I opened my mouth, trying to taste the air without breathing it.

Not surprisingly, it tasted like bile.

Squeezing my eyes shut, shaking from the lack of oxygen, I took a shallow breath even though my body craved more air.

No reaction.

I took a bigger breath, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Jack! Are you there! Jack, please answer!”

“I’m still here,” I said, my voice sounding very far away.

I looked around me, saw I was in a bedroom. There was a bed, a closet, a dresser, and a full-length mirror.

I stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to the mirror, getting a profile view.

There were a dozen tiny holes in my suit where the buckshot had ripped through.

“My suit has holes in it.”

“Stay calm. As long as there’s positive air pressure, nothing can get in.”

“You son of a bitch-”

“McGlade, you little-”

“Give me the headset, lardass-”

“I’m gonna kick your-”

An oomph sound, coming from Herb.

“Jack! It’s Harry! You need to get your ass out of there! That tank is almost empty!”

Once again, panic wrapped around me like a blanket.

“Your fat sidekick punched me in the nards before I could tell you. I figure there was maybe four, five minutes of O2 left in that tank. How long have you been in there?”

About four or five minutes, I figured. I looked back down the booby-trapped hallway, gas still lingering in the air, and made my decision.

“I’m going out the back window. Get the paramedics to put a ladder-”

I stopped in mid-step. Both bedroom windows were surrounded by black pipes that didn’t look like they came standard with the house.

“I’m seeing some sort of pipes, sticking out of the window frames.”

“Describe them.” Rick again.

I didn’t want to get too close, but I forced myself to lean forward.

“Black. They have M44 written on the side.”

“Cyanide bombs. Used for killing animal predators. Don’t go near them.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Unfortunately, that meant I had to go back through the hallway to get out of there.

I began to hyperventilate, which made me even more light-headed than I already was. I got on all fours, reasoning that I’d already tripped the traps at that level and there wouldn’t be any more. The gas had thinned out to the consistency of steam. Crawling over my fallen brethren was even worse this time, now that I could see their bloody faces up close.

“Look, Jackie, if you don’t get out of there alive, I want to be sure that someone helps me out with this liquor license thing.”

Harry sounded so close, I almost turned around, expecting to see him standing over my shoulder.

“McGlade, get off the-”

I was halfway to the stairs when I paused, wondering why the voice on the headset had gotten so clear.

It took me a moment to realize the radio reception hadn’t gotten better-I could hear it better because there was no background noise.

The low, droning hiss of the SCBA had stopped.

I was out of air.

I DIDN’T THINK. I moved.

I made it through the gas and to the stairs in less than three seconds, and then I slid down the first few on my belly like I was sledding.

The suit proved to be slipperier than I thought, and I picked up speed.

I stuck my hands out in front of me, trying to stop my momentum, but my gloves couldn’t get a purchase on the carpet. My chest felt like I was getting repeatedly kicked, and my head bounced around on my neck in whiplash jerks.

BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP. The ground floor rushed at me, blurry and off center.

And then I remembered the nails on the bottom step.

They were less than a body length away. No time to turn. No time to stop. I arched my back, reaching out my hands, palms up, trying to grab the shoulders of the dead cop slumped at the bottom of the staircase. I hit him, hard, my elbows bending from the impact, holding my chest a few inches above the deadly nails.

I did a push-up off of Buhmann, got my feet under me, and eased myself over the trap. Fresh air was only a dozen yards away, out the front door. I got ready to sprint for it.

“… help me…”

I didn’t move.

Stryker was still alive. It had to be him, because the only SRT members I hadn’t seen yet were him and the woman.

I took a last, longing look at the door, then headed toward the rear of the house, to the kitchen, the only room I hadn’t yet seen.

“Jack, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Rick. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

I concentrated on slowing my breathing. I don’t know what poisons were clinging to me, or if anything had gotten in through the holes. Plus, the air inside the space suit was quickly becoming stale, since no new air was being pumped in. The less I breathed, the better.

Two steps into the kitchen, I found the female cop. I had no idea what killed her, but whatever it was made her eyes pop out of their sockets.

“Stryker, dammit, where are you?”

Static, then, “… base...”

“Who’s got a floor plan? Where’s the basement?”

It was more talking than I wanted to do, and it emptied my lungs. I took a shallow breath.

“I have the floor plan, Jack.” Rick. “There’s a door in the back of the kitchen.”

I spun my shoulders, taking in the room, and saw the refrigerator was open. I also noticed, sitting on a plate in the fridge, something horrible.

“The bomb squad is here, they’re coming in.”

Passing the refrigerator, I saw the basement steps, Stryker clinging to the top. His gas mask was also caked in vomit, but his chest was rising and falling.

I grabbed his belt and pulled.

It was like hauling a bag of bricks, but the tile floor helped, and I was able to yank the groaning SRT leader across the kitchen, toward the back door.

Three feet away, my vision began to cloud. My legs had become two sacks of jelly that could barely support my weight.

Two feet away. I felt hot and cold at the same time. A wave of dizziness swooped down on me, and I fell to my knees. Everything started to get dark.

A foot away. Beyond that doorway, fresh air. No more deadly traps. No more poison gas. Twelve inches away was Herb. Latham. Life.

I reached the jamb, straining from the effort of pulling Stryker, and then felt the floorboard shift beneath my hip.

I froze. My eyes followed the floorboard to an electrical outlet, under the sink. Attached to a cord, atop the loose floorboard, was a metal sphere the size of a golf ball. Surrounding it, like a jail cell, were metal bars. Next to the contraption was a fire extinguisher, its nozzle pointing at my face.

Even in my oxygen-deprived brain, I knew what 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.