Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel Read Online Free PDF

long ago I would have been enthusiastic about letting her know that, indeedy-do, she certainly could, in several interesting ways. Instead, I deployed some of the gentlemanly skills I have been polishing since Strafa staked a claim backed by the full faith and terror of the Algarda clan.
    “Yes, ma’am. My name is Garrett. I have private intelligence I need to pass on to the General personally.”
    Silence stretched for several heartbeats. She pushed her face right up against the bars. Damn, she had beautiful eyes. “Garrett, you say?”
    “Garrett. Yes, ma’am. That Garrett.”
    “Well, you’re big enough. And you look like you might have been a Marine. A long time ago.”
    She had to know who I was. Everybody at the Al-Khar knows Garrett. Garrett is a one-of-a-kind . . .
    “Haven’t kept in shape, have you?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I’m sorry. You don’t measure up to the hype.”
    “What?”
    “I thought you’d be better-looking, too. And less dinged-up.”
    “That’s just character!” What the hell was this? “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. Look, I’m not really pressed for time, but I’m not into verbal abuse, either. Or standing around in the rain. And I do think I might have somebody following me. It’s possible they could take a wild hair and try to stop me once they realize that this is where I’ve been headed.”
    I made the follower part up. It might get her moving.
    “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised to see that you aren’t a giant. You’ll be safe there as long as you stay behind the murder holes. I’ll be right back.”
    An iron plate chunked down in front of the iron bars. I barked a protest but stopped when I heard a crossbow creak as someone spanned it behind one of the murder holes.
    Nobody would listen to me and an even smaller population was likely to care what I had to say.
    A pair of massive, iron-strapped wooden doors filled the passage a dozen feet back. The walls were not really that thick, though. The Al-Khar only pretends to be a fortress. The exterior walls were the back sides of inward-facing cells and offices, though the stonework at street level could withstand considerable abuse. The passage through was eight feet wide. There was a slim sally port in the left-hand door, so skinny that I would have to turn sideways to get through.
    That skinny door opened and invited me in.
    I have visited the Al-Khar often, usually on business, occasionally as an involuntary guest. I hadn’t used this entrance since they installed the welcoming window and skinny door. The murder holes were always there with guys inside who hoped that this would finally be the day when they got to use their crossbows. I eased through the skinny door thinking I would find a couple of red tops on the other side, waiting to pat me down before they took me to the General.
    I slid into an upright coffin instead. The door clunked shut before I could change my mind.
    I don’t like tight places. Not even a little. I really don’t like tight places. It was a miracle that I kept my composure. I treated myself to one lone girlish shriek, then focused on finding creative descriptions of the dams of the motherless dogs who had . . .
    Click! Ker-chunk! Screech!
    The back side of the coffin swung away.
    I backed off on the rhetoric. Some red tops are overly sensitive.
    I keep getting smarter as I age. Or it could be that I have developed an allergy to nightsticks.
    Four tin whistles occupied the space behind the door. Three were my size, a little over six feet, a little over two hundred pounds of rippling . . . muscle, all equally scarred up. The other one was a big guy who probably ate bricks drenched in acid for breakfast. They carried chains and clubs, pole arms with hooks and thief-takers on the business end, and at least one weighted throwing net.
    “Sorry, guys! I maybe got overexcited. I just came to report . . .”
    They showed no interest at all.
    The big door without a