Page 7 of Delta (Alpha #12)

He approaches, waving his knife at me with that sick little grin that suggests he'd probably fuck my body while I bleed out.

I watch him move, assessing him the way Duke taught me. He’s holding the blade low, down near his belt buckle, blade pointing down from the bottom of his fist, because that’s how they do it in the movies. His whole body is facing me, empty hand at his side. Yeah, this guy has zero clue.

Still dangerous, but he's no knife fighter.

Neither am I, but I was trained by some of the best warriors on the planet. I was taught to survive. Taught to use my wits.

I stand my ground and let him approach. His jiggly, porcine jowls are coated in sweat and stubble, cheeks red, huffing and puffing from chasing me all of fifty yards.

He shuffles to a halt a few feet away. " Pange nuga k?est. Tule vaikselt ."

“Yeah, fuck you too, fat-ass." I flip him off. "Come and fuckin' get me."

"Not need you, American bitch. You die, no one care."

I laugh at that. "You could not possibly be more wrong, dumbfuck. You have no idea who the fuck I am, do you? You kidnapped the wrong extra girl."

This makes him pause. "Who you are?"

"Ever hear of Nick Harris? Alpha One Security?"

"Everyone know him."

"He's my father."

"You lie."

"I might be, sure. But what if I'm not? Whoever you work for, they're fucked ."

He just grins at this. "Him I work for, he is not scared of your papa. And I am not scared of you ."

"Neither was your friend, and he's dead in the toilet with his pants around his ankles."

This gets him. "You lie."

"Yeah? Where is he, then? And how do I have his knife?" I wave the weapon. I twirl the knife in a come-here gesture. "Come on, fat ass. Come and get me. I'll cut you to pieces like the fat ugly fucking pig you are."

"Fuck you, American bitch."

Yeah, he's pissed. So I needle him a bit more, hoping anger makes him stupider, which it typically does with idiot men like this.

“Awww, is your sad little prick even gonna work, fat ass?

" I mime jerking off with the knife. "I bet the only way you can get hard is by forcing yourself on innocent girls.

You know why, fat ass ? Because it's the only way anyone would ever fuck an ugly, stupid, sad, fat sack of shit like you .

I bet you can't even pay for sex. I bet even the most blownout old hooker wouldn't take your money to let you fuck her. "

Oooh boy, he’s big mad, now.

“I will fucking kill you, bitch," he snarls. "But I will make you scream, first."

"You wish you could make me scream. I bet your fat, ugly mother screamed when she saw you the first time. Probably thought she'd given birth to a tumor, you're so fucking ugly."

Yeah, I’m resorting to your mama jokes. You try coming up with witty banter while a knife-wielding rapist tries to kill you.

And you know what's funny? It's the stupid joke about his mother that sets him off.

I would laugh at that, but he's charging me, yelling, swinging that six-inch black folding knife up toward my gut.

Thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints for the hours of training with Uncle Duke, because the moment I see that knife-tip hurtling toward my belly, my training kicks in. It's not even conscious.

The start of his swing is low, which gives him good leverage and force, but leaves him off balance when I dance backward out of each.

I slice my blade across his hand, bloodying his knuckles.

He's tough, though, I’ll give him that—he hisses in pain but keeps hold of his knife.

He turns the upper cut swing into a lunging swipe; I twist out of the way, and the blade barely misses my tits, slicing along the front of my bicep.

A sharp, hot line of pain blooms as the edge bites skin—it's shallow, nothing to worry about, just painful.

And it's a prime opportunity.

Twisted to the side, his arm is now parallel to my torso. I use Auntie Cuddy's self-defense training to wrap an arm around his elbow, twisting my body further while crushing his arm the wrong way against my hip. The joint snaps, and he screams, dropping the knife to cradle his broken elbow.

No mercy. No hesitation.

Again, it's instinct. Training is taking over. Dodge, break, stab. My blade whistles upward, digging under his ribcage on his left side just like Uncle Duke taught me.

I'm not sure this blade is long enough to reach his heart—there's a lot of pudge in the way.

The tip scrapes over bone with a judder that sets my teeth on edge, like scraping your fork on a plate.

I push harder. Deeper. His fat swallows the blade, and I keep pushing, putting my nose to his and letting him see the hate in my eyes.

I feel the moment I pierce his heart—there's resistance, and then a give, and then his eyes flare wide and his mouth falls open, and a soft gasp leaves his throat. He sags toward me, dark eyes going flat and vacant.

I stagger backward, letting him topple to the floor with a hard, wet smack. Blood pools under him, spreading in a dark ruby stain.

At that moment, the brakes squeal and I’m thrown backward as the train slows.

I land on my ass and then smack my head against the floor.

Dizzy, seeing stars, I scramble to my hands and knees, coming face to face with the sightless, vacant stare of the second man I've killed in less than five minutes.

I retch, but only a string of bile comes out.

I hear a scream back the other way; someone has found the corpse in the toilet.

I stagger to my feet and put distance between me and the corpse. Through to the next car, staggering, horror, nausea, and confusion swiftly taking the place of the rage that’s fueled me so far.

I just killed two men.

" Fr?ulein? Entshuldigung? Bist du verletzt? "

I don't speak German either, but I know concern when I hear it. An older man, tall and thin with white hair and a neat goatee, stands in the doorway of his compartment, looking worried. He’s quite literally wringing his hands.

" Ihr arm… es blutet ." He gestures at my…well, arm. That's the same, I guess.

I glance at it, and suddenly it stings and burns like a bitch. "Oh, shit, yeah, I guess I’m bleeding, huh?"

"English?"

"American."

"You are not wearing enough clothing for this weather, fr?ulein . It is winter." Vearing…zis…vinter .

"Tell me about it, dude." The train lurches forward, scuds a few hundred yards at a crawl, and then stops again. Outside, nothing but darkness. "Why are we stopped?" I ask.

" Weiss nicht . Is a train. Who knows?" He frowns at my bleeding arm. "You are in trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." Ha. Right. But I'm in shock, and I don't know this guy.

He's dressed in a tailored navy suit with a pale blue tie and pocket square; he removes his tie and pocket square, presses the pale blue swatch of silk against the cut, and then winds the tie around it several times, tugs it tight, and knots it.

Next, he removes his suit coat and settles it on my shoulders.

"Here, fr?ulein . We will arrive to Berlin soon." He checks his wristwatch. " Ja , Berlin in eleven minutes, I think. Will you allow me to assist you when we arrive?"

I want to. But a worm of worry wriggles in my belly. This is a kind old man. And some unsettled instinct tells me this super fun adventure I've gotten myself into isn't over yet.

I clasp his hand in mine. "Thank you, sir. You're very kind. But you're right—I am in trouble." I glance past him; his wife is asleep in their compartment, her head resting against the window. She's a sweet little old lady. Someone's grandmother. "I won't involve you in it."

"But fr?ulein , I have friends—"

"I appreciate the offer, truly, but no, thank you." I gnaw on my lip. “Actually, do you have a cell phone I could borrow?"

He winces. " Nein, es tut mir leid . I do not own a mobile phone.

My grandchildren think I am so crazy, ja ?

Who does not have a mobile phone in this day and age, hmm?

But this way, they come to see me." He reaches into his hip pocket and pulls out a folded stack of euros, peels off several of the larger bills, and hands them to me—it looks like four or five hundred euros. "Please. Take this."

"I…I can't. It's too much."

The train lurches into motion again and this time keeps going, albeit rather slowly.

" Nein, nein . You must have some money, at least.” He smiles at me with kindness in his blue eyes. "You are of age with my granddaughter, Anja. If it was she in your situation, I hope someone would help her as I help you."

"What's your name, sir?"

Another of those wonderfully kind grandpa smiles. "I am Gregor Mueller."

"Gregor Mueller, my name is Bryn Harris." I can't help but hug him. "I won't forget what you've done to help me, Mr. Mueller."

" Nein, nein, es ist nichts, fr?ulein ."

I pat his shoulders. "If anyone asks, you never met me. Okay? It's safer for you that way."

"This trouble you are in…"

"There will be police. Just…remember, you never saw me."

He frowns. "I shall remember. I hope you will be well."

"I'll be fine. I'm very resourceful. Thank you again, so much, Mr. Mueller."

Before I chicken out and take refuge in their compartment, I move forward toward the front of the train, if only to put more space between me and the dead men.

Nope, nope, nope—I put that out of my mind. I'll cry later.

When you're in the shit, baby girl, Mom used to tell me, you do what you gotta do first. There'll be time to fall apart later. But when you're in the shit, there ain't no time for blubbering.

She'd tell me this stuff all the time. Little lessons that I thought were so random and stupid. What did "in the shit" mean, anyway? I never understood. But I also never forgot. And now, I'm in the shit.

I remember, Mama. No time for blubbering. It's Badass Bryn time.