Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

The word gave me gooseflesh.

  “Did you guys hear that?”

  “One of the SRT members.” Herb’s voice was pained. “He sounds alive.”

  “Where are you?” I tried to listen for noises in the house. “The first or second floor?”

  Coughing, then, “. . . help me . . .”

  “We can’t tell where he is.”

  I turned around and hurried down the hallway faster than I should have. Ahead, I saw stairs, and sitting on the bottom step, slumped over, one of my men.

  I swiveled around, 360 degrees, looking for wires and traps and anything unusual. Finding nothing, I knelt next to the fallen cop and tilted up his head to see his face.

  His gas mask was filled with bloody vomit, coating the inside of his goggles and oozing out the NBC filter.

  I shut my eyes, then forced myself to place a hand on his chest, seeking evidence of breathing that I knew wouldn’t be there.

  “I found Buhmann,” I said, sneaking a look at the name tag on his vest. “He’s gone.”

  “Did you find what killed him? It might still be active.”

  Paranoia cut through my anger, and I stood up and took a step back.

  Except for his gas mask, Buhmann appeared normal. No injuries, no blood, no—

  “It’s on the stairs.” I squinted and moved in closer. The camouflage was insidious. Eight three-inch nails, protruding up through the carpeting, painted to exactly match the color of the shag. The only reason I spotted them was a drop of blood on the middle nail.

  I wondered what kind of person thought up something like that. I could picture him, sitting quietly at a workbench, calmly putting together such a horrible thing.

  Cold-blooded wasn’t the word for it. This guy was a monster.

  “. . . please help . . .”

  “I’m going up.”

  “There are several thermal readings nearby. Be careful.”

  I didn’t need to be told to be careful. If the SWAT cop’s combat boots weren’t thick enough to stop a nail, my oversized rubber clown shoes wouldn’t offer me any better protection. Still, I took the stairs as quickly as I could, anxious to find the poor soul crying for help.

  The stairs ended at a hallway, and three more bodies.

  “Three more down, at the top of the stairs.”

  “What do you see?”

  “The nearest, vomit in the gas mask. The other two . . .”

  It looked like their masks were filled with blood and bits of tissue. I remembered the wet coughing I’d heard earlier over the comlink. What kind of poison makes you cough up your own lungs?

  “. . . dead. They’re all dead.”

  “Who are they?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice on the radio, and assumed it to be one of the remaining SRT members I’d made stay outside.

  “Name tags are Winston, Banks, and Kordova.”

  “Look for what killed them.”

  I took a cautious step forward. The hallway was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side, filled with an extensive collection of NASCAR plates, framed pictures, and assorted knickknacks. A few of the plates had shattered and fallen to the floor.

  “Two of the bodies, I see wounds on their calves. Might be buckshot.”

  “A hand-loaded shotgun shell packed with a fast-acting poison. Do you see any evidence of trip wires or pressure plates, or a gun or pipe sticking out of the walls?”

  “No. Wait . . . there are some rattraps.”

  I was reaching for one, when Rick yelled, “Don’t move!”

  I froze in a crouching position.

  “The traps fired the buckshot. It’s easy to rig a trap to fire a shotgun cartridge. There’s got to be tripwires in the hallway, stretching between the walls.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “They might not be stretched tight. Might be hanging loose. Monofilament fishing line is very thin, and it’s clear. How’s the lighting?”

  “Not very good.” I saw a light switch on the wall. “There’s a switch, I’ll just—”

  “Don’t flip the switch!”

  “Jesus Christ! I’m going to die of a heart attack before any of these traps kill me!”

  “The switch may be rigged. Take a Maglite from one of the SRTs’ utility belts.”

  I altered my course to reach down for one of the flashlights. I tugged it out of its little holster and felt like a ghoul, robbing the dead.

  “Got the light?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What color is the ceiling?”

  “White.”

  “Hold the Maglite down low and point it at a forty-five-degree angle upward. You won’t see the lines, but you might be able to see the shadows of the lines on the ceiling.”

  Smart. I was becoming very grateful Rick had come along.

  I twisted on the Mag and kept it at waist level, sweeping it back and forth.

  The ceiling became a spiderweb of crisscrossing gray shadows.

  “There’s a bunch. Maybe six to ten.”

  “He’s probably not that way—he wouldn’t have made it. What’s behind you?”

  I turned.

  “A door. Closed.”

  Herb said, “There’s a thermal reading, three yards east of you. It’s probably behind that door.”

  The Remington was becoming heavy in my one-handed grip, and I was sweating so badly I felt like I’d just stepped out of the shower. I swept the Maglite around my immediate area, gently set the shotgun down against the hallway wall, and very slowly turned the doorknob.

  I only got the door open an inch before feeling a small resistance.

  “I think there’s something—”

  Then came the explosion.

  CHAPTER 9

  I FELL ONTO MY ASS, sitting atop one of the dead cops, and the gas came billowing into the hall.

  “Jack! Jack are you there!”

  “The door was rigged. Gas is everywhere.”

  Thick, gray gas, surrounding me completely.

  “Is your suit breached?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The explosion hadn’t been that powerful. I hadn’t been knocked backward—I fell over from the surprise. Had it been enough to pierce my suit?

  “Don’t panic. You have to stay calm.”

  Easy for him to say. My ears were ringing, and my eyes stung like crazy.

  Jesus, why were my eyes stinging?

  The sweat, I realized. Dripping from my forehead. It must have gotten into my eyes.

  At least, that’s what I hoped it was.

  “Get out of there.”

  That seemed like a good idea. I rolled onto all fours, but the gas had gotten so thick I couldn’t see anything.

  “Can’t see. Too much gas.”

  My throat became very dry, and I couldn’t swallow. Symptoms of panic, or something worse?

  I reached out blindly before me, trying to find the stairs.

  “Stay calm. Take it slow.”

  My breath came in ragged gasps. Death. I was surrounded on all sides by death. I began to crawl, unable to fight the terror. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there now. If there was even the tiniest hole in my suit—

  The shotgun blast was so close to my head I saw stars. At the same instant I felt a tug along my back, as if my suit had caught on a nail.

  I’d tripped one of the rattraps.

  As my hearing returned, I could hear three different people screaming in my headset, and I reached around to feel my shoulders, to feel if I’d been hit.

  I couldn’t tell. My back felt wet, but was that blood or sweat? This suit was bulky. The pellets might have passed right through.

  But if I had holes in my suit the gas would get in.

  I crawled faster, full-blown terror taking root in me like I’d never experienced before. I tripped another wire, and a gunshot peppered the shelving unit to my right, but I didn’t stop, I picked up speed, climbing over a body, pushing away dead limbs, biting the inside of my c
heek, eyes blurry with tears, had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out—

  I reached the end of the hall and pulled myself through a doorway, entering a small room. The gas was dissipating, and I could finally see again. My stomach felt like a giant knot, and I teetered on the verge of throwing up. I was also holding my breath, freaked out that gas had gotten inside my suit.

  Calm down, Jack, I said to myself. Calm it down. You’re still alive.

  I opened my mouth, trying to taste the air without breathing it.

  Not surprisingly, it tasted like bile.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, shaking from the lack of oxygen, I took a shallow breath even though my body craved more air.

  No reaction.

  I took a bigger breath, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “Jack! Are you there! Jack, please answer!”

  “I’m still here,” I said, my voice sounding very far away.

  I looked around me, saw I was in a bedroom. There was a bed, a closet, a dresser, and a full-length mirror.

  I stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to the mirror, getting a profile view.

  There were a dozen tiny holes in my suit where the buckshot had ripped through.

  “My suit has holes in it.”

  “Stay calm. As long as there’s positive air pressure, nothing can get in.”

  “You son of a bitch—”

  “McGlade, you little—”

  “Give me the headset, lardass—”

  “I’m gonna kick your—”

  An oomph sound, coming from Herb.

  “Jack! It’s Harry! You need to get your ass out of there! That tank is almost empty!”

  Once again, panic wrapped around me like a blanket.

  “Your fat sidekick punched me in the nards before I could tell you. I figure there was maybe four, five minutes of O2 left in that tank. How long have you been in there?”

  About four or five minutes, I figured. I looked back down the booby-trapped hallway, gas still lingering in the air, and made my decision.

  “I’m going out the back window. Get the paramedics to put a ladder—”

  I stopped in mid-step. Both bedroom windows were surrounded by black pipes that didn’t look like they came standard with the house.

  “I’m seeing some sort of pipes, sticking out of the window frames.”

  “Describe them.” Rick again.

  I didn’t want to get too close, but I forced myself to lean forward.

  “Black. They have M44 written on the side.”

  “Cyanide bombs. Used for killing animal predators. Don’t go near them.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  Unfortunately, that meant I had to go back through the hallway to get out of there.

  I began to hyperventilate, which made me even more light-headed than I already was. I got on all fours, reasoning that I’d already tripped the traps at that level and there wouldn’t be any more. The gas had thinned out to the consistency of steam. Crawling over my fallen brethren was even worse this time, now that I could see their bloody faces up close.

  “Look, Jackie, if you don’t get out of there alive, I want to be sure that someone helps me out with this liquor license thing.”

  Harry sounded so close, I almost turned around, expecting to see him standing over my shoulder.

  “McGlade, get off the—”

  I was halfway to the stairs when I paused, wondering why the voice on the headset had gotten so clear.

  It took me a moment to realize the radio reception hadn’t gotten better—I could hear it better because there was no background noise.

  The low, droning hiss of the SCBA had stopped.

  I was out of air.

  CHAPTER 10

  I DIDN’T THINK. I moved.

  I made it through the gas and to the stairs in less than three seconds, and then I slid down the first few on my belly like I was sledding.

  The suit proved to be slipperier than I thought, and I picked up speed.

  I stuck my hands out in front of me, trying to stop my momentum, but my gloves couldn’t get a purchase on the carpet. My chest felt like I was getting repeatedly kicked, and my head bounced around on my neck in whiplash jerks.

  BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP. The ground floor rushed at me, blurry and off center.

  And then I remembered the nails on the bottom step.

  They were less than a body length away. No time to turn. No time to stop. I arched my back, reaching out my hands, palms up, trying to grab the shoulders of the dead cop slumped at the bottom of the staircase. I hit him, hard, my elbows bending from the impact, holding my chest a few inches above the deadly nails.

  I did a push-up off of Buhmann, got my feet under me, and eased myself over the trap. Fresh air was only a dozen yards away, out the front door. I got ready to sprint for it.

  “. . . help me . . .”

  I didn’t move.

  Stryker was still alive. It had to be him, because the only SRT members I hadn’t seen yet were him and the woman.

  I took a last, longing look at the door, then headed toward the rear of the house, to the kitchen, the only room I hadn’t yet seen.

  “Jack, are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Rick. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

  I concentrated on slowing my breathing. I don’t know what poisons were clinging to me, or if anything had gotten in through the holes. Plus, the air inside the space suit was quickly becoming stale, since no new air was being pumped in. The less I breathed, the better.

  Two steps into the kitchen, I found the female cop. I had no idea what killed her, but whatever it was made her eyes pop out of their sockets.

  “Stryker, dammit, where are you?”

  Static, then, “. . . base . . .”

  “Who’s got a floor plan? Where’s the basement?”

  It was more talking than I wanted to do, and it emptied my lungs. I took a shallow breath.

  “I have the floor plan, Jack.” Rick. “There’s a door in the back of the kitchen.”

  I spun my shoulders, taking in the room, and saw the refrigerator was open. I also noticed, sitting on a plate in the fridge, something horrible.

  “The bomb squad is here, they’re coming in.”

  Passing the refrigerator, I saw the basement steps, Stryker clinging to the top. His gas mask was also caked in vomit, but his chest was rising and falling.

  I grabbed his belt and pulled.

  It was like hauling a bag of bricks, but the tile floor helped, and I was able to yank the groaning SRT leader across the kitchen, toward the back door.

  Three feet away, my vision began to cloud. My legs had become two sacks of jelly that could barely support my weight.

  Two feet away. I felt hot and cold at the same time. A wave of dizziness swooped down on me, and I fell to my knees. Everything started to get dark.

  A foot away. Beyond that doorway, fresh air. No more deadly traps. No more poison gas. Twelve inches away was Herb. Latham. Life.

  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, t
ried 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.

  CHAPTER 11

  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.”