The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) by Wesley Cross Page A

transportation, it looks like.”
    “Okay, thanks,” said Johnny, ready to hang up.
    “Wait a second,” said Danny. “Just want to check something. It seems that GNM is wholly owned by another company.”
    “Can you tell which one?”
    “Working on it, boss. Sit tight.”
    Johnny sat in silence clenching his fists, trying to work life into his hands.
    “So?” he finally said, losing his patience.
    “Here you go. Guardian Manufacturing.”
    Johnny terminated the call and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.
    Shit,
he said out loud.
    Johnny sat there for a few minutes considering implications. He was in a bad spot. If the gang elders ever found out he was working for Guardian, Johnny would be a goner, but on the other hand, working for Guardian was like working for the devil himself. He knew he couldn’t just walk away.
    Fuckers, all of you.
    He looked at the card that Latham left for him. On one side it had an unfamiliar Brooklyn address, and on the other side there was a name.
    Steven Poznyak.
    Whether he liked it or not, Johnny the Butcher had some work to do.

CHAPTER 16
    “Did I miss a promotion or something?” asked Bill Ryan as Chuck pulled over to the front of the building. The large parking lot in front of the apartment complex was crowded by fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers. Surprisingly, there was almost no press. Chuck parked his unmarked Ford across the street and turned off the engine.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, cases like that don’t usually land on our lap, but now it seems that we got the hottest stuff.”
    Chuck shrugged and got out of the car to look for somebody in charge. The entrance to the building was cordoned off by yellow police tape, and the street was swarming with uniforms.
    According to the plainclothes lieutenant supervising the location who introduced himself as Sam, some kind of military operation took place on the sixth floor of the building.
    They took the stairs to the top floor as the man recounted what had been recovered before their arrival.
    The entryway of the floor was covered in small debris and there was a gaping hole where the door used to be.
    “It appears that they used four small plastic charges. Three on the hinges and one at the latch,” said Sam.
    Chuck stepped over the threshold trying not to breathe in smoke-filled air, and paused looking around, trying to get his bearings around the scene. The entrance led straight into a small open kitchen with a granite island separating it from a living room. The kitchen, although bearing some signs of destruction, fared relatively well, and it was obvious that most of the damage came from a large explosion that took place on the floor of the living room. A little farther to his left was a gutted leather couch that stood on its side next to the remnants of the bathroom wall.
    “Victims?” asked Chuck, looking at few brown stains on the floor and splatter on the remainder of the kitchen wall.
    “At least six,” said Sam, looking at his notes, “possibly more. The bodies of the crew that breached this place were recovered, but the owner of the apartment isn’t here. He either left on his own, which judging by the amount of blood, is unlikely, or was taken by the remainder of the crew that came after him. Unfortunately, the sprinklers that came on after the explosion and a ruptured pipe in the bathroom spoiled a lot of evidence.”
    “Who owns the place?” asked Ryan, squatting on the floor for a closer look.
    “Mortgage issued by EW Bank to some Michael S. Connelly.”
    “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Chuck said. “Have you talked to the feds to see if there’s something we need to know?”
    “Yeah, we have. They’ve got nothing. You know this guy?”
    “We were looking into him over the past few weeks. There was a shooting on Williamsburg Bridge where somebody tried to gun him or his passengers down.” He turned to Ryan. “What have you got there?”
    “Hard to say with