The Man of Bronze Read Online Free PDF

lethal?
    Speculation was pointless. The next time I saw my armorer, I’d ask if he knew what the grenade was. For now, though, all I could do was stash the thing in my pocket. I certainly couldn’t
use
it: I didn’t know the timing delay—whether it went off in three seconds, five seconds, or longer. I’d feel like an utter prat if I whipped out this fancy grenade, then accidentally blew myself up.
    Instead of brooding about the unknown weapon, I prepared a series of surprises for the next round of gunmen who might venture up the stairs. Afterward, I checked on Reuben. He lay in the bed with only his eyes showing beneath his bandages. “How’s it going?” he whispered.
    “Our initial investment is earning interest,” I said, showing him the Uzis. “Soon we’ll begin collecting dividends.”
    I had the guns strapped around my shoulders so I could fire with both hands if need be . . . but such two-fisted shooting is nearly useless, even if it looks brilliant in the cinema. Uzis kick like mules when firing full auto; if I let loose with both at once I’d be lucky to stay on my feet, let alone keep my aim on target. Quite possibly, the recoil would send me flying through one of the clinic’s flimsy walls . . .
    Hmm.
Hmm.
    “New strategy,” I told Reuben. “Stay in the bed but be ready to move at a moment’s notice.” I might have said more, but I could hear company coming up the stairs.
    “Hey,” a man called from the stairwell. “What’s taking youse guys?” The accent was pure Brooklyn . . . which prompted me to reflect on what a diverse lot these villains were. Traditional organized crime gangs clump together by ethnicity—Colombian cartels, Japanese Yakuza, Chinese triads, and so on. Multiculturalism among criminals almost always means a force of mercenaries: soldiers of fortune from around the world, recruited higgledy-piggledy with no common bond except a greed for cash.
    Most mercenaries have some military background and consider themselves professional warriors—la crème de la crème. Usually, though, they’re just men who like to play with guns. They may possess skills, but they’re too much in love with their own self-image to achieve true crème-dom. The majority have been discharged from regular armies for not following orders, and they turn even more unruly once they go independent. The group I was facing might see themselves as a well-coordinated unit, but when push came to shove, I was betting that they’d respond as egotistic individuals. The primary weakness of mercenaries is that they’re dreadful team players.
    Then again, I’m one to talk.
    The man in the stairwell called, “Hey! What’s up?” He received no answer. I could hear him muttering to someone—presumably one or more partners—then he began to ascend.
    This thug came up more cautiously than the first two: slowly, listening for trouble. I doubt if he was truly worried—as far as he knew, he and his fifteen buddies faced a single unarmed man—but he must have wondered why no one up here was answering. When the Brooklyn man reached the final step, he stood out of sight in the stairwell and shouted down the hall, “Where are youse guys? Say something!”
    No reply.
    I’d had time to creep down to the room nearest the stairs. I stood there, back to the wall, the Kaybar knife in my hand. If I was lucky . . .
    I was. The man on the stairs was only half a professional. His professional half was smart enough to call to his friends below, “Something’s up. Foxtrot and Golf are missing.” But instead of waiting for backup, the man’s glory-hound impulses propelled him forward: moving slowly, Uzi drawn, as if the pistol were enough to protect him.
    It wasn’t. My knife, his throat—fill in the blanks yourself.
    I didn’t have time to hide the body—more people were coming up the stairs. A lot of them. I did take a second to do a quick visual once-over of the corpse but saw nothing of interest. The dead man had