From somewhere outside she heard tyres skidding across the pavement.
Now heavy footsteps were coming her way and she knew the SIG wouldn't put a dent in him, so she dropped it. With one hand she grabbed a flash-bang grenade from her vest, while pulling the netgun launcher from its holster with the other.
The SWAT officer emerged through the smoke with his shotgun raised. He saw Judith Rizzo, stopped, and then placed the muzzle against the woman's head and fired. Darby pulled the pin and tossed the flash bang across the hall floor.
The grenade went off and the SWAT officer was stunned by an explosion of noise, the white light blinding him. Darby pulled the netgun's trigger.
There was a pop and hiss as the net hurled through the air, expanding into an electrically charged web. It wrapped itself around the SWAT officer's chest and face, tangling him in the sticky strands. Sidearm back in hand, she heard the man's squeal of surprise and pain as he stumbled and fell to the floor, writhing around like some insect caught in an actual spider web.
Darby staggered to him while holding the banister, her breath coming back but her ribs still burning, muscles growing stronger with each step. The web had him locked up. She kicked the gas mask off his face. He tried to reach up to put it back on but his fingers got caught in the sticky webbing. Her boot came down on his hand, breaking his fingers. He screamed. She kicked him against the side of the head and he slumped back against the floor.
She hadn't knocked him unconscious; she could hear him choking on the smoke. The web had locked him up but he had conveniently dropped the shotgun on the floor next to him before it had done so.
Standing with the shotgun, her lungs straining, burning as though they were on fire, she raised it at the man's head, about to fire when an inner voice cautioned her to wait. You need him alive, the voice added. Darby turned and stumbled to the bedroom.
The drawn shades flapped in the wind blowing through the two shattered windows. Smoke was everywhere, curling like snakes across the walls and ceiling, and she got a good, clear look at the bedroom: a SWAT officer kneeling on the floor next to the bed, his back facing her; the headless remains of the twins and Charlie Rizzo — they had been shot at point-blank range like Judith Rizzo. But there was no sign of the father. Mark Rizzo had been cut free from the chair. Taken alive.
Four quick steps across the carpet and the SWAT officer turned to look over his shoulder. She didn't shoot him. She dropped the shotgun and, grabbing him by the head, twisted violently. There was a snap as his neck broke and he collapsed on the floor.
Sitting on the floor was a small device. It had a timer. And wires.
Wires connected to six sticks of dynamite bound together with electrical tape.
The timer's numbers flashed a glowing red in the thin, blowing curtains of smoke:
1:26.
1:25.
A quick glance over her shoulder and out the window: the APC was still parked out front, its back doors hanging open.
1:23.
You can do it. You've got time.
Darby grabbed the shotgun and started counting down as she ran back into the hall, where the SWAT officer lay still. He appeared to be roughly her height, maybe two hundred pounds with all the gear.
1:19.
Another solid kick to the man's head, just to be sure, and then she knelt down, propping the shotgun against the wall. She grabbed the man by the feet and hoisted his legs over her shoulder. He wore black trousers and a pair of heavy winter boots. Definitely not one of the SWAT officers; they had all worn the same TrainMark footwear and tactical trousers.
1:08.
Wrapping her right arm around the back of the man's legs, she stood, screaming in pain, her lungs and chest burning. She grabbed the shotgun with her free hand.
58 seconds.
Her head pounded, and it hurt to breathe, and now her stomach was roiling from the exertion of carrying the man down the stairs. Darby stepped over the broken front door lying on the floor and raised the shotgun as she moved past the doorframe, coming to a sharp and sudden stop on the steps outside.
10
The Manny Ramirez-looking SWAT officer who'd had no problem admiring her boobs was lying on his back on the walkway.
Darby saw the man's still, unblinking eyes. They stared up at the tree branches shaking in the wind. Vomit splattered the walkway and it covered the front of his tactical vest, his gloved hands and shirtsleeves.
More vomit-covered bodies were sprawled across the street. Some had been stripped of their tactical vests and jackets. Some wore gas masks. Those that did had pulled them aside to throw up before passing out and dying.
Darby whisked past the SWAT officer lying on the walkway and saw a thick, white frothy mixture bubbling from his mouth and dribbling down his chin and cheeks.
Has to be some kind of poison, but what kind — and how the hell did it get inside the APC? How could -
A flash of movement across the street and she raised the shotgun.
A SWAT officer stumbled across the neighbour's front lawn, his gloved hands clawing at his throat. Over the rustling branches she could hear him gasping for air.
He vomited and then collapsed on the grass, starting to crawl.
Not poison — whatever it is, it's airborne.
Nerve gas?
40 seconds.
Darby reached the back doors of the APC. Inside she found two more of Trent's team slumped against the floor and wall, the same white foam covering their mouths. One man was still alive. Barely. He blinked dully at her as she dumped the prisoner in the back.
She didn't have time to secure his wrists. She swung the heavy doors shut and secured the handles with a pair of Flexicuffs.
35 seconds.
Darby opened the driver's side door and found the APC driver slumped against the wheel. He had been shot in the head. She grabbed the man's blood-soaked jacket collar and yanked him out of his seat.
Seated behind the wheel and with the door shut, she slammed her foot on the gas. The APC jerked forward, the Bear, as Trent had called it, picking up speed.
Trent. The SWAT senior corporal hadn't spoken to her over her earpiece — only the hostage negotiator, Lee. She remembered hearing him coughing and now, nothing, not a single word from either man. Were they dead? Had anyone survived?
'This is Darby McCormick. Anyone listening, I order you to stay away from the Rizzo home. I repeat, stay away from the Rizzo home. SWAT team is dead, exposed to some sort of nerve gas. I have no idea what chemical was used or how long it takes to dissipate — it could still be lingering in the air. Call and warn the local hospitals to prepare their decontamination units.'
Her earpiece remained quiet.
She had to call 911, tell the dispatcher what had happened and alert all units to stay clear of the area — they needed to be warned before their men walked into a chemically hazardous situation. The same held true for area hospitals. Victims exposed to the gas would rush through the emergency room doors complaining of nausea and difficulty breathing. They needed to be decontaminated before receiving treatment. And if hospital personnel weren't dressed in hazmat gear, they too would be risking exposure.
To use the phone now, she'd have to take off her gas mask. She'd be exposing herself, and if this shit was lingering -
You've already been exposed. It's clinging to your clothes and your skin right now.
A new thought occurred to her: her prisoner wasn't wearing a gas mask. She had locked him in the back with the other sick officers and right now he was breathing in whatever had killed them. She'd have to find a place to decontaminate him.