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

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I tried to raise a hand before remembering they were both bolted down. “I didn’t murder anyone, least of all your courier. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?”

I really wished he’d stopped screeching. It was hell on my concussion. But at the moment, I was more concerned with the glossy black-and-white photo he was shoving in front of me.

“These were taken by the security camera at Hunan’s Restaurant.”

The photo was actually a split shot, the first showing me about to enter the alley beside Chin’s apartment, the second, me leaving at a run—both with date/time stamps. If you looked hard enough, you could just make out the blob-like shadow of the golem in pursuit, but I didn’t think that would impress Bashi.

Two of his thugs stepped from the wall, holding up my coat and cane as though presenting evidence in a court of law. I had to admit, the artifacts looked a lot like those in the photos.

I decided there was no point in lying about being there.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’d knocked off a couple beers earlier. When nature called and I spotted the Dumpster in the alley… Look, it’s not my proudest moment.”

“Start with the pinky,” Bashi said.

The driver stepped forward and twisted a knob over my right hand. My fifth-digit blossomed with fresh pain.

“Wait! You didn’t let me get to the part where I was planning to clean it up.”

“The day after Chin’s murder, you went to Mr. Han’s Apothecary and asked if he knew him.”

My mind raced. He was right. I had done that. But had Mr. Han informed on me? Though the owner could be hard to read, I got that he genuinely liked me. No, there had to be another explanation.

Then I remembered the shadow beyond the doorway to his living quarters. Mr. Han hadn’t been the informer, but his no-good son. He was also an enforcer for the White Hand and probably the thug who had spotted me on the street.

I hoped he was the one I’d rammed face-first into a light pole.

“Right, right,” I said, as though remembering. “I’d heard about the murder and was just asking—”

“That was before it was in the paper,” Bashi screeched over me.

Right again.

The driver gave the knob a final hard twist. For an instant my pinky felt like the cord beneath a tight-rope walker at its midpoint. And then the finger snapped. A marrow-deep pain speared my senses. I thought I was going to pass out. Instead, I made a sound like nothing that had ever come out of my mouth: part grunt, part shout, part plea—all in the same breath.

“Should we take care of your ring finger next?” Bashi asked, a small smile pursing his lips. My agony was having a cheering effect on him, apparently. Maladjusted much?

“No, no,” I panted, sweat breaking over my body. “Give me a minute.”

His lips straightened. “Did the Morettis hire you? The Brusilovs?”

He was popping off major names in the city’s Italian and Russian crime families—White Hand’s competition. I remembered what Caroline had said about Bashi’s bloody campaign of revenge. That I had murdered Chin was already established in his mind. He wanted my patron. Problem was, claiming to have no patron would get me my remaining fingers broken, additional tortures I didn’t want to think about, and a bullet in my concussed head. A false confession would probably only get me the bullet. Either option sucked.

That left the truth. “I don’t work for anyone.”

Bashi nodded at the driver, who began twisting the fourth knob.

“I’m a wizard,” I shouted, forcing the words out as quickly as I could. “I save amateur conjurers from their spells. Chin was preparing a summoning. My alarm picked it up, but I reached his apartment too late. The demonic creature had already arrived. It cleaned out his organs—it’s how they gain strength—and it escaped. That’s why Chin’s window was blown out.”

I’d squeezed my eyes closed as I babbled and was afraid now to open them. Some New Yorkers accepted magic and supernatural creatures with a shrug. Others decried such notions as batshit insane. I didn’t know where on that spectrum Bashi’s belief system fell, but the still-mounting pressure against my ring finger wasn’t a good sign. “There was another summoning in Hamilton Heights,” I added through gritted teeth. “Same night, same result.”

My center joint was verging on failure when the squeaking knob went silent.

“Where did Chin get the spell?” Bashi asked.

I exhaled an unspoken thank God and opened my eyes to find Bashi showing a staying hand to the driver. One more twist and my finger would have joined its neighbor in the very-crooked club.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said. “When I visited Mr. Han, it was to see if he knew anything about Chin’s casting background. He didn’t, but I’m on the trail of someone who was given the same spell.”

“Who?”

I let out a forlorn laugh. “Good question. The man was two blocks away when your boy band jumped me.”

Bashi narrowed his eyes. I was sure the “boy band” remark had doomed me, damned pain endorphins. Bashi gestured to the driver, who began working the knobs again. But he was twisting them the other direction. The pressure across my joints eased until I could draw my fingers free. My right pinky was already halfway to ballpark frank proportions, but I flexed and extended the others.

“When you find out who’s behind the spells,” Bashi said, “you will report back to me.”

I stared at him in confusion before understanding took hold. In his megalomania, Bashi believed the spell to have been a personal attack on his sovereignty. I was careful not to disabuse him of the notion. “You have my word,” I said solemnly.

His thugs began removing the belts.

“And you have until tomorrow,” Bashi replied.

“Wait, tomorrow?”

He flicked a card with a phone number onto my lap, then turned and disappeared through a doorway.

Another deadline.