Page 8 of Delta (Alpha #12)

Exactly eleven minutes later, because this is Germany, after all, the train pulls into a station.

The lights of Berlin are bright. The station is empty, the voice of the announcer echoing.

I'm first off the train the moment it stops—the frigid winter air smacks me in the face like an icy fist, wrapping deathly cold fingers around my bare legs.

Gregor's coat is suddenly much thinner than it had felt moments ago, as the wind knifes through it.

Worst of all, though, are my bare feet.

I catch a suspicious look from a conductor, but then he's distracted by a customer asking him a question, and I jog inside the station.

It's warmer in here—as in, I won’t freeze to death in a matter of minutes.

There are shops galore where I could use Gregor's money to buy some clothing, but everything is closed.

Wait…hold on.

I slow to a walk as something occurs to me.

I started out in Zermatt, Switzerland, on the border of Switzerland and Italy.

Now I'm in Berlin, Germany. The two are…

not close. My knowledge of European geography is, sadly, limited.

I mean, c'mon. I'm a spoiled rich girl who grew up on a private island compound.

I got a great education, but remembering geography seemed pointless.

How long was I unconscious?

A conductor passes, and I flag him. "Excuse me, sir?"

" Ja, fr?ulein? Wie kann ich ihnen helfen? "

"Um, do you speak English?"

His eyes betray a touch of annoyance, but his tone is polite and respectful. "Ja, a little."

"How far is it from Zermatt to here? Like, how long is the train ride?"

"Twelve hours, or something like this." Some-sing like zis .

"Oh. Wow. Okay. Thank you."

"My apologies, miss, but where are your shoes?"

I grimace. "I, um…lost them. Long story."

"Will you wait here, please?"

"Sure?"

He scurries off, returning a few minutes later with a pair of Ugg boots, the calf-height tan ones with the fuzzy insides. "Perhaps these will not fit, but it is better than no shoes in this cold, ja?"

I've been trying to pretend I'm not freezing my ass off, but the moment I slide my feet into the boots, a moan of relief shoots out of me unbidden. "Oh…my…god." I cover my face, embarrassingly close to crying from sheer relief. "Thank you, god, thank you so much. Where…where did you get them?"

"The lost and find. People lose things on the trains very much." He shrugs. "You will be frost bited without shoes."

"You're a lifesaver. Thank you."

He nods and continues on his way. People are so friendly and helpful around here. I guess there are good people in the world still, after all. Who knew?

The boots are too small, but far better than being barefoot. I hear a radio crackle somewhere and a voice murmur quietly. Shit—cops.

I put my arms through the sleeves of Gregor's coat and head for the exit, passing by no fewer than six uniformed officers; I guess my stunt got some attention.

I stuff my hands into the coat pockets, duck my head, and walk calmly out of the train station and into the cold of Berlin.

Twelve hours?

It was…two am? Around two in the morning when I encountered the kidnappers in Zermatt.

So at some point along the way, I lost several hours.

They must have kept me unconscious for a long time.

The better to keep me cooperative, probably.

They likely pretended we were their passed-out-drunk girlfriends. Who would question that?

So, now I'm alone in Berlin. I have shoes and some cash, but no phone, no ID, and I’ve killed two men.

I couldn't say whether the cops will be looking for me, but I'm not eager to find out.

I didn't do anything wrong—I defended myself.

But I also know that in situations like this, it's best not to trust anyone.

The first order of business is to find a phone and get ahold of my parents. Shit, even a computer cafe would work.

I'd just sort of walked away from the train station at random, putting distance between me and the police who will be looking for whoever killed the two men on the train.

I wonder what happened to the girl? I can't go back for her. I can't worry about her. I'm not a religious person, but I send up a generic prayer to whoever and whatever may or may not be up there—look after the poor girl. God knows she'll need help after what she went through.

What I almost went through.

Fuck—nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not thinking about that.

Focus, Brynnie. Where are you? Where are you going? What's your plan?

I stop walking and assess my surroundings. Behind me, the train station is a massive glass edifice. Directly ahead, a street. Beyond that, train tracks, another street, and a tall glass building. The area, otherwise, is wide open, designed for a lot of foot traffic.

A bus whooshes by.

A taxi.

Shit—a taxi! I need to get away from the train station.

I have no idea who those bozos were working for, but I know for a solid fact they weren't operating alone. They snatched the girl easily—if I hadn’t intervened, she would have just vanished without a trace.

Those guys were just hired lackeys. "Him I work for, he is not afraid of your papa.

" Yeah, the boss is someone powerful, then, if that shitstain knew who my father is and felt confident saying his boss wasn't afraid of Nicholas Harris.

Everyone is afraid of Nicholas Harris. You'd be a fool not to be. So whoever the boss is, either he's a fool, or he's a big fucking problem.

Which means this ain't over. I mean, obviously. I'm still up shit creek without a paddle. But I can't assume there won't be anyone looking for me. Anyone bad, I mean. Hopefully, good people are looking for me, too.

I flag down a passing cab.

The driver eyes me in the mirror. " Wohin ?"

“Um. I don't…I don’t know. I need clothes and a cell phone."

"No English."

Shit.

I lean forward and point at the cell phone in the holder suctioned to the windshield and then flash him one of the 100-euro bills. "Phone. Buy a phone."

" Alles ist geschlossen ."

That sounds like "Everything is closed" to me.

"Um. Food? Eat?" I mime eating.

"Ah. Okay. Ja. Ja. I know." He starts the meter and pulls away. Exhausted, I feel myself drowsing.

A few hours later, I've eaten a filling meal at a twenty-four-hour diner, which, conveniently, is located across the street from a place that sells mobile phones.

I ate slowly, sipped coffee, and dozed off—the waitress seemed to recognize that I was in some sort of distress, because she let me sleep for quite a while, only rousing me when things started to pick up.

I leave her a generous tip and head out into the cold—it's a crisp, clear, bitterly cold winter day in Berlin.

I cross the street at the intersection, making for the cell phone store.

I'm halfway there when the hackles on the back of my neck raise.

I try to be surreptitious about scanning my surroundings—there, behind me.

Four men walking in a line abreast, taking up the whole sidewalk.

They're dressed in brightly-colored ADIDAS track suits.

Their jackets bulge with obvious shoulder-holstered handguns.

Fuck.

Their eyes are cold and hard, even from here, and fixed on me.

Fuck, fuck.

Panic ignites. I'm unarmed. I can't fight off four men, even if I did have a knife.

I try to stay calm, walking faster. Past the cell phone store. A pharmacy. A liquor store.

"Stop running, American girl."

How did they find me? How do they know I'm American?

Questions with no answers, and this certainly isn't the moment to waste time wondering.

Fuck it. I start running. A shout rings out.

"STOP!"

My brain is a runaway train, even in shit like this.

For example, as I'm running, I'm wondering why anyone ever bothers yelling "STOP!" Like, what, they expect me to just…stop? Oh, sure, Mr. Murder Man, let me just stop and let you kidnap, rape, and murder me. Okay, buddy. Even cops do it. Why? It’s so stupid. Yet, that’s what my monkey brain does—always running on a million tracks at once, because ADHD is a harsh mistress.

I do not stop. I run faster.

Reach another intersection and turn left. My soles skid on an icy patch, and I land hard, cracking my elbow on the cement and skinning my knees. Ignore the pain and scramble to my feet, take off running…and smack face-first into a hard, warm, male chest.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The voice is deep and rough, with a thick London accent. Young. Bold. Brash. Strong hands lift me to my feet. " What's all the fuss about, then, Gorgeous?”

The hands steady me on my feet, and I catch my first look at male perfection.

I'm six feet tall, so very few men can be said to tower over me—Uncle Duke and Uncle Thresh are about it. But this man…"tower" may be a stretch, but he's got to be six-four. Tall enough I have to look up at him.

But this guy.

This fuckin' guy. Where do I start?

Inhumanly perfect looking is a decent starting place.

His eyes. Not quite green, not quite gray, not quite brown–a changeable mixture of all of them. He smiles at me, and those eyes flash green. But…they're not good eyes. They're not kind . They're dangerous. They twinkle, but…it's a shiver-inducing twinkle.

His jawline is sculpted from marble. Hard, rugged, and craggy. Dusted with dark stubble. His hair is shaved on the sides, the top a messy tangle. A scar bisects his right eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline and denting the bridge of his nose.

He's wearing expensive, well-worn black jeans, well-cared-for combat boots—the kind professional operators wear.

A tight maroon crew neck shirt wraps around a lean, hard torso, and a battered, scratched, beaten-to-hell leather jacket strains around massive arms. A variety of silver rings grace his knuckles.

Fuck, he's gorgeous. My heart skips a beat when those changeable eyes fix on me. It skips another beat when his lips—plump, pillowy, and expressive—curve in a cocky smirk.

"Jesus wept, you're a looker, ain'tcha? Proper stunner." Prop-ah stunn-ah. That smirk. Fuck. It's a lethal weapon. My heart pitter-patters. "What you runnin' from, 'ey love?”

He’s hard to understand, though, I've gotta be honest.

"HEY! You come, now." The men have caught up, huffing and puffing.

My…savior, maybe?…turns to address them. "Oi. You lot can fuck off."

"Is not concern you." The speaker, an older guy with salt and pepper hair and the ugliest face I've ever seen in my life, produces a gold-plated Desert Eagle .50-cal hand cannon from his shoulder holster. "Now is you fuck off, Brit boy."

"Oooh, look at that whoppin’ big fuck-off gun you’ve got, mate. Put a big fuckin' ’ole in me, wouldn't it? An' Brit boy? You come up with that witty repartee yourself, bruv?"

Jesus, he sounds like he's got a mouthful of marbles. He seems totally unconcerned, though, which is reassuring, because I'm concerned. Very, very concerned.

"Girl. You come." The speaker gestures at me with his howitzer.

"How about no?" I answer, in a shitty but funny Austin Powers impression.

Funny to me, at least.

My Cockney savior snickers at my response, but doesn’t take his attention off of the four men.

"Look, mate. I've got a busy schedule, so me an' my new friend here are gonna scarper.

You do what you like. But a word of warnin', yeah?

I ain't the bloke you wanna fuck around with.

Last chance. Fuck off." Fuck around wiv.

"Girl is ours. Run away or you die."

"Um, I'm no one's," I say. "Suck a dick, ass-face."

This gets me another amused snort. "Got on smart mouth on you, 'aven't you, love?” He looks at the four men with annoyance, as if they're flies buzzing around his head. "Fine. 'Ave it your way."

His hand flashes behind his back, blurs around front into a Weaver stance—BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM.

The four shots are so close together they sound like one rolling peal of thunder, and all four of the track suit-wearing thugs rock backward in near-perfect unison, red holes weeping trickles of crimson at the centers of their T-boxes.

For a moment, I'm stunned silent. Then my usual running commentary emerges. “Fuck me.” A pause. “That was…impressive." Not my wittiest commentary ever, but I’m not on my A-game at the moment. Sue me.

He grins at me, the picture of debonair cockiness. “Who are you, Gorgeous?"

"Bryn."

He takes my hand in his, brings it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles without looking away from my eyes. "Rush, at your service."