Stirred

The two men flanking the mausoleum dove for cover, but he stayed upright.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

No one spoke, no one moved.

Was that even a bomb?

Angelo had been thrown onto his back, but now he sat up.

Thank God. He appeared to be in one piece, and there was no debris, no shrapnel, no fire, no smoke.

Everything stood perfectly silent—

—except for a hissing inside the crypt.

Matthews caught a sickly-sweet floral odor a half second before Angelo started coughing and screaming, the cop pawing at his face and frantically trying to rip off his vest.

Matthews recognized the odor: geraniums.

Post-9/11, they’d all been given a crash course in chemical agents. A geranium smell was linked to one of the deadliest chemicals used in World War I—lewisite.

Matthews screamed, “Chemical agent, masks on!” He slid out of his pack, and ripped open the zipper, digging for his own gas mask, eyes begi

When he tried to call for backup, he suddenly couldn’t speak, his throat already swelling.

In his earpiece, he heard a cacophony of choking…screaming…coughing…vomiting…pure panic.

He’d been cold up until this moment, but now his skin grew hot as the invisible gas penetrated his Kevlar, accelerating through levels of increasing pain—first the fast onset of a sunburn, and then a steady sting, and then skin being eaten away.

Snot, mucus, and tears streamed down his face, and before he realized what had happened, he threw up all over himself.

Matthews struggled onto his feet despite the agony—had to help his men—had to make the screaming stop—but when he started walking he realized the problem—the gas had come in contact with his eyes, his corneas.

He could barely see a thing.

His knees buckled, and he hit the ground.

He needed to call for an extraction. Medics. Get his men attended to.

But with every passing second, the pain and the panic was becoming more intense, and all he could do was try to scream.

April 2, 3:11 A.M.

Luther watches the carnage on his iPhone, which has been synced to several netbook PCs around the Franks tomb, each equipped with a night-vision camera and ru

It looks a lot like the biblical day of reckoning.

Screaming.

Hysteria.

Men tearing off their clothes as the lewisite burns their flesh. Coughing and spitting as it sears their lungs. Vomiting. Bleeding. Falling over.

On any other day, Luther would have been happy to watch until the last man dropped.

To watch it again and again and again.

But this is just a warm-up for the main event.

He steps behind a tombstone and calls Jack on his iPhone.

April 2, 3:11 A.M.

The screams coming through Herb’s mike were horrifying to the point where he had to turn down the volume. I was so taken aback by the sound that I grabbed Phin’s shoulder so I didn’t fall over. First, Luther had emulated Alex Kork with the iPhone contact. Now he was following in the footsteps of another old adversary, a nut job known as The Chemist.

What other bad folks from my past would Luther dredge up?

The second SRT unit went in, wearing full containment suits, to extract the team, and Herb called in more paramedics and the Center for Disease Control.

My cell rang. Blocked call. I answered without saying anything.

“Do I have your ear now, Jack?” Luther purred. “You could have stopped this. You could have stopped all of this death by simply stopping me. That’s what I want, Jack. I want you to stop me. Find me, and come alone, or many more will die. I’ve got this whole place wired with gas. You get safe passage. Anyone else comes in, I’ll go all ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ on them.”

He disco

Herb was yelling orders into his walkie-talkie, denying backup until his men were properly equipped. I knew from experience that McGlade had a P4 space suit, suitable for dealing with chemical warfare, but his place was miles away.

“Luther said he’ll give me safe passage,” I said to Herb in between his orders.

“No way in hell,” Herb replied.

Phin and McGlade echoed the sentiment, and both Tom and Roy joined in.

“Look, guys. He doesn’t want to kill me. He wants me alive.”

Herb frowned even deeper. “Absolutely not. We don’t know what kind of gas that is, if it can drift, if it’s contagious. I just called in the National Guard. You’re not going to go ru

“I don’t need to hope,” I interrupted. “I know where he is.”

“Then tell me, Jack.”

I shook my head. “You’ll send in more cops, and Luther will kill anyone that goes after him. Anyone except me.”

Herb shook his head right back at me. “Jack—”

“We have a chance to end this, Herb. To be free of this son of a bitch, once and for all. He’s not going to try to kill me. But I’m sure as hell going to try to kill him.”

Everyone stared at me, no one speaking.

Once upon a time I had commanded people, and they listened to me. Not only because I had authority. But because they trusted my orders, my judgment. I studied each of their faces in turn, trying to show them I was still the same woman. Being a target and being pregnant didn’t mean I was unfit to lead.

“I’m in,” Tom said, drawing his Glock from his shoulder holster.

Roy followed suit. “Hell, yeah.”

Phin and McGlade also pulled their weapons.

“We can take this punk,” Harry said.

“I’d follow you to hell, Jack,” Phin said. “You know that.”

I looked at Phin. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. You were right.”

“About what?”

“Me trying to control you. I love you, and while I hate the idea of you going in there, you actually doing it is exactly what makes you the woman I love. Fearless. All I want is to protect you.”

I could feel the emotion coming, but I pushed it back. “I know, Phin.”

“You know I respect you, right?” he said.

I did, but damn it felt good to hear him say it. I nodded.

“And you know I’d die for you?”

I nodded again, swallowing the lump in my throat. If he’d proposed to me saying that, I probably would have said yes right away.

I wanted to hug him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to apologize for being the Master of the Bitchiverse.

But I wasn’t sure how, and I didn’t have the time to figure it out. Later, after we were done.

“Are all of you insane?” Herb asked. “I just lost God knows how many men out there, to God knows what.”

“Maybe it was mustard gas,” McGlade said. “You like mustard, as evidenced by the stains on your shirt.”

“Just tell me where he is, Jack.” Herb’s eyes drilled into mine, his face imploring.

I turned to Groundskeeper Willie, who’d wandered back over and had been watching all of this like a child watches a slasher film, wide-eyed and horrified. “Luther asked if he had my ear. Bobby Franks was killed by Leopold and Loeb. Ear. Lobe. Are either of the killers buried here?”

Willie gave me something midway between a nod and a head shake. “No…no they’re not…but their families are. Samuel and Babbette Leopold. Allan, A