3 Time to Steele Read Online Free PDF Page B

couldn’t stand, but the big guy had a stomach that could withstand offerings even vultures would turn their noses up at.
    We shot the breeze as we ate and walked, discussing the more pressing issues of the day such as why pastries were sold by the dozen when ten was such a more logical number. We’d long finished our lunch by the time we arrived at our destination, a warehouse about an order of magnitude smaller and more decrepit than Gill’s establishment. The metal roller shutters over the warehouse doors were locked tight, but as luck would have it, a horse-faced gentleman wearing a ratty jacket and khaki pants was exiting through the main door as we appeared. Based on Gronk’s description, I ID’d him as Rudolph Patterson, the rickshaw business owner.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Patterson?” I said as we approached, stretching a hand into my coat for my badge.
    The guy at the door took one look at us and bolted.
    “Hey, wait!” I yelled, my arm still plugged inside my coat.
    Rodgers and Steele took after the guy with me a bare two steps behind. At first opportunity, Patterson weaved into an alley. We barreled around the corner behind him, Rodgers and Steele making the turn cleanly while my momentum carried me into a stack of ill-placed metal trashcans. Ignoring their clatter, I kept going down the alley, skirting puddles of urine, feral cats, and a wine soaked hobo as the baggie full of Quinto’s lunch swung wildly in my off hand.
    Unfortunately for us, Mr. Patterson had inherited more than just a face from his horse-like ancestors. The guy zipped along the deserted thoroughfare at a quick canter, not even pausing to glance back at us. Thankfully, Rodgers, with his light frame, was a match for him—something I’d have to thank Allison for later. He pulled away from Shay and I, closing to within a few arm lengths of Patterson before the alley spilled into the street.
    Patterson darted into the traffic, narrowly avoiding a guy pushing a cart full of radishes. Rodgers wasn’t so lucky. He met the cart stomach first, sending a bushel of the small red and white tubers flying as both he and the cart crashed to the pavement.
    “Go,” he croaked, waving his hand as we passed him. “Get that SOB.”
    I tossed him the baggie with the pasties and nodded. I wouldn’t have stopped—it was just a radish cart, after all—but Rodgers’ command lessened my guilt over leaving him behind. Not that I had much time to think. Patterson had already ducked into another alley, and he’d gained ground on us. Steele had a better bead on him than I did, but as we entered the mouth of the second alley, I could tell we weren’t going to catch the guy. So, I did what anyone in my position would do and took a flyer on an action that had a chance of success somewhere in the teens.
    “Steele! Duck!” I yelled.
    Despite her usual argumentative nature, she did.
    In one smooth motion, I ripped Daisy from the interior of my jacket, planted my foot, and threw her at the back of Patterson’s head with all the precision of a weekend barroom darts player. Through some act of magic or divine intervention, my truncheon flew true, impacting Patterson’s skull with a ringing thwack.
    “Grawha!” he yelled, or something to that effect, as he crumpled to the ground, holding his injured decision maker.
    I was on him in a New Welwic second, pulling his arms behind his back and securing him in my iron grip.
    Quickly forgetting his pain, Patterson started thrashing underneath me. “Let go of me, you cur! Who do you think you are? I’m an honest man, you savages!”
    I cuffed him in the back of the head again to get him to shut up as Steele approached.
    “Nice shot,” she said.
    “Thanks,” I replied. “It’s all in the feet, or so a professional knife thrower once told me. Can you snag Daisy for me?”
    She did, wiping Daisy off on the hem of Patterson’s now somewhat rattier coat before leaning in close and sliding her back home into the