Page 8 of Delta

He's huge—six feet tall but broad as a barn, big-bellied, powerful, and good god almighty he stinks so fucking bad even from here. He laughs once, a cruel, amused bark.

He lashes out with a paw, knocking my gun aside, and then my gun is gone. His other hand swings around from the small of his back—at first, I think he has a pistol, but instead of shooting me, he jabs me in the side with it.

The sensation is unlike anything I've ever felt, and I've been stung by jellyfish and broken bones. It's like a charley horse times infinity. Excruciating pain spears through my whole body, a hot, crackling, burning sensation radiating from my skin into my muscles and tendons. My whole body locks up. My teeth clench, and I go rigid. I can't scream, can't breathe. He catches me one-armed and lets me slump to the cold, sticky hallway floor. Barks something over his shoulder at his companion.

Something clatters across the concrete.

My skin burns, my muscles tingle, and I'm confused, disoriented. Conscious, but…scrambled.

He grabs the thing his partner passed to him—a syringe. He pulls the cap off with his teeth and jabs me in the arm, slowly depressing the plunger.

"Night-night, extra girl." His voice is low, cruel, and thickly accented.

Darkness swallows me.

My last thought is, Well, fuck. This isn't good.

2

2: A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

The ringing of my mobile is an insistent annoyance. For a while, I can tune it out. But it rings, rings, and rings, stops. Ring-ring-ring, stop. Ring-ring-ring, stop.

Three rings, a minute pause, three rings.

I fucking hate that pattern. The twat on the other end is a right fucking menace, a pretentious, self-absorbed, too-good-for-everyone pile of moldy goat shit, and a cocksucking turd with too much power and influence. I'd run my blade through his throat, given a half-chance. Too bad I fucking need him.

"Shouldn't you answer that?" This is the voice of my…companion. Shelly? Sheila? Sharon?

Something like that. Fuck if I know, and fuck if I care.

I grin down at her. "I will. When I'm ready. You just keep going, love. Ain't gonna suck itself."

I know, I know. I'm an arse. But I talked myself up to her flat after thirty minutes of conversation over a pint. And for further clarity, I led with, "Those pretty lips of yours would look lovely wrapped around my eight-inch cock."

So here we are. And they do. So she can't be bothered by me being an insensitive prick seeing as I didn't hide that from her.

And my god, she knows what she's about, this pretty little slag. Only thing I don't like is that her hair is too short to make for good handles, so I grab the back of her head and show her how I like it.

Gobble gobble, sweetheart.

She's eager to please, taking my nonverbal instructions without hesitation.

Ring-ring-ring—stop. Ring-ring-ring—stop. Ring-ring-ring—stop.

"Fuckin' cunt bastard," I mumble. "What's so fuckin' important?"

I reach for my mobile, which is just barely out of reach, and the girl on her knees is just about to the best bit of the process, so I'm not about to stop her now. Stretch a bit further. Got it.

Ring-ring-ring—

"The fuck you want, bastard?” I snarl. "I'm fuckin' busy."

The voice has a faint Italian accent—it's an educated, self-assured voice. A man who wields authority like a very large club—one with spikes. "Un-busy yourself, Rush. I have need of your services."

I hit the mute button, addressing the girl. "Faster, sweetheart. I'm—ooof, yes, love, that's right. Just like that. Jesus, you've a real hoover of a mouth, haven't you?" Unmute. "What is it this time, you greedy wanker?"

"I need you in Germany. I have a shipment arriving and the men I've assigned to escort the merchandise are of…limited utility. There was a complication, and I do not trust them to handle it."