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, tried 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
I NSTANT 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.”
“What, you think all Feds are brainless, regulation-spouting automatons who hinder local police departments’ investigations?”
“Pretty much.”
Rick smiled, and pretended to tip his hat.
“Happy to prove you wrong.”
“Hey!”
We turned to look at McGlade, who was prodding the still-smoking space suit with his toe.
“Somebody owes me a space suit.”
I ignored Harry, looking beyond him to try to find Herb. Two paramedics wheeled a gurney over. I declined. They insisted. I compromised, and they escorted me as I walked. The scene in front had become a madhouse of cops, media, and gawkers. I scanned the faces of the crowd. No Herb.
Joshua James, the SRT member that I prevented from running into the house, walked over to my car, tight-lipped and morose.
“They’re all dead.” He said it as a statement, not a question.
I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
James hitched his thumbs into his belt and stuck out his chest.
“Sorry doesn’t mean shit. Next time, let me do my fucking job.”
His stare challenged me to say something back. I didn’t. Then he turned his gaze to Rick.
“You got something to say, Fed?”
“In fact, I do. You need to focus your
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, tried 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
I NSTANT 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.”
“What, you think all Feds are brainless, regulation-spouting automatons who hinder local police departments’ investigations?”
“Pretty much.”
Rick smiled, and pretended to tip his hat.
“Happy to prove you wrong.”
“Hey!”
We turned to look at McGlade, who was prodding the still-smoking space suit with his toe.
“Somebody owes me a space suit.”
I ignored Harry, looking beyond him to try to find Herb. Two paramedics wheeled a gurney over. I declined. They insisted. I compromised, and they escorted me as I walked. The scene in front had become a madhouse of cops, media, and gawkers. I scanned the faces of the crowd. No Herb.
Joshua James, the SRT member that I prevented from running into the house, walked over to my car, tight-lipped and morose.
“They’re all dead.” He said it as a statement, not a question.
I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
James hitched his thumbs into his belt and stuck out his chest.
“Sorry doesn’t mean shit. Next time, let me do my fucking job.”
His stare challenged me to say something back. I didn’t. Then he turned his gaze to Rick.
“You got something to say, Fed?”
“In fact, I do. You need to focus your
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