Deadly Undertaking by Allen Gregory (to read list TXT) 📖

Flint Stryker hated funerals. Hated them. Everything was so . . . so damn final about them. One minute you were going about your business dealing with weird threats to your country’s security and whacked-out nut jobs trying to kill you, and the next minute you were . . . well, dead.

At least he wasn’t dead, so there’s that. But his fellow agent and friend, Hector Romero, was. Dead, cold, waxy-looking, and scheduled to be buried today at noon.

Flint splashed cold water on his face from the funeral home’s restroom sink. Up too late drinking again last night. Mouth feels like a Brillo pad. Tastes like it too.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and dried his face. Wadding up the towels and tossing them into the waste bin, Flint surveyed his reflection. Not too bad. A little bleary-eyed, but nothing a quick dose of eye drops won’t fix.

Flint tugged at the knot of his black and blue diamond-patterned tie and shrugged, adjusting the collar of his dark suit. Another reason to hate funerals. I hate black. It’s so morbid. Why don’t we wear bright colors to funerals? Don’t people need a little cheering up?

He blew into his cupped hand to get a reading on just how bad his ‘morning-after breath’ was. He grimaced. Smells as bad as it tastes. That can’t be good.

Fortunately, he had a pack of breath mints for just such an occasion. He took the pack from his coat pocket and popped a couple into his mouth. Do your work, O Magic Capsules of Sugar and chlorophyll . . .

He was just about to step from the restroom when the door opened, and Dr. Malloy stepped in. “Oh hello, Mr. Stryker. Good to see you.” His face clouded as he muttered, “I guess this isn’t exactly the place to say that.”

Flint laughed. Dr. Malloy was like that; a brilliant guy he’d known since before his less-than-stellar college career, he was a paradox. A genius by anyone’s definition, he often said or did things that would sometimes leave you scratching your head. There were many times Flint had to puzzle his way through a conversation with Dr. Malloy. He was responsible for Flint being with the highly secretive and ‘off-the-books’ organization, Linchpin.

“Not to worry, Doc,” Flint said. “I knew exactly what you meant.”

Malloy headed to a nearby stall to take care of business, talking loudly to Flint as he did so. “It’s a shame about Mr. Romero. So young and so much promise. He was in your training class was he not?”

Flint leaned on the sink, crossing his arms, and replied, “Yeah, he was. Hector was a good guy. I hope they find out who ambushed him.” He paused and added, “It didn’t appear to be robbery - nothing was taken. He was just coming back from a run and got popped in the park just before he got home. One shot. Right to the forehead. Very professional and clean.”

Malloy flushed and came out of the stall, joining Flint at the sink. Flint stepped aside as Malloy washed his hands. Like he’s headed into surgery, Flint thought. Malloy grabbed a handful of towels, cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes at Flint as he murmured, “Yes, odd, that.”

Malloy finished drying his hands and tossed the paper into the bin. “Too clean, if you ask me, Mr. Stryker. And when he was discovered, he was laid out almost respectfully.” Malloy shook his head and sighed. “Ah, the times we live in.”

The two men exited the men’s room and headed for the room where Hector’s viewing was to take place. As they were very early, there were few people in the room at the time. The air in the room was fragrant with the scent of hundreds of flowers. They moved silently to the casket, where their former associate lay in eternal repose.

As they approached the bier, an audible chirp was heard from somewhere on Dr. Malloy’s person. Flint whispered, “It would probably be a good idea to silence your mobile, Doc.”

Malloy’s thick dark eyebrows knit in concern as he responded, also in sotto voce, “I don’t think that’s my mobile, Mr. Stryker.”

Flint turned and cocked an eyebrow as they moved closer to the coffin. “Well. Whatever it is, you probably need to silence it.”

Malloy retrieved a small device from his pocket that was steadily emitting a series of loud beeps. He examined the small screen, which displayed a sequence of numbers and a spiking monitor line.

“No, Mr. Stryker, I’m afraid that these sounds are very important.” He tapped the screen with his free hand. “We need to clear the room and call the Biohazard team at Linchpin. We’re just inches away from some very toxic material.”

“You mean . . .”

“Yes. I’m afraid Mr. Romero presents a very real threat to everyone within the immediate radius. Let’s ensure that no innocent mourners unexpectedly join him on his sorrowful journey.”