The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

An hour later, I exited Mr. Han’s apothecary with two boxes of nine-millimeter silver bullets in my coat pockets, along with a third box packed with silver bullets and cold iron ones for my own use. I could have lied to Vega, of course, told her my source had been out, but she was getting better at seeing through my lies. The best I could do right now was stall her.

All right, I thought as I paced north. Vega gave me three hours to track down the bullets, which means I have enough time to go home and try to prepare a spell or two to get into that fae townhouse and look for Caroline.

“Well, lookie here,” someone said.

It didn’t occur to me I had crossed Canal Street and entered Little Italy until I recognized the voice at my back.

“We don’t have to go to his place after all.”

I wheeled to find Floyd striding up behind me, a pistol aiming from the waist of his cinched coat. To the left, Whitey was steering a Studebaker along the one-way street beside us, his pale eyes tracking me.

“C’mon, man,” I said. “I told you I have an alibi.”

“Yeah, and guess what,” Floyd said. “It didn’t check out.”

“What? Who did you talk to?”

“Detective named Hoffman. Real helpful.”

“Hoffman? He was the one who picked me up from the gala,” I said, then stopped as cold understanding took hold. That was one way to get rid of someone you believed to be a con man.

“Not according to him, you weren’t,” Floyd said.

“Did you talk to Detective Vega? She’ll vouch for me.”

Floyd let out a barking laugh. “I bet she will. How much did that cost you?”

“Cost?” Great, so not only had Hoffman denied seeing me the night of Caroline’s disappearance, but to discredit whatever Vega might say, he claimed I’d paid her off. That tire-shaped son of a bitch. “There were other officers at the scene,” I said, backing away.

“Yeah, and you probably gave them a little something too. Now why don’t you climb on into the car.” He signaled with the gun.

God, I don’t have time for this.

I nodded but angled my cane so it was pointing at his stomach. “Vigore!” I yelled, anticipating the force that would burst from my cane and hit Floyd hard enough to lift him from his feet. But the meager force barely rattled my cane. Some trash near Floyd’s feet puffed up.

I refocused. “Vigore!”

“Yeah, that’s real cute,” Floyd said. “Now c’mon, you’re testing our patience here.”

He grabbed me by the shoulder of my coat and jabbed the pistol barrel against my low back. A sharp pain opened in my left kidney, but I was still fixated on my cane.

“Respingere!” I cried, trying for a shield to shove Floyd off me.

“Let’s go, let’s go.”

As Floyd walked me off the curb, I remembered the warping sensation of the fae threshold when I’d tried to force my way in. That bit of contact must have scrambled my abilities, knocked them offline. I hadn’t noticed any changes at the time, but fae magic was often subtle.

Fantastic timing.

By the time we arrived at the car, Whitey had gotten out and opened a backdoor. Without my power, I had no choice but to duck inside. Floyd scooted in after me. He didn’t need to warn me not to try anything funny. He was saying it all with the pressure of his barrel. The plastic-covered seat spoke volumes as well.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Floyd said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To talk to someone.”

“Not the fish, I hope.”

Floyd chuckled. “Well, that’s gonna be up to you.” He pulled a phone from his coat and made a call. “We picked him up in Little Italy,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah. All right. We’ll meet you down there.”

He put his phone away and tapped Whitey’s shoulder. “Pier sixteen.”

Recent experience told me I was being taken to the mob boss—who had taken a keen interest in Caroline’s whereabouts, for some reason. I examined my hands, my right pinky still a little off where Bashi had had it snapped a few months earlier. I just hoped Mr. Moretti would prove less volatile, though mob bosses and piers rarely worked out for people like me.

Whitey drove us onto an abandoned shipping dock, where huge metal containers stood in rusting stacks. At a chain-link fence, he got out, unfastened a lock, and rolled the gate open. Seagulls scattered from what looked like a rotting dog carcass as we drove through. Whitey parked close to the water’s edge, almost in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I tested my cane with a whispered Word, but still nothing. When I tried to inch away from Floyd’s pistol, he dug it even deeper into my ribs. “I’m telling you,” I sighed. “Caroline didn’t leave the party with me. She left with a guy named Angelus.”

Floyd laughed. “Couldn’t even come up with a regular-sounding name.”

“Which should tell you I’m not lying.”

“Shut it,” Floyd said. “He’s here.”

I craned my neck around to see a black Escalade with tinted windows easing through the gate and onto the cement pier. It pulled up next to my side of the car and sat, engine idling.

“Let’s go,” Floyd said, shoving the pistol against me. “Slowly, though.”

My door lock popped open and I stepped out, Floyd scooting across the seat after me. I considered making a run for it, but Whitey had chosen the spot for a reason. It was open, exposed, the closest shipping container a good fifty yards away. If I could summon a shield, piece of cake. But since my powers had taken a fae-induced crap, I had no choice but to follow orders.

Floyd seized me by the upper arm and opened the back door of the Escalade. “Get in,” he said.

The back seat was empty, but I could make out the silhouettes of the driver and a large man in the passenger seat. Mr. Moretti, I