Read Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini for Free Online Page B

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.”
    “No time.”
    “Dammit, Jack.” Herb came up after me. “You’re not even wearing a vest.”
    “Armor didn’t seem to help the SRT.”
    I jogged toward the house. Herb and Rick flanked me.
    “Her suit is leaking,” Herb said. “I can feel the air.”
    “Positive pressure. It’s supposed to do that. With air blowing out, nothing can get in.”
    Herb appeared ready to burst into tears.
    “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jack.”
    “Me too.”
    I paused for just a moment, and stared at my partner through the Plexiglas face shield, wondering why this moment seemed so final.
    “Okay.” I took a big gulp of canned air. “Let’s do this.”

 

    CHAPTER 7

    T HE CHEMIST WATCHES the cop in her space suit approach the front door. The suit offers more protection than the previous batch of cops had, but it still isn’t enough.
    She has seconds left to live. Minutes, if she’s extremely lucky.
    The Chemist has spent a very long time getting things ready. There are enough traps to kill at least a dozen cops. Even careful ones in protective biohazard suits.
    He hadn’t expected that the next death would be Jack Daniels, however. She’s a celebrity. Now this will be national news for sure. He should have set the TiVo after all.
    He wonders which one will get her. The modified M44? The rattraps? The pull-loop switch? The metal ball? So many terrible things await her.
    And which toxin will it be? BT is perfect for food contamination, and the slower onset of symptoms has the desired effect of overburdening the hospitals and spreading panic and paranoia. But situations like this one called for something more immediate. More dramatic.
Convallaria majalis
.
Ricin.
Rhododendron ponticum. Ornithogalum umbellatum. Thevetia peruviana. Strychnos toxifera
. Each of these induces instantaneous, messy death.
    Of course, nothing is quite as cinematic as good old homemade napalm. Or potassium cyanide gas. He’s covered those bases too.
    The Chemist spent several months