Master of None Page 8

  And if it wasn’t too much trouble, maybe he could throw in a barf bag.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dirt never made a man happier than I was when I slid off Ian’s back and landed in it facedown. If I’d found a worm, I’d have kissed it.

  “Let’s not do that any more, ’kay?” Groaning, I pushed up with trembling arms and stood on equally shaky legs. The dirt beneath me was a clearing in the woods, sullen and gray in the predawn light. A rhythmic, gentle rushing rose and fell in the distance. Lake water. Nature’s symphony hummed through the air. There wasn’t a road or a house in sight. “This isn’t Wyckoff. You said you could find them.” Fear banished the last of my weakness. We could be miles from them, and getting anywhere from here would take too long.

  “They are close. Come on.” Ian pivoted and plunged into the thick of the woods.

  I stumbled after him, painfully aware of my inadequate footwear. My shoes were long gone by now—Leonard the Land Mass had probably eaten them. “How?” I shouted, kicking at a tangle of vegetation that tried to claim my sock. “How could you possibly know where they are? I’m starting to think you’re not really a djinn. You’re just out of your goddamned mind.”

  Ian stopped. “You are the most pathetic thief I have ever met. Could you make any more noise?”

  “Answer the question.” I fought through more brush, wincing when a sharp branch stabbed my instep. “Tell me how you think you’re going to find them.”

  “The same way I found you.”

  “And how did you find me?”

  Ian bared his teeth. “I sensed you. And since the boy is your son, I can sense him. Now, be quiet, idiotic thief. There is a good chance Trevor’s men are out here looking for them, too.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Taser’d definitely fried my brains. Maybe I could convince myself I’d hallucinated everything from the wolf on. It wasn’t a bad alternative. I could still be tied in Trevor’s basement, imagining this insanity.

  But that would mean not saving Jazz and Cyrus. Besides, all these cruddy trees and branches felt real enough, especially when they whacked my shins or skewered my feet.

  Ian moved on. I tried to keep quiet, but it wasn’t easy. This wasn’t my element. Give me a warehouse, a mansion, an office building, hell, even a cluttered basement, and I’d be as silent as a sleeping monk. Here, there was entirely too much nature. Nature had no structure, no detailed blueprints to study. Randomness threw me off.

  As though the woods wanted to reinforce my unease, my foot—the one with the torn sock, of course—squelched through a pile of random nature. I gagged and damn near collapsed.

  “What is wrong with you?” Ian whispered. “Evolution moves faster than this.”

  “Sorry,” I shot back. “This turf isn’t made for walking without shoes.”

  Ian muttered something and gestured. My feet tingled. Solid footwear materialized. “Now, move.”

  The shoes felt strange. “What happened to my socks?”

  “Live without them.”

  “Fine.” I wiggled my toes. “You didn’t do anything to my feet, did you? I mean, you keep ending up with clothes on when you come back from being a wolf. Doesn’t seem like it should work that way.”

  Ian made a sharp sound. “Fur covers the wolf. This covers me.” He swiped at his coat. “Enough foolish questions! We’ve no time for this.”

  I decided he was probably right.

  With less hesitation on my part, we made good time. Somehow, Ian managed to cover the ground in silence, while my progress made Godzilla seem light-footed. I must have snapped every twig in upstate New York. And after five minutes of blundering through endless trees, I couldn’t have found my way back to civilization with a GPS and a forest ranger to guide me.

  I hoped Ian could sense blacktop and gas stations.

  The djinn stopped and motioned me into silence. Some distance ahead, leaves rustled, and branches crackled under human intrusion. Jazz or the thugs? Ian pointed to a thick spray of downed pine branches five feet to his right. The boughs arched out from two or three close-set trunks and appeared to create a natural cave. Jazz? I mouthed.

  He nodded.

  Damn. All that crashing up ahead had to be the thugs, and they weren’t far. I could render a person unconscious if I caught him by surprise, but I knew there were at least two of them. If I brought one down, the other would shoot me before I could say Just turn around and pretend I’m sneaking up on you. And hadn’t Ian said he wasn’t allowed to kill humans? Not that it stopped him from relieving them of a hand or two. He’d have to pitch in.

  I moved toward the spray, trying for silence so I wouldn’t startle her . . . if she was even in there. I still had my doubts. “Jazz,” I whispered. “Are you—”

  Pain splintered my left shin seconds before my ears registered the gunshot.

  “Fuck.” I pronounced the word solemnly and plopped on my ass in a carpet of browned pine needles. Eight people gunning for me tonight, and the good guy—well, girl—scores. At least, I hoped it had been Jazz firing. “Whatever I did now, I’m sorry.”

  Something rustled behind the boughs. “Donatti?” A breathless whisper.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” My ability to speak was a surprise and a concern. The pain had all but vanished, and my lower leg was a block of concrete glued to my knee. I knew it would hurt again soon. A lot.

  “Are they gone?” She didn’t come out. She meant the thugs.

  “Not exactly. But they’re not right here.”

  At once, Ian stood over me, glowering. “Be silent.”

  “Jazz, don’t shoot again. It’s Ian,” I whispered harshly. Looking up at the angry djinn, I threw his expression right back. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “You will live. Your woman has just announced exactly where we are. Get in there with her, and do not move.” Light suffused his body, and the wolf returned. He darted off into the trees.

  “What the hell just happened out there?” Jazz demanded in rough undertones.

  “Hold on,” I whispered back. “I’m coming in.” Walking was out of the question. I shifted until my back faced the branches and scooted through the wooden curtain, pushing with my arms and good leg.

  Inside, Jazz knelt on the ground, a gun still trained toward the cover. “Holy hell,” she whispered. “You really are Houdini. How did you get out of there?”

  No nonsense, no apologies. That was Jazz. I had to smile, despite the first twinges of real pain announcing themselves in bursts of heat from my leg. “Long story. Where’s Cyrus?”

  She hesitated and then pointed. The boy sat at the base of the center tree, a thumb settled securely in his mouth, wide-eyed and pressed back against the trunk. “He’s a trooper,” she said. “What was that light?”

  “Uh, it was Ian. See . . .”

  At once, she swung the gun in my direction. “Don’t think for a second I won’t choose him over you. Get out, if you want your brains to stay inside your skull.”

  “Whoa.” I held my hands out in surrender, completely baffled. “Choose who over me? Does there have to be a choice? I mean, I’m on your side . . .”

  “I’m not stupid, Donatti.” The gun didn’t waver. “Ian is dead. And the only way you could have gotten out of Trevor’s place is if he let you go. That bastard’s not getting my son. You can tell him that.”

  Crud. If things were logical, she’d be right. Unfortunately, I’d entered the Twilight Zone the minute Ian had invaded my life, while she was still planted firmly in reality—and her reality included protecting Cyrus from a madman with serious firepower. “Jazz, please. I’m not telling Trevor anything. I don’t work for him. You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” Sighing, I lowered my arms a few degrees and tried to come up with something that would convince her of my loyalties. “Look. If Trevor had sent me, I’d be armed, right? You can search me.”

  “If yo
u’re not out of here in five seconds, you’re a dead man.”

  “Jazz . . .”

  “Four.”

  Damn. I was going to regret this.

  Moving as though I meant to comply with her demands, I shifted forward slightly and watched her face. The next time she blinked, I wrestled the gun away, then turned it on her.

  “You asshole,” she said through clenched teeth. “He’s your son, too.”

  “I know. That’s why I’d never work for Trevor. But since you don’t believe me, I couldn’t think of another way to survive long enough to prove it. Come on, Jazz, don’t you think—ow!” My righteous little speech ended in a howl when something pinched my arm hard. I glanced down to see Cyrus clinging to me, his tiny teeth sunk into my flesh like an oversized piranha.

  Jazz flashed me a look. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  “I told you I’m not going to hurt him,” I said, with gritted teeth of my own. “Can you please ask him to stop biting me, if I promise not to blow anyone’s brains out?”

  She scuttled closer. “Cy, baby, it’s all right,” she coaxed. “Come over here.”

  Cyrus released me. For an instant, he glowered, his hands clenched in small fists, and then he toddled over to Jazz’s waiting arms. Jesus, the kid was just like his mother. A pint-sized bundle of guts.

  “Thanks.” I rubbed at my chewed arm and winced. My leg had stopped humming and started to sing—a full-blown choir of pain. I had to stop the bleeding, at least. “Okay. If I put this down for a second, will you promise not to attack me? Either of you? I have to wrap my leg.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  I stared at her. “Uh . . . you shot me.”

  “I did?” She frowned. “That was a wild shot. Didn’t think I hit anything. Here, let me see.” She settled Cyrus on the ground. “Stay here, baby, okay? Just for a minute.”

  “’Kay.” Cyrus gave a huge yawn and thrust his thumb back in. How did she get him to do that? All the little kids I’d encountered were tantrum factories. This boy was as calm as a desert mirage.

  Jazz scooted toward me—and without thinking, I handed her the gun.

  She smiled. “All right, Donatti. I believe you.”

  “Good.” Relief kept me from blurting that I hadn’t meant to do that and would still feel safer with the weapon in my possession. After all, she’d conned me before. But I’d cross those shark-infested waters when we weren’t in fear for our lives, which probably wouldn’t be until someone killed Trevor. Preferably me.

  I’d never actually wanted to kill anyone before. The feeling terrified me.

  Though sunrise had brought color to the woods, the thick shade beneath the branches made things difficult to see. Jazz prodded my leg, gently at first, and then with a firm grip. I hissed. “Sorry,” she said. “It went through.”

  “Hey, it’s a stroke of luck. We won’t have to dig a bullet out with a stick.” Grimacing, I peeled off my shirt, used my teeth to tear it open, and worked a strip free. Jazz took it and cinched it around my calf while I formed another makeshift bandage, mostly to keep my mouth shut against the pain. When half the shirt was gone, I dropped the rest and let out a hard breath. “I think I can learn to appreciate being shot,” I said. “Doesn’t hurt as much as Tasering.”

  “Oh, God. Did Trevor . . .”

  I laid a finger on her lips. “I’m okay now. Let’s work on getting the hell out of here, and then—”

  Not far away, a medley of sounds exploded. Harsh growls, breaking branches, shouts, gunfire. A startled yelp. Silence. Cyrus shifted closer to Jazz, eyes wide, and she drew him in with an arm. “Bad guys,” he murmured around his thumb.

  “You got that right,” I said. God damn it, Ian, stop getting yourself killed. I hoped he could pull out of this. He’d done it before—he would be all right. Wouldn’t he?

  Jazz gripped my arm. “Was that a dog?” she whispered. “Jesus, how did they get the dogs out here? We’ve got to move, now.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t a dog. Just . . . trust me. Stay here and keep him safe.” I had to see if Ian had taken one or both of them out—or if they’d gotten him first. “Can I borrow your gun?”

  She handed it over. “Try to stay alive, Houdini.”

  “Funny. I think I’ve heard that before.” I hitched a half-smile and glanced at Cyrus. The kid had stayed put. His big blues stared at me, and I could have sworn I knew what he was thinking: Boy, you’re pretty stupid going out there, Mister. It sounds scary.

  I had to agree. So far tonight, stupid had been my middle name. Good thing Jazz hadn’t known that before, or she might have named the kid Stupid Donatti.

  CHAPTER 11

  After Jazz handed me a couple of spare cartridges and a peck on the cheek for luck—useless, but it felt nice—I hop-crawled out of the shelter and hunkered beside it to listen, gun at the ready. The weapon seemed on the flimsy side. I glanced at it in the stronger light and understood why my bones hadn’t shattered with the shot. It was a .22 Browning. Practically a cap gun. What was she doing with this peashooter? Oh, right. Conner the Barbarian had forced her to toss the Glock. This must have been her spare.

  I was no marksman. I’d probably fare better armed with a big stick.

  It would have been silent, except for the birds babbling their feathered heads off. Didn’t they know there were people with guns down here? I straightened slowly and shifted my weight to my good leg. Had to move away from Jazz before someone showed up looking for trouble with a capital Shoot to Kill. I limped in the direction Ian had disappeared earlier and realized that whoever had been left standing would have no problem finding me—with my foot dragging on the ground, I was about as stealthy as an elephant.

  Ten feet, then twenty, and no sign of anyone. Ian or otherwise. Much farther in, and I’d have trouble finding Jazz again. Everything looked the same. There were probably fifty different varieties in here, but to me, a tall brown thing with green stuff was a goddamned tree. I would have stopped and waited for them to come to me, but Jazz and Cyrus were still too close. I picked up the pace, unmindful of the racket I made, and blundered another fifty feet.

  On a tangle of dried weeds, I found my answer. The score was tied—one for us, one for the thugs. Harmon or Pope, minus his throat, sprawled face-up with clouded eyes fixed on the branches above. I guessed Harmon, because only a guy called Pope would take the time to thumb a cross on his dead buddy’s forehead with his own congealing blood after shooting the wolf that brought him down.

  The wolf lay on his side a few feet from the body. Crimson stained his white muzzle, and his fur glistened darkly in at least three spots I could see. At least his eyes were closed. Jesus, Ian, I thought you couldn’t kill humans. Apparently, there were exceptions to this rule. Maybe they could only kill people while they were wolves. I stood and watched him, hoping to see a twitch, a shallow breath, anything that might herald another miraculous recovery.

  When nothing happened, I made yet another colossally stupid decision.

  “Hey, Pope!” I bellowed. A handful of startled birds burst into flight above me. “Trevor’s gonna hand your ass to you in a basket when he finds out you two morons couldn’t even bag a chick and a kid.” I turned in a slow circle, alert for any sound. At least the birds had given it a rest.

  Something crunched to my left. I swung the gun and fired blind.

  An answering shot thundered. Splinters burst from a tree behind me. I dropped and rolled, crouched opposite the wounded side of the trunk. “You’re a lousy shot, Pope. What’s your regular job, doing Trevor’s laundry?”

  “That you, Donatti?” Pope’s voice sounded holy, all right. Like he’d eaten a cactus. I hoped Ian had gotten a few chomps in before he went down. “We figured you’d turn up eventually. Too bad about your dog, huh?”

  We? Did he mean Trevor we, or dead-guy we . . . or were there more of them out here? “Shame about your buddy, too,” I shouted. “Hell of a way to go. You ready to join him?”


  Pope’s gun roared. The bullet skimmed the side of the tree, inches from my head. “Ladies first.”

  “Oh, you’re clever. Did you pick up your insults at Thugs R Us?” Jesus, that was close. I tried to remember what I planned on doing after I’d gotten his attention. And then I remembered that I didn’t have a plan. Shit on toast.

  No response from Pope. The silence highlighted my heart pounding in my ears. Took him long enough to figure out what I was up to. Trevor didn’t make a habit of employing idiots. Seeing a wolf tear his partner’s throat out must have unhinged him a little, but he’d recovered now. Nothing I hated more than smart thugs.

  I had to move soon. My leg screamed a protest under my weight. Sweat soaked my temples and dripped cold down my back. Holding my breath, I felt the ground beneath me and closed my fingers around a good-sized rock, then inched up the tree trunk slow and easy.

  A whisper of sound behind me. Couldn’t let him get the advantage—he had a bigger gun. I lurched around the tree, ready to brain Pope on the other side. He wasn’t there. I knew I’d heard something. Before my mind could process this development, a sensation I’d experienced too often tonight presented itself: a gun jammed against me. Right between my shoulders.

  “Drop it, Donatti.”

  He must have come around the opposite side. The .22 tumbled to the ground. Useless thing, anyway. I almost dropped the rock that he hadn’t even noticed, but in a snap, I realized that if Pope intended to kill me, he’d have done it by now. Which meant Trevor’s arrogant ass still wanted me alive.

  Not gonna happen.

  I stilled and transferred all of my weight to the leg without the hole in it. Had to act fast, before Pope decided what to do with me. If I missed, I’d take another bullet for my trouble. I leaned forward and spun around, arching the rock up and out, then sling-shotted in for his head.

  The dull crack of stone-meet-Pope sounded like salvation.

  He didn’t go down right away. He blinked, stumbled back, and jerked. The gun went off, and the bullet sailed away through the trees without my body to block it. At last, the thug toppled to the ground with an expression that said, Where’d you get that cement fist?