The Soul Collectors

3

Darby stared at Trent. Stared at him for what seemed like a long time.

'You heard me right,' Trent shouted. 'Guy said he can prove it too.'

'How?'

'He won't say. This guy — let's just call him Charlie, keep it simple — Charlie says he won't speak to anyone but you. Said that if we can get you to come up here and talk to him, alone, face to face, he'll release the hostages. I'm not buying it. He's already shot someone.'

'Who?'

'Don't know the vic's name; he didn't have any ID on him. He's a white male, bald, somewhere in his fifties. Charlie shot this guy in the back. Twice. Ambulance arrived at the house before we did and found the vic lying in shrubs. Last report is this guy's still alive but unconscious. He lost a lot of blood.'

'How do you know Charlie shot him?'

'He called 911 and told the operator.'

'Charlie made the call?'

Trent nodded. 'He identified himself by name to the dispatcher, then told the woman about the shooting and dumping the body out the window — told her exactly where it was lying. Then he said he's holding the Rizzo family hostage and — get this — the son of a bitch requested a SWAT team. Said he wouldn't release a single hostage unless a SWAT team was brought to the house along with some sort of bulletproof vehicle. Oh, and the body dumped in the shrubs? He told the dispatcher it was a gift. For you.'

Darby shifted in her seat. 'Those were his exact words?'

Trent nodded, checking his watch.

'He say why he asked for me?'

'No. You have any ideas?'

She shook her head. 'Has he asked for any other demands besides wanting to talk to me?'

'No, just you.'

Darby took a moment to digest this. Not for one second did she believe Charlie Rizzo was alive and waiting for her at this house; but someone had summoned her, and this person's actions and choice of words were unsettling, to say the least.

Trent shouted, 'I talked with your former SWAT instructor.'

'Haug.'

Trent nodded. 'He gave you nothing but high praise. Said you're one of the best shooters he's ever seen, that you know how to handle yourself in close-quarter combat. He called you Rambo with tits.'

That sounds like something Haug would say, Darby thought, grinning. The man was without a filter. Haug called it like he saw it and didn't give two shits about political correctness. He had no shades of grey in him. You always knew where you stood with him. She wished there were more people like him in her professional life.

Trent said, 'He also told me you've had some experience in hostage situations.'

She had, but her first one hadn't ended well. She had tried negotiating with a frightened thirteen-year-old named Sean Sheppard. The boy had somehow managed to smuggle a revolver into his hospital room. Instead of surrendering the firearm, he shot himself in the head.

Darby didn't see any need to inform Trent about this. The news about Sean Sheppard, along with her paid suspension following the murder of the Boston police commissioner, had been plastered all over the New England papers and TV for several weeks. Even if Trent hadn't read about it, Haug would have told him.

The sirens stopped wailing. A voice crackled over the wall-mounted speakers: 'ETA, three minutes.'

Trent said, 'I'm going to have you go in alone, but we'll mike you so we can hear, and you'll be able to hear either me or the hostage negotiator with this.'

He handed her a small wireless earpiece. She doubted Charlie would notice it. If he did, he wouldn't care, as he had been the one who had requested a SWAT team. Odd.

No, not odd, an inner voice cautioned. It's bizarre, like he's already got some endgame in place.

'As for gear,' Trent said, 'I've got you a full assault suit. What size are you?'

She told him. She didn't need boots; she was already wearing the extra pair she kept at home.

Trent stood up in order to grab her gear. Darby fitted the earpiece into her right ear — it went in smooth and easy — then reached into her duffel bag and removed a pair of Hatch protective arm sleeves. The thin layer of Kevlar would protect her arms, wrists and hands (but not her fingers) from biting and sharp object like knives and razors.

Trent came back holding a tactical vest. 'I already installed a mike on it,' he said, taking the seat opposite her. 'In case you're asked to take off the vest — and it has happened, believe me — I want to place a second mike on you, someplace where he's not likely to look. Or touch.'

'You got the mike on you?'

Trent opened his hand. Resting in the centre of his rough, callused palm was a tiny wireless mike around the size of a pencil eraser. She knew the perfect place for it.

Darby pulled off her long-sleeve T-shirt, catching Trent's look of surprise. She didn't feel embarrassed. She had been the only female cadet during her SWAT training and hadn't asked Haug for any special treatment, sleeping and eating with the boys, even sharing the single locker room — albeit on a separate row to allow her some semblance of privacy.

Trent's gaze lingered on her bra for a moment. Then he realized what he was doing, forced his attention to the ceiling and pretended to be studying the turret. Some of the other men examined their weapons or checked their tactical equipment while she went to work clipping the mike to the centre of her black lacy but padded bra.

The Manny Ramirez-looking officer to her right had no problem staring down her cleavage.

'They're a 34C,' Darby said. 'Satisfied?'

'Very,' he replied. 'Nice abs too.'

'Thank you.' She looked at Trent and pointed to the mike hidden in the centre of her bra. 'How much juice does this thing have?'

'Battery's got two, maybe three hours. Same with the one in your vest.' Trent looked down the row, to the short SWAT officer holding the padded end of a headset against one ear.

'Loud and clear,' he told Trent.

From the duffel bag she removed a nylon sheath holding a tactical knife with an eight-inch blade. She strapped it underneath her left forearm, resting the handle, with its dual-pronged grips for quick and easy removal, near her wrist. She put her T-shirt back on and rolled the baggy cotton sleeve over the knife. Perfect. Charlie wouldn't see the knife, but he'd find it if he patted her down.

Trent had good taste in equipment. He had given her a Blackhawk Tactical Float Vest. Good Kevlar protection and multiple side pouches with ALICE clips. One side pouch held three empty slots for extra ammo. The bigger one contained a brand-new gas mask, a top-of-the-line model with a wide transparent polycarbonate visor and a military-grade filter positioned on the right side so it wouldn't interfere with her vision. The mouthpiece also had the new voice-amplifying system.

'Where'd you get the funds for all this equipment?' she asked, dipping into the duffel bag again for the tactical pouch holding her sidearm. 'You guys hit the lottery?'

'In a macabre way, yes, we did,' Trent said. 'After 9/11, the state got a massive influx of cash to upgrade all our gear and weapons, and there was enough money left over to buy the Bear.' He tapped the wall of the APC. 'What are you packing? Looks like a SIG Sauer.'

'P226,' Darby said, strapping the sidearm against her right thigh.

'Nice choice, but our guy's probably going to have you dump it. You're going to need a backup piece and someplace to hide it. I'd sug-'

'I've already got it covered.' She rolled up her jean cuff and showed him the weapon tucked beneath the lip of her boot — a compact SIG Sauer P230 in an ankle holster.

She slipped on the tactical vest, zippered it up and found, strapped to the right front, a black piece of metal shaped like a baton. It had a trigger.

'What's this?'

'Netgun launcher,' Trent said. 'Two rounds, though you only need one. Wraps the person in a web. It's electrified, gives the person a slight jolt. And it's made of this sticky shit, so there's no way you can tear it off. I'm not a big fan of the non-lethal gadgets, but this one shows a lot of promise.'

Darby started transferring the extra clips of ammo from her duffel bag. 'What's the plan? You going to drive the APC up to the house?'

'Our boy Charlie requested it. I'm going to park it right in front so he can't miss it.'

'I want you to keep your men in here until I give the order to breach.'

'He asked for us, remember?'

'Understood. But if you want me to go in there and talk to him, I'll be the one giving the orders.'

That hit a nerve. Trent's gaze narrowed in his stony face. She knew the senior corporal was about to launch into a lecture about how this was a tactical operation and, as such, he would be the one calling the shots.

'I don't know anything about this guy's mental state,' she said. 'For all I know, he's a schizophrenic. If he sees your men standing around the house, armed, it might set him off. He might start shooting.'

'All the more reason why my men should be positioned in and around the house.'

'I can handle him. And I'm going to get him to walk out of there alive. If we carry him out in a body bag, we won't know why he's holding the family hostage.'

'And if I say no?'

'Then you can go in and try talking to him.'

Darby removed her SIG, clicked off the safety and jacked a round into the chamber. She slid her weapon back into the holster, clipped the strap and leaned back against the wall, waiting for Trent's answer.

The APC came to a jarring stop.

Darby didn't move. Nobody did, everyone waiting for Trent to speak.

Finally, he did.

'Nobody moves or takes a shot until McCormick gives the word.'

Darby thought she caught a look of admiration flash across his eyes before he turned to his men. 'Everyone clear?'

Nods all around.

Now it was her turn to address the group.

'If I say "blue", that's the signal to breach the house. If I use "red", have one of the snipers take Charlie down. Any questions?'

There were none.

Darby opened the back doors to a rush of cold air and flashing blue and white police lights.