The Tomorrow Heist Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jack Soren
gold and crimson. Staircases ran up the walls on both sides of the room, large paintings resting on the wall wherever a landing occurred. Against the far wall was a fireplace with more furniture arranged around it. In the corner was a grand piano just a few feet from a dining-Âroom table covered in a deep red tablecloth and surrounded by fourteen chairs. In the center of the room was a large plant on top of a working fountain, gurgling away.
They walked to the fountain, and Hank asked Per to wait. He went up one of the staircases and was gone for almost half an hour, his absence accompanied by echoing shouts. Finally, he returned, and asked Per to follow him upstairs. At the end of a long corridor, they entered an office bigger than Perâs entire house.
The office was decorated as extravagantly as the rest of the house, but a foggy sheen seemed to obscure the brilliance. The leather sofa against the wall held rumpled pillows and a blanket, and there were more than a few empty beer bottles along the floor beside it. From the smell, Per doubted that Harcourt had left anytime recently.
At the end of the room, slumped behind a wide desk covered with food trays and open books, James Harcourt sat dressed in a green-Âplaid bathrobe. Per could see a shiny silver .44 Magnum revolver lying in front of Harcourt along with a mostly empty bottle of Jack Danielâs and several half-Âempty bottles of pills.
Harcourt was a big man with a wild, unkempt beard. Even seated, Per could tell that Harcourt was taller than he, but since he was only five-Ânine, that didnât say a whole lot.
âMr. Broden, this is James Harcourt,â Hank said before fading into the background. Per stepped in front of the desk and waited for his host to speak. Or, to at least acknowledge he was there. Five minutes later, he got his wish.
âJesus! Whereâd you come from?â Harcourt slurred, grabbing his gun and pushing back in his overstuffed brown-Âleather office chair. The only thing that kept Per rooted to his spot was that despite his antics, Harcourt had yet to point his gun anywhere but at the floor.
âHeâs the Swedish detective,â Hank said, floating into the scene again. âYou sent for him, Jim. Remember?â Hank looked at Per apologetically.
This was not what Per had expected. When the first cryonics facility had been bombed, and the first occurrence of the enigmatic âDead Lightsâ phrase had been scrawled onto the pavement, Per had read about it on the Internet. Heâd immediately contacted Harcourt with an offer to investigate. After several more bombings and even more e-Âmail exchanges, Harcourt had finally acquiesced and invited Per for a meeting. But the man Per had communicated with online had been articulate and wary. Not the self-Âindulgent, ready-Âto-Âsurrender figure before him.
Harcourt looked at Hank, then back at Per. A long moment stretched out as the big manâs eyes fought to focus.
âRight. Right,â Harcourt said, seeming to just now notice that he was holding his gun. âJesus, sorry . . . Broden, is it?â Per nodded as Harcourt put the gun back on the desk before swallowing down more pills with the whiskey. âSit down, sit down.â
Per obliged. Harcourt shook his head and grunted, apparently trying to clear his head.
âThe pictures, Jim. Show him the pictures,â Hank said before taking a seat against the wall, holding his hat in his lap.
âUh. Right, the pictures.â
Harcourt picked up a stack of eight-Âby-Âten photos from his desk. He looked at them before turning his attention back to Per.
âIt started a few weeks ago,â Harcourt said, handing Per one of the photos. Per took it from him. It was a picture of what had once been a building, now half-Âmissing and all burned. On the remaining brickwork in front of the structure were the words âDead Lights.â It was from a
They walked to the fountain, and Hank asked Per to wait. He went up one of the staircases and was gone for almost half an hour, his absence accompanied by echoing shouts. Finally, he returned, and asked Per to follow him upstairs. At the end of a long corridor, they entered an office bigger than Perâs entire house.
The office was decorated as extravagantly as the rest of the house, but a foggy sheen seemed to obscure the brilliance. The leather sofa against the wall held rumpled pillows and a blanket, and there were more than a few empty beer bottles along the floor beside it. From the smell, Per doubted that Harcourt had left anytime recently.
At the end of the room, slumped behind a wide desk covered with food trays and open books, James Harcourt sat dressed in a green-Âplaid bathrobe. Per could see a shiny silver .44 Magnum revolver lying in front of Harcourt along with a mostly empty bottle of Jack Danielâs and several half-Âempty bottles of pills.
Harcourt was a big man with a wild, unkempt beard. Even seated, Per could tell that Harcourt was taller than he, but since he was only five-Ânine, that didnât say a whole lot.
âMr. Broden, this is James Harcourt,â Hank said before fading into the background. Per stepped in front of the desk and waited for his host to speak. Or, to at least acknowledge he was there. Five minutes later, he got his wish.
âJesus! Whereâd you come from?â Harcourt slurred, grabbing his gun and pushing back in his overstuffed brown-Âleather office chair. The only thing that kept Per rooted to his spot was that despite his antics, Harcourt had yet to point his gun anywhere but at the floor.
âHeâs the Swedish detective,â Hank said, floating into the scene again. âYou sent for him, Jim. Remember?â Hank looked at Per apologetically.
This was not what Per had expected. When the first cryonics facility had been bombed, and the first occurrence of the enigmatic âDead Lightsâ phrase had been scrawled onto the pavement, Per had read about it on the Internet. Heâd immediately contacted Harcourt with an offer to investigate. After several more bombings and even more e-Âmail exchanges, Harcourt had finally acquiesced and invited Per for a meeting. But the man Per had communicated with online had been articulate and wary. Not the self-Âindulgent, ready-Âto-Âsurrender figure before him.
Harcourt looked at Hank, then back at Per. A long moment stretched out as the big manâs eyes fought to focus.
âRight. Right,â Harcourt said, seeming to just now notice that he was holding his gun. âJesus, sorry . . . Broden, is it?â Per nodded as Harcourt put the gun back on the desk before swallowing down more pills with the whiskey. âSit down, sit down.â
Per obliged. Harcourt shook his head and grunted, apparently trying to clear his head.
âThe pictures, Jim. Show him the pictures,â Hank said before taking a seat against the wall, holding his hat in his lap.
âUh. Right, the pictures.â
Harcourt picked up a stack of eight-Âby-Âten photos from his desk. He looked at them before turning his attention back to Per.
âIt started a few weeks ago,â Harcourt said, handing Per one of the photos. Per took it from him. It was a picture of what had once been a building, now half-Âmissing and all burned. On the remaining brickwork in front of the structure were the words âDead Lights.â It was from a