Page 108 of Delta

By sheer accidental luck, I took the ramp going north, so at least I’m going away from Pugli and, I assume, Mercado. And hopefully toward Dad and Rush.

God, I miss Rush.

I shouldn't. I should still be mad. Shit, more than mad. But I'm not. I understand why he did what he did. I can't say I blame him—I can't say I wouldn't make the same decision in his shoes. Hell, the kid down in that footwell isn’t even mine—I just met him a few hours ago—but I'd do what I have to do to protect him. I dunno if I'd sell someone into sexual slavery, but if he was my son? I can't say I wouldn't.

Looking back, I can see the moments he fought himself, the times he had second thoughts, the times he hated himself for what he was doing.

Ren pokes his head up after several minutes have elapsed with no further gunfire; I smile at him and pat the seat. He climbs up and sits, dutifully clicking the seatbelt across his lap; it's too high, the strap going across his neck. I can't do anything about that while driving ninety on the freeway with my hands bound, though. That said, I do slow to posted limits, because I'm not sure how I'd explain…well, anything to do with this whole situation if I were to get pulled over—I remember Rush’s lessons on the subject, also.

The buffeting of the wind through the shattered hatch precludes conversation, even if Ren and I were able to communicate beyond simple phrases.

He looks at me with a curious expression. "El hombre malo esta muerto?"

I nod. "Sí. Muerto."

He looks forward again for a moment or two, and then back at me. "Te sientes mal por ello?"

"Um?" I shrug at him. "No comprende, buddy."

He frowns, thinking hard. "El hombre malo. Tu…" he wrenches his neck to the side with a click of his tongue, eyes rolled back in his head, tongue sticking out in a freakily accurate miming of Anatoly's neck snapping.

"Sí,” I answer. "I killed him."

"You…not…" he trails his finger down his cheeks.

"Oh!" I say, putting it together. "No, I don't feel bad for killing Anatoly."

"El gran hombre malo no esta muerto."

"El gran…" I echo. "Oh. The big bad man. Pugli."

"Sí. Pugli." He mimes shooting, the way Pugli shot his mother.

“No, he isn't dead."

"Pero…pero le disparaste."

"Pero…but…" I shake my head. "I don't know le disparaste."

He mimes shooting again, twice.

"Oh, yeah. Yes, I shot Pugli." I thump my chest. "He had on a vest."

Ren looks confused. I thump my chest again, driving with my knee briefly, touching my fingers to my chest, and then exploding them away with a "ping!" sound. He only looks more confused. Shit. How do you explain what a bullet-resistant vest is to a kid who doesn't speak your language?

I mime the same thing again. "I shot him, but he’s no muerto."

Ren seems frustrated by the exchange and just shrugs. "El hombre grande y malo le disparó a mi mamá. Debería morir."

"Yeah, I didn't follow any of that. Sorry, kid. You got stuck with the one person in this whole fuckin' shitshow who doesn't speak forty-two languages fluently. Sorry about that luck, kiddo."

He says something back, his Spanish so fast it becomes obvious he's been slowing way down for my benefit. He sounds…angry. His brown eyes blaze, and he stabs the air, slams his fist on the dash, tears gathering. I give him a sympathetic look. "Let it all out, kiddo. You've got every right to be mad as hell."

More machine gun-fast Spanish, the tears falling now, stumbling over his words, stuttering, punching the dashboard.

"I know, buddy. It's not fucking fair. I don't know who you are that this Mercado monster wants you so bad—you're just a kid. His kid, maybe?" I look at him. "Tu padre?"

He just shrugs. "No se."