The Soul Collectors dm-4

by Chris Mooney

  She did, but, given the thick scarring, it was impossible to tell if his nipples had been removed. Given the long, deep and jagged grooves — they seemed to cover nearly every square inch of his chest — she suspected it had been done with a carving knife.

  'Now do you believe me? That I'm Charlie Rizzo?'

  'Yes,' Darby said, not sure what else to say — and goddamn if some part of her hadn't turned over to the possibility that the man standing less than a foot away was, in fact, Charlie Rizzo. And the lattice pattern covering his chest and legs — why does it seem familiar?

  'The mask,' she said. 'Whose face is it?'

  'That's an excellent question,' Charlie said. He shrugged back into the tunic, quickly fastened a single button and then grabbed a tuft of Mark Rizzo's hair.

  The man let out a yelp of surprise or pain as his head was yanked backwards. His daughters made frightened mewing sounds from behind the tape, but Mark Rizzo's single, good eye didn't look at them. Darby watched Charlie, her fingers, still tucked underneath her shirtsleeve, tightening around the prongs of the knife handle.

  Come on, give me an opening…

  'Now, Daddy,' Charlie said, looking directly at her. He had moved back behind the chair, the gun's muzzle pressed against Mark Rizzo's temple. 'I want you to tell Dr McCormick why I'm here.'

  Mark Rizzo opened his mouth. Blood dribbled on to his chin. He licked his swollen and cut lips, then tried to speak.

  Darby couldn't hear him — and she kept breathing through her mouth instead of her nose. The stench coming off Charlie had reached a nauseating pitch, making her eyes water.

  'Speak up, Daddy. Don't be shy. Start with the day I was abducted.'

  Rizzo's single eye rolled around in its socket, dazed.

  'Charlie,' Darby said, 'why don't you tell me — '

  'NO,' he roared, pointing the gun at her. 'NO. I've been waiting for this moment for ever — it's the only thing that's kept me alive all these years!'

  Darby stared at the gun hovering a few inches from her face. Adrenalin was pumping through her limbs, urging her to fight. She had to remind herself to keep her voice calm.

  'Tell me what he did to you,' she said. 'Tell me and I promise I'll — '

  'We're not going anywhere until he confesses! He needs to say it. That's why I brought you here! You need to hear it from the monster's own lips. I want the world to know what he did to me!'

  Charlie, trembling with rage and watching her closely, leaned against Mark Rizzo's ear and hissed: 'Tell her, Daddy. Tell the nice lady about the day I was abducted — tell her why they took me.'

  Mark Rizzo's single eye locked on her. 'This… thing,' he croaked. He swallowed, tried again. 'He's not… my son.'

  Charlie pulled the gun away. Darby watched in slow motion as he pointed the gun to Mark Rizzo's leg, saw her window of opportunity and took it.

  8

  Darby lurched forward on her left foot, keeping her right planted firmly on the floor. Switchblade quick, she clutched Charlie's wrist with her left hand. Twisted it, surprised to feel bones snapping underneath her grip, and pulled him off balance as he squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot was no louder than a firecracker. The round splintered the headboard as she yanked Charlie's arm, pushing him up against Mark Rizzo's shoulder. Held on to his wrist as she pivoted her body and squared her shoulders, throwing all her weight behind her right fist and shattering his nose. His head snapped back. She heard the tumble to the floor. Before his knees gave out she gripped him by the throat, the dried leathery flaps of the skin mask hard underneath her palm and fingers, and smashed the back of Charlie's head against the wall.

  Charlie didn't fight — didn't have the strength or the inclination. She tossed him over her leg and threw him against the floor. Turned him on to his stomach and then dug her knee into the small of his back, pinning him to the carpet. She had the pair of Flexicuffs in her hands and he continued to lie still, gagging on the blood pouring down his throat and into his mouth. She yanked his arms hard behind his back and then he screamed when she heard bones snapping and breaking.

  'Subject is down,' she yelled into the chest mike, tightening the pair of Flexicuffs around his wrists. 'I repeat, subject is down and the house is secure.'

  'Promise me,' Charlie gagged, spitting out blood and teeth on to the carpet. 'Promise you won't let them take me.'

  One of the bedroom windows shattered. Darby heard a whistling sound above her head and then a thud. A tear gas canister had hit the far wall and was now rolling across the floor, hissing smoke. Trent had heard the gunshot and ordered his men to breach the house.

  Another pane of glass exploded, another tear gas canister hit the wall and then tumbled across the floor near the bedroom door.

  Thick clouds of white smoke were quickly filling the room. Darby shut her eyes and, holding her breath, found the side pouch. She ripped it open, grabbed the gas mask and fitted it over her face.

  Charlie had rolled on to his side. She had knocked out most of his front teeth. He stared at her, his wide, frightened eyes blazing from behind the ghoul mask.

  'Lock me away,' Charlie said between gagging. 'Lock me where they can't find me.'

  Darby jumped to her feet as the front door was knocked off its hinges.

  'Others,' he screamed.

  Smoke was quickly spreading through the room. Darby grabbed Judith Rizzo by the arms.

  'Promise me — '

  Charlie started coughing, hacking and wheezing from the tear gas filling his lungs. She dragged the mother into the hall, and heard Charlie's last words: 'Get the others.'

  Two armed SWAT officers were rushing to the foot of the stairs.

  'Stand down,' she yelled, pleased by the strength and clarity of the mask's voice amplification system. She guided the woman's head to the floor. 'I repeat stand down.'

  The front officer stopped running and stood in the middle of the stairwell. Darby moved to the top of the steps.

  'Subject is down and cuffed,' she said. 'Bring the ambulance around, we have a — '

  The SWAT officer raised his shotgun and fired.

  9

  Boom and Darby felt the round hammer against the centre of her chest.

  Her breath exploded from her chest, and she stumbled backwards. She hit the back wall and tumbled, her legs giving out. Her hands gripped the air, seeking purchase — BOOM and a second shotgun blast took out a chunk of plaster from the wall where her head had been just a moment ago.

  Splayed against the floor, and making harsh and painful gasping sounds behind the gas mask, Darby turned on to her side. The armour plating had saved her life, but her ribs were broken, maybe even fractured. Blinking, she saw the two SWAT officers disappear through the smoke. It was drifting into the dark hall, and over the ringing in her ears she heard more footsteps pounding their way up the stairs.

  Then she caught the figures of two, maybe three SWAT officers (not Trent's men — they have to be someone else but who are they?) turning left at the top of the stairs. They disappeared behind the smoke, their footfalls fading as they ran towards the bedroom.

  Four, possibly five men were inside the house. More could be waiting downstairs or outside. They would head back this way and someone would see her squirming on the floor and keep pumping rounds into her until she was dead.

  Sucking in hot air and trying to get her lungs to work, she reached for her sidearm and felt the empty holster. Charlie had ditched her weapon. She had heard it land somewhere out here, and she began frantically to search the floor -

  BOOM and the shotgun's muzzle flash jumped in the white smoke from the bedroom.

  BOOM and two SWAT officers emerged from the smoke hauling someone by the hands and feet — Charlie Rizzo, she thought. They rushed down the steps -

  BOOM.

  Darby fumbled for her ankle holster, where the compact SIG was hidden. The.32 ACP rounds didn't offer much stopping power, even at close range. They'd be useless against tacti
cal armour. She'd have to try for a headshot. The gas mask's polycarbonate visors were scratch resistant but not bulletproof.

  First, she had to find a vantage point.

  Dizzy, she pushed herself up on to her knees. One, possibly two men left in there. Using the wall for support, she got to her feet and immediately stumbled, dropping to her knees and sucking in air. She had to wait and couldn't wait.

  From somewhere outside she heard tyres skidding across the pavement.

  Now heavy footsteps were coming her way and she knew the SIG wouldn't put a dent in him, so she dropped it. With one hand she grabbed a flash-bang grenade from her vest, while pulling the netgun launcher from its holster with the other.

  The SWAT officer emerged through the smoke with his shotgun raised. He saw Judith Rizzo, stopped, and then placed the muzzle against the woman's head and fired. Darby pulled the pin and tossed the flash bang across the hall floor.

  The grenade went off and the SWAT officer was stunned by an explosion of noise, the white light blinding him. Darby pulled the netgun's trigger.

  There was a pop and hiss as the net hurled through the air, expanding into an electrically charged web. It wrapped itself around the SWAT officer's chest and face, tangling him in the sticky strands. Sidearm back in hand, she heard the man's squeal of surprise and pain as he stumbled and fell to the floor, writhing around like some insect caught in an actual spider web.

  Darby staggered to him while holding the banister, her breath coming back but her ribs still burning, muscles growing stronger with each step. The web had him locked up. She kicked the gas mask off his face. He tried to reach up to put it back on but his fingers got caught in the sticky webbing. Her boot came down on his hand, breaking his fingers. He screamed. She kicked him against the side of the head and he slumped back against the floor.

  She hadn't knocked him unconscious; she could hear him choking on the smoke. The web had locked him up but he had conveniently dropped the shotgun on the floor next to him before it had done so.

  Standing with the shotgun, her lungs straining, burning as though they were on fire, she raised it at the man's head, about to fire when an inner voice cautioned her to wait. You need him alive, the voice added. Darby turned and stumbled to the bedroom.

  The drawn shades flapped in the wind blowing through the two shattered windows. Smoke was everywhere, curling like snakes across the walls and ceiling, and she got a good, clear look at the bedroom: a SWAT officer kneeling on the floor next to the bed, his back facing her; the headless remains of the twins and Charlie Rizzo — they had been shot at point-blank range like Judith Rizzo. But there was no sign of the father. Mark Rizzo had been cut free from the chair. Taken alive.

  Four quick steps across the carpet and the SWAT officer turned to look over his shoulder. She didn't shoot him. She dropped the shotgun and, grabbing him by the head, twisted violently. There was a snap as his neck broke and he collapsed on the floor.

  Sitting on the floor was a small device. It had a timer. And wires.

  Wires connected to six sticks of dynamite bound together with electrical tape.

  The timer's numbers flashed a glowing red in the thin, blowing curtains of smoke:

  1:26.

  1:25.

  A quick glance over her shoulder and out the window: the APC was still parked out front, its back doors hanging open.

  1:23.

  You can do it. You've got time.

  Darby grabbed the shotgun and started counting down as she ran back into the hall, where the SWAT officer lay still. He appeared to be roughly her height, maybe two hundred pounds with all the gear.

  1:19.

  Another solid kick to the man's head, just to be sure, and then she knelt down, propping the shotgun against the wall. She grabbed the man by the feet and hoisted his legs over her shoulder. He wore black trousers and a pair of heavy winter boots. Definitely not one of the SWAT officers; they had all worn the same TrainMark footwear and 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 dec
ontaminate 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?'