Jack Daniels Six Pack (124 page)

There were also many folks who helped me out by inviting me into their homes, helping me tour their cities, or buying me food.

Huge thanks to the following:

Paul Abruzzi, Tasha Alexander, Wayne Thomas Batson, Bill Blume, John Bodnar, James O. Born, Stacey Cochran, Jim Coursey, Linda Darter, Charlie Davidson, Karen Dionne, Rebecca Drake, Moni Draper, Jane Dystel, Barry Eisler, Davi. Ellis, JT Ellison, Miriam Goderich, Lynne Hansen, Sean Hicks, Adam Hurtubise, Bill Johnson, Cynthia Johnson, Elizabeth Krecker, Rhonda Lukac, Steve Lukac, Terrie Moran, Bob Morris, Karen E. Olsen, Barbara Parker, PJ Parrish, MJ Rose, Tom Schreck, Steve Schwinder, Jason Sizemore, Alexandra Sokoloff, Jef. Strand, M.G. Tarquini, Robert W. Walker, Leslie Wells, James R. Winter, Beck. Zander, and Rick Zander.

And also, big thanks to the fans. Without you, Jack and I wouldn’t have this incredible career. You folks are the best!

A
LSO BY
J. A. K
ONRATH

Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail

Praise for
Dirty Martini

“In
Dirty Martini
, Jacqueline ‘Jack’ Daniels is back, this time fighting a devious criminal who terrifies the entire city of Chicago...Konrath’s latest should be taken straight, no chaser needed.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Mix Konrath’s witty repartee with edge-of-the-chair suspense, over-the-top killing devices, and action that never takes a breather, and you have Konrath’s latest white-knuckle thriller. Not to be missed.”

—
Library Journal

“Like Jeffrey Deaver, Konrath ratchets up the suspense until readers don’t dare stop flipping the pages; the characters are sharply drawn; and the dialogue sounds like real (though funny) people talking...Konrath clearly understands the importance of creating a believable, interesting villain.”

—
Booklist

“It’s difficult as hell to balance wit with suspense and horrific violence with humor, but J.A. Konrath manages the feat deftly in his ‘Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels’ series of thrillers. Jack is a smart, sexy copy with a rocky personal life and a career that pits her strength and skill against the worst kind of evil—and she not only triumphs, but does so with humor and style. Spend some time with Jack and the people in her life; I can promise you, you won’t regret it.”

—Kay Hooper,
author of
Blood Dreams

“A phenomenal thriller that never disappoints.”

—Lloyd Woodall,
Borders Group, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan

“J.A. Konrath has done it again. I’ve read every book, and I still want more.”

—Norman Goldman,
Barnes & Noble, Encino, California

“
Dirty Martini
changed my life. I don’t buy food or drinks any more, and I haven’t left my house in months. A scary, fantastic book.”

—Greg Swanson,
Waldenbooks, Peru, Illinois

“Filled with suspense, action, and comedy, and will leave you laughing out loud.”

—Paul Pessolano,
Borders, Snellville, Georgia

“I have never enjoyed a book more—it had me laughing so hard I was crying.”

—Jim Munchel,
Borders Express, Camp Hill, Pennsylvania

“J.A. Konrath’s best one yet.”

—Heather M. Riley, Borders,
Rockford, Illinois

“Jack is smart, tough, and totally believable.
Dirty Martini
goes down smooth.”

—Dave Biemann, Mystery One,
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Praise for
Rusty Nail

“Tougher than Kay Scarpetta, smarter than Stephanie Plum, Jacqueline Daniels rocks.”

—Alex Kava,
author of
A Necessary Evil

“A heady mixture of chills and chuckles. You’ll drain this libation in a single sitting!”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming,
author of
To Darkness and to Death

“Finely honed characters and a plot blessed with more twists than a drunk on a bender, J.A. Konrath has stirred up another addictive suspense novel that will leave readers salivating for more—and more.”

—Gayle Lynds,
author of
The Coil

“
Rusty Nail
is twisted and violent, creepy and clever, fast, frightening, and funny. This is not your Granny’s thriller.”

—Anne Frasier,
author of
Before I Wake

Praise for
J.A. Konrath’s previous novels

“Excellent smart-mouth thrills...my advice: Take a long sip.”

—Lee Child,
author of
One Shot

“Snappy dialogue. Powerful action. A fabulous character to spend time with.”

—David Morrell,
author of
Creepers

“Tough, gritty, and surprisingly touching.”

—M.J. Rose,
author of
The Delilah Complex

“Violent thrills...engaging characters, true guffaws, and tighly knit subplots.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Konrath creates the perfect blend of pulse-pounding thrills and side-splitting humor.”

—David Ellis,
author of
In the Company of Liars

If you loved

DIRTY MARTINI
,

be sure to catch

FUZZY NAVEL,

J. A. Konrath’s latest

Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery
,

coming in July 2008 from Hyperion.

An Excerpt, chapters 1 and 2, follows.

4:38 P.M.
KORK

I
T’S QUIET IN THE SUBURBS
. The only sound is from the cab that has dropped me off, making a U-turn at the dead end, then heading back down the quiet, winding road. Its taillights quickly disappear, swallowed up by the multitude of trees.

I walk up the driveway and look at the house. It’s a ranch, laid out in the shape of an L, occupying half an acre of green lawn speckled with fallen leaves. There’s a double-car garage, the door closed. I see Mom through the front bay window. She’s sitting in a rocking chair and reading a book—how much more stereotypical elderly can you get? I check the front door, and as expected it is locked.

I walk around the side of the house, running my hand along the brown brick, passing windows that should probably be washed. This is a big departure from the Chicago apartment. A lot more space. A lot more privacy. I’ve discovered that privacy is important. No neighbors for more than a quarter mile is a good thing. With all of the tree coverage, it’s like being in the middle of the woods, rather than only five miles away from O’Hare Airport.

I stop at the back porch—a slab of concrete with the obligatory lawn chairs, a wrought iron sun table, and a veranda—and I close my eyes, breathing in the cool autumn air. Somewhere, someone is burning leaves. I haven’t smelled that since my youth. I fill my lungs with the scent and smile. It smells like freedom.

The sliding glass patio door is open, and I decide to give Mom a lecture about that. Just because the suburbs are safer than the city doesn’t mean that all of the doors shouldn’t be locked.

I walk into the kitchen, catch the odor of home cooking. A pot is on the stove. I check the contents. Stew. I pick up the spoon, give it a stir, take a little bite of potato. Delicious.

Mom yells, “Jacqueline?”

I consider answering her, but decide a surprise is in order instead. I take out my gun and tiptoe into the hallway.

“Jacqueline? Is that you?”

I look left, then right, scanning for the psychotic cat that lives here. He isn’t around.

“Jacqueline, you’re frightening me.”

That’s the point, Mom.

I peek around the corner and see that Mom is standing up. She’s in her seventies, short hair more gray than brown, her back bent with age. She’s wearing a housedress, something plaid and shapeless. Mom’s eyes dart this way and that way. They settle on me, and she gasps.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“Did I scare you? You shouldn’t leave the back door open, Mom. God only knows what kind of weirdos can get in.”

Mom’s chest flutters, and she says in a small voice, “I know who you are. My daughter told me all about you.”

She reaches for the phone, but I’m on her in three steps, giving her a firm slap across her wrinkled face.

“I’m going to ask you this one time, and one time only. And then I’m going to start hurting you.”

I smile, knowing how it makes the scar tissue covering most of my face turn bright pink, knowing how horrifying it looks.

“Where’s Jack?”

4:57 P.M.
MUNCHEL

T
HE TARGET IS
two hundred and eighty-three yards away. James Michael Munchel knows all about mil dots, and how to calculate distance with the reticle, but he’s using a laser measuring unit instead. This isn’t cheating. A sniper can and should use every bit of technology available to him in the field, whether he’s on a roof in Dhi Qar, Iraq, or crouching behind some shrubs in the Chicago neighborhood of Ravenswood.

Munchel is sitting on the lawn, legs crossed, the tip of his Unique Alpine TPG-1 rifle peeking out through the leafy green dogwood. He arrived here two hours ago, but had selected this spot three weeks earlier. The house is unoccupied, and Munchel has pulled the For Sale sign out of the lawn and set it facedown. Realtors probably won’t stop by this late. If one does . . . well, too bad for her.

Munchel is wearing a camouflage jacket, leggings, and black steel-toed boots he bought at the army/navy surplus store on Lincoln Avenue. He can’t be seen from the sidewalk fifteen feet away. Munchel knows this for a fact, because he’s done several dry runs prior to today. He’s practically invisible, even if someone is staring right at him.

To avoid arousing suspicion, Munchel didn’t walk here in full camo. He came in street clothes—jeans and a blue shirt—and awkwardly changed while crouching behind the dogwood, putting his civvies in the black two-wheeled suitcase he towed along.

Munchel scratches his stubble, then peers through the Leupold scope, which has been zeroed out at two hundred yards. The crosshair is slightly above and to the right of the target’s head, to adjust for the wind and the bullet drop. He’ll never admit it, but he doesn’t understand how to determine MOA—minute-of-angle. He can fake it online, while posting on the sniper message boards, but he doesn’t really know how to calculate the actual degrees. In the forest preserve near his house, Munchel can hit a target from five hundred yards and keep the grouping within a four-inch radius. Who cares what the MOA is? It’s good shooting no matter how you calculate it.

The target has his back to Munchel. He’s in his living room, on the first floor of the two-flat, sitting at the computer. Just like he is every day at this time.

Predictability is a killer.

The blinds hanging in the large, three-section bay window are open, and Munchel can see straight down the hallway, all the way to the back of the house. He nudges the rifle slightly, to check what the target is surfing.

Pornography. Some weird shit with chicks wearing rubber aprons and wielding whips.

Freak,
Munchel thinks.
Deserves everything he’s about to get.

Munchel glances at his watch, a Luminox 3007, the same kind that Navy SEALs use. Less than a minute left. Munchel’s hands start to shake, and he realizes he’s breathing heavy. Not from fear. From excitement. All the training, all the planning, it all comes down to this moment.

The butt plate is snug against his armpit, his face is tight against the cheek pad, the safety is off. The aluminum gun chassis is on the concrete planter behind the dogwood, a hard surface that ensures the gun will stay steady. Munchel takes a deep breath, lets it out through his teeth. His ears tell him there is no traffic coming, which is essential because he’s shooting across the street—it would be bad if a car entered his line of fire at the moment of truth.

The target stands up, walks toward the window, seems to look right at him. Impossible, of course. He’s much too far away, too well hidden. But it’s still unnerving. Munchel chews his lower lip, begins the countdown.

The target turns. Munchel completely empties his lungs and waits . . . waits . . . waits . . . then squeezes the trigger with the ball of his finger, trying to time it between heartbeats like he’s read about online.

There’s a loud
CRACK.
The target’s head explodes, and he pitches forward.

Munchel sucks in some air and lets it out as a laugh.
How ridiculously easy.
He checks to see if anyone around him noticed the gunfire. The sidewalks are clear. No one opens a door and sticks their head out. Everything is completely normal, just an average fall day in the city.