Free Master of None by Sonya Bateman

his skin. The spray had darkened to a tacky maroon, creating an almost tribal pattern across one side of his face, up his skull, and down his neck. Even his ear bore the gruesome freckling. He bestowed a benevolent smile on Jazz. “Don’t be troubled, now. You’ve met my expectations, and you’re free to go.” He addressed two of the gun-toting thugs. “Pope, Harmon, bring the lady and her child back to her vehicle. If there is a body, collect it. If not, call for reinforcements.”
    My skin crawled. Why would Trevor think there wouldn’t be a body? An instant later, I realized Skids must have reported exactly what happened at the garage, and if Trevor even half believed it, the vigilant son of a bitch was just covering his ass.
    With a defiant glance at Trevor, Jazz approached and stopped in front of me. The boy in her arms stirred, blinked sleepily . . . and a lump lodged in my throat when my own blue eyes looked back at me from the small face that bore a striking resemblance to Jazz’s.
    In that instant, I would have died a hundred times for both of them.
    Jazz attempted to smile. It didn’t work. “Try to stay alive, Houdini.”
    “Ga,” the boy pronounced.
    “I think he likes me.” I summoned a grin, though I imagined it looked as if I’d just dropped something heavy on my toe. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
    “Let’s not give the lady false hope,” Trevor cut in. “As I believed my former associate mentioned to you earlier this evening, Mr. Donatti, that isn’t likely to happen. Pope, if you would.”
    One of the goons grabbed Jazz by the shoulder and steered her away. I watched them escort her out in silence, too furious to release the useless barrage of insults and threats building inside. At last, I faced Trevor with fists and jaw clenched and waited.
    Trevor smiled, this time without benevolence. “Take Mr. Donatti downstairs, and let him hang around for a while. I have a few matters to attend to before we begin. Mr. Donatti, I suggest that you consider very carefully what you’re going to tell me, and make sure I like your answers to my questions. I have many of them.”
    Two of the remaining thugs flanked me. The one with the Taser moved in front. While the others held me, the third thumbed a trigger on the pronged device and produced an ominous buzzing crackle. The insouciant grin he’d flashed Jazz outside resurfaced. He thrust the posts under my ribcage and held.
    Tasering didn’t feel like sticking a finger in a light socket. It felt like swallowing a box of sewing needles, then being thrown into a giant blender to get them moving around.
    Five long seconds into the shock treatment, I sagged in the thugs’ grip. Taser Boy gave me another quick jolt for good measure and finally left me to droop. They dragged me across the room opposite the direction everyone else had left, toward a tall black door.
    I could hardly wait to see what was on the other side.

CHAPTER 8
    Split lip, bruised balls, fried ribs, and now, shredded wrists. My running tally of injuries insisted on playing itself out in my head like a demented game show.
And what do we have next for our fine contestant? Why, it’s a drawn-out and brutal death, accompanied by a fabulous voyage to the bottom of the lake!
    “And the crowd goes wild,” I muttered. Hysterical laughter bubbled just beneath the surface. I couldn’t let it out, or I’d never stop.
    Downstairs was a basement, where the thugs had strung me from the rafters like so much meat. Dim lighting revealed enough to confirm that this room had only one purpose: to inflict pain. I scoped the scenery, automatically looking for possible escape routes. My initial analysis proved less than encouraging.
    I had to give it to Trevor. The place had atmosphere. I’d done a brief stint in a Cuban jail, and though those quarters had been less than modern, they’d been a four-star motel compared to this. The stone walls glistened with just enough moisture to dampen the