IGMS Issue 18 Read Online Free Page A

felonious grandparents for me, should you ever find 'em." He vanished through the door, still chuckling.
    Gruber knew he'd already pushed his luck as far as it was going to stretch. The sane thing to do was leave, consult with Trager, and not return until he had proper support. But the snotty little shit had put his back up, so instead of hightailing it straight for the Heap he found himself moving around the side of the house as carefully and quietly as he could.
    Just a quick little look-see . . .
    There were two buildings up the overgrown rise to the rear: Quonset-type huts, like man-sized culverts closed at both ends. One sniff told him what they were making there, and how they were making it. Nobody was ever going to confuse the rotting fish smell of phosphine gas with anything else.
    He had just enough time to feel really stupid before the first shot rang out. It didn't come anywhere close to him -- tweakers didn't tend to be Olympic marksmen -- but it was definitely large-caliber, and the next one whanged off a rock and ricocheted by his left ear. He bellowed, "D Control! Not after you!" but he might as well have yelled, "Hey, who ordered the Extra-Large with sausage and mushrooms?" for all the good it did him. People were spilling out of the nearest Quonset now: a couple of large guys with muscle shirts and walrus mustaches, followed by a slighter Latino. Gruber counted two automatic rifles and a shotgun between them, before he spun and ran, praying not to turn an ankle on the tangly, pebbly slope.
    He skidded around the house and came face to face with a nightmare.
    As many years as Gruber had been with D Control, he had never seen anything like it, not in real life -- just in YouTube videos, which definitely didn't do the beast justice. It was deep, deep ebony all the way, even the wings, at least nine feet tall at its breastbone, easily thirty feet long from head to tail-tip, and spiked
everywhere
, with a flattened viperine head that looked too big for its body, and yellow-orange eyes that blazed in the twilight like amber stars. The fire dancing in its open mouth seemed redder than any other flame in the world, and different as well, as though
it
was the D's real tongue, ready to lick and caress and savor.
    Gruber froze.
How in hell had they gotten a full-grown San Ysidro black up here without anyone knowing? And how in hell had they trained it?
He'd only ever heard of three San Ysidros getting past Homeland Security, all
eggs
, for heaven's sake, all in Florida, and every one of the animals was recovered when the hatchlings ripped up the fools who'd bought them.
    It wasn't possible. But here it was, planted firmly between him and the Heap -- dammit, couldn't Connie see the thing? Why wasn't she gone already? -- while assorted bad people with large guns converged on his aging tail. Gruber was suddenly less concerned about them, at the moment. They'd most likely just watch while the San Ysidro did its job, and gave Connie her very first experience of watching a partner vanish in fire.
    But he couldn't worry about Connie just now.
Or
the meth lab commandos. Not if he wanted to live more than a few seconds.
    "Hey, Big D," Gruber said casually, stepping backwards, slipping both hands into his pockets. The San Ysidro ran out its blazing red tongue and seemed to grin at him.
    He threw the first Flying Monkey at it left-handed, then turned without waiting to see what happened and fired the second one straight at the front window of the house. It shattered the glass, and as it did he beat feet for the door. Fore and aft he heard two loud
whumps
-- the internal CO2 cartridges going off -- and the hissing spray of the tranquilizer release. He saw thick white tendrils of it coming through the broken window, and for a moment he thought his crazy improvisation might actually work. He didn't expect one half-assed throw to take down the San Ysidro, and the drug mist wouldn't knock out people, just make them cough a lot and