Shoot 'Em Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

wonder Paul likes you.”
    I hope he knows who I am . . . I followed her into another reception area. This one far nicer.
    â€œConference Room D?” she asked the girl behind the desk.
    â€œYes, Ms. Steager.”
    I followed Juice to an unmarked door. Behind it, Walt Sawyer stood gazing out the window over the city. He turned as she closed the door, the small smile sliding off his fox-like face at the sight of my crutches. “Prognosis?”
    â€œAnother week of light duty,” I said. “Fourteen days to get back to full strength.”
    I hope.
    â€œCan’t be helped,” he said in that uncanny way that made me feel it could have been. Sawyer pulled out a chair for me to the right of the head of an oval table of four. He stowed my crutches behind the door. “You’ve seen the attempt on Coles.”
    â€œYes, sir. On television.”
    â€œYour thoughts?”
    â€œIt wasn’t Stannislav Renko. If he wanted Coles dead, he’d do it himself. In a place where he could take a good long time.”
    Sawyer exhaled a slow breath through his nose. “Mayor Coles apparently concurs with your assessment.”
    Huh?
    â€œColes has galvanized his contacts within the Justice Department. Special agents from the DEA and ATF will be here shortly. Do not volunteer any information.”
    No wonder Sawyer was so stiff-lipped. Special Unit was being shut out of the investigation.
    I nodded. “Sir—” The door swung open and the words “ I was hoping to talk to you about Violetta Veteratti ” died on my lips.
    A six-foot-one, 220-pound man wearing a black suit with a maroon- and charcoal-striped rep tie carrying a matte-black aluminum briefcase strode into the room. His brown hair, cut high and tight, was flecked with gray. “Walt.” He shook hands with Sawyer, caught sight of me in the chair, and strode over. “Ditch Broady, ATF.” He took my fingers in that Southern gentleman’s way and smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miz—”
    â€œWe’re waiting on Gunther Nyx,” Sawyer interrupted.
    Looks like no name for me.
    â€œThe Swede’s never on time.” Broady cracked his neck and rounded the table to the seat across from me. He unbuttoned his suit coat. “I do love a lil’ nip in the air.”
    â€œHard to beat early October in Chicago, sir.”
    â€œWe do not experience this type of autumn in Texas, no, ma’am.” Broady flashed me a husky smile. “Call me Ditch.”
    Even nameless, I figured I was about four questions away from getting asked out to dinner when Gunther Nyx walked in.
    The Swede looked more drug dealer than DEA agent. He had the lean, acerbic shape of a cross-country skier. His shoulder-length hair was the color of sun reflecting off snow, eyes as bleak as a January sky. “Sawyer. Ditch.” He gave me a brief nod and took a seat.
    â€œLet’s get to it.” Broady opened his briefcase, removed a black tactical pistol, and set it on the table with a clunk. “The shooter’s. Recovered from the assassination attempt. One of five hundred FN Five-seveNs MK2s hijacked from a Belgian shipment to Ukraine last year.”
    Just like the set I have at home.
    â€œFN Herstal makes some of the best weapons in the world, but the rounds are the game changer.” Broady blew out his breath in a soundless whistle. “Armor-piercing rounds. Illegal in the United States. The ATF means to recover these weapons and the munitions. Priority one.”
    There are another 499 of them out there. How many are already in Chicago?
    Nyx picked it up, hefting the two and a half pounds of polymer and steel. “How did the shooter get the weapon into the plaza?”
    â€œWe’re still determining that,” Sawyer said evenly.
    â€œAnd the mayor’s driver?” Nyx asked. “Chicago’s hero?”
    â€œWe have Percival ‘Poppa’ Dozen in