“If you don’t do what I say, I’ll turn this van around and pick up your little wife, and then I’ll make you watch as I carve that fucking baby out with a pencil. How does that sound?”
“Enough!” Arlecchino’s on her feet with one hand braced against the wall to stop her falling as we drive. “We got what we came for, right? So let’s just dump this guy somewhere and disappear like we always do.”
“No thanks to you,” mutters Volto.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You think I missed you letting that bitch set off the alarm?”
“I didn’t let her!” Arlecchino snaps. “It happened. We’re both to blame.”
“Fuck that.” Suddenly, Volto’s on his feet. “You were on crowd control and you let a rookie mistake get past you! Anyone would think?—”
“Enough!” Bauta barks. “This isn’t the fucking time or the place, you hear me?”
The cracks are showing. Damian’s report suspected that it was an elite group that was hitting his stores, a group with bigger plans because petty robbery is usually an attempt to draw someone or something out. He’s had eyes on his rivals for quite some time, but five minutes with these guys and it’s clear we’re both way off the mark.
These guys aren’t the Mafia. They’re just a bunch of idiots.
My amusement isn’t concealed enough, though because Bauta looks back at me and immediately strikes me hard across the face with the butt of his gun.
“Something funny to you?” he snarls. “Don’t forget that I always make good on my threats, motherfucker!”
“Leave him alone,” Arlecchino yells, but her voice is distant under the second and third blows that come my way.
Hot blood rolls down from my temple as I slump to the side and let Bauta think he’s bested me. Given he’s armed and I’m not, I’m at a disadvantage. Another hit like that, though, and defending myself will be trouble. So I stay down and close my eyes, listening to them argue about the right way to deal with me while blood leaks from the throbbing ache in my skull and a slight pull of nausea tightens my gut.
I need to signal Frank.
The argument quickly tapers off after Bauta lords his control over everyone and the other two slump back in their seats. Volto continues to grumble incoherently under his breath and Arlecchino remains silent. The van sways back and forth and then moves from a smooth road to a rough track, judging by how we’re suddenly shaking and bouncing around inside the back like loose balls. Gritting my teeth, I push down on my shoulder to adjust my position and then haul myself back up against the back wall. Arlecchino is just visible through the small crack in my eyelids and as the vehicle slows further, I watch her.
Her leg bounces repeatedly, she’s constantly rubbing at one of her thighs, and every movement from Bauta makes her flinch slightly. She’s either very untrained for this sort of thing or there’s something else going on. It shouldn’t be too hard to play up the victim to get her attention, if my guess is right.
Before long, the van rolls to a stop and the back doors fly open. The second Volto mask climbs inside and moves past everyone until he reaches me. Together with the first Volto mask, they grab me by the arms and haul me up like I’m nothing more than a sack of meat. Playing into the daze from the blow, I weaken my legs so they’re forced to drag me and take slight enjoyment in the grunts that follow when they realize just how heavy I am.
Packed muscle isn’t for the light-hearted.
“Take him inside,” Bauta snaps. “You—” He snaps his fingers at Arlecchino as I’m dragged from the van. “Help with the bags.”
Keeping my head down grants me limited visibility. Rough, torn tarmac gives way to a shoddy linoleum floor that’s seen better days. Wind whistles around me carrying a chill that cuts throughmy shirt, and I suppress a shiver when I’m thrown down onto the damp floor. Before I can get my bearings, two heavy boots collide with my middle and a grunt of pain is forced past my lips.
Shit.
“Fucker thinks he’s better than us,” snarls one of the Voltos as he kicks me hard again, this time right in the middle of my chest.
Rolling from that sends me right into the next blow from the other man and together, they kick the shit out of me as hard as they can. Blows rain down on my stomach, my chest, and my hips. One stamps hard on my wrist when I try to get my bound arms under me, and another kicks me so hard in the head that the entire world flips on its head and sends me crashing down onto my back, gasping. Blood coats the back of my tongue as I lie there gazing up through a fog that creeps across my eyes.
Nearby, the Voltos high-five each other and stroll away.
The fuck did I do?
The attack seems born purely out of some shared desire to put me in my place when all I’ve done is play the part of hostage. If I weren’t so eager for some answers, I’d have fought back, but now isn’t the time.
Above me, the crumbling roof of a warehouse gives me a broken view of the darkening sky and the chilled caress of the passing wind is welcome against my throbbing skin. Each breath comes in tight gasps as muscle and lungs protest my movements, but after a quick mental check, nothing seems broken.
Just fucking sore.
Water droplets land on my forehead from above, so I shift on the ground and tenderly pull myself up into a cross-legged position.My head immediately swims and I grimace, closing my eyes and swallowing down the next wave of blood, but I don’t stay in the dark for long.
