Page 85 of Delta

14

14: AMBUSHED

We follow Pugli's path across Italy and into Switzerland. He puts down at an airfield outside Geneva, but he's in a car and gone before we're even close. Lear tracks his progress across Geneva while we land and divide into a quartet of old but serviceable four-by-fours.

What follows is a comically long-distance chase across Geneva—we close in on his position, and he bugs out again. And I have to admit, I like Pugli being on the run, the mouse to my cat. I hope the fucking twat is out of his mind knowing we've got his ass on the run.

It’s the effort of a lifetime, though, to keep my focus on the task at hand rather than Eliza. In my mind, I know she's safe. But I've not seen her or held her. I can't comfort her or read her a story. I can't do anything but trust people I've never met to protect my little girl.

I've always been good at compartmentalizing my personal shit while I’m working. But lately, I'm starting to realize that was mostly because I never had any real personal shit to deal with. Then things happened with Rachel, and then we had Eliza, and then Rachel and I broke up, and then Rachel died, and then Eliza got diagnosed, and then Eliza got sicker…

Turned out I'm not so great at compartmentalizing. Not when serious shit is happening in my life. When you've got a dying child, however, everything is serious.

"Rush?" Bryn's voice brings me out of my thoughts.

"Wossat, love?"

"Why were you kicked out of the SAS?"

We're side by side in the back of a jeep, trying to make up time as we chase Pugli across the mountains.

I sigh. "That ain't a nice story, Bryn."

"Are any of your stories nice?" she asks.

I snort. “Nah, guess not. But it ain't something I'm proud of."

"Well now I'm even more curious," Bryn says. "Out with it, bub."

I groan. "Fuck. It's…well, not classified or nothin', exactly, but what really happened ain't on record."

She snorts. "Oh my. That sounds ominous."

"Definitely not what you're thinkin' it is, I can all but guarantee you that." I look at her, shaking my head. "Can't believe I'm telling you this. I'm really not supposed to—I signed an NDA an' all."

She gives me a wide-eyed stare. "Holy shit, you had to sign an NDA? What did you do, Rush?"

I grimace. "I, um, well, I sort of shagged the wife of the commanding officer of the entire SAS."

Silence.

"No shit."

"Not my brightest idea."

She huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I guess not. But…how? I mean, I can't imagine the average soldier really comes into contact with top brass all that often, let alone their wives.”

"Nah, not really, no. And to be fair, it wasn't all me. I hate sounding childish or whatever, but she started it." I blow out a breath. "It was an accidental meeting, an' that's the honest truth. I was having a pint with the lads near base, as you do, right? Some of the lads left, and then more, and then more, and then suddenly it was just me halfway to rat-arsed with a fresh pint of bitters. Well, in walks a lady. By herself, which in that area ain't a commonly done thing, mind you. Bit of a rough place, it was. Still dunno what Vivian was doing in a place like that other than hunting the exact sort of trouble she found. Meanin' me. Now, mind you, I was straight carparked by then, but I'm the sort who don't show how pissed I am till I'm arse up in a ditch outside Tisbury with a sausage in one hand and a biscuit in the other."

Bryn stares at me. "What the fuck did you just say? I know you used English words, but…what?"

I snicker. "I was hammered, babe. Proper shitfaced. But you can't really tell how drunk I am."

“Okay, but what the fuck is Tisbury, and what do a sausage and a biscuit have to do with anything? And furthermore, carparked? How many different words and phrases do you Brits have for drunk?"

"Tisbury is a place," I answer. "West of London and north of Southampton where Eliza's grandparents live. Me and the lads stole a caravan and went on a drive out into the countryside. Ended up in a pub in a place called Tisbury, got colossally pissed, and wandered off by myself. The lads found me face down in a ditch with a half-eaten sausage in one hand and a biscuit in the other. Because I was carparked. And to answer your question, we've got as many different ways to say drunk as the beach has grains of sand, love. Think of any word and we can find a way to make it mean drunk."

“Got it. But…when you say you and a lad stole a caravan?"