Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

Darby McCormick stepped over the dead bodyguard as she ejected the two empty thirty-round magazine cartridges from her Heckler amp; 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 thump-thump-thump of 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 camouflage, 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 floor, 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.

'McCormick, with me.'

Darby trailed a few inches behind Haug, as the adrenalin rush of the training exercise – the first part of her final SWAT exam – started to evaporate and give way to a bone-crushing exhaustion. For the past three days she had grabbed fistfuls of sleep while conducting round-the-clock surveillance on the warehouse.

The first week of her SWAT training, she had started each morning with a ten-mile run under a blistering August sun on Moon Island. There were eight other recruits. All men. For the rest of the morning she carried out close-quarter combat exercises and firearms training. Late afternoons were spent crawling through old sewer tunnels wearing blacked-out goggles to test the limits of her claustrophobia. She completed night-time diving exercises in Boston Harbor and abseiled from a Black Hawk helicopter. One recruit broke his foot. Two other men suffered physical injuries and dropped out. The five remaining members graduated to 'The Yellow Brick Road', a punishing gauntlet designed to crush the human body.