“An online challenge,” Malcolm said. “A million bucks for the first person who can make a 3D-printed M24.”

“As a model?”

“No,” Malcolm said. “There’s already models. I got two of them. You get the million bucks if you can prove it works. One test bullet fired and posted online. And the gun still intact.”

“We figured it was a prank,” Ladrell said. “The plastic couldn’t withstand the power.”

“But there’s new plastics this year,” Wolf said. “Metallic powders in them. They mimic metal.”

“And did the person putting out the RFP say why they needed the gun?” Remy asked.

“No, but there’s been chatter,” Malcolm said.

“Is the target someone in politics?” I asked. Trying to connect the maker of the weapon to the man who Abe and Clearson were flying to Alabama to protect.

“In a way,” Malcolm said. “There’s this foundation that some of our friends have been watching. A guy named Saul Goldberg started it. He was some Wall Street type, but not a trader. Came from the tech side and made hundreds of millions. His sister’s kid was a victim in a shooting. So four years ago he started something called Not in This Town.”

“It’s an anti-gun group,” Wolf said, this time with no affect in his voice. It suddenly dawned on me that Wolf’s whole style and vernacular might be a put-on, all the “yo” and “girl” shit.

“The idea is to fight the NRA their way. With money,” Ladrell described. “This Goldberg guy put in fifty million to start the foundation, but now they got a ton more money from Democratic donations and fundraisers.”

“So Goldberg works with politicians?” I clarified.

Malcolm nodded. “And in two districts so far, they’ve beaten the pro-NRA candidate at election time.”

I looked to Remy. This was all coming together. Verifying what Abe and Clearson had said.

“So you’ve heard chatter on the politician who’s the target?” Remy said, looking for fidelity.

“Well, we caught wind of something, but we’re not sure it’s legit.”

“Is it at an event in Alabama?” Remy asked.

The two looked at each other and shook their heads. “No. What we heard is in Atlanta,” Malcolm said. “Eight a.m. tomorrow. Outside the Georgia Aquarium.”

I cocked my head, confused.

I asked the guys to hold a second and stepped over to my truck with Remy. Decided to call up Mandelle Clearson myself.

“Hey,” I said. I could hear a chopper behind him. “We might have a lead here. How sure are you on this Alabama thing?”

“Who’s your lead from?” Clearson asked.

“You don’t know him,” I said. “But listen. Have you heard of a group called Not in This Town?”

“Yeah, we know the guy who runs it,” Clearson yelled. “Pain-in-the-ass loudmouth from New York. He thinks he’s doing our job getting guns off the street.”

“Have we considered if someone in his group is the target?”

“We know who the target is, P.T.”

“This group has an event in the morning,” I said. “In downtown Atlanta.”