Page 50 of Delta (Alpha #12)

"Well, then either you're not his kid and there's something else fucky going on, or you are his kid and you don't know.

I wonder if your mama knew." I sigh. "No matter.

Not like she can tell us, now, huh?"Ren draws his knees up to his chest and stares out the window.

I wish I could comfort him, but…how? Even if I spoke perfect Spanish and we weren't fleeing for our lives from not one but two deadly foes, what do you say?

The kid watched someone blow his mother's brains out in front of him.

What do you say to that? How do you comfort that?

I drive until my eyes cross. Ren fell asleep at some point. I need to pee, I’m thirsty, I'm hungry, and we're running out of gas—the tank was less than half when we got in, and these big Range Rovers are thirsty.

I have no money. No cell phone. My hands are bound by law enforcement-grade zip ties that make me look like an escaped convict or something, and I'm driving a stolen car with a shot-out window.

Well, wait—do I have the cash I stuffed in my bra back in…

Europe somewhere? I drive with my knee and pat my boobs—no.

Must have fallen out one of the times Rush and I got busy.

Ugh. I mean, it was euros, so it's not like a random gas station in Buttfuck, Texas would've accepted it anyway.

Fuck. So what do I do? Ask for help? Go to a police station?

I don't trust that someone as connected to law enforcement as Pugli can't easily buy the services of the local sheriff's department.

Or Mercado, for that matter, especially this close to the boarder—guys like that tend to have their fingers up the assholes of cops and politicians everywhere around here.

Likely as not, I'd go to a cop for help and get locked up until Mercado or Pugli show up and plug me right there in the cell.

So no, I can't risk that.

The car dings at me, alerting me that our fuel level is low.

It'd be stupid to let this thing die on the side of the freeway, though.

Might as well put a big flashing neon arrow over my head as do that.

So, off the freeway we go and into the pitch-black void of the Texas night.

The wind noise fades as I slow around the off-ramp and then stop at the two-way intersection.

To the left, I see the orange glow of a Shell Station sign, a Taco Bell, and a few other places now closed for the night.

I have no confidence that I'm doing the right thing, but what else can I do?

I have no idea where to go or what to do, I just know I can't risk the Range Rover dying on the side of the freeway—the pursuit I know for a fact is after us will see us and it'll be over that much faster.

I head for the Shell station and pull up to a pump. Ren wakes up, looks around, sleepy and confused, but follows me inside without a word.

The person behind the counter is a young dude, a few years younger than me, bored-looking, wearing a battered camo hat with a plug of chewing tobacco bulging his bottom lip.

He has his phone propped up on the counter next to his cowboy-booted feet.

When we enter, he glances at us but doesn’t otherwise move or greet us.

When I stop at the counter, he deigns to look at me. "Help ya'll?" His thick Texas drawl makes it sound like he'p yawwwwl .

I hold up my bound hands. "My boyfriend and I got carried away, and then we got into a fight and…" I wince in what I hope looks like embarrassment. "Nowhere's open. I just need scissors or clippers or something. Can you help me out?"

His eyes narrow. "Lady, ain't no scissors in the world gonna cut them off ya'll. Them is po -lice ties." .

"There's an auto garage right there," I snap, my patience at an all-time low. "There's got to be wire cutters or something."

"Closed. Ain't got the key."

"Fuck, man." I lean forward. "Look. I'm in trouble. It's not the law, though, so it won’t blow back on you. I just need help. Please."

His frown deepens. "Trouble is trouble, law or not. I don't want none of that. Buy something or get out."

"Goddammit," I hiss. "Fine. Have it your way."

Like an idiot, I left the gun in the car. So I march back out, grab it, and march back in. Point it at him. "Now you've got trouble with me . Find the fucking cutters, my dude. Now . Do not fucking test me."

His eyes fly wide. "Alright, alright, Jesus, lady. You on the rag or somethin'?"

Disbelief leaves me stunned for a solid ten seconds. "Are you stupid? You’ve got to be legitimately stupid to ask me that." I fire, putting a round into the counter near his foot—he jerks away, toppling backward out of his chair and hitting the ground in a tangled sprawl of limbs.

He comes up choking on his chew, gagging, staggering to his feet, bent over. He pukes brown tobacco juice everywhere. My stomach roils at the sight and scent of it.

"Fuck, lady," he rasps. "I was just fuckin' with you."

"Pro-tip, dumbass—don't ever ask any woman that question again. Especially not one who has a fucking gun .” I flick the gun in the direction of the darkened auto garage.

"Clippers. Now . I won't kill you unless you give me a reason, but I swear to fucking god, if you fuck with me, you'll regret it for the rest of your short, pathetic, stupid little life. "

"I got it, I got it," he mutters.

He goes right in and flicks on a light—it wasn't even locked? My god. What an idiot. I'm sure Texas is filled with a lot of very smart people, but this kid ain’t one of them.

He’s gone for a few minutes, the sound of clanking tools echoing from the garage. He trots in, triumphantly wielding a massive pair of wire cutters, as in the type used for clipping through very large locks. But, they'll do the job.

I level the gun at him. "Cut 'em off. Try not to be stupid."

He wedges the mouth of the cutters sideways against my wrists, managing to snag one end of the tie with the jaws. Click—one hand is free. He repeats the action on the other side, and my hands are free.

He backs away, holding the cutters. "You know we got cameras, right? Cops are gonna find you."

"Cops are the least of my worries, kid." I sigh, annoyed. "Look, I don't want to do this, but I'm going to have to ask you to get us a few bottles of water and some protein bars or something."

"Just…don't shoot me, alright?" He holds up his hands, the cutters in one hand still. He sets them on the counter and then goes to the fridge case and gets two big bottles of water and a handful of protein bars.

"You need gas, too?" he asks. "Already shot up the place, held me at gunpoint, and robbed me. Might as well fill up the gas while you're at it." I gesture at him. “Good idea. Go to it."

He goes behind the counter, glances to see which pump I’m at, and does whatever he has to do to get the pump going. He’s rounding the counter when headlights rake the windows, tires squealing.

He stops, frowning. "Um. Think you got company, lady. And it ain't the cops."

The words are barely out of his mouth when gunfire erupts, shattering the glass.

Here we fucking go.

Again.