Darby McCormick stepped over the dead bodyguard
as she ejected the two empty thirty-round magazine
cartridges from her Heckler & Koch sub-machine
gun. By the time the cartridges hit the floor she had
loaded two fresh clips.
Sweat running down her face and back, she
moved to the side of a door and tried listening for
movement underneath the low and steady thumpthump-
thumpof the helicopter blades coming from
the roof.
She couldn’t hear anything but knew Chris Flynn
would be heading this way any moment. Downstairs
in the main bay, crouched behind a stack of wooden
crates as Flynn’s two bodyguards fired rounds from
their automatic weapons, she had caught sight of
Flynn rushing up the set of stairs just before her
SWAT partner had cut the power to the warehouse.
She ran up the opposite rickety balcony stairs to the
first floor to intercept Flynn before he could make his
way to the stairwell, his only means of escape.
Darby felt confident he hadn’t reached it yet. She
swung around the corner, looking down her weapon
sight at the long hallway lit by dim light bleeding
through the windows. Still too dark. She flipped the
night-vision goggles down across her eyes.
The darkness inside the warehouse room disappeared
in a green ambient glow of light. She moved
down the corridor, making her way to the stairwell.
A door slammed open and then she saw Flynn
standing behind a frightened woman with his forearm
wrapped around her throat, the muzzle of a Glock
digging against the side of her head. A single eye
peeked above the woman’s shoulder. No single body
part was exposed.
Shit. No way to get off a clean shot. She didn’t want to
kill him, just wound him before he could reach the
copter. Her orders were explicit: capture Flynn alive. Dead, he was worthless.
‘I know what you assholes want me to do,’ Flynn screamed,
his voice echoing through the stifling hot air.‘I’m not
going to say shit.’
Darby inched her way down the hall. ‘I’m here to
protect you, Mr Flynn. The cartel –’
‘Stop right there and drop your weapon.’
Darby stopped but didn’t lower her weapon. ‘The
cartel will kill you, Chris. You know too much. They
can’t afford to keep you alive. We can offer you protection
in exchange for –’‘I’m not playing around here. Drop your
weapon right now or I swear to Christ I’ll
kill her .’
Darby had no doubt the 38-year-old American
banker would do it. He had strangled his girlfriend of
twelve years to death when he found out she had
talked to the Boston police about Flynn using his
cheque-cashing company to launder nearly half a billion
dollars in cocaine profits for the Mendula family, a Columbian drug cartel.
Flynn lurched forward, using the woman’s body as
a shield. The woman stumbled, the heels of her shoes
scraping across the floor as she clutched Flynn’s arm.
Her long black hair covered most of her face. She
wasn’t dressed like any of the warehouse employees.
She wore rhinestone T-strap pumps and a white business
suit professionally tailored for her tall, curvy
frame.
SWAT can track the copter, Darby thought. They might
be able to move people into place by the time it touches down.
‘Please do what he say,’ the woman cried in broken
English. ‘Two babies at home. I want to go home and
see babies.’
Darby spoke in a loud, clear voice. ‘Okay, Chris,
you’re in charge. I’m backing away from the stairs.’
‘Now drop the gun.’
Darby still hesitated.
‘Let the hostage go and you have my word.’
The woman yelped, a harsh, choking sound.
‘I’ll do it, I swear to Christ –’
‘Okay, Chris.’ Darby lowered her weapon, then
released the clip for the shoulder strap.
Flynn inched towards the stairs. The FLIR night
vision provided excellent clarity and contrast. She
could make out the tiny, worm-like scars on Flynn’s
bald head, could see the woman’s diamond rings and
the intricate details of her bracelet.
Darby dropped the HK and kicked it down the
corridor to her right. If Flynn decided to fire, she
might be able to duck down there. She wore a bulletproof
vest underneath the camoufl age, metal armour
plates on her shins and legs. You better hope he doesn’t try
for a headshot.
‘Your turn,’ Darby said.
‘I still don’t trust you.’ Flynn stepped closer. ‘Get
on your knees – and no sudden movements.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want as long as you promise
not to harm the hostage.’
‘Then do it, nice and slow. You pull any shit and I’ll
kill her, understand?’
‘I understand.’ Darby knelt and slowly moved her
hands up by her face.
‘Stay right there,’ Flynn said. ‘Stay right where you
are and I’ll let her go.’
Flynn stopped near the bottom steps of the stairwell.
The corridor’s hot, musty odour mixed with the
unmistakable scent of the woman’s Chanel No. 5.
He released the hostage. Darby heard the woman
run up the steps, tripping in her ridiculous shoes.
Flynn didn’t follow. He stepped forward, his handgun
raised.
Fear flooded her body, turning her skin slick and
cold. Darby didn’t see her life flash before her eyes
and all that bullshit; she did what she’d been trained to
do.
She jerked her head to the side as Flynn fired. The
shot hit the wall. Her hands came up lightning quick.
One hand clutched his wrist, the other wrapped itself
around the Glock’s muzzle and twisted it back so that
it pointed at his stomach.
She yanked him towards her. Flynn stumbled,
caught by surprise. He couldn’t gain his footing.
Darby pulled the nine from his grasp. She turned it
around in her hands and shot him in the thigh.
Flynn fell to the fl oor, screaming. She spun the
nine to the hostage standing on the stairwell landing.
The woman was holding a sub-compact Beretta pistol
with a laser sight.
Darby fired twice, hitting the woman in the stomach.
The woman stumbled back against the wall and
Darby fired two more shots.
Flynn was scrambling across the floor. Darby threw
him down on his stomach, dug her knee into his spine
and yanked his arms behind his back. She grabbed a
pair of Flexicuffs from her tactical belt as the lights
came back on.
Darby flipped up her night-vision goggles, blinking
sweat away from her eyes.
‘Goddamn,’ the hostage said, staring at the dark red
splotches on her white suit jacket. ‘These paintballs
really do sting.’
The man playing Chris Flynn groaned. ‘Quit your
bitching, Tina. I’ve been killed three times over the
past two days.’ He rolled on to his back. ‘Christ,
McCormick, I think you bruised my spine.’
A fireplug of a man with a brown crew cut and a
worn sun-blasted face stepped into the hall – John
Haug, the SWAT instructor for the Boston Police
Department. He snapped his fingers and pointed to
the doorway.