Page 78 of Delta

"Your dad is getting us a lead on Pugli's location. We go after him."

She nods. "Good. Dad will take care of Eliza. You can count on that. He's never once failed."

That does make it a bit easier to breathe, but I won't be able to take a full breath until I’ve got Eliza back in my arms.

It ends up being two hours later before Lear pings over a last known location, along with a contact number for Alexander, who has been brought in to help so Lear can focus on finding Eliza.

Within forty minutes of receiving that message, I've stolen us another car and we're heading out of Barcelona—Pugli is heading for Italy and Lear thinks he knows where he's going. We just have to get there first.

Alexander helps us evade border security, taking us into Italy via a long, slow, circuitous route, which I take at ill-advisedly fast speeds. Bryn says nothing, just stares out the window, stewing.

Blaming herself.

I know the feeling—I blame myself, as well.

Pugli's destination, as best Lear can figure, is a country estate in Tuscany. It's another beautiful place that we've no time or emotional space to appreciate—I blast up and down the hills at breakneck speeds, pushing the battered old Lancia I stole to its limits. We're only half a dozen or so miles from the estate when the sat phone rings.

Bryn answers it, puts it on speaker. "What's up, Uncle Lear? You're on speaker."

"Perfect. I have some updates. The original six are en route via hypersonic jet to Europe. I've tracked the van the kidnappers took Eliza in across the Channel. They're heading east. We have Sasha on the ground with two more fire teams loaded for bear. We have a plan, and will intercept them." He pauses, typing. "Second, I’ve confirmed that Pugli is arriving at his estate in Tuscany as we speak. You two are not to engage on your own. He traveled with at least thirty men; I have eyes in the sky on his estate now, and I’m seeing at least that many more. No matter how badass you may be, Rush, that's beyond any one man's ability to deal with. And Bryn, I know you've done some training, but—"

"If you think for one bloody fucking second that I'm gonna sit on my bloody fuckin' hands while those cunts have my bloody fucking daughter, you ain't been payin’ attention to the sort of bloke I am, mate."

Lear hesitates. "Sixty men, my guy. I've got RMI crews en route to your location as we speak—they're coming from Rome via Osprey. Just…be smart. You do your daughter no favors by dying. She'll need her dad when this is over, Rush."

"RMI?" I echo. "As in Johnny Raze and that lot?"

“Yes."

"Fuck me, you bastards are well fucking connected, ain'tcha?"

"Yes. We are." Lear pauses, typing again. "Raze's crew is led by Chico. I know him personally, and he's a hard-ass motherfucker who also happens to have four daughters. When I tell you he's pissed off on your behalf, you should be very, very glad he's on our side. He says they're thirty minutes out from target."

"I've heard stories about that lad," I mutter. "Be glad to work with him." I scrub my face with one hand as I pull over onto the shoulder. "Fuck me. I'll wait thirty minutes, but if I've not heard from you by then, I’m dealing with these fuckos myself."

"Not by yourself," Bryn snaps. “If you think you're going in without me, you haven’t been paying attention."

Lear chuckles. "Yeah, good luck with that one, kid. Bryn doesn't do 'no.'" He hums, thinking sound. "Oh, by the way, when you see Chico, tell him Cuddy says fuck you."

"Will that get my block knocked off?" I ask.

"Preface it with 'Cuddy says' and you should be fine."

“The Cuddy is your wife? Jesus," I mutter. "Wound up in the Premier League, haven’t I?”

"Alright, kids," Lear says. "That's it for now. I'll give you a heads up when Chico and company are close. Sit tight, don't forget to breathe, and remember that Pugli himself doesn't have your daughter. We'll have her in hand…" he goes quiet as he consults something or other on his end. "By eighteen hundred at the latest, according to current data."

"The second you know anything about Eliza," I say.

"The very instant, Rush. Trust us. This is what we do."

"Well, what I do is violence," I say. "And I'm about to fuckin' pop. So your boy Chico had better be here on time or I'll take out these sick fucks with my bare fuckin' hands."

"I hear you. Thirty minutes."

The call ends, then, and I'm left antsy, agitated, and fidgety—my pulse hammers with anticipation and fury, making each second last hours.

When thirty minutes nears, I'm pacing circles around the old Lancia as the late afternoon Italian sun beats down mercilessly, sat-phone in hand.