Page 68 of Delta

"Consequences?" Nicholas says, the question ominous.

"I told you he works for Pugli." She swallows hard. "I didn't know that at first. He…he was, um…"

"Pugli has leverage over me, sir," I say. "Significant leverage. Enough to force me to do things that go against everything I am. I was tasked with bringing Bryn to Pugli. And I did. But I couldn't go through with it. I don't say that to justify anything, though. I did what I did, and I ain’t gonna deny it."

Harris is silent. "I assume your relationship has crossed into…personal territory."

Bryn snorts. "That's none of your business."

"He betrayed you. Tricked you. Lied to you. Sold you to one of the most notoriously vile human beings on the planet. Yet you're still with him."

"I told you, it's complicated."

"I suppose that's your choice, and I'll have to let you make it. God knows we've all made weird choices in this fucked up family." He sighs. "What do you need? Why call now? I assume because you thought you could handle it on your own and have come up against something you can't handle by yourself."

"Rush thinks they're tracking me, somehow. Like a chip or something. They keep showing up everywhere I go, when there's no way they should be able to."

"You're using the evasion strategies we've taught you?"

“And then some. Rush knows what he's doing, Dad."

"Ah, here we go." A lengthy pause. "I just received Rush's dossier from Lear."

"Shit," I mutter.

Bryn glances at me. "Something to hide? Something else, I mean?"

I snort bitterly. “You might say that, yeah.”

"You're a complicated man, Rush Bellamy."

"Bellamy ain't my real last name,” I answer. “I just picked it for the military forms coz it sounded good."

"Then what is your last name?”

"Ain't got one, sir,” I answer. “I was left on the steps of a vicarage in central London when I was not even a week old. No clue who either parent was. Raised in an orphanage till I was eight and then put in various foster homes till I ran away and lived on the streets. I was given the name Rush by a nun at the orphanage because I had too much energy and was always rushing around causin’ a ruckus. Before that, I was just 'you, boy.'"

"I see.” A long pause. “Recruited into the military at seventeen, SAS by nineteen. Top marks across the board in all disciplines. Multiple honors, decorations, and medals, including the Victoria Cross.” Another pause; the man uses pauses like weapons. "But…you've also been demoted several times for a variety of offenses, mostly to do with insubordination, assault, and…oh." He actually laughs. "You were discharged rather abruptly two and a half years ago, but the details are heavily redacted."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm curious about that."

"Um." I really, really don't want to get into that.

"Dad," Bryn says, admonishing. "I'm not sure this is the right time for an interrogation."

Harris sighs. "I guess not. But son, we're gonna have that conversation."

"Ain’t your son, sir. Respectfully."

"Understood." Another of those damned dreadful pauses—I see where Bryn gets her penchant for using silences as interrogatory weapons. What's he going to say next? "What's he have on you?"

I clear my throat, reaching deep for a calm I do not feel. "So you can have it on me, too?"

Bryn takes the phone off speaker and puts it to her ear. "Dad. I'll handle Rush and his secrets—yes, I'm aware. No, I don't want you to intervene, I can handle it. I just need this tracker deactivated. I didn't want to drag you all into this—yes, Dad, I know, god. I've already apologized for—right, I forgot I have to use Dad's Official Apology Script or the apology doesn’t count." She speaks in a mocking, annoyed, monotone. "I accept responsibility for my decision. Regardless of extenuating circumstances which may or may not apply, I made choices and they are mine alone. I'm sorry, Dad. I should not have ditched my guards, snuck out to a club for some unmonitored alone time, and gotten kidnapped by sex traffickers while trying to stop a kidnapping." A pause. "There—happy? Yeah, well, me neither. This hasn’t exactly been fun, Dad. Jesus! Can you just fucking stop parenting me for six goddamn seconds and help me with my actual problem? Or is this phone call just a waste of time? Maybe I should have asked for Uncle Lear instead. I mean, silly me, I thought you'd want to help.”

She listens for a while after that outburst, interjecting the occasional "right" and "yeah" and "got it."