Page 106 of Theta

"And you get this now? Seconds from finishing the op?”

"I don't bloody fucking know a single bloody goddamn thing you don't, you stupid bloody fucking yank, so shut the bloody fuck up and let me find fucking out before you ask me any more stupid goddamned bloody fucking questions, you fuckin’ got it, mate?”

"Fine, Jesus. Keep your fuckin’ shirt on.”

Killian looks at me with overly wide eyes, mouthing PUGLI IS DEAD?

I just make an I-don't-know face because even shrugging hurts.

"Confirmed,” Chief says, a few seconds later. “Sal found his body ten minutes ago. Pugli’s gone."

Silence again.

"So…who pays us?" This is a new voice—Spanish, possibly.

"Fuck if I know, mate." A pause. "Sal's gone. Offline or dead himself, I don't know and I care even less. Pugli paid us himself. Sal hasn't got the scratch to match the pay Pugli promised us for this op, and I know that for facts.”

"We only got the first half," says a fourth voice, another American. "I ain't doin' shit unless I know I'm getting mothafuckin' paid, ya feel me?”

"Me either," says a fifth, followed by a veritable chorus—they sent a freaking army after us, it sounds like…probably why it took two days to get to us.

“SHUT IT!” The chief bellows. "We're agreed. We don't work for free, do we, lads?" The chorus shouts no in unison. "Much as it chaps my arse to let these little Yankee shits go, we ain't doin' shite without proper pay on the hook. And with Pugli dead, we're on the hunt for a new score. Let’s get scarce, lads.”

There's a squeak of sole rubber and then the indefinable quality of silence that comes with the sudden absence of people.

Killian stands cautiously on his feet, reaches for the door—he flinches backward when a fist pounds on it once.

"You fucks got lucky," the original American voice says, hitting the door again. "Punk ass bitches."

"Torino! Fuckin' come on, man. Helo's waiting."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, his voice fading into the distance. "I'm comin'."

Silence.

None of us dares move or breathe, not quite willing to believe it's not a trick.

But then the choppy thumping of a helicopter grows louder and louder until it’s passing mere feet overhead—Killian rushes to the window. From my vantage point, I catch a quick glimpse of a blacked-out older model Huey banking away, a door gunner visible for an instant before it carves away out of sight; a second, third, and fourth follow suit in quick succession—Jesus, they sent a lot of dudes after us.

Pretty badass, to be honest.

More silence.

Dante is the first to speak, albeit in a whisper. "Is that it? It is over?"

"I sure as fuck hope so," Killian responds. "Have a hard time believing it, though."

The door opens, and Killian’s pistol whips up, only dropping again when Dr. Lia’s white-coated figure fills the doorway.

"It is okay," she says. "They have gone." She looks pale, shaken.

"They hurt you?" Killian asks.

She shakes her head. "No. I knew Roberto in a life past. Before he became the…the thing he is now. He would burn this place to the ground around me, but he would not order anyone to shoot me."

"Well, he's dead," Killian says.

She blinks at this news. "Truly?"