The Dead Room

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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 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.

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