The Dead Room

She stepped over the dead man’s body, her boots sliding across the bloody floor, and stuck close to the wall as she crept towards the kitchen, thankful that the house was lit up.

Past the kitchen, she saw a living room. Light on in there. TV in the far-right corner, a long sofa and chair. Across from the kitchen island, an entranceway, probably for the dining room. Both good hiding spots – unless they were concealed upstairs. She wished she had her tactical vest. Wished she could kill the lights and go through this strange house with night vision.

Warner was dead. Two of his partners were dead. How many others were in here?

Too quiet.

Where were they hiding?

Have to go in hot. Fire fast and make it count.

She kept moving, hands steady on the SIG.

No room for error.

Legs steady.

No room for error.

Movement.

A man spun around the corner of the living room. Darby hit him in the chest. She fired three more rounds as he stumbled. One round went too high and hit the TV screen, exploding the glass.

She caught a blur of movement to her left as another man dashed into the kitchen. No time to spin around and fire; she dropped to the floor. Rapid-fire went over her head – the type that came from an automatic weapon.

The shotgun slammed against her back. Spent shells dropped against the floor as she swung her leg around and, using all her weight, kicked her assailant behind his knee.

Kevin Reynolds was knocked off balance. He crashed backwards against one of the kitchen island’s bar stools. She brought up the SIG, fired a round into his stomach and spun her weapon to the foyer. Clear.

Darby scrambled to her feet and stood back against the wall. She felt her mobile phone vibrating inside her pocket as Reynolds screamed, writhing around the floor in pain. His weapon, a Glock with an extended magazine, lay only a few feet from his face. He saw it. His hand crept across the floor.

‘Don’t,’ she said.

He reached for it.

Darby shot his hand. Reynolds screamed and she slid into the top part of the foyer, aiming her weapon at the stairs. Clear. She swung around and checked the living room. Clear. She returned to the kitchen and kicked his weapon away. He grabbed her ankle with his good hand, and she kicked his head and broke his nose. He wailed, his legs thrashing, knocking over more stools and a small table with a vase. The sound of the crashing glass and his screaming covered her footsteps as she bolted across the kitchen expecting gunfire.

No shots, and now she was inside the living room checking all of her blind spots. She saw only the dead man. Back to the kitchen. Reynolds had propped himself up on his forearm. Blubbering, he tried to crawl across the floor, heading for the blasted door leading to the garage.

Darby kicked the back of his head. Eyes moving around the kitchen and foyer, she whipped the handcuffs off her belt. She dropped them on Reynolds’s back, then grabbed both of his hands and cuffed him.

She yanked Reynolds by the back of his hair, wanting to snap his neck.

‘How many others are in here?’

He wouldn’t answer.

Darby stood up and fired a round into his ass.

Reynolds howled in pain, the sound masking her footsteps as she doubled back through the dining room. Darby turned the corner and aimed her weapon at the top of the stairs.

Dim light came from an opened door to the right. A bathroom across the top of the steps. To her left, covered in shadows, a closed door.

Reynolds kept screaming as she moved up the steps, watching for movement, for shadows. Her eyes darted from the room with the light to the hall hidden behind her, her weak spot. Check there first. She moved from the wall and leaned her weight against the steps, still paying close attention to the light. She reached the top, saw the closed bedroom door. Next to it, an opened bedroom covered in darkness. She wished she had a tactical light and a stun or a smoke grenade.

Too exposed out here. She dived into the bathroom.

Someone was crying – a woman. The sound was coming from the bedroom to her left, the one with the light.

Hostage.

Across the hall she saw a fourth door leading into a bedroom covered in shadows. A bed and toys on the floor. She moved against the bathroom wall, near the doorway, and glanced quickly to an opened door in the middle of the hall. A lock and broken wood lay on the floor, the room beyond it pitch black.

Someone could be in one of those bedrooms, she thought. If she went out into the hall to deal with the hostage, she’d be exposed. Someone could swing around the corner from one of those bedrooms and fire a shot into her back.

No one had fired when she’d dived into the bathroom.

The woman’s scream was a strange, strangled sound, as if she was fighting hard to breathe.

Punctured lung, Darby thought, and swung around the doorway.

A badly beaten woman was tied to a chair propped up against the wall. Standing behind her was a man dressed in a black shirt and white collar – a Catholic priest. A .32 revolver was gripped in his hands.

The priest fired, the round splintering the wood above her head. She crouched against the floor as he moved the gun to the woman.

Darby returned fire. The shot hit his shoulder. The priest fell back against the door behind him, slamming it shut. She fired again and saw the priest stumble against the lamp on the nightstand as she pushed herself back into the bathroom.

No gunshots. She checked the bedroom to her right. No movement. She ran to the hostage, slammed the door shut and kicked the priest’s revolver underneath the bed. Checked the master bathroom. Clear. The bedroom door had a push-button lock. She hit it with her fist.

The priest had lost his glasses during the fall. He lay on his back, squirming, his shaking hand pressed up against the gunshot wound to his left shoulder. Both shots had hit him high on the chest and he was bleeding out on to the carpet.

The woman’s head hung forward, limp, her scalp marred with what appeared to be surgical scars. Blood trickled from her swollen lips. Blood covered her T-shirt and shorts. Blood on the chair, blood on the carpet and walls. A tooth on the rug.

Darby wiped the sweat dripping down her face. She stepped up to the woman and with her eyes on the priest said, ‘I’m a police officer. You’re safe.’

She removed her mobile and dialled 911. ‘I think you’ve punctured a lung so I’m going to have to leave you right here until the ambulance arrives. If I lay you on the floor, you won’t be able to breathe.’

Darby gave the dispatcher the address and asked for emergency assistance over the woman’s wheezing, painful sobs. In the distance she could hear police sirens.

Darby hung up and approached the priest. She saw, scattered across the floor near his legs, an empty bottle of scotch, a ratty leather briefcase and a syringe. Candle and burnt spoon.

‘What’s your name, Father?’

The priest gritted his teeth, hissing back the pain. ‘I want a lawyer.’

The woman’s head lifted.

‘Preeee,’ the woman wheezed. ‘Hump… ah…prey.’

Darby felt the skin of her face tighten against the bone. ‘Father Humphrey. From Charlestown?’

He didn’t answer the question. He choked on the pain, tears welling up his eyes.

‘I asked you a question,’ Darby said, and brought her foot down on his shoulder.

The priest howled. He gripped her ankle and tried to push it away. Darby twisted her foot.

‘Yes! Yes, I used to be in Charlestown, now STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE STOP!!! ’