Page 105 of Delta

Harris clears his throat. "Excellent. We’ve cleared that up. I want my daughter back. Let's fucking go, already."

17

17: HERE WE FUCKING GO. AGAIN.

Ren moans now and then, muttering to himself in Spanish. A lot of the murmurings contain "mamá” however, so I can imagine the kinds of things he's saying. God, the poor, poor boy. Kidnapped, carted who knows where by these monsters, and then his mom is murdered in front of him. I can't help but cry for him—and stew in my rage.

After an endless hell of heat, thirst, sweat, and the hum of the road beneath us, the car stops. I hear muffled voices—I can't make out what they're saying.

The hatch opens, and blinding light sears my eyes—I squint, shielding my face with my hands.

"Out," Anatoly says. "No stupid stuff. Let's go." He grabs my arm and yanks.

I stumble, and something inside me snaps. I yank my arm free and kick him in the nuts as hard as I can. "Do not fucking touch me, you piece of shit fucking cockroach," I snarl. "I was just in the trunk of a car for who knows how fucking long, so how about you give me a goddamn second, asshole?"

He whimpers, dropping to his knees. I see Pugli a few feet away, pistol in hand, waiting for me to make a further move. I glare at him. "You need to hire better help, dude." I indicate Anatoly. "This cocksucker isn't worth whatever it is you're paying him."

Pugli sighs. "Don't I know it. But it really is impossible to find good, trustworthy help, these days."

“You know, it's really not?" I answer, making my voice sweet. "I think it's just you."

"Charming." He gestures with his pistol, and I realize we've come to a motel—an off-brand, just-off-the-freeway shithole. "Inside."

It's evening, the sun red and huge and hot as it rests on the flat, endless horizon. The room is standard motel fare—two small beds with cheap, scratchy linens, filthy carpet, popcorn ceilings, a thirty-year-old TV, and a tiny bathroom.

Pugli stands in the middle of the room, looking around in palpable disgust. "What a shockingly vile place."

I snicker. “Not up to my standards, either, Bobby-boy. Couldn't afford anything better, huh?"

He whirls on me, face a rictus of rage. “You will stop calling me that infernal name. Mercado doesn't much care about what happens to you anymore—your utility to me now rests upon your ability to keep that brat quiet and compliant." He stalks over to me, gun in hand. "I am a patient man. I have no issue waiting as long as necessary to see you properly punished for your impudence."

I grin at him, a grin I do not feel. "Too bad you won't live that long."

"So you think. But we have surprises in store for your friends, my dear girl. While you were enjoying your stay in the trunk of my car, Mercado and I were planning."

"You mean your new daddy was telling you how it'd go," I say.

He hisses. "My god, the mouth on you, girl." He slaps me, hard—an open-hand slap. It stings like a bitch of course, but I've done full-contact, no-gear sparring sessions with my various uncles, so I can take a man's punch and stay on my feet. His little bitch-slap barely fazes me.

"You'd better learn to curb your tongue, girl. You really do not want to provoke me." He slips a hand into his pocket and flicks open a long folding knife, pressing the flat of it against my mouth, the razor-sharp blade biting into my lips. "The next time you speak out of turn, I'll cut your tongue out."

A small hand tugs on mine. "Bryn? Cállate. Por favor." I hold still until Pugli removes his knife. "Listen to the boy, Bryn. Shut up. I've tolerated your nasty invective for far longer than I'm accustomed to, and I am swiftly running out of patience."

He paces away to the window, gazing out with distaste. The door creaks open on protesting hinges and Anatoly limps in, hate burning in his eyes. He drags himself to me, hauling out his pistol and pressing it to my temple.

"Anatoly," Pugli snaps. "Put that away, you fool."

The hate in Anatoly's eyes doesn't dissipate when he regards Pugli with a baleful glare. "I have had enough of this bitch. Control her or I will."

I snicker at this. "Okay, then, shit-fucker. You don’t control anyone. Fuck off."

The gun presses harder into my temple, and I lean into him, nose to nose, his foul breath huffing against me. "Pugli doesn't pay me enough to deal with you, bitch."

"Pull the trigger or fuck off, you slimy cock-stain," I snarl at him. "Your breath will kill me if you don't."

Pugli physically drags Anatoly away from me, shoving him across the room to the door. "Go find us food. Preferably something more palatable than the dog food served at American fast food establishments."

Grumbling under his breath in his native language, Anatoly limps out.