JASON ALGER RECEIVED his pension check at his home on the corner of Cortland Street and Hoyne Avenue, in the heart of a neighborhood known as Bucktown. He lived in an unassuming two-story residence with an ample backyard.

When we arrived on the scene, eight members of the Special Response Team-Chicago’s version of SWAT-had already secured the perimeter and were scanning the building with optics. Their vehicle, a souped-up bus known as the Mobile Command Post, was parked on the street alongside several patrol cars.

The head of this SRT, a bull-faced sergeant appropriately named Stryker, was squinting at some fuzzy pink images on a laptop display. He wore the standard tactical gear: black jumpsuit, body armor, riot helmet, radio headset, and a utility belt stuffed with equipment, including a gas mask.

“I’ve got two heat signatures on the first floor, and one on the second,” he said into his comlink. “No movement.”

“Human beings?” I asked.

He didn’t bother looking at me.

“Unconfirmed.”

I watched an SRT member reposition the thermal optics, and another, a woman, sweep the building with a DOX sound cannon-a device that looked like a bullhorn but was actually an ultrasensitive unidirectional microphone. Two others were examining a printout that showed the floor plan of the building.

These guys were fast.

“Stryker,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Has your team been briefed?”

Again, the team leader didn’t so much as glance at me.

“Sixty-three-year-old Caucasian male, considered armed and dangerous, probable location in the rear bedroom on the second floor, no other civilian activity, possible presence of biological agents. Two by two surgical entry, Taser capture takedown.”

“He’s a cop,” I said. “His name is Jason Alger. I just cracked his file-his record on the force is golden. I also spoke to his former commander on the ride over. Alger was a straight shooter, family man, wife passed away six years ago, has a daughter and grandchildren in California. This isn’t in character for him.”

Stryker grunted, or perhaps it was a laugh. “Sometimes good apples get rotten.”

“And sometimes they get thrown away while they’re still good. Take it slow in there. Something isn’t right.”

“That’s the only time we get called.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck, Sergeant.”

“Luck is for the unprepared.”

I took a step back before the testosterone surging off his body caused me to grow a mustache. Special Agent Rick Reilly sidled up behind me, so close I could feel his body heat.

Or maybe that was my imagination.

“These guys any good?” he asked under his breath.

“They’re good.”

“They’ve got a lot of fancy equipment. Is the subject inside the house?”

“We’re not sure. Thermals have a few readings. Could be a person. Could be a radiator, or a fireplace.”

“In June?”

“Or a water heater or a stove.”

“I like his utility belt. He looks like Batman.”

Normally I didn’t mind jokes, but I was on edge.

“You’re a biology guy, right?”

“I’m a doctor, actually. But saying Special Agent Dr. Rick Reilly is too much of a mouthful.”

“Will those gas masks they have protect against BT?”

“They’re standard NBC masks-nuclear, biological, chemical. NATO threaded filters. Should be fine. You look worried.”

“I am worried. Show me a leader worth her salt who doesn’t worry.”

Rick pointed his chin at Stryker.

“GI Joe doesn’t seem worried.”

“And that worries me. Confidence is essential, cockiness is lethal.”

This was my show. I wondered if there was anything more I should be doing. Go in with them? I didn’t have that kind of training. And if I got into a whose balls are bigger spat with Sergeant Stryker it might be distracting, and I wanted him focused.

They know what they’re doing, I assured myself.

“Why aren’t you married?”

I narrowed my eyes at Rick, knocked off guard by the non sequitur.

“What does that have to do with this case?”

“Not a thing,” he said. “But it might have everything to do with grabbing a bite to eat later.”

“I have a fiancé,” I said.

“Forget to wear the ring this morning?”

His eyes had a playful glint to them, which annoyed me. This wasn’t the time or place for flirting. And cute guys had no right coming on to me only a few hours after the man I loved proposed marriage.

The man who was waiting patiently for me back at the house.

I excused myself and walked into the street, hitting the speed dial button on my cell phone.

“Hi, Latham.”

“Hi, Jack. Any chance you’ll be home soon? I made your favorite. Wiener schnitzel and spaetzle.”

German food was comfort food to me. I mentioned it offhandedly on one of our early dates, and the next time I went to his place Latham cooked it for me. Men who could cook trumped men with sexy bedroom eyes.

Not that Latham didn’t have sexy bedroom eyes.

I involuntarily glanced at Rick, noticed he was watching me, and gave him my back.

“You’re a sweetheart, Latham. I’ll try my best, but I’m in the middle of something big.”

“I understand. I’ll wait for you.”

The man was a saint.

“No. Go ahead and eat without me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist. I don’t know when we’ll finish up here. It could go late.”

“I’ll keep it warm for you.”

“The food?”

“Everything.”

Some paramedics pulled up. Standard procedure for a smash and grab, but it made me even more uneasy.

“How’s that mariachi?” I asked. “Did he ever find the rest of his mustache?”

“No. I think Mr. Friskers ran off with it.”

I smiled for the first time in hours.

“Look, Latham, I know I owe you an answer…”

“Focus on work, Jack. Keep your mind on the matter at hand. Everything else can wait until later.”

That proved it. Latham was an alien pod person. No man could be this perfect.

“I love you,” I said, and meant it.

“Love you too. Stay safe.”

Stryker rallied his troops, and my leadership role was relegated to the sidelines to impotently watch his “two by two surgical entry.” I stood alongside Herb, who’d been on the phone for over an hour organizing the task force teams, and snagged a headset from the SRT member monitoring the infrared. Beta Team marched around back, Stryker gave the radio command, and they rushed the front door. His partner did a knock-and-announce, Stryker hit the door with a handheld Thunderbolt battering ram, and they both stormed inside, weapons drawn.

“Team Alpha in,” the radio squawked. “Hallway clear.”

A similar banging came from the rear of the house.

“Team Beta in. Kitchen clear.”

The headsets were so sensitive, I could make out four different breathing rates, four different footfalls. They had gone in under the assumption that anyone inside would have looked out the window and noticed the police carnival camped on the street, so this arrest was about speed rather than stealth.

“First bedroom clear.”

Shuffling sounds. Some clicks.

“Hallway clear.”

Then came a gunshot.

And screaming.

“Beta Team leader down! Repeat, Beta Team leader down! We have gunfire!”

A horrible gurgling came through my earpiece, like someone choking in a shallow pool of water.

“Alpha Team has been hit! Possible IED! Alpha-”

There was a popping noise, another gunshot, and static.

“Team Alpha, do you read,” I said into the comlink. “Team Alpha, do you read.”

Moaning, but no coherent response.

“Team Beta, do you read. Beta, are you there, goddammit.”

More gurgling, weaker this time.

Herb closed his cell phone and said, “Jesus.”

I looked at the laptop monitor and could spot the heat signatures of all four SRT members. None were moving.