Gun Metal Heart Read Online Free PDF

took the opportunity to pour her another shot.
    â€œNot Russians. They’re Serbians. Skorpjo. Also known as White Scorpions. They were a military unit during the Yugoslav civil war, in the nineties. Racist. Exceedingly violent. Went freelance after the peace accord. You and Guzman are messing about with very bad people.”
    Diego nodded, knowingly. His movements were spare, his face passive. “Figured. Fuck.”
    He sounded forlorn.
    â€œSo what happened?”
    Diego said, “Vince’s gone missing.”
    â€œYou think Skorpjo sussed him out?”
    The quiet man shrugged.
    Daria rose and crossed to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Diego normally hated being touched. “Look, I know you and Guzman have been friends forever. But are you certain he’s missing and hasn’t just cut a deal with the White Scorpions? You have to admit, it’s not out of the question.”
    The Mexican stared out the window a bit. He shook his head softly. “Sure. Vince could sell someone out. Not me. I don’t think.”
    Daria leaned in and kissed his badly scarred cheek. She had always admired loyalty. “How’d you find me?”
    â€œViking.”
    She laughed. Fredrik Olsson was Europe’s preeminent fence and criminal transportation coordinator. He traded in information. Of course he’d known how to find Daria.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m not one hundred percent. I’m still recovering.”
    Diego said, “Don’t need muscle. Got muscle.”
    â€œThen why come find me?”
    He turned to her. He looked as if the obvious simplicity of the question surprised him.
    â€œBecause you’re smart. I need brains.”
    â€œYou’re a dear.”
    â€œYou’ll help?”
    Daria pondered the situation. Diego stood and let her get there.
    â€œTruth is, I might’ve gotten all I can out of Parkour and working out. I have to get back into the game eventually.”
    He nodded.
    Daria squeezed his shoulder. “One question. This thing in Florence. Any chance of gratuitous violence?”
    â€œYou an’ me?” Diego drained his vodka. “Don’t see why not.”

 
    Four
    The point of being a spy is being able to blend in.
    The three Americans were foreigners in France. But meeting in a McDonald’s gave them complete anonymity. Plus clean bathrooms.
    Owen Cain Thorson was there first, in a booth, with a tall Diet Coke. He’d had to ask for ice. He wore black jeans and boots, a black T-shirt, and a black motorcycle jacket. It was too hot out for a motorcycle jacket, but he wore it well.
    The other two spotted Thorson upon entering. Jake Kenner also was blond, but bulkier, and he favored tight T-shirts that displayed his pecs and treelike arms. Derrick Saito was cautious and quiet, with a physique built for speed rather than size. Kenner ordered coffees for them both as Saito slid into the booth opposite Thorson. A lot of the patrons were Americans, expatriated Americans, and American wannabes. The three men did not stand out.
    Kenner brought the coffees and slid in. “Dude.”
    Owen Cain Thorson shook their hands. “Guys.”
    Saito scanned the room without appearing to do so. He said, “You looking good.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI mean … you know.” Saito shrugged. “Considering.”
    Thorson did look good. He was a blue blood, of very old money and very staid politics. He had been the sixth generation of Thorsons to serve in the U.S. Army, and none had rotated out as anything less than a colonel. He was the third Thorson to join the CIA. One of them had retired as agency director.
    Thorson was the kind of all-American male who always looked good.
    Truth be told, though, he wasn’t his usual matinee idol self. His haircut was a little off. His complexion a little waxy. His eyes darted more than the guys remembered.
    He’d had a bitch of a year.
    Saito sipped coffee