STIRRED by J.A. Konrath Blake Crouch

Author:J.A. Konrath, Blake Crouch
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

April 2, 3:10 A.M.

Matthews shouldered the M-16 assault rifle and spoke into his shoulder mike, “Sanchez, Williams, you stay with me. Swartwood, Patel, get in position behind us on the edge of the road. This is a potential hostage situation, so sight your targets. Kitt, Strand, I need eyes around back, make sure nothing comes up from behind.”

His men fell into position around the mausoleum, a stone building approximately ten feet tall and the size of a small garden shed. Stone flower pots framed the green iron door, where a pair of red roses had been threaded between the handles. The structure was surrounded by trimmed hedges and flanked by similar mausoleums and headstones. It bothered Matthews. Too many places to hide.

“Battles, open that door, and get out of the way. Angelo, get eyes inside and report back. I’ll be on your six.”

Matthews covered the door as Battles pulled the bolt cutters out of a backpack. The lock on the door gleamed under the LED flashlight mounted beside the M-16 scope—a new lock, no rust, unlike the decades of oxidation on the vault’s iron gate.

“Set for bursts of three, and stay sharp,” he said.

Matthews heard the metallic snick of the pinchers biting through the lock.

Battles slid the bolt cutter into his pack and backpedaled down the steps and away from the entrance, shouldering his weapon as Angelo approached.

It was difficult to see much more than the beam of Angelo’s LED light.

“At the door,” Angelo said, his voice soft and steady, though Matthews could hear an edge of fear in it. That was a good thing. Fear enhanced the senses.

Matthews expected the iron door to creak, but it opened smooth and silent, as if its hinges had been oiled.

“Stepping inside,” Angelo said.

His light played off the stone, shone through a stained-glass window in the back wall.

“Report,” Matthews said.

“Clear. There’s two vaults, one on top. Bottom one is Robert Franks. Stained-glass window above them, and…we have a device.”

“IED?”

“I don’t think so. Metal canister. Looks like a scuba tank.”

A course of panic flooded through Matthews. “Possible aerosol. Get your masks out and—”

The crack wasn’t as loud as thunder nor as bright as lightning, but the explosion knocked Angelo out of the building.

Matthews felt the ground vibrate the soles of his Doc Martins and took an involuntary step back.

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.

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