Dirty Martini

“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 and 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.”

“I want a liquor license.”

Unbelievable. Herb must have thought so as well. He grabbed McGlade’s shoulder.

“You need to leave. Now.”

McGlade waved his artificial hand. It wasn’t a primitive pirate claw, but it didn’t look entirely realistic either. The flesh color was too light, and shiny like rubber.

“Don’t shoot me, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

Herb gave McGlade a push backward.

McGlade smiled and shook his head, raising both hands in apparent supplication. Then he placed his fake one on Herb’s shoulder. There was a faint mechanical sound, like gears turning, and Herb yelped and fell to his knees.

“Modern technology,” Harry said. “Six hundred pounds of pressure per square inch.”

I got in his face. “Dammit, McGlade! People are dying! Stop screwing around!”

Harry shrugged. The mechanical hand whirred open. Herb had lost all color.

“Sorry, Jackie. I didn’t know we were in such a rush.”

I managed to snug the suit on over my shoulders. McGlade leaned close to me and whispered, “So… if I let you use the space suit, can you talk the mayor into letting me have a liquor license for the bar I’m open-IIIIEEEEEE!”

McGlade fell over, clutching himself between his legs. Herb unclenched the fist he’d used to induce McGlade’s aria, then got up off of his knees, his other hand rubbing his shoulder.

“I hate that guy,” he said.

Rick helped me strap on the SCBA tank. The gloves were thin, but not thin enough to get my finger inside of a trigger guard. Herb noted this and promised he’d be right back. The headpiece went on over the radio headset, a large hood with a Plexiglas faceplate.

It was hot in the suit. Steam-bath hot. And it smelled bad, like chili dogs. Sweat beads popped out onto my forehead, and my silk blouse clung to me at my armpits.

“Let me know when you feel the air.”

Rick turned the dials on my self-contained breathing apparatus, and a wave of cool air bathed my face and circulated throughout the suit. The chest and legs began to puff out, like a balloon.

“I’ll be with you on the radio,” Rick said through the comlink. “Keep the chatter going, describe everything you see, maybe I can help.”

Herb jogged back, cradling a Remington 870MCS shotgun with a pistol grip. He stepped over McGlade and passed it to me. My gloved finger easily fit into the oversized trigger guard.

“Bomb squad is still ten minutes away,” Herb said. “Robby took a bad hit last week and is out of commission.”

Robby was their remote-controlled robot.

“Give my respects to his family,” I said, starting for the house.

“We could still wait for them. They’ve got better protective gear.”