Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  The Plan is still in the first phase. He’s been working on it, refining it, modifying it, for six years, three months, and eleven days. Though he is not perfect, the Plan is. In four days, nine hours, and sixteen minutes, it will all be over. He’ll be rich, on a bus to Mexico. And Chicago, along with the entire Midwest, will be permanently crippled.

  People will die. Many more than anyone could possibly expect. Thousands more.

  The apartment is all set. Has been, for over a week. A baited trap, waiting for the mice. It will make the TV news tonight for sure. Possibly even national. He considers setting the TiVo, but quickly dismisses the thought. He isn’t going to miss anything. They’ll repeat the footage.

  The summer air is cool and crisp. It’s night, so activity will be minimal, but he puts on the netting just in case. It’s in a sealed plastic bin next to the greenhouse door. He places it over his head, then reaches for the gloves. They’re made of neoprene, chemical resistant, and he’s careful not to touch the outside of them as he slips them on.

  The greenhouse door is locked with an electronic keypad beneath the knob. This high-tech addition was relatively cheap, and circumvents having to mess around with keys while wearing the gloves. It won’t deter someone serious—after all, the greenhouse is made entirely out of glass and plastic—but it will keep the neighborhood kids out.

  That kind of attention would be most unwelcome, after the years of planning.

  He punches the code and opens the door. The thermometer on the wall reads 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Part of this is due to the gas heaters. Part is due to the towering compost heap in the back, which recently received a particularly large infusion of organic matter.

  The Chemist loves being in the greenhouse. An untrained eye would only see the beauty of nature expressed by the ranks and files of growing, thriving plant life. A keener eye would be able to spot the cruelty beneath the veneer.

  It’s the cruelty that the Chemist adores.

  He checks the hydroponics on a castor oil plant. Castors resemble hemp, but with six leaves rather than five. Next to it is a pallet of short green plants sporting delicate white flowers—lily of the valley. Behind them, oleander, the majestic flowers yawning open in the artifi cial light like pink fireworks. To their right, azaleas, with their startling bloodred buds, surrounded by netting much like his pith helmet, so the bees can’t get to them.

  The Chemist steps over a tank of nitrox, navigates around several stacks of fertilizer, past piles of piping and boxes of roofing nails, and approaches a ten-gallon saltwater aquarium. Roaming along the bottom, among the sand and bits of dead coral, are over a dozen brilliantly colored cone snails, none longer than two inches. In the tank behind them, next to the cockroach pen, are fingerling goldfish. He takes the small net off its suction-cup hook, scoops up several feeders, and drops them into the snail tank.

  Normally he’d stay to watch the feast, but he has other things to do tonight.

  Near the rear of the greenhouse, between the nightshade and the jimsonweed, is his workbench. Assorted beakers, petri dishes, test tubes, flasks, stoppers, swabs, eyedroppers, and a variety of tools are arranged carefully in the six foam-lined drawers. He drags a large plastic garbage can over to his stool, then bends down and lifts a case of premium vodka onto the bench. Removing a fresh bottle by the neck, he holds it over the can and shatters it with a hammer, glass and vodka spilling onto his gloved hands.

  He picks through the mess, finds what he wants, and sets it on a place mat atop the bench, next to half a box of shotgun shells. A pair of garden clippers catches his eye, its blades stained with dirt and dried blood.

  The Chemist smiles at the memory they invoke.

  He picks up the shears and carries them to the large industrial sink, between the refrigerator and the autoclave, near the rear of the green house. He turns on the faucet and scrubs the shears with antibacterial soap. He also scrubs the remaining vomit from the ball-gag and the handcuffs, and then drops all three items into a bucket with a twenty-percent bleach solution.

  When everything is rub-a-dub-dub clean, he glances at the clock and decides to head over to police headquarters on Thirty-fifth and Michigan.

  He doesn’t want to be late.

  Chapter 5

  JASON ALGER RECEIVED his pension check at his home on the corner of Cortland Street and Hoyne Avenue, in the heart of a neighborhood known as Buck town. He lived in an unassuming two-story residence with an ample backyard.

  When we arrived on the scene, eight members of the Special Response Team—Chicago’s version of SWAT—had already secured the perimeter and were scanning the building with optics. Their vehicle, a souped-up bus known as the Mobile Command Post, was parked on the street alongside several patrol cars.

  The head of this SRT, a bull-faced sergeant appropriately named Stryker, was squinting at some fuzzy pink images on a laptop display. He wore the standard tactical gear: black jumpsuit, body armor, riot helmet, radio headset, and a utility belt stuffed with equipment, including a gas mask.

  “I’ve got two heat signatures on the first floor, and one on the second,” he said into his comlink. “No movement.”

  “Human beings?” I asked.

  He didn’t bother looking at me.

  “Unconfirmed.”

  I watched an SRT member reposition the thermal optics, and another, a woman, sweep the building with a DOX sound cannon—a device that looked like a bullhorn but was actually an ultrasensitive unidirectional microphone. Two others were examining a printout that showed the floor plan of the building.

  These guys were fast.

  “Stryker,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Has your team been briefed?”

  Again, the team leader didn’t so much as glance at me.

  “Sixty-three-year-old Caucasian male, considered armed and dangerous, probable location in the rear bedroom on the second floor, no other civilian activity, possible presence of biological agents. Two by two surgical entry, Taser capture takedown.”

  “He’s a cop,” I said. “His name is Jason Alger. I just cracked his file—his record on the force is golden. I also spoke to his former commander on the ride over. Alger was a straight shooter, family man, wife passed away six years ago, has a daughter and grandchildren in California. This isn’t in character for him.”

  Stryker grunted, or perhaps it was a laugh. “Sometimes good apples get rotten.”

  “And sometimes they get thrown away while they’re still good. Take it slow in there. Something isn’t right.”

  “That’s the only time we get called.”

  “Yeah. Well, good luck, Sergeant.”

  “Luck is for the unprepared.”

  I took a step back before the testosterone surging off his body caused me to grow a mustache. Special Agent Rick Reilly sidled up behind me, so close I could feel his body heat.

  Or maybe that was my imagination.

  “These guys any good?” he asked under his breath.

  “They’re good.”

  “They’ve got a lot of fancy equipment. Is the subject inside the house?”

  “We’re not sure. Thermals have a few readings. Could be a person. Could be a radiator, or a fireplace.”

  “In June?”

  “Or a water heater or a stove.”

  “I like his utility belt. He looks like Batman.”

  Normally I didn’t mind jokes, but I was on edge.

  “You’re a biology guy, right?”

  “I’m a doctor, actually. But saying Special Agent Dr. Rick Reilly is too much of a mouthful.”

  “Will those gas masks they have protect against BT?”

  “They’re standard NBC masks—nuclear, biological, chemical. NATO threaded filters. Should be fine. You look worried.”

  “I am worried. Show me a leader worth her salt who doesn’t worry.”

  Rick pointed his chin at Stryker.

  “GI Joe doesn’t seem worried.”

  “And that worries me. Confidence is e
ssential, cockiness is lethal.”

  This was my show. I wondered if there was anything more I should be doing. Go in with them? I didn’t have that kind of training. And if I got into a whose balls are bigger spat with Sergeant Stryker it might be distracting, and I wanted him focused.

  They know what they’re doing, I assured myself.

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  I narrowed my eyes at Rick, knocked off guard by the non sequitur.

  “What does that have to do with this case?”

  “Not a thing,” he said. “But it might have everything to do with grabbing a bite to eat later.”

  “I have a fiancé,” I said.

  “Forget to wear the ring this morning?”

  His eyes had a playful glint to them, which annoyed me. This wasn’t the time or place for flirting. And cute guys had no right coming on to me only a few hours after the man I loved proposed marriage.

  The man who was waiting patiently for me back at the house.

  I excused myself and walked into the street, hitting the speed dial button on my cell phone.

  “Hi, Latham.”

  “Hi, Jack. Any chance you’ll be home soon? I made your favorite. Wiener schnitzel and spaetzle.”

  German food was comfort food to me. I mentioned it offhandedly on one of our early dates, and the next time I went to his place Latham cooked it for me. Men who could cook trumped men with sexy bedroom eyes.

  Not that Latham didn’t have sexy bedroom eyes.

  I involuntarily glanced at Rick, noticed he was watching me, and gave him my back.

  “You’re a sweetheart, Latham. I’ll try my best, but I’m in the middle of something big.”

  “I understand. I’ll wait for you.”

  The man was a saint.

  “No. Go ahead and eat without me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I insist. I don’t know when we’ll finish up here. It could go late.”

  “I’ll keep it warm for you.”

  “The food?”

  “Everything.”

  Some paramedics pulled up. Standard procedure for a smash and grab, but it made me even more uneasy.

  “How’s that mariachi?” I asked. “Did he ever find the rest of his mustache?”

  “No. I think Mr. Friskers ran off with it.”

  I smiled for the first time in hours.

  “Look, Latham, I know I owe you an answer...”

  “Focus on work, Jack. Keep your mind on the matter at hand. Everything else can wait until later.”

  That proved it. Latham was an alien pod person. No man could be this perfect.

  “I love you,” I said, and meant it.

  “Love you too. Stay safe.”

  Stryker rallied his troops, and my leadership role was relegated to the sidelines to impotently watch his “two by two surgical entry.” I stood alongside Herb, who’d been on the phone for over an hour organizing the task force teams, and snagged a headset from the SRT member monitoring the infrared. Beta Team marched around back, Stryker gave the radio command, and they rushed the front door. His partner did a knock-and-announce, Stryker hit the door with a handheld Thunderbolt battering ram, and they both stormed inside, weapons drawn.

  “Team Alpha in,” the radio squawked. “Hallway clear.”

  A similar banging came from the rear of the house.

  “Team Beta in. Kitchen clear.”

  The headsets were so sensitive, I could make out four different breathing rates, four different footfalls. They had gone in under the assumption that anyone inside would have looked out the window and noticed the police carnival camped on the street, so this arrest was about speed rather than stealth.

  “First bedroom clear.”

  Shuffling sounds. Some clicks.

  “Hallway clear.”

  Then came a gunshot.

  And screaming.

  “Beta Team leader down! Repeat, Beta Team leader down! We have gunfire!”

  A horrible gurgling came through my earpiece, like someone choking in a shallow pool of water.

  “Alpha Team has been hit! Possible IED! Alpha—”

  There was a popping noise, another gunshot, and static.

  “Team Alpha, do you read,” I said into the comlink. “Team Alpha, do you read.”

  Moaning, but no coherent response.

  “Team Beta, do you read. Beta, are you there, goddammit.”

  More gurgling, weaker this time.

  Herb closed his cell phone and said, “Jesus.”

  I looked at the laptop monitor and could spot the heat signatures of all fou. SRT members. None were moving.

  “Stryker, are you there.”

  The moaning became a keening cry, like a sick dog. It made the fillings in my teeth vibrate.

  “Gamma Team going in!”

  Two more SRT members, a man and the woman working the cartoid mike, rushed the house.

  “Hold it!” I yelled.

  They didn’t listen, quickly disappearing through the front door.

  “Gamma Team, stand down,” I said into the radio. “Repeat, stand down. I’m OIC. I want your asses back here now.”

  White noise. A groan.

  “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

  I gripped the headgear so tight, my fingers shook. “Get the hell out of there!”

  “Jesus, what happened to his eyes—”

  “This place is rigged. It’s all rigged. Oh my—”

  A snapping sound, then coughing.

  “Gamma Team, do you read? Gamma Team, come in, over.”

  More coughing, and then the horrifying screech of someone screaming while throwing up. My skin got prickly all over.

  “Gamma Team, come in.”

  The silence was suffocating. Then, after almost thirty seconds: “Please...someone help me...”

  The final two SRT members made a try for the door. Herb tackled one. I used both hands to grab the other by the wrist.

  “No,” I told him.

  “That’s my team!”

  “We’ll get them out.”

  His name tag said James, Joshua. A kid, early twenties, barely old enough to shave. His eyes were wide, panicked, and he looked like he desperately wanted to believe me.

  “How?” he asked.

  I turned to the super, who appeared shaken, but not nearly as shaken as everyone on the line.

  “I need a HazMat team, and the bomb squad, and that robot they have, the remote control one with the cameras.”

  “Bomb squad is at the Twenty-first District, the other side of town,” she said.

  “Tell them to drive fast.”

  Rick took my arm. “Make sure the HazMat uses self-contained breathers. I think something got through the NATO filters.”

  “I thought the NATO filters were safe.”

  “For BT, yes.” Rick glanced at the radio unit, painful gurgling coming through the speaker. “That doesn’t sound like BT.”

  “Do you have...what are those protective suits called?”

  “Space suits. Back at Quantico. Not with me.”

  “...help me...please God help...”

  I racked my brain. Who would have a space suit? Fire stations? Nearby laboratories? I just saw a suit like that a little while ago. Where the hell was it?

  Then I remembered what neighborhood I was in, and who lived nearby.

  “Goddammit,” I said, yanking out my cell phone, wondering if I’d ever bothered to erase his number.

  It was still there. I hesitated two full seconds, then pressed the dial button.

  “Harry’s House of Love Juice, one hundred percent natural with zero carbohydrates, stop by for a free sample.”

  “McGlade,” I said, swallowing my pride. “It’s Jack. I need your help.”

  Chapter 6

  MCGLADE BEAT THE BOMB SQUAD and the HazMat team to the scene, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we desperately needed his help, bad because being around McGlade was slightly
less enjoyable than pulling out your own toenails with pliers.

  “Hiya, Jackie,” he said through the driver’s-side window, pulling his Corvette alongside the curb. “You want me to park this big boy here, or shall I use your rear entrance?”

  I briefly wondered what happened to his trademark 1968 Mustang, then realized he couldn’t drive stick shift with his newly acquired prosthesis. McGlade had been a player in a homicide investigation of mine not too long ago, and he hadn’t come out of the debacle entirely intact.

  “Got the space suit?”

  “I got it. You’re lucky too—I just had it cleaned. There were stains, Jack. Lots of stains.”

  I put the thought from my mind. An eternity ago, Harry McGlade and I were partners. Since his dismissal, he’d been earning his living as a full-time private eye and part-time television producer. Along with boasting the IQ of a tire iron, McGlade also had the unwelcome distinction of being one of the biggest perverts I know, and I’d met quite an assortment of them working Vice. Whatever he was using this space suit for had nothing to do with science.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “In back.”

  He popped the trunk, and I stared at a big pile of Day-Glo orange. I grabbed a sleeve and pulled the suit out of the car. The material felt like a combination of rubber and nylon.

  “I should be the one going in,” Rick said, coming up behind me.

  “Those are my people in there, Agent Reilly. I’m going.”

  Herb ran over, looking even shittier than he had earlier.

  “They’re not responding anymore,” he said. “Radio is silent.”

  “Can you hear anything? Moaning? Breathing?” Rick asked.

  Herb shook his head. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my skirt. Rick an. Herb averted their eyes. McGlade whistled.

  “This is a police matter, McGlade,” I said, struggling into the suit. “You can leave.”

  “Ease up, Lieutenant. We still haven’t worked out what you’re giving me because I’m letting you use my suit.”

  I fought the material. The inside clung to my bare legs like plastic wrap. “It can wait.”