J. Konrath - Dirty Martini

I reached the jamb, straining from the effort of pulling Stryker, and then felt the floorboard shift beneath my hip.

I froze. My eyes followed the floorboard to an electrical outlet, under the sink. Attached to a cord, atop the loose floorboard, was a metal sphere the size of a golf ball. Surrounding it, like a jail cell, were metal bars. Next to the contraption was a fire extinguisher, its nozzle pointing at my face.

Even in my oxygen-deprived brain, I knew what I was looking at. If the floorboard moved, the metal ball would roll, touching the metal bars and completing a circuit, spraying me with whatever deadly substance was in that fire extinguisher.

I shifted my hip imperceptibly, and watched the ball roll forward, heading toward the bars.

I moved my hip back, and it returned to the center of its cell.

Things were really starting to get dark now. I didn’t know if I’d been poisoned, or if I’d breathed too much of my own carbon dioxide. I tried to focus, tried to concentrate. The board beneath me was only a few inches wide. If I eased myself off of it slowly, keeping an eye on the ball, it would return to its original posi- tion and-

“… please help me,” Stryker groaned.

Then his foot kicked out, connecting with the trap.

INSTANT INFERNO.

The flame that shot out of the extinguisher soaked Stryker, and covered the lower half of my body. I leaned over, trying to beat the fire off of him, but it stuck to my gloves like glue.

His screams cut into me, and then cut into me again through my headset. I wiped my hands on the floor, trailing fire, and then I looked around-for what, I’m not sure-maybe something to smother the flames, maybe something to end his agony, and then a powerful force yanked me backward.

I twisted around, trying to fight it, fearing what horrible trap had me now, wondering if I’d be gassed or burned or poisoned or punctured, and I lashed out with both hands, and one fist bounced off something fleshy and I stared up at Herb, pulling me out of the house.

“The suit,” I tried to warn him. It was covered in God knew what kind of deadly substances. “Don’t touch me.”

But Herb didn’t listen. He dragged me over to two firefighters waiting with a hose. They opened it up on us, knocking Herb over, pummeling me with water that looked, oddly enough, like a car wash through my visor.

Then Rick was there, yanking off my face mask, stripping off that horrible space suit, and paramedics were wrapping me in blankets. I glanced at Herb, my hero, and said, “Thanks, partner.” He shook his head, his hound dog jowls jiggling, picked up a blanket, and walked away.

“Jack, look at me.”

Rick had his arms around me, his face very close to mine. This time I was sure I felt his breath. It smelled like mint.

He looked at one of my eyes, then the other.

“Do you feel okay?”

“Headache… legs hot.”

“First-degree burns from the homemade napalm. Like a sunburn. I could rub some cream on them, if you’d like.”

“I’ll manage.”

I disentangled myself from his arms and took a last look at the house.

“Thanks.” I took another deep breath, grateful for the clean air. “I probably wouldn’t have made it out of there without your help.”

“What, you think all Feds are brainless, regulation-spouting automatons who hinder local police departments’ investigations?”

“Pretty much.”

Rick smiled, and pretended to tip his hat.

“Happy to prove you wrong.”

“Hey!”

We turned to look at McGlade, who was prodding the still-smoking space suit with his toe.

“Somebody owes me a space suit.”

I ignored Harry, looking beyond him to try to find Herb. Two paramedics wheeled a gurney over. I declined. They insisted. I compromised, and they escorted me as I walked. The scene in front had become a madhouse of cops, media, and gawkers. I scanned the faces of the crowd. No Herb.

Joshua James, the SRT member that I prevented from running into the house, walked over to my car, tight-lipped and morose.

“They’re all dead.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

James hitched his thumbs into his belt and stuck out his chest.

“Sorry doesn’t mean shit. Next time, let me do my fucking job.”

His stare challenged me to say something back. I didn’t. Then he turned his gaze to Rick.

“You got something to say, Fed?”

“In fact, I do. You need to focus your anger on the man that did this, not the woman that tried to save your team.”

“She fucked up. I should have gone in there.”

Rick jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at two bomb squad cops, draped in so much body armor and protective gear, they each looked like the Michelin Man. Stretched between them was a body bag.

“See that? If you went in there, they’d be carrying you out in one of those.”

The cop went to shove Rick, but Rick sidestepped the move and caught Joshua’s wrist in a joint lock, forcing the larger man to his knees.

“They knew the risks,” Rick said. “Don’t disgrace their memories like this.”

He released him, and Joshua glared at Rick, then at me, then at Rick again, and stormed off.

I grabbed my clothes and my purse from my car, and was then led to the rear of the ambulance. Again they tried to force me to lie down. Again I fought with them, insisting that I didn’t want to go to the hospital.

“Let them help you, Jack.”

Rick. He’d somehow eclipsed Herb as my omnipresent voice of reason.

“I just want to get home to my fiancé.”

I coughed, feeling something wet in my lungs, and all thoughts of Latham were replaced by thoughts of the terrifying toxins I’d been exposed to. Rick caught my look of panic.

“Just because you seem to have avoided all of the fast-acting agents doesn’t mean a slower one hasn’t breached your suit. Like BT. Or something worse.”

I coughed again, and let them strap me down. An EMT pushed Rick out of the back, shut the door, and they carted me off to the hospital.

I WOKE UP AT FIVE in the morning in an ER bed, feeling like someone had beaten me up and used me as a pincushion. Antibiotics, antitoxins, and numerous vaccines had been administered. I was a little woozy, but it didn’t seem like anything toxic had taken hold.

That was good enough for me. I had work to do, and it wouldn’t get done with me lying down.

I called a cab, and he took me back to my car, still at Alger’s house. During the ride I thought about Latham. I’d phoned him repeatedly from the hospital-at my house, at his apartment, on his cell. He hadn’t picked up. What did that mean? Phone problems? Was he asleep? Watching TV too loud and didn’t hear the ring? Or was he angry at me?

Yesterday, I’d called Latham my fiancé-twice-even though I hadn’t officially said yes to his proposal. It felt… right.

I’d been married before. It hadn’t worked. And even though my ovaries still had a few parting shots left in them, forty-six was too old to start thinking about babies, and families. If I got pregnant now, I’d be in diapers myself by the time the kid was old enough to buy me a beer.

So why did I feel all gooey inside when I pictured Latham and myself leaning over a crib, watching our child sleep?

The cab spit me out at my car. I paid the hack, and used my cell to try Latham again. No answer. So I turned my attention to the Alger house. Seeing it again made my stomach do flip-flops.

A few police vehicles and the SRT bus were still there. A bombie saw me and approached.

“Lieutenant Daniels?” Her name tag read Wells . She wore enough body armor to protect her from a point-blank bazooka hit. “There’s something in the house you need to see.”