Shoot 'Em Up Read Online Free PDF

out.
    Into the closet, then. I stashed the bone jar inside a suitcase inside a suitcase inside a suitcase. The Russian doll horror-style of traveling.
    Until I thought of something better.
    Goddammit.
    * * *
    Going down stairs was far easier than going up. My pace had improved from radioactive beta decay to glacial.
    Mom and Thierry were in the kitchen. Since the bastards at Amp energy drinks in their infinite wisdom had swapped out original sugar-free for the horrific blueberry-white-grape and equally awful watermelon flavors, I was a girl without a go-to breakfast.
    Thierry slid a Go Girl energy drink across the counter.
    â€œThanks.” As far as over-caffeinated drinks went, it was okay, but the name and hot pink can killed me.
    Mom looked up from the stack of case files she was reading at the counter. She slid her reading glasses down her nose and gave me “the look.”
    â€œI have to check in at work,” I said.
    â€œIn a Marc Jacobs original? A bit gauche for the communist collective, don’t you think?”
    â€œWhat can I say?” I popped the top of the energy drink. “I’m an ambassador of ever-expanding horizons.”
    She took a sip of green tea, eyes never leaving mine. “I seem to remember Dr. Williams mentioning something about light duty. . . .”
    â€œI’m wearing flats.”
    â€œYou’re not driving.”
    â€œAlready have a ride.”
    She pushed her glasses back up in resignation. “Thierry? Be a dear and bring Maisie her crutches.”
    For the love of—
    Thierry came around the counter holding a pair of forearm crutches. And to my supreme irritation, fitted them to me.
    â€œGee, thanks, guys.”
    A horn sounded from the driveway. A driver stood waiting next to the passenger door of a black Chevy Impala. I shambled out of the house looking like the girl version of Jimmy from South Park .
    Let’s g-g-go g-g-get ’em, Tiger.
    * * *
    I crutched into the slogan-tee, skinny-jean, hipster hotbed of the Chicago Sentinel, lanyard ID around my neck. I waited my turn at reception and then again for Mr. Renick’s assistant.
    A dish of a girl in skinny black jeans, open-necked white blouse, cropped red blazer, and kitten heels came toward me. “Jenny Steager. Call me ‘Juice.’ You must be Maisie McGrane, the new Op Ed.”
    Op Ed? WTH? “Er . . . yes.”
    â€œPaul’s reserved a conference room. Let’s go.” She led me to the elevator, swiped her pass, and pressed the Up button.
    We got off on the thirty-second floor.
    â€œDon’t mind Lennon,” she whisper-warned with a glance at the end of the elevator bank, where a guy so skinny you could grate cheese off his ribs leaned against the wall. “Dickheads make surprisingly good reporters.”
    Clad in a camel-colored V-neck sweater tucked into brown-belted, brown tapered trousers, he pushed off the wall as we approached.
    â€œâ€™Morning, Lennon,” Juice said. “This is Maisie, the new Op Ed.”
    â€œNice to meet you.” I lifted a crutch in greeting.
    He started at my feet and let his eyes calculate everything from my Stuart Weitzman flats, to the David Yurman earrings, lips crimping in a sneer at the total. “And what have you penned besides your signature on Daddy’s checks?”
    Other than parking tickets? Not much.
    I gave him my best wide-eyed and innocent. “Is that Lenin with an ‘i’?”
    Hipster no likey.
    â€œFriendly tip, Miffy ”—he leaned in and I could smell the faint stink of chocolate vape from his e-cig—“stay out of the way of the real reporters,”
    Juice gasped. “Geez, Lennon!”
    â€œSure thing,” I said evenly. “I’ll keep a close eye out.”
    Uncertain, he took a tottering step backward on his black ankle boots, then brushed by us to the elevator buttons and smacked the Down button.
    A giggle escaped Juice. “No