The Getaway (7 page)

Donatti’s shoulders sagged like somebody just laid the weight of the world on them. “Some getaway,” he muttered. “Well, babe, I guess I’ll take us home. You ready?”

“Home?”

“Yeah. You’re exhausted, you’re worried about Cy, and...well, you never really wanted to come out here with me, anyway. I know you’re not big on romance.” He gave her a smile so forced, he might as well have had a gun at his back. “So I’ll take you where you want to go.”

* * *

The Gavyn Donatti Series

Book 1:
Master of None

Gavyn Donatti is the world's unluckiest thief. Just ask all the partners he's lost over the years. And when he loses an irreplaceable item that he was hired to steal for his ruthless employer, Trevor--well, his latest bungle might just 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 hates Donatti on the spot, he may call the thief master, but he isn't interested in granting three wishes. Ian 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 exactly what 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.

(Keep reading for a free sample chapter!)

Available everywhere books are sold

Book 2:
Master and Apprentice

When stealing’s your only talent, it isn’t easy being a retired thief. Especially when you’ve graduated from thief to killer—and your partner doesn’t care if you die along with your targets.
Luck has never been on Gavyn Donatti’s side. Anyone else with magic abilities inherited from a distant genie relative would have it made, but not Donatti, descendant of a cranky, shape-shifting genie named Ian. The prince of a murdered kingdom, consumed with revenge and driven by an unbreakable curse, Ian is determined to hunt down and destroy every last one of his enemies in the power-hungry snake clan—at any cost, including his life. Or Donatti’s.
Obsessed by his own rage, Ian has never really taught Donatti how to use his abilities. So when a powerful cult of magic-users captures Ian’s wife, the princess Akila, and then Ian himself, the thief is left alone to take on dozens of half-djinn and their mysterious leader with designs on world domination.
Facing an impossible mission, Donatti is forced to turn to an enemy for help—one who claims to know how to unlock the thief’s true potential. Trusting a snake might be the last mistake Donatti ever makes—but if he doesn’t learn to wield the power inside him, everyone will pay the ultimate price.

(Keep reading for an
exclusive
free sample chapter!)

Coming March 29, 2011

About the Author

Sonya Bateman lives in upstate New York, where there are two seasons: winter, and construction. Currently, the household includes her husband and son, her sister and two nephews, five cats (four of them are insane) and one dog who wishes to be a cat.

In addition to spending a lot of time writing, she is attempting to learn how to speak Japanese. So far, she can say hello, thank you, and why don’t we go to your place for a drink? She does not plan to speak to any native Japanese speakers with her limited vocabulary at this time, as the conversation may lead in the wrong direction.

Website:
http://sonyabateman.wordpress.com/

E-mail:
[email protected]

* * *

Books by Sonya Bateman, writing as S.W. Vaughn

The House Phoenix series: Street fighting, violence, hostages, revenge... and tattoos.

Available titles:

Broken Angel * Devil’s Honor * Mask of the Serpent * Shades of Black

All four novels are on sale now—just 99 cents for your Kindle!

Visit
http://housephoenix.wordpress.com/
to learn more

* * *

Keep reading for free sample chapters from Master of None and Master and Apprentice

MASTER OF NONE

Chapter 1

J
ust 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 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 this time 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 decent, but I suspected I’d be looking for a new place 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 were 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. Flattened with 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 human flesh was its favorite meal.

I’d never been bit by a dog during a gig, but they always found me fast. This one was no exception. He padded to within two feet of me and sat down like 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 lips 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 the glare of the headlights. The semi-automatic trained on my head looked like a cap gun in Skids’ meaty paw. “Unload.”

“Come on, man. I need this shit. Gotta earn a living—”

The gun drifted lower. “Unload, or I ventilate your thigh.”

“Fine.” I emptied my pockets, dropping items one by one on the ground with deliberate slowness. As if buying time would improve the situation. Even with an hour to spare, I couldn’t come up with a way out of this. The other three wandered back toward the car and collected the dog, grinning the universal gotcha smiles of thugs everywhere. “I’m gonna get my junk back, right?”

“Doubt it. You won’t be needing any of this. Unless you’ve got Trevor’s item jammed up your ass.” If Skids was amused, his cold features didn’t betray the emotion. “Care to explain what in the hell you were thinking, Donatti? We know you had it. Who'd you fence it to?”

I added the last of the cash to the pile at my feet and glowered at Skids. “I’m not explaining jack to you. Trevor wants to know, I’ll tell him.”

“You’ll have an easier time if you tell me. Trevor wants to hurt you. Extensively. I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”

“I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Skids gestured with the semi. His free hand produced a key fob with a fat plastic tag. He aimed at the car, pushed a button, and the trunk popped open. “First class is full. You get to ride coach.”