'Please,' he begged. 'Please.'
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement.
Darby looked up and saw two men, one tall and white with a blond crew cut, the other a burly Hispanic man with a shaved head, standing beyond the Plexiglas door. Both wore suits, ties and sidearms on their hips; she saw the slight bulge underneath their jackets.
Feds.
The tall white guy with the crew cut waved a badge in front of the keycard reader. Darby got to her feet. She started running as the door opened.
Crew Cut thought he could grab her and toss her against the floor. He came at her with both hands and she knocked them away, then raked him across the face with her elbow. She heard his nose break before his head snapped back. As his hands flew to his face, she planted her knee deep in his groin and turned to the Hispanic guy, who was reaching underneath his suit jacket.
Darby hit him once in the solar plexus, throwing all of her weight behind the punch. His breath caught in his throat. He tried sucking in air and when he turned she landed two solid shots to his kidneys.
Weeping came from behind her. She turned and saw the doc huddled in the corner of the room, staring at his broken finger. Crew Cut was lying sideways on the blue-padded floor, gagging up blood. It spilled down his chest, covering his shirt and two-dollar tie. He coughed and spat up blood. While she was dealing with his partner, Crew Cut had somehow managed to release his sidearm, a nine, and was pointing it at her.
Not a nine. The shape of the handgun was wrong, the magazine long and fat.
A puff of air and something sharp pierced her thigh.
A dart.
Darby pulled it free. The dart tip was gone, stuck in her thigh muscle, burning as it dissolved. He'd shot her with a tranquillizer, like she was some sort of unruly zoo animal.
Maybe I am, she thought, her knees starting to feel watery. They've got to keep me tamed. They've been pumping drugs into me to keep me tame. They want to keep me here, they don't want to let me go just yet because… they… because…
She suddenly became aware of her body, of her accelerating heart pumping the drug through her system, flushing her skin. Crew Cut was no longer interested in her. He had stumbled to his feet and now had the wall phone gripped in his hand, saying something about bringing a gurney around to the front — at least that was what she thought he was saying. The man's voice sounded garbled, as though she were listening to him from deep under water.
They're not wearing biohazard gear, she thought.
Then: I'm not infected — I never was infected.
The room's colours grew brighter, more intense. Darby saw Crew Cut swipe the back of his hand across his shattered nose. He examined the blood, bright red and gleaming underneath the overhead lights, and listened to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line as she tumbled against the padded floor, the room spinning her into darkness.
20
When Darby's eyes fluttered open, everything appeared blurry, as if her vision was coated with Vaseline. And her head, Jesus, her head felt as heavy as a sandbag, and it was hanging suspended over her lap. She had a vague sense of something biting into the skin around her wrists and ankles, of something wrapped tightly around both biceps.
It took a few minutes of blinking to clear away the filmy layer.
The first thing she noticed was the string of drool hanging from her mouth. She had collected quite a puddle on the lap of her hospital johnnies or scrubs or whatever they were. On the dark blue fabric covering her thigh she spotted a tiny hole from the tranquillizer dart and, surrounding it, a dried patch of blood the size of a half- dollar.
They had bound her to a wheelchair. Thick Velcro straps were wrapped around her wrists and biceps to keep her from toppling off her seat. The same straps, she suspected, were wrapped around her ankles and shins.
Lifting her head — slowly, she reminded herself, do it slowly — she heard popping sounds in her shoulders and neck. When she finally sat up, the muscles in her back and shoulders sighed in relief. Her right hand, though, was throbbing. Swollen and cut from punching the feds.
They had moved her into a new room, small, everything white, including the empty desk and chair.
No security cameras on the wall facing her. She looked over her shoulder, the muscles groaning in protest, and didn't see any cameras on the walls. Nobody stood behind her. No clock anywhere.
Darby stretched her neck and moved her shoulders to get the blood flowing. She wondered why she'd been placed in here and not back in her room.
The door clicked open behind her.
'Good, you're awake,' a man said. He had a smoker's voice, deep and raspy, and a slight European accent — Eastern Europe. Russian, maybe.
A squeak of footsteps as moved to face her. He looked like an older version of the Irish actor Colin Farrell; he even had the same black hair. He was trim and tall, hovering close to six feet, and wore army fatigues, boots and a short-sleeved olive T-shirt that showed off his repulsively hairy forearms.
A clipboard holding a thick stack of paper was tucked underneath his arm. He removed it and placed it on the desk. Stamped in bright gold on a corner of the top page was the logo for the US Army.
He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He methodically chewed his gum while staring down at her with a cold, flat glare, trying to intimidate her. That kind of ability came naturally; you either had it or you didn't. This guy didn't. And he didn't have a badge or ID indicating his name or rank or what he did here.
'You keep staring at me like that,' she said, 'I'm likely to wet my pants in terror.'
'You broke a man's finger. Your doctor's finger.'
Darby said nothing.
'And you attacked two federal officers.'
Darby said nothing.
'The first guy you hit is in the hospital,' he said. 'Shattered his nose, and his balls are going to be swollen for weeks.'
Darby said nothing.
Army Boy went back to chewing his gum, pausing, she guessed, to let the significance of his words sink in. His hair, while not excessively long, covered the tips of his ears. Not an army-regulation haircut. And he had two to three days' growth of beard, which was also against regulations.
'The other guy's also in the hospital,' he said. 'That gut punch of yours? He fell and cracked his head against the wall. Serious stuff.'
Darby said nothing, looking at the man's smooth biceps. No tattoos.
'Was all that really necessary?' he asked.
'All fights involve gravity and weapons.'
'And that's supposed to mean what?'
'When you fight, you don't do it half-assed. And you always assume the other person is armed, so you hit him to make sure he can't get up.'
'Those guys you hit are federal agents,' he said.
'Boston office?'
He shook his head. 'Washington. That little stunt of yours cost you big time. You're looking at aggravated assault.'
No, I'm not. Nobody's going to do anything.
