The Soul Collectors

30

Darby reached the highway and pushed the bike past eighty, weaving across the four lanes and keeping a close eye on both rear-view mirrors, on the alert for the BMW or any vehicle that decided to get too close. If these people wanted to take her out, this would be the time to do it. Driving across a dark highway virtually free of traffic, they could easily knock her off her bike. One good push and she'd lose control and be bouncing and skidding across the pavement. By the time she came to a stop she'd be a mess of broken bones, unable to get up or move — and unconscious, if she got lucky. That was the best-case scenario.

Forty minutes later, Darby reached the Portsmouth exit. Her new friends had decided to keep a safe distance — at least for the moment. Maybe they wanted to see why she'd decided to head to New Hampshire. Hopefully they'd hang back. Her plan depended on it.

Downtown Portsmouth hummed with activity. People bundled in coats walked along sidewalks lined with green store-front canopies. They entered and exited bars. They examined the restaurant menus displayed in glass windows and doors. Too many witnesses here for her friends inside the BMW to try anything.

Three miles later the neighbourhoods grew quiet. Ten miles later, coming up on the spot where the APC had first dropped her off, the streets grew dark and then pitch black. Another mile or so and she came to the spot where the mobile command trailer had been parked. It was gone now, but in the bike's single headlight beam she found a wide and deep tyre impression in the soft dirt. Saw the deep grooves the tyre had left as it was moved off the soft dirt shoulder and hauled away. She drove up the road, the same route she had taken while standing on the back of the APC.

Up ahead she saw police tape hanging over the street, strips and strips of it creating a flimsy yellow barrier that shook in the wind. She looked to her right, at the house where Trent had placed the sniper and spotter. The explosion hadn't knocked the house off its foundations, but it had torn off most of the front, exposing upended furniture inside the rooms that were visible.

When she reached the police tape, she kicked the heel of her boot to release the kickstand. She took off her helmet and breathed in the cool air still carrying the faint odour of charred wood.

A big steel dumpster, the kind used on construction-job sites, had been set up just beyond the tape and blocked access to the street. She spotted another one further down the road. The street was bare, clean. During the time she spent quarantined, the debris had been cleared away. And whatever had remained of the Rizzo home had been bulldozed. Nothing left but a black hole in the ground, a few dumpsters and a collection of burned trees, mostly pines, neatly stacked and awaiting removal.

The entire perimeter of the blast site had been cordoned off by police tape, so why wasn't there a cruiser parked here? In Boston, it was standard procedure to keep watch on a blast site to make sure no photographer, reporter or local yahoo ended up tripping on the debris and bumping their head, only to turn around and launch a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the city for negligence. It had happened too many times in Boston, and they all had been settled out of court with taxpayer dollars. Maybe the Dover police had a different policy. Maybe this place was so remote they didn't have to worry about someone stumbling along and getting hurt. Or maybe, like every other law enforcement agency, they'd been hit by budget cuts and forced to do without things like patrolling a blast site where there was nothing left to see. Darby killed the engine. The headlight went off and she was plunged into a near pitch-black darkness. No stars out tonight, no moon. A soft but biting cold wind rattled through the trees and shook the branches as she took what she needed out of the trunk box. All her pockets were stuffed, so she had to carry the night-vision goggles and tactical belt. She ducked underneath the tape, estimating that the BMW was about five minutes behind her. She had to find a vantage point.

During her drive, she had thought about using the house across the street. The roof would offer the best tactical advantage. First problem: how to access it. She couldn't rely on finding something like a ladder in the garage, and searching for one would eat up too much time. Using one might arouse suspicions. She couldn't use a flashlight either: someone might see it. And now that she had viewed the condition of the house, she knew she couldn't stumble around dark rooms, kicking and tripping over debris — making all sorts of sounds as she searched for a way to access the roof.

The second, and more important, problem was her choice of weapon. The MK handgun tucked in her shoulder holster was an excellent close-quarters combat weapon, but it lacked the long-distance accuracy of a scoped sniper rifle. So she had scratched the roof. And the trees: a good watching point, but, again, the problem was a matter of shooting accuracy. Plus, she'd have to climb high to find decent cover. If they spotted her, she'd be a sitting duck. With no room for her to manoeuvre, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

That left ground cover, either a spot in the woods or one of the three dumpsters set up near the blast site, which was where she wanted to draw the occupants of the BMW. They might decide to come in for a closer look. They might decide to pounce. Either way, she'd be ready.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and when she reached the edge of the crater, she looked down and found a basement of broken walls half buried by debris and dirt. She removed the tracking device from her pocket and tossed it into the wide hole, hearing a plink as it bounced off a piece of metal.

Now she had to find a dumpster.

Three here, but the one parked at the end of the driveway fifty feet or so away from the crater offered a good view of both the blast site and the woods. She jogged to the side, grabbed the edge and hopped up on the dumpster's small ledge. Looking inside, she found it almost full. Lots of charred and splintered wood. Burned furniture and clothes. Perfect.

She looped the tactical belt around her shoulder. The straps for the night-vision goggles were sewn into a black wool cap. She put the cap on, leaving the goggles off her eyes for the moment, then unzipped her jacket and climbed into the dumpster. She scooped up all the dark-coloured clothing she could find, then discarded them when she hit the jackpot: a set of burned sheets and a comforter.

Wood and whatever else was beneath her palms and knees creaked and moaned as she crawled to the edge of the dumpster. Working quickly and methodically, she cleared some of the debris away, mostly wood, until she had enough room to lie down. She stopped working and examined the space. Good enough. She transferred the tactical belt to a spot where it could be accessed easily. From her jacket pocket she removed a silencer and placed it, along with her handgun, on the lip of the dumpster. Darby rolled sideways into the small space and covered herself with the bedding, making sure she had enough of the comforter left to wrap around her head. Now the final part: transferring the splintered and shattered boards and other assorted debris on top of her body.

Covered, she did a slow roll on to her stomach and kept her weight propped up on her forearms. Grabbed the MK, threaded the silencer and then wrapped the burned edge of the smoke-smelling comforter around her head. She put all of her weight down on her stomach. A few hard edges poked her legs, and her ribs, still in the process of healing, groaned in protest. Discomfort but not pain; she would manage.

The split and shattered ends sticking up from the edge added additional cover. She flipped the night-vision goggles down on her eyes. The ambient green light parted the darkness. She could see the street and every inch of the surrounding woods. She reached for the handgun, gripped it in her hand and waited.

The cold air remained silent except for the occasional stirring of the tree branches from the wind. Quiet, remote and dark, this place was the perfect spot for them to make a run at her. If they didn't do it tonight, they would sometime soon. The sole survivor, they believed she had seen and heard too much — that could be the only reason why they were following her.

She thought about numbers. The BMW driver would have brought along help. She needed only one alive; figure out who the leader was, then make a plan to take down the others as fast as possible. Take the survivor and make him talk about Mark Rizzo.

It was also possible she'd be forced to put them all down, as a matter of survival. Maybe take them all out at once, she thought. More bodies, more evidence, more avenues to explore.

The wind stirred the trees again. Something shattered and fell.

The sound came from across the street.

She couldn't turn and see the house. Had the wind caused that?

She waited and heard nothing.

Had to be the wind, she thought, and went back to waiting.

Sometime later, in the distance, she heard the crawl of car tyres crunching against the road. The sound came from the east, somewhere past the woods.

Using her thumb, she clicked off the safety.

The tyres stopped moving. She could make out the sound of an idling engine. A moment later, it stopped.

Darby waited, listening and watching.

Here they come.