Page 68 of Devil's Due

“Cheer up,” she said. “I think you just averted a major terrorist act. Also, there seems to be a clean room behind that door. Biohazard suits hanging from hooks in the airlock. You might have even found the source of the anthrax.”

As the sirens came closer, they sat in silence, surveying the big white room with its drums of chemicals and—most ominously—pressurized tanks marked with Poison labels.

“So,” Cole said. “If I get my ass fired over this—”

“Always a place for you at Callender & Garza, my friend. Provided we’re still open, since we’ve shot more people in the past couple of days than the KCPD has shot in a couple of years. It might pose a problem.”

He shook his head. “You’ll be okay. You’re a survivor.”

They both froze at a sound outside, from the direction of the door, and without any discussion got to their feet and moved to stand on either side of the single doorway to the room.

A hand holding a gun crossed the threshold.

“Freeze!” Lucia yelled, and spun away from the wall. Cole did the same, bracketing the newcomer from an obtuse angle, taking a low line.

“Police!” the other man screamed at the same instant, and Lucia held off on the trigger just by a split second as she recognized the ragged, unshaved, red-eyed face of … Detective Ken Stewart. “Drop the guns, dammit. Drop them!” he ordered.

“FBI,” Cole said calmly, and showed his badge and credentials without wavering his aim. “Detective Stewart, right? KCPD?”

“Yes.” Stewart stopped trying to cover both of them, and focused solely on Lucia. “Drop it!”

“Jesus! Drop yours!” she retorted hotly. “You know who I am!”

He cocked the hammer on his gun, an unnecessary and theatrical gesture. “First shot cripples you for life.Drop it now!”

“That isn’t necessary,” Cole said.

“If she’s not FBI, she drops the goddamn gun!”

There wasn’t much choice. Getting into a pissing contest with Stewart wouldn’t do her any good, even if she won. Lucia made the gun safe and put it down on the ground. She took a step back from it, hands still raised, as Stewart gestured.

“You got here fast,” Cole said. “Ambulance on the way?”

“I had a tip. Yeah, paramedics and squad cars should be a couple of minutes.” Stewart looked around the place, and focused on the banging of the steel door. “Suspects in custody?”

“Custody would be a stretch, but they’re contained,” Cole said. “One wounded in the back room, one not wounded and hog-tied like a son of a bitch because I don’t like him very much. Other than that, we’ve swept the place and the rest are in there.”

“Okay, good.” Stewart, after a long moment, holstered his gun.

“Can I pick up my weapon now?” Lucia asked.

“No,” Stewart said. “Over there. Sit down and wait.” He picked up her gun and shoved it in his coat pocket. “Move it, Garza.” Behind him, Cole made an apologetic shrug.

She kept her hands up, walked to the corner and slid down to a sitting position, resting her hands in her lap. Stewart stared at her for a second or two, as if considering handcuffs. She could hear the eerie wail of sirens outside, and wondered wearily how long it would take to untangle this particular mess.

If she looked tired, Stewart looked … sick. Pale, redeyed, twitching like an addict. Was that possible? Was he, in fact, an addict? No, surely drug tests would show it. She was being uncharitable, purely because of his prejudices against Jazz. He was probably just sick.

Should have shot him, she thought. It came from a part of her that she often denied existed—cold, calculating, the voice of a survivor.

“You received a tip?” she asked Stewart neutrally. “You’ve never been here before?”

He gave her a glare. “No. Why?”

Anthrax sent to her office.

Ken Stewart, following her from McCarthy’s hearing.

“No reason,” she said, still neutral, and watched him sweat.

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