Page 116 of The Diamond in the Rough

“And in order for you to take what you want, you’d have tokeephim. Feed him. Nurse him back to health.” A pause. “During which time he could escape, or someone could find out about him, either by stumbling through these pathetic remains of an estate or because one of your hired thugs talks.”

“My men are loyal.”

“Your men,” the man named Philip retorted, his voice dripping with disdain, “are drooling excuses for humanity. The one is just as likely to brag to his little buddies as he is to keep his shovel-like trap shut, and the other one looks as though he might be thinking about developing a conscience.” Another pause. “You’ll need to do something about that, too.”

“My men are mine, Philip.” Garraway sounded like he was getting angry, now.

“And if either one of them starts talking, they’re going to be your problem to deal with and your mess to clean up,” came the response. “Just like this piece of shit.”

Presumably, I was the piece of shit in question.

“Let me hold on to him for a week or two,” Garraway said, his voice pleading. “I could gain so much from him.”

“It’s a bad idea, Martin,” came the sharp response. “He’s going to be a problem, one way or another. And we can’t afford that kind of a problem, not with the FBI sticking their noses into everyone’s business.”

“They don’t know who we are,” Garraway insisted. “They can’t possibly.”

“They knew enough to search Tranquil Brook,” the man called Philip insisted. “And that’s a good deal closer than I’d like, by a long shot.” Another pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and tight, angry. Threatening. “I didn’t pay good money for you to play with your food, Martin. Take whatever’s left right now, and throw him in the damn well.”

“Just a few days, Philip. There’s not enough?—”

“Now, or never.”

I didn’t know much about wells, but I knew enough to know that me being thrown down one would be very, very bad.

A hand closed on my upper arm, and I lashed out.

“Fug!”

I got a glimpse of Gennaro staggering away, blood pouring from his nose as though I’d hit him with a fist or foot instead of magic.

And then my head rocked to the side, pain blooming across my face.

“Little shit,” snapped the man called Philip, looking disdainfully down at the blood and saliva on his shoe left when he’d split open my lip with his kick. “Get back over here and throw him down the damn well, you coward.”

Gennaro, still bleeding profusely and grumbling, staggered back over, smearing blood across his face with the back of one hand. He was looking at me warily, as though I might do whatever I’d done to him again.

He wasn’t wrong. If I could have, I absolutely would have—or worse.

But I couldn’t, although I tried. Desperately.

He threw me roughly over his shoulder, and I barely had the strength to flutter my eyes open a few times on the way out to the yard, through what must once have been a garden, if I was judging correctly from the overgrown and uneven brick path moving beneath Gennaro’s feet, and into the shade.

I felt rough brick—or stone or cement, I wasn’t sure—scrape against my calves and shoulder, my head striking it hard enough to bring stars into the darkness behind my lids.

And then the sickening feeling of falling.

And the crunch of impact—the sound, then the pain, and then nothing.

Yet again,I was surprised that I wasn’t yet dead.

This time, I spared a moment to wish that the fallhadactually killed me, because the prospect of lying here in complete darkness, thick, cold mud oozing around my aching body, my head throbbing and ears ringing with a pulse keeping time with my heart until I did finally die in a few hours or—God forbid—days was far more horrifying than just being dead.

It took a moment—seconds, probably—for me to notice that my whole arm felt like it was on fire, cold, and being torn to shreds, and I gasped at the pain.

That couldn’t possibly be good.

I tried to move it.