Page 43 of Delta

He grins, shrugs. "C'mon. Best keep moving."

The whole process, from the appearance of the sneaker to both men dead, took less than thirty seconds, total. But there are people looking—faces in windows, a couple on a corner at the end of the block.

Vanishing his pistol, Rush takes my hand and we step over the bodies, avoid the pools of spreading blood, and carry on down the sidewalk.

The couple on the corner sees us coming and scurry away, furiously texting on their phones.

"How did they know where we were?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Dunno for sure. Most likely, they've got some pencil-neck nerd at a computer in a basement tracking ya with cameras or the like. Not that hard, if you’ve a bit of trainin'. Probably saw us buying tickets." Saw us sounds like saw'r'us.

It sounds true—and I know from spending time with Uncle Lear that it really is that easy if you have the right software and skills. But yet, it's too easy of an answer. I don't know. Something about it sticks in the back of my mind. I can't figure out what about Rush's answer doesn't sit right, though, so I let the question simmer in my subconscious.

We take a circuitous, winding path away from the scene of the killings, taking a left here, a right there, but always heading in the same general direction.

Rush glances at me after a few minutes of walking. "You're not bothered by that?"

"By what?" I ask.

"Me killing those blokes. You don't seem bothered a bit."

"I guess I'm not. I dunno. I threw up when I killed those guys on the train, if that makes you feel any better."

What I'm not sharing is that part of the training Killian and I both received when we expressed interest in being part of the family business was watching bodycam footage of various A1S operations—both real, live missions and training exercises. Which included seeing bad guys get offed. The idea behind making us watch the videos was two-fold: to see the tactics and practices we'd learn in action, spot mistakes, and see how it all works in real time when real lives are on the line, and to desensitize us to the sight of death—if the first time you see someone's head explode is on your first mission and you have a bad reaction, you could compromise the whole team. And it worked. I only threw up because no amount of video-watching or training can truly prepare you for the feeling of stabbing some asshole in the eyeball with a Ticonderoga #2 pencil.

I'm not gonna say any of this to Rush, though. He doesn't need to know who I really am. Once I'm sure this shit isn't going to spill over to the rest of my family, I'll get ahold of them and come home, but for now, he's right. I brought this on myself with my stupid decision to sneak out. It's on me to clean up my own mess.

I know if I called Mom and Dad, they'd be here faster than I can blink, cleaning up my mess for me. But I'm an adult. I can take care of my own mistakes.

Mostly. I didn't ask Rush to help me, but he is, and I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"So, your friend." I look around us—we're in a more affluent area, now. "Who is he? How can he help me with these sex traffickers who keep showing up wherever I go?"

"He's an executive officer for Interpol," Rush answers. "He's got resources most blokes can't even dream of. A few phone calls and you're in the clear."

"You met him when you were in the military?" I ask.

"Somethin' like that, yeah."

He's on edge, for some reason. His attention is elsewhere—not on me, and barely on our surroundings. I'd expected him to haul me to the nearest hotel to make good on his promise, which I admit I was looking forward to. I enjoy giving head—maybe I'm weird, I dunno. It's fun. Men get so gooey and stupid when you've got their cock in your mouth. You can convince a man to do just about anything while you're sucking him off. I like the power. But also…it's just hot. His reactions, his powerful body helpless under my hands. I just like the way it feels. That said, it doesn't satisfy my deeper need for sex. and if Rush is that hot while I’m blowing him, fucking him would be on a whole other level.

But I can tell his mind is a thousand miles away from banging me.

"Where'd you go, Rush?" I ask.

He frowns at me, blinking as if coming back from being lost in his thoughts. "Oh. What? Sorry."

I laugh. "You're somewhere else, all of a sudden."

He shrugs. "Nah. Just…thinkin'."

"About?"

We reach yet another intersection. A taxi sidles by, and Rush flags it down. Nudges me to get in first and slides in after me, rattling off something in French that’s as rapid and excellent as his German.

"German and French, huh?" I ask.

He nods, twisting to look behind us, and then settling against the seat. "My French is better than my German. I can speak Italian passably well, but I wouldn’t call it very good."