Verwandte Artikel zu Master of None

Master of None - Softcover

Bateman, Sonya

 
9781439160848: Master of None
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1439160848 ISBN 13: 9781439160848
Verlag: Pocket Books, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

ONE UNLUCKY THIEF. ONE UNLIKELY GENIE. ONE VERY ODD COUPLE.

Gavyn Donatti is the world’s unluckiest thief. Just ask all the partners he’s lost over the years. And when he misplaces an irreplaceable item he was hired to steal for his ruthless employer, Trevor—well, his latest bungle just might be his last. But then his luck finally turns: right when Trevor’s thugs have him cornered, a djinn, otherwise known as a genie, appears to save him.

Unfortunately, this genie—who goes by the very non-magical name of “Ian”—is more Hellboy than dream girl. An overgrown and extremely surly man who seems to hate Donatti on the spot, he may call Donatti master, but he isn’t interested in granting three wishes. He informs Donatti that he is bound to help the thief fulfill his life’s purpose, and then he will be free. The problem is that neither Donatti nor Ian has any idea what exactly that purpose is.

At first Donatti’s too concerned with his own survival to look a gift genie in the mouth, but when his ex-girlfriend Jazz and her young son get drawn into the crossfire, the stakes skyrocket. And when Ian reveals that he has an agenda of his own—with both Donatti and the murderous Trevor at the center of it—Donatti will have to become the man he never knew he could be, or the entire world could pay the price. . . .

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sonya Bateman lives in upstate New York with her husband, son, four cats, and a gerbil with half a tail.  She enjoys reading and swimming, and wishes there were some feasible way to combine the two. 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

CHAPTER 1

Just once, I would have liked to get my shit together. Even accidentally. But I could already see that wasn’t going to happen tonight. After all, I am the world’s unluckiest thief. Ask anybody.

Especially my ex-partners.

The long-abandoned warehouse I’d stumbled across had seemed like a blessing, and the worn canvas bag wedged under my spare tire had been downright serendipitous. That was until I started stuffing my worldly possessions into it and the damned thing split down the seams. Out came everything, all over the concrete floor that was covered with dust and oil and Christ knew what else. The gunk would wreak havoc with my instruments.

As if that weren’t enough, one of the banded stacks of bills popped loose. The draft in the place snatched a handful of hundreds and whisked them off into the gloom in a flurry of papery whispers. Like the building was laughing at me.

“Crud!” My voice echoed in the empty space. I froze, dropped to a crouch behind my car, and listened. Nothing yet. I’d ditched the tail half an hour ago, but they’d find me again soon. I figured Trevor must have had my ride bugged while he briefed me—which meant they’d been tracking me for a week. They knew I’d hit the place four days ago and hadn’t shown up with the score yet. I might have found the bug if I hadn’t misplaced my scanner on my last run.

Since I hadn’t, my only chance now was to keep going on foot. I couldn’t talk my way out of this one.

I kept my mouth shut and started stowing fistfuls of bills in pockets. The lost cash would have to stay lost. Next came the essentials: cell phone, Mag-Lite, lock jock, cutter, scrambler, electric pick, Bowie, SAK, wire, Magnum—unloaded, of course. I was a thief, not a murderer. Couldn’t say the same for Trevor. He was a vicious bastard, for a fence. Hell, I’d met dealers who were calmer than Trevor. I did jobs for him because he paid well, but I suspected I’d be looking for a new contact to sell my scores to soon. One with a little less psycho in his veins.

I’d have to scratch the clothes, too. Not that they were much to look at. Bland, serviceable, meant for blending in. I’d buy more. Though I didn’t need it for warmth, I shrugged into my windbreaker for the extra pockets and headed for the only point of entry and exit I’d seen in the rundown structure. It bothered me, being in a place with just one escape route. Made it hard to formulate a backup plan other than get busted or die . . . two alternatives I’d managed to avoid so far. I hoped this time wouldn’t break my record, but I had my doubts.

Outside, a starless night in Middle of Nowhere, New York, waited for me. I tried to remember how far I’d driven from the last insignificant excuse for a town to get here. In my professional estimation, it was pretty damned far. The idea of calling someone for a pickup crossed my mind. I laughed at it and sent it on its way.

I didn’t just burn bridges. I incinerated them. Everyone I knew had a legitimate reason to hate me—and none of them was my fault. Okay, maybe that thing back in Albany a few years ago was my fault, but everything else came down to sheer bad luck.

In the distance, a long and low howl rode the breeze, frustrated and almost human. I’d heard enough dogs to know the sound didn’t come from a domesticated breed. A coyote, maybe even a wolf. Terrific. For the thousandth time, I reminded myself that I never should have taken this gig. At least, not alone. But with my reputation, only the greenest punks would agree to partner with me, which guaranteed I’d spend more time babysitting than working. I’d been in this game too long to bother breaking in newbies.

There was another reason I should’ve told Trevor to shove this job. It wasn’t his style. I’d gotten a weird vibe when he laid it out. The flashy son of a bitch always wanted high-end vehicles or fine art or precious metals and jewels. But this score was ordinary. Small-time. Wouldn’t fetch fifty bucks on eBay. He’d said it was for his private collection, but even then, the little voice I never listened to insisted there was something fucked-up about the whole thing.

I considered telling Trevor the truth, but hell, I didn’t even believe it. Who’d believe a professional thief lost the item he’d been hired to steal? No way that unforgiving bastard would buy it. I’d seen Trevor shoot his own thugs for picking up the wrong kind of wine. Granted, it had been five hundred cases of wrong, but that was beside the point.

There was still a good ten feet between me and freedom when the drone and swell of an approaching engine sounded outside. Headlights swept the curve leading to the building and swung around to frame the doorway, pinning me in the glare. Hello, sitting duck.

The engine gunned. Tires screamed as the car shot forward. I darted back into the darkness of the warehouse and took a hard left. The car screeched to a halt somewhere behind me. I turned toward the front wall, held out a hand, and walked briskly until I encountered something solid. I flattened my back against the surface, and waited.

I had a knack for concealment, a trait that served me well on the job. A few ex-partners had sworn I could make myself invisible, especially when they’d gotten caught and I hadn’t.

Car doors opened and closed. I counted four slams. Trevor had sent a lot more muscle than necessary. I almost felt honored, before I realized the son of a bitch probably wanted me taken alive. Should have seen that one coming.

Flashlight beams swept the main aisle. A rumbling bear of a voice delivered an order. “There. Search his car.” I recognized it instantly. Skids Davis, Trevor’s left-hand man. Left, not right, because Trevor only called on Skids when he needed something dirty cleaned up.

So I was dirty now. Fine. I’d been worse.

I held my breath and inched along the wall. The entrance stood five or six feet to my right, within my grasp. With a bit of luck, I could slip out before the creeping thugs reached my car.

A low shape broke away from one of the goons and headed straight for me with disconcerting clicks. Great. They’d brought one of the dogs. Though I couldn’t make out features in the gloom, its build suggested Rottweiler, and its strut suggested that human flesh was its favorite meal.

I’d never been bitten by a dog during a gig, but they always managed to find me fast. This one was no exception. He padded to within two feet of me and sat down as if I’d promised him a snack. His mouth drew back in what looked like a smile. My, vicious animal, what big teeth you have. Please don’t bark.

The dog licked his its a few times. And barked.

It was more of a sneeze, actually, but it sounded louder than a marching band in a tin can. Had the thugs heard that? Not daring to move, I scanned the building, convinced they could hear my eyeballs rotating in my skull. The idling sedan’s headlights revealed just enough detail to count heads. One, two, three...

Something hard and cold pressed against my temple. I sighed. Four.

Thanks a lot, dog.

“Hey, Skids. How’s it hangin’?”

A hand made of gristle and steel clamped on my upper arm. I caught a whiff of sour perspiration and cigarette breath when he said, “Going somewhere, Donatti?”

“Yeah. With you.”

“You’re a smart monkey.” Skids jerked me toward the entrance and thrust me into...

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Verlag
Pocket Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2010
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1439160848
ISBN 13 
9781439160848
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
384
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