Read Online PsyCop 6: GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price - Free Book Online

we could get ourselves to PsyTrain, kick some ass and take some names. Or at least figure out where Lisa was.
    But then a noise rose above the crowd murmur, radio crackle and conveyor belt hum—a whine—and I turned to see a couple of airport security guards who’d been talking to each other without a care in the world, now startled, with a German shepherd between them scrab-bling at the linoleum. The dog let out another high-pitched whine.
    It was looking right at me, ears pricked, tail wagging.
    The whole group of guards on the VIP line who’d been smiling, chatting, acting like human beings—every one of them froze.
    “I left the Florida Water at home,” I told Jacob. “I swear.” The biggest VIP guard caught up to us in long strides while we’d paused to see what the noise was about. “Detectives, if you could step over here.”
    “I’ll bet he smells the gunpowder,” Jacob said, low in my ear, as we turned to face the guards. “Their sense of smell is incredibly accurate—a thousand times better than a human’s.”
    We walked back to the guard station, pulling our carry-ons behind us.
    I didn’t feel nearly as cool anymore. The German shepherd’s tongue lolled out, and he pranced in place beside the handler, who was holding the leash short. The dog’s toenails skittered against the floor.
    “Sorry for the delay,” said the woman who’d smiled at us. “We’ll just need to check your carry-ons.”
    Jacob said, “It’s probably our service weapons.”
    “Detective? Please, place your luggage on the counter.” Jacob draped our garment bag over the counter, and he and I both hoisted up our carry-ons. The dog whined again. Its big brown eyes were trained directly on my face.
    “I should probably take off my sidearm,” I said, figuring that obviously Lassie would be more interested in the gun than me if I separated the two of us.
    The female guard picked up a clipboard and started scribbling into a form. “Do you have any substances to declare?”
    “Substances.”
    “Medications, pills, inhalers?”
    “I’m getting out my wallet,” Jacob told the now-alert guards as he pulled out his badge. He reached behind the shield and pulled out his tiny paper PsyCop license and handed it to the big guy. “We can’t miss our flight.”
    I patted down my pockets to see if maybe a stray half-tab of Auracel had stuck to the lining. “I have prescriptions…but not on me. I checked them in.”
    The big guard cleared his throat and the other guards looked to him.
    He cut his eyes meaningfully to Jacob’s PsyCop card. I wondered if it would help if I added that I had one of those, too.
    The female guard looked from the tiny white card to her clipboard, and back to the card again. The guards, all four of them, were so still, I don’t even think they were breathing. I know I wasn’t.
    “Sorry for the delay,” the woman said, once she’d weighed the pros and cons of detaining us. “Please make your way to the ter—” The dog woofed. Its tail was going like a windshield wiper cranked to the highest setting, and it stared at me as if I had a giant T-bone steak for a head.
    “Drop it,” the handler said, quietly, even though there was nothing to drop. The dog touched its ass down to the flooring, then stood right back up again, gave a piercing whine, and started digging like it was trying to put a hole right through the linoleum.
    The handler looked to the woman with the clipboard for guidance.
    She blanched, pulled out her two-way, and said, “Code sierra bravo at Terminal 2.” Those weren’t police codes. I would’ve recognized those.
    Indiscernible words crackled back. She glanced at us, then looked away fast. “Clearance nine. Yes. Over.”
    The tension between the guards was thicker than day-old coffee.
    They must have all understood the static—and they seemed to be communicating solely with their eyes. The big guy positioned himself between Jacob and the door to the terminal and said,