The Dead Room

61

Darby sunk the blade deep into Pine’s scrotum. He howled and she twisted the blade once before yanking it free.

His hands flew to his groin, and when he buckled she aimed for his throat. He turned too quickly and the blade hit his cheek, sliding across the bone. He staggered and tripped. His enormous bulk toppled against her, shooting the chair backwards.

She banged up against the wall but didn’t drop the knife. She started sawing away at the rope around her right ankle.

Pine was rolling on the ground, screaming, hands still cupped over his groin and blood spurting between his fingers. The screams echoed through the small room and she was sure King and whoever else was in here had heard them and were now running this way.

Snap and a piece of rope cut away.

‘You bitch,’ he wailed. ‘You goddamn bitch, you’ll pay, you’re going to PAY.’

One, two, three cuts and her right foot was free.

Pine, panting and howling, face red from the excruciating pain, reached for the sidearm clipped to his belt. She got to her feet, and with the use of one leg moved to him, dragging the chair behind her.

She jumped on top of him. Slammed her knee deep into his groin and when he howled she hit his throat. He started gurgling and she hit his throat again. She broke his nose. Then she got behind him and snapped his neck, and his arms and legs stopped moving, as if they had suddenly given up.

She pulled the sidearm from his holster. A Glock. She found the knife on the floor, dropped the nine next to her and started cutting.

Snap on a piece of rope binding her left ankle.

A door slammed open outside.

Snap and another piece of rope gave way.

Footsteps – walking, not running.

Snap, snap, snap and she twisted her ankle free.

King appeared in the doorway, expecting to see Artie alive and her dead. Surprise bloomed on his face when he saw her lying sideways against the floor holding a nine.

She fired. One shot and half his head disappeared.

Darby scrambled to her feet. King’s body jerked and twitched on the floor. Dead this time. Dead.

‘Please.’

Pine’s wheezing, cracking voice.

He stared up at her in horror. He lay still on the floor, bleeding out from his groin.

‘I can’t… I can’t feel my… I can’t move my arms or legs.’

‘You’re paralysed,’ she said. ‘I made you a quadriplegic. Think about me when they’re changing your diapers in prison.’

‘Please… please don’t leave me like this, the pain…’

His words trailed off as Darby stepped over King’s body and started to check the garage.

Clear.

She ran back to find the wooden table that held her SIG and phone. She slid the gun inside her holster. Picked up the phone and tucked it inside her pocket.

A shotgun rested at an angle against the wall – a Remington 870 police entry with a fourteen-inch barrel, magazine extender, mounted tactical light and side saddle holding six low-recoil shells. Perfect. She tucked Pine’s nine in the back waistband of her trousers, switched to the shotgun and carried it with her as she moved, her eyes locked on the door at the far end of the bay.

She remembered that Madeira James from Reynolds Engineering Systems had sent a message. Wants you to call her immediately, King had said before reading the message. When he put the phone down, his face had changed.

Bad news? she had asked.

Nothing we can’t handle, he said.

She ducked into one of the empty rooms and took out the phone. Turned it on and saw the woman’s message and an attachment. She opened it and scanned the text quickly. Then she turned the phone off and tucked it back inside her pocket.

Darby moved out of the room and crept towards the door, staring down the shotgun sight. A shot had gone off. If there were other people in here, they’d coming running. They’d come running anyway, when King and Pine didn’t return. She wondered how many people were in here with her. She had plenty of ammo but no body armour, no helmet or smoke grenades. No hostage situation either. Play it safe. Be patient.

Plenty of room to the right side of the door. Hide there. Wait for it to swing open and then come out from behind it.

She waited.

Two minutes passed.

Four minutes.

Six.

Crouching low, she threw the door open and backed away.

No gunshots.

She turned with the shotgun, ready to fire, saw nothing but a short, narrow corridor covered in shadows.

She moved down the corridor and when it ended she again crouched low against the wall. Heard the slow, steady purr of a car engine.

She spun around the corner with the shotgun. Another corridor. Dim light at the far end. She moved silently across the floor breathing in the hot, musty air. She paused at the corner. Waited. Listened for movement underneath the steady rain drumming on the roof and what sounded like a car engine idling.

Darby turned another corner and looked down the ghost ring sights at the calm face of Boston Police Commissioner Christina Chadzynski.