The Serpent's Kiss

32

Agent Frank McMillan rinsed off under a safety shower, still wearing this biocontainment suit. Once he had gotten any residue of sarin off the suit, he was allowed to strip off the suit and hang it up to dry, changing into street clothes. It was hot, exhausting work, cataloguing and securing a scene of this size. And there was an emotional toll to be had, as well. None of them wanted to stop and take a break, but they were all professionals. They wouldn’t do anybody any good killing themselves working without a breather now and then. In this case, McMillan followed the lead of the HMRU’s protocols, taking a break every hour to get out of the suit, go to the john, having something to drink to re-hydrate, and get away from all the death.

He moved into the tent and slipped into a pair of surgical scrubs he kept in his duffel for just such an occasion. He needed to carry his gun, but the Glock was heavy. He usually wore it on a belt clip, but wearing scrubs, he couldn’t. His damn pants would fall down around his ankles, and wouldn’t that be a pretty picture on the six o’clock news? So he took out the gun and carried it. Pain in the ass. The whole back-and-forth, in-and-out thing was a pain in the ass.

It was too big a hassle to pull his street clothes back on, take a walk, knock back some Gatorade, maybe a Power Bar, find a bathroom nearby, then go back, change out of his clothes, back into the spacesuit, back into the crime scene. Oh well. What was he going to do? So he slipped into the pajama-like scrubs, pulled on his shoes, picked up his duffel and headed out for a stroll and a smoke. And maybe, he thought, I should find a john soon. His bladder felt uncomfortably full. But his nicotine craving was stronger. Smoke first.

McMillan was a lanky redhead, hair shorn nearly to his skull on the sides, worn short but curly on top. He stood about six-three. He’d played center at Seton Hall, but hadn’t been quick enough or accurate enough to go pro. He still played ball at the gym when he could, keeping in shape. For a guy in his forties, he thought he was in good shape. He could keep up with the twenty-somethings, even occasionally show them a thing or two. Right now, though, he felt drained and exhausted. Maybe it was the cigarettes. He should give the damn things up, he knew. But they helped with the stress.

The Detroit cop guarding the tent was looking up at the sky. “How’s it going?” Frank asked.

“Something’s up,” the cop said. He was a short, muscular black man, hair cropped close to his skull. His face had acne scars, giving his coal-black complexion a lumpy, moon surface-like appearance.

McMillan looked up and noticed helicopters. There were a couple TV choppers, but he also recognized at least three Bureau copters. Further off he saw two circling airplanes. “They’ve got a lock,” he murmured.

“On The Serpent?”

“I bet. They’re triangulating. Bastard was hanging around to watch the excitement.”

“Sick fuck,” the Detroit cop said.

“Got that right. I’d better go check what’s going on.” He loped off toward the command center.