Read Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini for Free Online

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 four 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