Sam is lying face first on the filthy concrete floor, a stream of blood flowing out the back of his head and down his scrawny neck. He’s either out cold or dead. Serves the bastard right.
“Chase, you there?” Sarah says.
An idea comes to me. I press my hand flat against the screen.
“Edge,” I whisper, “scream your a*s off. Like you’re being cut.”
His eyes go wide, and he grins. He’s a plot master, and he knows exactly where I’m going with this.
Edge screams, “Aayyyyyyyyy! My f*****g ear!”
I slip my hand off the phone, stare into it.
“You happy, Sarah? Poor Edge. Now he’ll be disfigured . . . for life.”
“Sorry ‘bout that, Chase,” she says, not a hint of a sympathy in her voice. “Price of doing business. But tell Edge not to fret. If he makes it out of this alive, I’ll save him a dia
