The Mercedes came to a jarring stop. Darby was thrown against her seatbelt. She unbuckled it, quickly threaded the shotgun strap over her head and threw open the door.
Warner was on the front lawn. She could see him trying to get to his feet. She brought up the SIG and hit him twice with a double tap.
She swung her weapon to the garage, to a man in a dark suit standing in a doorway at the top of the steps. He let go of the blue tackle box in his hands and reached underneath his suit jacket for his sidearm.
Two shots to the chest and he went down, collapsing back inside the house.
She was about to move into the minivan parked in the garage when she saw a second man aiming a Glock.
Darby ducked behind the minivan as he fired. The windows exploded, glass raining down on her, and he kept firing. She counted the shots as she inched her way along the back bumper. She waited until she heard him running.
The door slammed shut. Darby came up and fired two shots against the door.
Sweep the garage.
Clear.
She moved up the steps and checked the doorknob. Locked. She hit the button to close the garage door and then killed the lights.
Switching to the shotgun, she blew off the hinges. Then she blew out the doorknob. She kicked the door down and swung to one side.
Muzzle flashes came from inside the hall. She swung the shotgun around and fired. Someone screamed and she pressed the trigger. Click. She pumped more rounds into the shotgun, then came around and fired again and again as she moved inside the house.
66
The hall, about twenty feet long, led directly into a brightly lit kitchen of beige tiles and oak cupboards. One man lay dead on the floor and another one was crawling away, trying to hide behind the kitchen island. The shotgun blast had shredded most of one leg.
Darby fired another shot at his chest and swung her attention to her right, her weak spot – the half-closed wooden door. She kicked it open and ducked to the side, expecting gunfire. Silence. No movement. She swung around and saw a ceiling lamp hanging above a small room with a bench built into the wall.
She ducked into a small room. She couldn’t use the shotgun in a hostage situation – no accuracy. She threaded the Remington’s strap across her shoulder and switched back to the SIG. Six shots left in the clip and a fresh one jammed in her pocket.
The shotgun resting against her back, Darby turned and checked the hall. Clear.
She looked at the man lying on the floor, bleeding out. He didn’t move. Had to make sure he was dead. She fired a round into his back. He didn’t move. One of her shotgun rounds had hit a plastic toolbox similar to the one she used for her forensics kit. Through the broken plastic she saw cleaning supplies – towels, latex gloves and small bottles of bleach leaking on to the tiles.
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.