Page 51 of Delta (Alpha #12)

"V ehicle spotted on the shoulder," Chico says across the comms. "All stop."

Moments later, a couple RMI guys are checking out the truck stopped at an angle on the side of the highway.

Chico glances at us through the windshield.

"One occupant. He was shot in the torso.

There is much blood—he drove away while bleeding.

Passenger door is open, and there are footsteps in the dirt—it looks like a child and a woman, I think.

The driver was shot in the head from close range. "

Solomon’s voice comes from the comms, next. "Let's check it out—this might be Beatriz and Little Ren. RMI, form a perimeter and watch our backs. Arrows, fan out and search the field. Harris, you wanna have your guys come with us?"

Harris's jaw ticks—I don't think he likes taking orders from this Solomon fella. "Roger, copy you.” To us, then. "You heard the man."

We pile out and adjust our gear, although I'm missing an important piece of kit for a night search. "Anyone got a spare torch?"

Puck eyes me. “Ain't the fuckin' Middle Ages, bub. No torches 'round here."

Thresh leans into the open hatch of the SUV, grabs something, and then tosses me a long, heavy, military grade torch.

He glances at Puck in amusement, his gravelly voice shaking with laughter.

"Dumbass. Like you ain't done your share of work with the Brits before.

" His tone goes mocking, imitating Puck’s Southern American drawl.

"'Ain't the Middle Ages, bub, no torches ‘round these here parts. '"

Puck flips him off with his stubby middle finger. "Hey, Thresh, buddy, how about you dig a hole and go fuck yourself in it?”

"Cut the chatter, gentlemen," Harris says, his voice low and even and measured; despite that, both Puck and Thresh go tense.

"Sorry, Hare," Puck says. "You know we're focused." "Yes. I know."

Harris strides out into the field beyond the road. "I'm just not in the mood for the bickering. Every second my daughter is in Pugli's hands is a second she's closer to…" he cuts off with a click of his jaws. "Just scan the fucking field, goddammit."

Puck and Thresh trade looks but say nothing. Everyone except four RMI guys, who stay back to keep watch, forms a search line. We scan the ground in front of us with our torches—flashlights, to the Yanks—looking for anything out of place.

We're maybe a hundred and fifty meters away from the shoulder when I hear a voice call out. "BODY HERE!"

Everyone converges on the other giant guy—Chase? Chance? Chance, I think. He looks godawful pissed. "Why?" His voice is low, shaky with fury. "The woman was innocent in all this. Why kill her?"

"Didn't need her," Duke murmurs. "If all they want is that boy, she's dead weight."

Chance exhales heavily. "Ain't leavin' the poor woman here to rot. She deserves better, even in death."

"Roger that," Chico says. "I have a contact near this place. He will come. Do you know her people?"

"I don't," Solomon answers, "But Inez does. Can you arrange for her to be prepped for burial?"

Chico tips his head to one side. "My friend is not one who buries the dead. He cleans up when those like us have made our messes. He can hold the body until your Inez can make arrangements, though.”

Sol nods. "That works. He’ll be paid."

Chico nods as well, already on his mobile and murmuring in rapid Spanish. A moment later, he hangs up, does something on his mobile, finishes, and pockets it. "He is coming. I pin him this location."

Harris's mobile rings, then. He answers it on the first ring. "Lear." A moment of listening, and then a hiss. "Fuck. Thanks. Send me the coordinates." We all look to him. "Bryn's stopped again, less than twenty minutes from here. We gotta haul ass. I have a bad feeling."

Sol nods. "Mount up! Let's Roll!"

This Solomon cat is a confident leader; even the A1S men snap to at the command, jogging toward the vehicles.

Harris is already halfway there; he's behind the wheel by the time we reach the blacktop.

Seconds later, we're squealing away, and Harris is driving with the needle buried in the ass-end of the speedo.

No one speaks.

We're on the highway for less than ten minutes before Harris pulls onto an exit ramp, tires squealing and smoking as he drifts around the long curve, the big Suburban leaning heavily to one side. Down a long, narrow, two-lane rural highway, empty fields on both sides.

Puck tips his head toward the window, leans forward. Rolls his window down—now I hear it too: automatic weapons fire.

"Fuck, that's them," Harris growls. "Get ready, boys."

We check loads, tighten vests, and exhale a few times. Fiddle with the fire selector switches.

We approach a gas station in the distance, an island of light in the endless dark.

Flashes of muzzle-burst bloom from one edge of the island—too many of them.

You can't reliably count tangos based on muzzle-flash because people tend to move around during a firefight, but you can get a rough estimate.

And my estimate is there's at least a dozen tangos out there, and Bryn is fending them off alone.

"One thing we should have mentioned," Solomon's voice comes across the radio. "Except for Lash, we Broken Arrows don't shoot to kill. We took an oath."

"The fuck?" Puck grumbles to himself, then, across the comms: "Operators who won't kill? Time for a new career, boys."

"Watch us, buddy," a different voice snarls. "Takes a fuckuva lot of skill to stay alive in a firefight while intentionally taking down but not outright killing people."

"What my brother is saying is that you don't need to worry,” Solomon answers. “We’ll hold our own. Just understand that we aren't missing our shots."

"Don't worry," I say into my comm. "We'll bag the lot of them for you."

"Arrows," Harris snaps, cutting through the cross-chatter.. "Form the center. Suppressive fire. Keep their heads down. RMI, flanks. Use the darkness to pick them off from the wings. Alpha team, get Bryn and the boy back to our side."

There's a chorus of affirmations across the comms. Taillights fade away and blink out behind us as Chico and the RMI blokes dissolve into the night.

Our headlights wink off, bathing us in darkness; We creep forward foot by foot as the firefight continues.

Although firefight is a loose term—it's massively lopsided.

Closer now, I count at least a dozen tangos, hear overlapping chatter in Spanish.

"This is Mercado's men," someone says across the comms—a smooth, deep, accented voice—the Lash lad. The accent is European. Romani, maybe, though I'm far from an accent expert.

"So then what happened to Pugli?" Someone else asks—with so many new faces, I've no way of knowing who’s speaking.

"An excellent question indeed," says the accented voice—definitely Romani, definitely Lash; I did some…

erm, extra-legal work with a Romani fella, a year or so back.

Excellent chap. Sticky fingers, smooth talker.

"Until you see that lice-ridden, cockroach-infested pustule bleeding out before your very eyes, you cannot ever count him out. He will make himself known in some manner, assuming Bryn evaded him but did not kill him.”

"Oi, mate," I say into the comm, "don't insult lice and cockroaches that way. They're just innocently following their natures. Pugli is lower than the stains left on the toilet bowl after you’ve taken an epic shit."

Laughs and snickers greet my comment, but not from Lash. "I appreciate the sentiment, but Pugl's evil is no laughing matter. I merely lack the English to fully and accurately capture the depth, breadth, and intensity of my hatred for Roberto Pugli." A pause. “He killed my wife and children.”

"Funny, mate," I answer, "Seems like you speak English better than I do. But point taken. Let’s just agree he's an evil fuck who needs killin' post-fucking-haste." My turn to pause. “Sorry for your loss, mate.”

“Thank you.”

I hesitate. “Wait…I heard a story about a guy who had info on Pugli…”

“That was me.”

I exhale. “Jesus fuck. No wonder you hate him.”

“No wonder indeed, sir."

"Sir, he calls me," I mutter to the men around me as we creep forward closer to the firefight—we're intending to surprise them from behind. "Ain't been called sir since I got busted down for insubordination."

"Rush?" Harris's voice float to me from the front of the Suburban.

"Yeah, mate?"

"Shut the fuck up.”

"Sir." I've a tendency to ramble before a firefight like this.

Arjun was always giving me shit for it. Fuck, I miss that lad. He could take the piss outta me and have me laughin' at myself. Brave, funny, clever lad.

"Here's good," Harris says, and the Suburban brakes to a halt. The Arrows stop behind us, and we kill the engines, slip out of the vehicles, and take up positions behind wheels, boots, and bonnets.

"RMI, status?" Harris says.

"In position," Chico says. "On your order."

"Arrows ready," Solomon adds. "On your order."

"Light 'em up on three," Harris growls. "One—two— three ."

The crack, rattle, and crash of M4s, HKs, and Steyr-Augs is sudden and deafening, my ears immediately ringing and going muffled. It's hard to see shit with the muzzle flashes. I spot a shadow illuminated by a burst and put a trio of rounds into it.

Again.

Again.

These fuckers are no untrained thugs, though. They spot the threat immediately and adjust accordingly, sending suppressive fire at us while they shift behind cover, deeming us more of a danger than Bryn.

Perfect.

I pay close attention to the way the Arrows work, and I'm impressed.

They pick their targets carefully, and their shots are calculated to inflict damage and pull the focus of the others to care for them.

Nontraditional, but effective. Anselm has vanished into the night, and I hear the boom of a rifle—a big one.