baby her like a princess. Not traipse around that place."

"That place, is it?" I ask. “Not a fan?"

He tips his head to the side. "Eh, not really, personally, but the kids love it.

She'll have a blast. Go right to the front of every ride, eat all the terrible shit there is to eat, meet all the characters.

Good for her grandparents, too. That shit was scary for them, too, y'know.

When it's your time with your girl, please trust me when I tell you that you want it to be simple, easy, and stress-free.

And as the adult, Disney World ain't that. "

"Oh."

The question that repeats in my head the rest of the drive, though, has nothing to do with Disney World, though.

It's much simpler: Where is home?

I've dozed off, apparently. I blink awake as the Suburban pulls into the parking lot of a deserted strip mall—there's a smoke shop, a Thai food place, a chemist—which apparently the Yanks call a drug store—and a resale shop.

There are only a handful of other cars in the lot, making me wonder if these businesses are even still open.

Puck pulls around the back of the lot, passing trash bins and employee cars on the right, a brick retaining wall on the left anchoring a steep hill sparsely dotted with short pines and low shrubs. It looks hot outside.

There are a pair of top-end G-Wagens parked nose-to-tail near the middle of the back lot.

As our parade of SUVs approaches, the two vehicles disgorge seven men, who, speaking in strictly professional capacity, are each more improbably more impressive than the last, regardless of which order you look at them in.

They're massive blokes, hard, capable, and confident.

Operators, like myself, and the men with me.

A minute later, we're standing in a lopsided oval—the Original Six Alpha One men, myself, the seven surviving RMI operatives, and the seven new guys. Fourteen hard men, all pissed off and ready to eat lead and shit gravestones.

"Right, intros," Harris says, taking the lead. "I'm Harris." He points at each of us in turn. "Duke, Puck, Thresh, Anselm, and Rush. Chico? Your guys?"

Chico jerks his thumb at himself. "I am Chico." Like Harris, he points at each man as he names him. "Tony, Ulrich, U-Boat, Larson, Epson, and Stinky."

The one named Stinky is a tall man, closer in age to the A1S blokes, with silvering brown hair and a short beard. "Ask me why they call me Stinky, and I'll fuckin’ shoot your ass."

No one says a word in response—we all know how military nicknames get attached to you. And pro tip, it ain't because you did something badass. I just got lucky because my name is a cool handle. No stupid nickname to make me remember my worst moment.

Harris juts his chin at the new guys. "Solomon?"

A tall, trim, Robert Redford-looking bloke answers. "Right. I'm Solomon. We're the Broken Arrows. This is Rev, Chance, Kane, Lash, my brother Saxon, and my other brother Silas."

Rev is brown-skinned with a wide, black mohawk of tightly-curled hair.

Chance is nearly as big as Thresh, Hawaiian or Polynesian or something, based on the tattoos I can see, though I could be wrong.

Kane is six feet even with a bodybuilder's physique, a blond beard, and a black ballcap.

Lash is shorter, like Puck, and similarly built—wide, broad, and dense, with short black hair and a neat beard; ethnically, I can't place him, as his brown skin and black hair could mean anything.

The brothers are all very similar—over six feet, lean and hard and muscular, the sort of blokes you'd see playing the dashing hero in a Hollywood shoot-em-up flick with big explosions and lots of slow-mo running from said explosions.

Solomon has copper hair, the other two are golden boys.

Harris consults a tablet device. "Right. Now we know our names. Sol, last intel we had put Bryn not far outside Austin, in motion. We know Pugli is here, and we know Mercado is…somewhere, but his men are Stateside.”

Solomon nods. "We have several objectives.

One, rescue Bryn Harris. Second, find Lorenzo.

Third, find Inez. It's likely they're together, and if they are, they'll be going after Mercado.

Fourth, find Beatriz and Little Ren." He has a tablet as well, which he spends a moment tapping and swiping on—a second later, Harris's tablet dings, as does Chico's.

"That's what we know. Lorenzo was with Beatriz and Little Ren in a safehouse in Houston.

That got hit, and Inez tracked them to another safehouse in Austin, which was hit as well by Mercado's men. "

"Shit." Harris hisses a sigh. "Lear just updated me—Bryn's location stopped for a few moments on a highway not twenty minutes from here, and then kept going southwest, roughly in the direction of the border."

"Well, then, let's fuckin' go," Puck says. "We can share intel over the comms."

"Hold up, though," Harris says. "Who are Beatriz, Ren, and Lorenzo?"

“Oh," Sol says. "Right, forgot you don't know.

So, Inez is Mercado's ex. Well, technically they're still married, but she's out for his blood.

Little Ren is their child, who Inez stole from Mercado after his birth.

She hid him with a woman in Colombia named Beatriz, who raised him as her son.

Little Ren doesn't know who his father is, or that Beatriz isn't his mother.

Mercado needs an heir to take over the throne of his narco empire, and he wants Little Ren.

Lorenzo is Inez's…umm…" he glances at his mates.

"Former lover, I guess? An old flame. He's an operator, too, and a damn good one.

He was taking care of Beatriz and Little Ren while Inez tried to take out Mercado on her own, but it seems like Mercado got them first. We haven't heard from him since the hit on the safehouse in Austin, and we're worried about him.

His body wasn't there, and if they'd killed him, it would be, so we're reasonably sure he's alive.

We also don't know where Inez is, but she's…

well, she's our boss. Our leader. And our friend.

She wanted to handle Mercado on her own, but we decided to ignore that order.

She didn't leave us to handle our shit alone, and we're not about to leave her to handle hers alone, either.

Even if she is who the boogeyman has nightmares about. "

Chico is frowning. "The wife of Mercado? You mean Sophia de Silva?”

Sol's gaze snaps to Chico's. "Yes. You know her?"

“Do I know her? No. Do I know of her? Sí.

Before Raze hires me, I work for the Tri-National Anti-Gang Task Force to fight human trafficking.

I make enemies of Mercado's men. They kidnap my wife. I make them talk before I kill them very slow.” He spits on the ground.

"This was many years ago, when I was a very young man.

They speak of Sophia de Silva with…" he trails off, hunting for words.

"Reverence, I think you say. And much fear. "

Solomon nods. “That's her."

"She is no longer cartel?"

"Nope."

Chico's grin is wicked. "May god have mercy on Mercado, in that case, for what I have heard of Sophia de Silva tells me that she will not."

"No," Solomon answers, his voice hard. "She will not. And neither will we."

Harris clears his throat. "Excellent. We’ve cleared that up. I want my daughter back. Let's fucking go, already."