Page 110 of Delta

"You need gas, too?" he asks. "Already shot up the place, held me at gunpoint, and robbed me. Might as well fill up the gas while you're at it." I gesture at him. “Good idea. Go to it."

He goes behind the counter, glances to see which pump I’m at, and does whatever he has to do to get the pump going. He’s rounding the counter when headlights rake the windows, tires squealing.

He stops, frowning. "Um. Think you got company, lady. And it ain't the cops."

The words are barely out of his mouth when gunfire erupts, shattering the glass.

Here we fucking go.

Again.

18

18: A GOOD HURT

"Vehicle spotted on the shoulder," Chico says across the comms. "All stop."

Moments later, a couple RMI guys are checking out the truck stopped at an angle on the side of the highway. Chico glances at us through the windshield. "One occupant. He was shot in the torso. There is much blood—he drove away while bleeding. Passenger door is open, and there are footsteps in the dirt—it looks like a child and a woman, I think. The driver was shot in the head from close range."

Solomon’s voice comes from the comms, next. "Let's check it out—this might be Beatriz and Little Ren. RMI, form a perimeter and watch our backs. Arrows, fan out and search the field. Harris, you wanna have your guys come with us?"

Harris's jaw ticks—I don't think he likes taking orders from this Solomon fella. "Roger, copy you.” To us, then. "You heard the man."

We pile out and adjust our gear, although I'm missing an important piece of kit for a night search. "Anyone got a spare torch?"

Puck eyes me. “Ain't the fuckin' Middle Ages, bub. No torches 'round here."

Thresh leans into the open hatch of the SUV, grabs something, and then tosses me a long, heavy, military grade torch. He glances at Puck in amusement, his gravelly voice shaking with laughter. "Dumbass. Like you ain't done your share of work with the Brits before." His tone goes mocking, imitating Puck’s Southern American drawl. "'Ain't the Middle Ages, bub, no torches ‘round these here parts.'"

Puck flips him off with his stubby middle finger. "Hey, Thresh, buddy, how about you dig a hole and go fuck yourself in it?”

"Cut the chatter, gentlemen," Harris says, his voice low and even and measured; despite that, both Puck and Thresh go tense.

"Sorry, Hare," Puck says. "You know we're focused." "Yes. I know."

Harris strides out into the field beyond the road. "I'm just not in the mood for the bickering. Every second my daughter is in Pugli's hands is a second she's closer to…" he cuts off with a click of his jaws. "Just scan the fucking field, goddammit."

Puck and Thresh trade looks but say nothing. Everyone except four RMI guys, who stay back to keep watch, forms a search line. We scan the ground in front of us with our torches—flashlights, to the Yanks—looking for anything out of place.

We're maybe a hundred and fifty meters away from the shoulder when I hear a voice call out. "BODY HERE!"

Everyone converges on the other giant guy—Chase? Chance? Chance, I think. He looks godawful pissed. "Why?" His voice is low, shaky with fury. "The woman was innocent in all this. Why kill her?"

"Didn't need her," Duke murmurs. "If all they want is that boy, she's dead weight."

Chance exhales heavily. "Ain't leavin' the poor woman here to rot. She deserves better, even in death."

"Roger that," Chico says. "I have a contact near this place. He will come. Do you know her people?"

"I don't," Solomon answers, "But Inez does. Can you arrange for her to be prepped for burial?"

Chico tips his head to one side. "My friend is not one who buries the dead. He cleans up when those like us have made our messes. He can hold the body until your Inez can make arrangements, though.”

Sol nods. "That works. He’ll be paid."

Chico nods as well, already on his mobile and murmuring in rapid Spanish. A moment later, he hangs up, does something on his mobile, finishes, and pockets it. "He is coming. I pin him this location."

Harris's mobile rings, then. He answers it on the first ring. "Lear." A moment of listening, and then a hiss. "Fuck. Thanks. Send me the coordinates." We all look to him. "Bryn's stopped again, less than twenty minutes from here. We gotta haul ass. I have a bad feeling."