Page 5 of Delta (Alpha #12)

O w.

Everything hurts.

Why does everything hurt?

My skin hurts. My muscles hurt. My head hurts. Even my hair hurts. Did I get wasted again? I don't remember…what do I remember?

Skiing with the boys in Switzerland. The bar, the fight, sneaking out. The driver. The club. Dancing. Going to the bathroom. The selfies with those girls.

The hallway.

A girl being kidnapped. Trying to stop it.

Getting tased or stun-gunned.

I crack one eye open: a window, through which I can see precisely nothing—it's night, and pitch black. But I do get the impression that I'm on a train.

Why am I on a train?

I hear something—a shuffle, a breath. Holding stone-still, I open my other eye; I feel wobbly, thick-headed, and sluggish.

Yes, I’m in a train compartment, and I'm not alone.

There are two men and one woman. The men are asleep sitting up, heads nodding; They're both in their late thirties or early forties, pudgy and unfit but strong-looking, greasy, unshaven, unwashed—the men from the hallway.

The compartment smells of body odor and old cigarette smoke clinging to clothes that haven't been washed or changed in who knows how long.

They're both white men, and I remember thinking that they spoke a Slavic language or something, but I don't know for sure. I’m no polyglot like so many of my extended A1S family.

The girl—she's about my age, so a young woman rather than a girl—is white as well, with long, fine, straight blond hair, pale skin, a few freckles.

She's curled up away from the man beside her, so I can't tell much about her other than, like me, she's dressed for the club in a tiny red miniskirt and a sheer black top with black tape in an X over her nipples.

No shoes. No bag. Come to think of it, my bag is gone, too.

Which means I have no phone, no money, no ID. I'm dressed in a skanky little outfit with no shoes, I've been drugged, and I'm on a train going who knows where.

This is not good.

I really, really, really fucked up. The boys don't even know I'm gone. Neither do the guys. Or my parents. They'll find out eventually, but it'll take Lear's expertise to track my movements.

I can't bank on being rescued at the last second by my family. I mean, they'll rescue me eventually. But in the meantime, anything could happen. And by anything, I mean rape and murder.

Plus side: I'm not bound. I wonder if I could just sneak out? And go where? I'm on a fucking train in the middle of nowhere at night. Barefoot. In a skanky little skirt.

The girl across from me shifts on the seat, moaning as she rouses to consciousness. Beside her, the man cracks an eye open, peers at her, and then closes the eye.

So, they're not sound asleep. Sneaking out likely wouldn't be an option anyway.

I close my eyes to the point that I can see through the hazy flutter of my eyelashes, considering my situation, what led to it, and what to do about it.

I've been at odd ends for a while. Killy has taken an interest in the family business, training with Dad's underlings in hand-to-hand combat, close quarters combat, room clearing, intelligence gathering, recon, off-grid operations, surveillance…

everything he'll ever need to know to eventually take over Alpha One Security if and when Dad ever retires.

I've expressed interest, but Dad won't let me do any of the fun stuff. I mean, I’ve done all that stuff, too. I’m damn good at it. But he won’t put me on any real missions. He wants me to work with Uncle Lear on computer operations.

I’ve done recon training, intel gathering and processing, self-defense, off-grid stuff, room clearing, and firearms training. Top marks in all categories, according to Uncle Duke and Sasha.

"You're not ready, emotionally," Dad says.

The fuck does that mean?

And Killy is? Killian still thinks crop-dusting me is peak humor.

I want to learn how to be an A1S badass like everyone else I know, but I'm not emotionally ready? Sure.

Not that I'm bitter.

I wouldn't need fucking bodyguards that I have to sneak away from if they'd teach me what I need to know. Or rather, I don’t need the bodyguards because I do know all that shit.

What, because I'm a fucking girl I can't be a badass? What about Auntie Cuddy? Or Mom? Mom is a certified badass.

That was circumstantial, she said. She told me she hoped I'd never need to learn the way she did.

Well, guess the fuck what, Mom ? Here I am, up shit creek, alone, learning the way you did. Must be a family trait, like the curly hair and brown skin.

I recognize the burn of anger in my gut, and I'm cognizant that letting anger take over is a bad plan, so I let my eyes close all the way and try to release some of it.

The train sways as we round a long, sharp curve.

One of the men lets out a long, bubbly, wet-sounding fart, and a few moments later the compartment is choking with the godawful smell of it. The other man rouses, leans forward, and kicks his companion in the thigh, grumbling and cursing at him in whatever language they speak.

This starts an argument with lots of wild gesticulations, and both men end up on their feet, nose to nose, all but barking at each other. At any moment, I expect them to bust out their dicks and a ruler. Or maybe start throwing down—that’d be better. I could use the distraction to escape.

I sneak a glance at the other girl—like me, she's pretending to be asleep, but I see her eyes slitted, watching the men bickering.

After a while, their tempers cool and they each retreat to their side of the compartment, petulantly turning away from each other like scolded children.

The girl and I trade eye rolls: Men . Ugh.

The man next to the girl pulls out his phone, leaning against the window and scrolling idly. The man beside me seems content to just…sit there. Freak.

After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes of scrolling, the man opposite me rotates his phone to landscape, resting it on his thigh.

I hear dialogue; obviously, I have no idea what’s being said, but…

god, how do I explain it? Even in a language I don't understand, it just sounds like bad acting.

Lines being recited stiffly and woodenly.

And then…a female moan. A male grunt. A gag. Wet slurping sounds. Another gag. A male voice growling something that's probably a version of "oh yeah, baby, take it all."

The jackass is watching porn. Just, like, in public, volume up, no earbuds, with three other people mere feet away.

Dude, really ?

The girl and I widen our eyes at each other in disbelief.

I want to laugh, but I don't dare.

He watches the whole video, and we're treated to every gag, slap, slurp, squelch, and scream. Ah yes, porn, the ASMR version. Lovely.

Things take a worrying turn, however, when the porn-watcher reaches into his pants and adjusts his junk…lengthily. Rhythmically.

The other man says something that sounds like "What the fuck, dude? For real?" Followed by a gesture at the door, as in, “Can't you do that in fucking bathroom?"

Grumbling, Porny McGee lumbers to his feet and shuffles toward the door; his hard-on bulges against his zipper, and he gives it a rub over his jeans.

And then, the nightmare begins.

He looks back at the girl on the bench. Speculative, greedy. Evil.

No, no, no.

My heat starts pounding in my chest, and I can see the girl's hand clenching into a trembling fist. A tear trickles down her nose.

The other man, still seated, sees what's happening and mutters something. Porny McGee gestures at the girl and then his dick.

Seated thug gestures at his face—it seems like a "you can't fuck up her face" sort of thing.

And then Porny McGee stomps back across the compartment, grabs the girl by the wrist and yanks her to her feet. She thrashes, starts to scream, and the man slugs her in the gut. Her eyes bug out, and she goes limp, gasping and gurgling, bile dribbling down her lips.

I lurch to my feet, unable to do nothing. The man beside me grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me back down to the bench; before I can so much as blink, the sharp, cold point of a pocketknife is pricking my throat.

"You sit, extra girl," he snarls at me. "Or you next."

The girl's eyes met mine, pleading, as the thug drags her from the compartment.

Once in the swaying hallway, he drags her to her feet and slings an arm around her waist, hauling her against him, laughing as he paws her ass; to an onlooker, it would appear as if they're a couple who can't wait to get to the toilet so they can get it on.

Nausea curdles in my gut, but I don't dare even breathe. When he's satisfied I'm not going to try anything, my captor removes the knife from my throat, but doesn't put it away.

My throat burns, vomit boiling behind my teeth, rage and horror warring for dominance within me.

I'm next.

It's only a matter of time. This isn't an adventure. No one is going to save me.

What did Mom always tell me?

I'll never, ever beat any man pound for pound, strength for strength. I have to rely on my wits, courage, and ruthlessness, as well as my superior speed and reaction time.

Women are faster. Our reaction times are exponentially better than a man's. And when we have to, we can be far crueler and infinitely more vindictive than any man could ever dream of being.

I understand now, Mom.

I hesitated back in the club because I didn't know I had to kill him. I saw him as a human. A life. I didn't have the conviction that it was him or me.

Now, I do.

This isn't hot, mindless, reactive anger I'm feeling.

This is cold, calculating hate.

Thoughtful, methodical, brutal rage.

That man is going to die, and I'm going to kill him. And it’s not going to be pretty or quick.

I wait for him to bring the girl back, and I think back to the self-defense lessons given to me by…well, a variety of people.