then explained who she was and what had happened in New Hampshire. She told him about the number of dead SWAT and police officers and Glick asked her several in-depth questions about the symptoms.
Glick said, ‘Are you showing any symptoms?’
‘Not yet.’
‘The person you captured, where is he right now?’
‘In the back of the APC.’
‘With the other dead officers,’ Glick added.
‘I didn’t have much of a choice.’
‘Understood, but you need to decontaminate him quickly.’
‘I haven’t found any decon kits, so I’m going to scrub him down the old-fashioned way, with soap and water.’
‘Scrub yourself down while you’re at it. If he tells you what gas was used, it will save us some valuable time. We may be able to treat on site. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait for blood analysis.’
‘He’ll tell me,’ she said and hung up.
After she shoved the phone in her pocket, Darby put on the gas mask and then moved to the back of the APC, sliding the tactical knife out from underneath her sleeve.
12
A quick jerk of the sharp blade and Darby cut the Flexicuffs binding the APC’s door handles. She opened the doors and backed up, bringing up the shotgun.
Her prisoner, still wrapped in the net, had managed to push himself up into a sitting position. In the process he had somehow worked the gas mask back over his mouth, what little good it did him. He had already breathed in the tear gas, the chemicals coating the soft, sensitive membranes lining his lungs, throat and sinuses. His chest heaved as he hacked into the mask, trying to expel the fire.
Darby stepped inside. In the dim interior light she could see his mottled face, his bloodshot and watery eyes. They tracked her as she knelt next to the SWAT officer who had been barely conscious earlier. Now he was slumped against the floor in a puddle of vomit, a white, frothy mixture covering his lips and bubbling from his nose and mouth.
She pressed a gloved finger against the man’s neck.
No pulse.
She grabbed the prisoner by the back of his collar. He didn’t put up a fight or struggle, too weak and disoriented from the tear gas and the blows to his head. She lifted him easily to his feet and marched him to the opened doors. When he reached the edge, she shoved him outside.
His hands jerked up to try to cushion the fall. They got caught in the sticky webbing and he slammed sideways against the ground, the sharp, painful cry lost in his coughing fits.
Darby hopped out. She kicked him on to his stomach. When he tried to roll on to his back, she brought her heel down against his shoulder and kept it there, pinning him to the ground. Using her knife, she began cutting the net.
As she worked, the sharp blade slicing through the webbing, she found the source of his pain: he had fractured his wrist during the fall. It made her think of Charlie, how his bones had snapped when she’d grabbed his wrist and twisted. No doubt something like that could happen – and no doubt the force of being smashed against the side of the head with an elbow could dislodge a tooth or two. But she had knocked out several teeth. Charlie was painfully thin, covered in scars. She wondered if he had weak, malnourished bones from time spent in captivity.
Captivity , an inner voice questioned.
Yes. After his abduction, Charlie Rizzo had been forced to live somewhere, enduring daily beatings, torture, and God only knew what else.
So you’re buying that he is, in fact, Charlie Rizzo.
A part of her did, she supposed. At the moment she didn’t know what else to think.
Darby tucked the knife in her trouser pocket then prised the netting off the man’s body, surprised at its sticky strength. She cuffed him, then helped him to his feet.
Knife in hand again, she cut the straps for the man’s tactical vest, the same model as the ones used by NH SWAT.
The people entering the house were dressed as SWAT officers; they must have grabbed the vests and gas masks from the back of the
Glick said, ‘Are you showing any symptoms?’
‘Not yet.’
‘The person you captured, where is he right now?’
‘In the back of the APC.’
‘With the other dead officers,’ Glick added.
‘I didn’t have much of a choice.’
‘Understood, but you need to decontaminate him quickly.’
‘I haven’t found any decon kits, so I’m going to scrub him down the old-fashioned way, with soap and water.’
‘Scrub yourself down while you’re at it. If he tells you what gas was used, it will save us some valuable time. We may be able to treat on site. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait for blood analysis.’
‘He’ll tell me,’ she said and hung up.
After she shoved the phone in her pocket, Darby put on the gas mask and then moved to the back of the APC, sliding the tactical knife out from underneath her sleeve.
12
A quick jerk of the sharp blade and Darby cut the Flexicuffs binding the APC’s door handles. She opened the doors and backed up, bringing up the shotgun.
Her prisoner, still wrapped in the net, had managed to push himself up into a sitting position. In the process he had somehow worked the gas mask back over his mouth, what little good it did him. He had already breathed in the tear gas, the chemicals coating the soft, sensitive membranes lining his lungs, throat and sinuses. His chest heaved as he hacked into the mask, trying to expel the fire.
Darby stepped inside. In the dim interior light she could see his mottled face, his bloodshot and watery eyes. They tracked her as she knelt next to the SWAT officer who had been barely conscious earlier. Now he was slumped against the floor in a puddle of vomit, a white, frothy mixture covering his lips and bubbling from his nose and mouth.
She pressed a gloved finger against the man’s neck.
No pulse.
She grabbed the prisoner by the back of his collar. He didn’t put up a fight or struggle, too weak and disoriented from the tear gas and the blows to his head. She lifted him easily to his feet and marched him to the opened doors. When he reached the edge, she shoved him outside.
His hands jerked up to try to cushion the fall. They got caught in the sticky webbing and he slammed sideways against the ground, the sharp, painful cry lost in his coughing fits.
Darby hopped out. She kicked him on to his stomach. When he tried to roll on to his back, she brought her heel down against his shoulder and kept it there, pinning him to the ground. Using her knife, she began cutting the net.
As she worked, the sharp blade slicing through the webbing, she found the source of his pain: he had fractured his wrist during the fall. It made her think of Charlie, how his bones had snapped when she’d grabbed his wrist and twisted. No doubt something like that could happen – and no doubt the force of being smashed against the side of the head with an elbow could dislodge a tooth or two. But she had knocked out several teeth. Charlie was painfully thin, covered in scars. She wondered if he had weak, malnourished bones from time spent in captivity.
Captivity , an inner voice questioned.
Yes. After his abduction, Charlie Rizzo had been forced to live somewhere, enduring daily beatings, torture, and God only knew what else.
So you’re buying that he is, in fact, Charlie Rizzo.
A part of her did, she supposed. At the moment she didn’t know what else to think.
Darby tucked the knife in her trouser pocket then prised the netting off the man’s body, surprised at its sticky strength. She cuffed him, then helped him to his feet.
Knife in hand again, she cut the straps for the man’s tactical vest, the same model as the ones used by NH SWAT.
The people entering the house were dressed as SWAT officers; they must have grabbed the vests and gas masks from the back of the
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