Page 48 of Delta (Alpha #12)

R en moans now and then, muttering to himself in Spanish.

A lot of the murmurings contain "mamá” however, so I can imagine the kinds of things he's saying.

God, the poor, poor boy. Kidnapped, carted who knows where by these monsters, and then his mom is murdered in front of him.

I can't help but cry for him—and stew in my rage.

After an endless hell of heat, thirst, sweat, and the hum of the road beneath us, the car stops. I hear muffled voices—I can't make out what they're saying.

The hatch opens, and blinding light sears my eyes—I squint, shielding my face with my hands.

"Out," Anatoly says. "No stupid stuff. Let's go." He grabs my arm and yanks.

I stumble, and something inside me snaps. I yank my arm free and kick him in the nuts as hard as I can. "Do not fucking touch me, you piece of shit fucking cock roach," I snarl. "I was just in the trunk of a car for who knows how fucking long, so how about you give me a goddamn second, asshole?"

He whimpers, dropping to his knees. I see Pugli a few feet away, pistol in hand, waiting for me to make a further move. I glare at him. "You need to hire better help, dude." I indicate Anatoly. "This cocksucker isn't worth whatever it is you're paying him."

Pugli sighs. "Don't I know it. But it really is impossible to find good, trustworthy help, these days."

“You know, it's really not?" I answer, making my voice sweet. "I think it's just you."

"Charming." He gestures with his pistol, and I realize we've come to a motel—an off-brand, just-off-the-freeway shithole. "Inside."

It's evening, the sun red and huge and hot as it rests on the flat, endless horizon. The room is standard motel fare—two small beds with cheap, scratchy linens, filthy carpet, popcorn ceilings, a thirty-year-old TV, and a tiny bathroom.

Pugli stands in the middle of the room, looking around in palpable disgust. "What a shockingly vile place."

I snicker. “Not up to my standards, either, Bobby-boy. Couldn't afford anything better, huh?"

He whirls on me, face a rictus of rage. “You will stop calling me that infernal name.

Mercado doesn't much care about what happens to you anymore—your utility to me now rests upon your ability to keep that brat quiet and compliant.

" He stalks over to me, gun in hand. "I am a patient man.

I have no issue waiting as long as necessary to see you properly punished for your impudence. "

I grin at him, a grin I do not feel. "Too bad you won't live that long."

"So you think. But we have surprises in store for your friends, my dear girl. While you were enjoying your stay in the trunk of my car, Mercado and I were planning."

"You mean your new daddy was telling you how it'd go," I say.

He hisses. "My god, the mouth on you, girl." He slaps me, hard—an open-hand slap. It stings like a bitch of course, but I've done full-contact, no-gear sparring sessions with my various uncles, so I can take a man's punch and stay on my feet. His little bitch-slap barely fazes me.

"You'd better learn to curb your tongue, girl.

You really do not want to provoke me." He slips a hand into his pocket and flicks open a long folding knife, pressing the flat of it against my mouth, the razor-sharp blade biting into my lips.

"The next time you speak out of turn, I'll cut your tongue out. "

A small hand tugs on mine. "Bryn? Cállate. Por favor. " I hold still until Pugli removes his knife. "Listen to the boy, Bryn. Shut up. I've tolerated your nasty invective for far longer than I'm accustomed to, and I am swiftly running out of patience."

He paces away to the window, gazing out with distaste. The door creaks open on protesting hinges and Anatoly limps in, hate burning in his eyes. He drags himself to me, hauling out his pistol and pressing it to my temple.

"Anatoly," Pugli snaps. "Put that away, you fool."

The hate in Anatoly's eyes doesn't dissipate when he regards Pugli with a baleful glare. "I have had enough of this bitch. Control her or I will."

I snicker at this. "Okay, then, shit-fucker. You don’t control anyone. Fuck off."

The gun presses harder into my temple, and I lean into him, nose to nose, his foul breath huffing against me. "Pugli doesn't pay me enough to deal with you, bitch."

"Pull the trigger or fuck off, you slimy cock-stain," I snarl at him. "Your breath will kill me if you don't."

Pugli physically drags Anatoly away from me, shoving him across the room to the door. "Go find us food. Preferably something more palatable than the dog food served at American fast food establishments."

Grumbling under his breath in his native language, Anatoly limps out.

Pugli watches him leave and then sits on the edge of the bed, his posture stiff and perfect as he stares at me, slightly shaking his head.

"Your sense of self-preservation is massively atrophied, Miss Harris," Pugli says to me.

"Push that man any further and his reaction will be beyond my ability to curtail. "

"Thanks for the warning, Senor Thesaurus."

Another shake of his head. "You weren't beaten enough as a child and it shows."

“You weren't hugged enough as a child and it shows," I retort.

Renihno tugs on my hand again. I look down at him and he gestures at the bathroom. I walk him that way, but I'm stopped by Pugli's voice.

"I am aware of the window in that bathroom, Miss Harris. You won't get far with a child in tow, and if you attempt to escape, I'll let Anatoly have his way with you while the child watches."

"Yes, I'm aware of your obsession with making people watch horrible things." I flip him off. "Fuck you."

His growl is nearing irate. "Miss Harris, this is your last warning. Your utility is limited."

"And you have no utility, so I'm ahead of you." I flip him off.

God, I really am an idiot. Pissing off these awful, evil, violent, horrible men is a terribly moronic idea. Yet I just can't seem to stop my mouth from running away from my brain.

I take Renihno to the bathroom and turn away to give the boy privacy. He pees for longer than I'd have thought possible for a body as small as his.

He washes his hands, dries them, and then looks up at me with large, tearful brown eyes. " Mamá esta muerta? "

I'm familiar enough with classroom Spanish to know what he's asking. I crouch in front of him and take his hands. Hold his eyes. "Yes, your mama is dead."

" Por qué la mató? ” he asks.

"Why…?" I shake my head. "You're at the limit of my Spanish, kid."

He stares at me. Looks at the door, points. " El hombre malo …"

"The bad man?"=

"Sí. The bad man." He makes a finger gun and points at the ground, and makes a soft explosion sound with his mouth. " Por qué? Mi Mama es buena ."

My eyes burn. "Oh. Why did he kill her?" =

" Sí. No se por qué. Mi Mama es buena. Fui malo? ” His voice cracks at the end.

I gather him against my chest in a hug. “No, Ren. It's not your fault. Esta no…tu…um…problema?"

He manages a tiny quirk of his lips at my godawful Spanish. " No es tu culpa. No es mi culpa. "

" Sí ,” I whisper. " No es tu culpa, Ren . El es malo. That’s the only reason. El es muy, muy malo. ”

A fist pounds on the door. "That's enough. Come out."

"Come on, then." I stand up and take his hand.

We enter the room, and Ren goes immediately to the empty bed nearest the bathroom, curls up on the edge of it, and closes his eyes.

I lounge on the bed next to him, considering my options for getting out of this mess.

Number one, I need to learn how to bite my tongue.

Between Pugli and Anatoly, I'm going to piss one of them off and get myself shot.

The problem here is that controlling my sass has proven, thus far in my life, to be impossible.

Second, I need a plan for what to do once Ren and I are away from these fuckers—killing Anatoly and Pugli will be the easy part.

It's the “what then” that's the sticking point—this Mercado guy has Pugli nervous, at very least. Wary, perhaps, is a better word.

I'm not sure Pugli is necessarily scared of him, exactly, but he's definitely got a healthy respect for him.

Which means I should be terrified. Pugli is the Devil incarnate. In which case, there's a level of evil beyond the devil, and that's where Mercado lives.

Which means, assuming I can kill Anatoly and Pugli, I still have to keep us out of Mercado's clutches. With a terrified, traumatized child in tow, with whom there’s a bit of a language barrier going on.

Working in my favor, however, is the fact that A1S is on the case.

Rush is on the case. They're looking for me, at least. I don't know who this kid is or why he's suddenly so important to Mercado, but I have to imagine if he's involved, people are looking for him.

Hopefully, good people who are dangerous to these very bad people.

My fury is a simmer, bubbling away just beneath the surface, hot and full of seething violence and ready to boil over at any moment. I have to wait. I have to bide my time. I have to keep my fury banked until the moment is right.

Which means I have to stop baiting Pugli.

And then…an idea occurs to me.

A very bad idea.]

But I'm far, far too impatient and reckless to sit around and wait to be rescued.

Anatoly returns a while later with two large brown paper bags filled with white Styrofoam clamshells which contain a variety of Tex-Mex dishes.

Pugli selects what he wants first, and then Anatoly, leaving Ren and me what's left.

Which is fine—there's a chicken quesadilla with beans and rice and a giant burrito, also with a side of beans and rice.

Ren takes the quesadilla and nibbles at it, making the occasional face, muttering to himself in Spanish.

I hear the words "Mamá and "Comida." Mama's food was better, or something like that.

No shit, kid. Tex-Mex from a crappy restaurant in the middle of nowhere can't touch a Hispanic Mama's home cooking.