Death Comes for the Fat Man Read Online Free PDF

shop, is half a loaf short of a picnic and would have trouble giving a good description of himself. So no problem there. In fact, things could be a lot worse. Mission accomplished, so let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope the cops don’t die.”
    Geoff O said, “I presume you’re holding back the press release.”
    Andre nodded approval of the move from personal feelings to practicalities.
    “Yes. Hugh agrees that a cop on the critical list isn’t what we want associated with our opening statement. Shame. Really starting with a bang that would have been. Still, what me and Archambaud have got planned should make ’em sit up and take notice.”
    “Need any help?” asked Geoff O.
    Definitely getting a taste for it, thought Andre. Enthusiasm was good. Impatience might be a problem. Needs watching?
    He said, “No, it’s sorted. Don’t worry. We’re just starting. Lots of work for an energetic youngster. Just be patient. Good intelligence, careful planning, that’s what makes for successful ops.”
    Geoff B snorted incredulously, but that was to be expected. It was Geoff O’s disappointed frown that Andre focused on.
    He said, “War’s like fishing. Hours of empty fucking tedium punc-tuated by moments so crowded they burst at the seams. Learn to enjoy the emptiness. Now I’m going to pack up before these fucking midges chew my face off. I’ll be in touch.”
    He rose and began to reel in his line.
    Geoff B said, “Tell Hugh, if that cop dies, I’m out. I’m serious.”
    “Let’s hope the poor sod makes it then,” said Andre indifferently.
    “See you.”
    The couple started to walk away. Geoffrey O glanced back. Andre gave a conspiratorial wink but got nothing in return.
    Didn’t bother him.
    What did bother him was the weight of the discarded backpack.

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    He checked no one was close then opened it.
    Like he’d thought, one weapon missing.
    He looked after the two Geoffreys. No prize for guessing which one had hung on.
    He recalled a training sergeant once saying to him, “You’ve earned yourself a big kiss for keenness, a big bollocking for stupidity. Which do you want fi rst, son?”
    He smiled, dropped the backpack into his basket, slung it over his shoulder, gathered up the rest of his gear, and set off along the towpath.

    6
    B L U E S M A R T I E
    Peter Pascoe was still having trouble with time.
    He opened his eyes and Ellie was there.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Hi,” she said. “Pete, how are you?”
    “Fine, fine,” he said.
    He blinked once and her hair turned gingery as she aged ten years and put on a Scottish accent.
    “Mr. Pascoe. Sandy Glenister. Feel up to a wee chat?”
    “Not with you,” said Pascoe. “Sod off.”
    He blinked again and the face rearranged itself into something like a Toby jug whose glaze had gone wrong.
    “Wieldy,” said Pascoe. “Where’s Ellie?”
    “At home making Rosie’s tea, I expect. She’ll be back later. How are you doing?”
    “I’m fine. What am I doing here? Oh shit.”
    Wield saw Pascoe’s face spasm with remembered pain as he answered his own question.
    “Andy, how’s Andy?” he demanded, trying to push himself upright.
    Wield pressed the button that raised the back of the bed by thirty degrees.
    “Intensive care,” he said. “He’s not come round yet.”
    “Well, what do they expect?” demanded Pascoe. “It’s only been . . .
    a couple of hours?”
    His assertion turned to interrogation as he realized he’d no idea of the time.
    “Twenty four,” said Wield. “A bit more. It’s four o clock, Tuesday afternoon.”

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    “As long as that? What’s the damage?”
    “With Andy? Broken leg, broken arm, several cracked ribs, some second-degree burns, multiple contusions and lacerations from the blast, loss of blood, ruptured spleen, other internal damage whose extent isn’t yet apparent—”
    “So nothing really serious then,” interrupted Pascoe.
    Wield smiled faintly and