Page 65 of Delta

"No, Bryn." His voice is a razor-sharp whisper. "Well, yeah, it was him. But it was always me, luh— it was always me. From the start. Runnin' into you in Berlin wasn't an accident. I was sent to get you.”

"Jesus," I whisper. "I'm a fucking moron. A blind fool. Blinded by a pretty face and a hot body. God, I'm such an idiot. It was never real, was it? None of it. Just getting your rocks off before you sell me to a sex slaver."

“It was real.” I barely hear him. “Sellin’ you out wasn’t the fuck-up.”

"Bullshit." I frown at him. "So what was the fuck-up, then?"

"Savin' you."

“Oh. Wow. Okay. You wanna go back for the money?" I laugh. "How much do you want, Rush? Did you miss who my parents are? Who my aunt and uncle are? A million dollars, is that it? Give me your phone and I’ll have a fucking billion dollars in your account by noon."

He snaps, then. Lunges across the car at me, knife at my throat, face a rictus of rage and agony. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY!" he screams, his voice ragged and raw as if he’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

I go stone-still, not blinking, not breathing. Slowly, he backs away, dropping the knife to his lap from shaky fingers. "I'm sorry. Fuck me, fucking fuck me. I'm sorry, Bryn. I'm sorry."

I can't move.

"It ain't about any goddamn money."

"That was incidental, then, huh? I snap, my voice venomous, acidic. "Just a perk? The real payment was me, I bet. Getting to sample the merchandise?”

"No. That was real."

"Right," I say with a bark of sarcastic laughter. "You said triple it, and he gave you a million. Threw in an extra hundred grand. That means nine hundred thousand. Which means your original fee for coercing, tricking, and seducing me into Pugli's mansion was three hundred thousand dollars. Sorry, euros." I snort, shaking my head. "But yeah, it's not about the money."

"Fine, yeah, it is. It is about the money, sort of. It's about two hundred and seventy-six thousand, four hundred and eighty euros and sixty-six cents. To be precise."

I blink at the specific number. "I…I don't understand."

"No, you don't. Coz you fuckin' can't."

"So tell me."

"You…" he shakes his head. "Nah. You wouldn't fuckin get it, princess."

"Because I was born rich?"

"Because you've never had to fucking struggle!” he snaps. “You've never known. You'll never know."

"Oh for fuck's sake," I snap. "Fine. Keep your secret. What-the-fuck-ever. It's not like you sold me for it or anything. But no. I won't fucking get it because I was born into wealth. Fuck you, asshole.”

Silence, then.

Rush says something to the driver, who pulls over, looking relieved. We're in a poorer section of the city now. No more elegant Hausmann buildings, no more quiet, tree-lined streets. Here, it’s tumbledown apartment buildings covered in graffiti and suspicious-looking men slouching in doorways smoking cigarettes as they watch us as we exit the taxi.

Rush leads us to an alley, which dumps us onto a narrow side street lined with parked cars, most of which are aging compacts. He stops at once, tries the handle. Locked. On the third attempt, the door opens…probably because the car is such a piece of shit the owner likely didn't care if got stolen.

Flicking his knife open, Rush pries open the steering column and has the car hot-wired in seconds. It's been less than thirty seconds from sitting down to pulling away from the curb. He settles the rifle between his leg and the car door.

Instead of driving like a maniac, however, he keeps a sedate pace, following the posted speed limits. He must sense my confusion. "I told you already—play it cool and you’ll likely get away. Driving like you stole it is what gets you nicked by the bobbies.”

I just stare at him, uncomprehending.

"Oh for…" he rolls his eyes. "Caught by the police."

"Right, but don't we need to get away from Pugli?"

"They're trackin' you, love. We can't get away till we get that thing outta ya's. So no point driving crazy. We're just putting miles between us and his goons till we can figure out a plan."