Page 53 of Delta (Alpha #12)

I grin at her. "I'd rather be on a beach on Tortala, sipping a G-and-T and wondering when we can go back to the hotel so I can do bad things to you again.” I lean in and kiss her, softly and quickly. “But I suppose this'll do."

She rolls her eyes, but can't suppress a grin. "Rush. You know what I mean."

"Missed you too, love." I eye her. "Pugli…he didn't do nothin' to you, did he?"

"No," she answers. "He wanted to, but he's scared of Mercado. Or maybe not scared exactly, but…Mercado wants me. Or wanted me. He wants the boy more. Why, I don't know."

"Cuz he's his father, that's why. The woman who got killed wasn't the boy's actual mother, like biologically. There's another woman named Inez who those blokes out there are scared shitless of—she's his mother, I guess. It's fuckin' complicated, is what it is."

“Ah, that makes sense. But no, Pugli didn't hurt me. He really fucking wanted to, but he didn't. I’m okay. Just…very, very pissed off."

"These narco wankers are pissing off a lot of the wrong people,” I tell her. "Your lot is out there, Inez's lot, and RMI."

"Inez's lot?"

"Weird bunch, but damn good shots. Call themselves the Broken Arrows."

"Ah. The Arrow-men. The broken Arrows. Inez must be La Víbora."

"Who? The Viper? Who's that?"

"Mercado's ex-wife. Those guys out there are scared shitless of her. And the Arrows."

"Rush," Harris says in my ear. “Ready?"

"No. Give us two minutes."

"Get the boy and my daughter to us, Rush. We'll hold them. You just get them here."

"Copy you,” I answer. To Bryn: "Get the boy. It's go-time."

She crouch-runs back across the destroyed shop—there's a door at the back, which she shoves open.

I catch a slice of an office—a desk scattered with papers, a dark computer screen, a filing cabinet, boxes of cigarettes, and cases of liquor.

Fuck, I'd kill for a shot of something to dull the pain, but I need my wits about me.

I see two figures huddled on the floor under the desk, a young Hispanic boy of six or so, and a young man of twenty wearing a ballcap and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. Bryn pulls the boy by the hand, and he follows her to me, doing a good job of staying low.

I address him in Spanish. "My name is Rush. You're Ren, aren't you?"

He nods. "Do you know Big Ren?" he asks.

I assume he must mean Lorenzo. "No, but I'm friends with his friends. They're out there." I gesture at the doors. “We're going to make a run for it, okay? There's gonna be a lot of shooting and scary noises, but I'll keep you safe."

He looks at my arm, where the bandage is stained red as I bleed through it. "You are shot."

I grin at him, lift my shirt to show him the various places I've been shot. "Not my first time. I'll be fine. Just my arm."

He frowns at me. "Are you ever afraid?"

I nod. "Sure, all the time. If you're not afraid when someone is shooting at you, you're either crazy or a liar."

“You have been shot, and you are afraid, but you are still here."

"That's the job, mate." The word “mate” comes out in English, the rest in Spanish. It's as weird as it sounds. I indicate Bryn. "But mainly, I’m here for her."

He smiles at this. "She is crazy! She says crazy things to the bad men, until they are very angry."

Bryn watches this exchange suspiciously. “He's talking about me, isn't he? What's he saying?"

"The little bad man, Anatoly," he stumbles over the unfamiliar name. "She killed him with her legs."

I laugh at this. "She what?"

"She broke his neck with her legs. It made a sound like this." He jerks his head up and to the side with cracking noise. "And then he died."

Bryn shakes her head at his reenactment. "I wish he hadn't seen that."

I grin at her. "Proper mankiller, you are."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Turns me on, watching you kill people,” I tell her. "I'm a sick fucko like that."

She's about to respond when Harris's voice fills my ear. "Ready?"

I exhale sharply, work to my feet, ignoring the scream of pain from my arm. Times like this, all you can do is gut through the suck.

I undo my vest, awkwardly shrug it off and drape it one-handed over Bryn.

She starts to protest, but I ignore it and tighten it to create as proper a fit as possible.

I replace the mag in my pistol, rack the slide, and shove it behind my waistband at my back.

Curl an arm around the boy, crouched, feet braced to sprint.

"Bryn, you're going first. Spray the fuckers down, yeah? If there was ever a time to spray-and-pray, this is it, love. We'll be right behind you." I don't give her a chance to argue. "Harris, we're ready. On your order."

"On three," he says. I hold up three fingers for Bryn and the boy, waiting, pulling down a finger each time Harris counts. "One…two…three!"

On three, I scoop the boy into my good arm and sprint.

Bryn is already through the door, carbine spraying rounds across the battlefield, thunking into the truck bodies, keeping their heads down.

Gunfire crackles from the wings, muzzle-bursts flashing in blinding yellow stars from the darkness like sunfire blossoms as Chico's RMI operators lay down an enfilade across the enemy position.

I hear several grunts and cries of pain as RMI bullets find targets.

Bryn spots a tango rising from behind a brick column and puts rounds into his chest, knocking him backward; his vest stops them, but he's in pain, groaning, gasping, gagging.

I know the feeling. Bryn finishes him off as we pass him, cratering his skull with a single shot on the run.

I have the boy, Ren, clamped against my chest one-armed; his legs are locked around my waist, his arms around my neck.

Something hot sizzles across the back of my neck, leaving a scorching line of pain.

Bryn's rifle cracks in staccato bursts. From our line, muzzles flash, putting down suppressive fire even as RMI keeps up the withering enfilade from the wings.

We're almost there—just a few more meters to go. With the enemy behind us, Bryn breaks into a flat-out sprint to reach the cover of the Suburban, immediately spinning and dropping into a crouch to fire over the bonnet, her rounds whickering shudderingly close past my ear.

Each step takes an eternity, now, for some reason. Wait, I know what's happening—something bad. I'm about to enter a world of shit. I've been here, before. I dunno, why, but every so often, when shit really hits the fan, things slow down. I feel the iron sights on my back as a prickle of awareness.

Six feet—two meters. I'm fucking there . Not now, goddammit.

That old bitch, instinct or gut feeling or seventh sense…she's nasty. Insistent. Telling me to toss the boy.

Just do it, Rush . Throw him .

Fuck if I know why, but I don't argue with her.

I see that seven foot tall monster, Thresh, rising to his full, massive stature, his M4 looking like a kid’s toy in his giant paws. "THRESH!" It's a desperate shout.

I hurl the kid like a rugby ball with every last ounce of strength in my arms, the injured one screaming in protest as I force it to do my bidding.

Thresh's eyes go wide. He drops the rifle and moves with lightning speed, a man of his gargantuan size shouldn’t be capable of, snagging the boy out of midair.

BAMBAMBAMBAM!

Bullets walk up the concrete, hit the bonnet of the SUV.

BAMABAMABAMBAM!

Return fire from our side is a deadly barrage, but it's too late.

God kicks me again, the bastard. Right in the back.

The hot hammer slams into me once, twice, three times, hurling me forward.

I hit concrete on my bad arm, but that's nothing against the breathless scorching agony radiating through me. For a moment, I think it’ll be okay—I’m wearing a vest. And then I remember—no, I’m not.

Well, fuck.

I see Thresh moving—whirling in place, curling his mammoth torso around Ren.

I see the rounds hit his back, dimpling the vest, rocking him forward.

The big fucker barely moves, doesn't make a sound. I took one ricochet to the chest and couldn’t breathe for five fucking minutes.

That goddamned ogre took three to the back and seems unaffected.

Some blokes are just built differently, I guess.

The dirt tastes like oil and petrol. It's gritty under my cheek. Something wet is spreading under my belly. I don't like that.

I like even less the elephant sitting on my chest. I can't open my lungs, can't catch a breath.

I'm trying not to panic, but I’m not succeeding. This could be bad. There are sounds, but it's hard to make sense of anything—the adrenaline can't mask the crushing mass of excruciating agony searing through me from where stupid God kicked me in the back.

Wait…

Right.

I’ve been shot.

Again.

Go me.

Woo.

Hands drag me, which doesn’t feel entirely wonderful.

Voices overlap.

Hands do things.

"Ca—can't…b-br—" I rasp. "C-can't…breathe."

“We gotcha, kid,” a gruff voice says.

A knife blade rakes up my back, the dull side cold on my skin as it slices open my shirt. Something is pressed to my skin. I hear the hollow rip sound of a tape roll opening, something sticky touching my back in four lines to make a big square.

I'm rolled to my back, which tears a gagging scream out of me, even though I’m trying like fuck to keep the sounds on the inside. Not that I can breathe to scream very loud, mind you.

Fuck, this sucks. I’ve taken some shots before, but this is bad.

There are different kinds of not being able to breathe, and they're all terrible in their own ways.

Getting the wind knocked out of you in a sparring match is level one. Sucks, but passes quickly.

Then there's being forced to hold your breath longer than you really can, and that's level two.

Actually drowning is level three.

That really fucking sucks. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.

Then there's taking a slug to the vest; that's level four—avoid at all costs. Horrible. Leaves terrible bruises at best, breaks ribs at worst. Negative ten out of ten.

Then, apparently, there's getting extra holes put in your chest by some rather inconsiderate arsewipes. Negative infinity out of ten. Really, really, really do try to avoid it. Take it from me.

Things are all dark and blurry, which doesn’t bode well for my future, but I see Bryn's face looking tweaked and upset, tears flowing.

"Oi, oi," I grit out, looking at her. "None o’ that."

She hovers over me, a beautiful, brown-skinned angel. Her puppy brown eyes are terrified for me. "Don't talk, Rush. Save your breath."

"Fuck that," I gasp, as whoever is patching me up presses a sheet of transparent plasticky something to my chest over the unwanted holes. Tape covers the edges, and just like that, a seal is created, and I can draw a breath. I mean, I’m still shot thrice in the fucking lungs, so I'm not, like, fine, but at least that damned elephant has gone off my chest.

"Rush," Bryn whispers. "Fuck."

I grin at her. "Might be…a minute…before I can manage…a good fucking…love."

She laughs through her tears. "God, you're incorrigible."

"That's my daughter, asshole," A growly voice snarls in my ear—the owner of the voice is the one patching me up. Harris. "Don't piss me off while I'm saving your life, son."

I find Harris's eyes. "Am I gonna make it, doc?"

He rolls his eyes at me. "Probably. We've got a helo en route."

"The boy?"

"He's good. Thresh is with him."

"Bryn?"

She appears in my line of sight again. "I'm here, baby."

I wiggle my fingers at her—I can't quite make my arm lift more than an inch or two. I guess that's understandable under the circumstances, but I don't like it when my limbs don't obey, the silly buggers.

I might be a bit loopy.

Her fingers fit with mine. "Hey. I'm here."

"Alright, love?"

She nods. "I'm fine. Not a scratch. You took them all, you hog."

I lock gazes with her, determined to say what's been percolating away in the dusty corners of my black, ugly, sinful heart for days now.

"Bit of a…" I wince, struggling to breathe; I said I can breathe better , not normally .

"Bit of a shit moment for this, but…" it takes the last of my courage and all of my fortitude. "I love you."

She laughs through tears, cupping my face with tender hands. "God, Rush. You're impossible. Only you would tell me you love me at a time like this."

"Just…in case."

"Hey, no. No . Don't even talk like that. You're gonna be fine."

"Not…feeling my best…at the moment." I grimace as a wave of pain rolls over me. "Want you to know. Calling you 'love'…it's not—it's not a Cockney thing…anymore."

“I know."

"Might be it…it never was." The sound of an approaching helo starts to drown out my words. "Never…been in love. So I'm only guessing, mind. But I'm…I'm fairly…certain."

She laughs, sniffling. "Shut up, Rush. Just…shut up. I love you, too."

Fuck me, that hurts to hear. A good hurt, but it fucking hurts.

I'm getting tired. Also, feeling a bit sloshy on the inside. Probably not a good thing.

"Rush?" Her voice is concerned.

"Say it again."

"I love you, Rush."

The helo is here, landing in the field. Helmeted air medics appear over me, a stretcher between them. I'm rolled so the stretcher can be wedged under me, which fucking hurts, but all I care about is Bryn.

Brown eyes search me. "Rush? You’re okay."

"Eliza."

"What about her, baby?"

“If anything happens to me—"

Wrong thing to say—she gets angry. "You're not allowed to talk like that, Rush."

"I've got…three holes in my…my chest."

"We’ve got you, bro. You're less than fifteen minutes from a hospital by air." The voice is male, American, and decisive. He's not guessing. "You'll live."

"Fine, then." I let my eyes close. "Don't tell Eliza until after Disney."

"Rush—"

"Nah. She ain't ever had a vacation. Let her have fun."

There's a warm rush, then, or maybe a cold rush. A tingling. The pain fades, replaced by a drowsy euphoria.

"Ohhh, that's nice, that is,” I murmur.

"Morphine, bud. The good stuff."

"Bryn?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"What I did."

"I know."

"What is love…?" Not sure why I'm singing the fragment of the song, but I am.

Bryn laughs—god, I love her laugh.

Oh bugger, I think I'm passing out.