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.
The blockade came into a sharper view. The cruiser lights were still on, pulsing bright blue and white flashes, and the first person she saw was a patrolman slumped against a cruiser's front bumper. Scattered across the ground was a tangle of arms and legs wrapped in jeans and jackets — detectives and possibly some of the residents who had ventured outside their homes. No movement. No movement at all.
Dead, they're all -
A loud bone-crushing boom of thunder rumbled through her chest as the house exploded behind her, lighting up the dark, starless sky.
11
Tearing down the road, Darby spotted a house glowing with lights. The homeowner, an elderly man dressed in light blue flannel pyjamas, stood in his bare feet on the brightly lit front steps of his tiny ranch home, a dazed but alarmed expression on his wrinkled and craggy face as he stared down the dark street, looking in the direction of the explosion.
His gaze turned frightened when the APC came to a jarring stop near his lawn. Darby stepped out with the shotgun, catching sight of the fire blazing no more than a mile away, thick smoke blowing through the woods, over the tops of the tall pines.
Gripping a wrought-iron banister, the elderly man cautiously made his way down his front steps. 'What's in blue blazes is going on?' he barked. 'My wife and I were sleeping when we heard all these police sirens, and now I just heard — '
'Stay right where you are, sir, don't come any closer. What's your name?'
'Arthur Anderson.'
'Mr Anderson, I'm ordering you to go back into your house. I want you to make sure your windows are sealed shut. Do you understand?'
A fearful nod as he licked his lips. 'I understand what you said, but I don't — '
'Listen to me. I need you to get inside your house right now, no questions. Then I want you to get on the phone and tell all your neighbours to stay inside their homes and make sure their windows are sealed shut. Do it now. You got a hose out here?'
He pointed to the west side of the house. 'Water's still on, I haven't turned it off yet.'
'Get me a bucket and a scrub brush and a bottle of dish soap. Throw it out on the front lawn. Get moving.'
After 9/11, Boston police started to carry decontamination kits in their squad cars. Darby rooted around the front of the APC, searching all the console compartments, even under the seat. No decon kits — just a First-Aid box attached to the wall behind the driver's seat. She opened it. The supplies inside weren't ideal, but she'd have to
