The Soul Collectors Read Free Page A

professional life.
    Trent said, ‘He also told me you’ve had some experience in hostage situations.’
    She had, but her first one hadn’t ended well. She had tried negotiating with a frightened thirteen-year-old named Sean Sheppard. The boy had somehow managed to smuggle a revolver into his hospital room. Instead of surrendering the firearm, he shot himself in the head.
    Darby didn’t see any need to inform Trent about this. The news about Sean Sheppard, along with her paid suspension following the murder of the Boston police commissioner, had been plastered all over the New England papers and TV for several weeks. Even if Trent hadn’t read about it, Haug would have told him.
    The sirens stopped wailing. A voice crackled over the wall-mounted speakers: ‘ETA, three minutes.’
    Trent said, ‘I’m going to have you go in alone, but we’ll mike you so we can hear, and you’ll be able to hear either me or the hostage negotiator with this.’
    He handed her a small wireless earpiece. She doubted Charlie would notice it. If he did, he wouldn’t care, as he had been the one who had requested a SWAT team. Odd.
    No, not odd , an inner voice cautioned. It’s bizarre, like he’s already got some endgame in place .
    ‘As for gear,’ Trent said, ‘I’ve got you a full assault suit. What size are you?’
    She told him. She didn’t need boots; she was already wearing the extra pair she kept at home.
    Trent stood up in order to grab her gear. Darby fitted the earpiece into her right ear – it went in smooth and easy – then reached into her duffel bag and removed a pair of Hatch protective arm sleeves. The thin layer of Kevlar would protect her arms, wrists and hands (but not her fingers) from biting and sharp object like knives and razors.
    Trent came back holding a tactical vest. ‘I already installed a mike on it,’ he said, taking the seat opposite her. ‘In case you’re asked to take off the vest – and it has happened, believe me – I want to place a second mike on you, someplace where he’s not likely to look. Or touch.’
    ‘You got the mike on you?’
    Trent opened his hand. Resting in the centre of his rough, callused palm was a tiny wireless mike around the size of a pencil eraser. She knew the perfect place for it.
    Darby pulled off her long-sleeve T-shirt, catching Trent’s look of surprise. She didn’t feel embarrassed. She had been the only female cadet during her SWAT training and hadn’t asked Haug for any special treatment, sleeping and eating with the boys, even sharing the single locker room – albeit on a separate row to allow her some semblance of privacy.
    Trent’s gaze lingered on her bra for a moment. Then he realized what he was doing, forced his attention to the ceiling and pretended to be studying the turret. Some of the other men examined their weapons or checked their tactical equipment while she went to work clipping the mike to the centre of her black lacy but padded bra.
    The Manny Ramirez-looking officer to her right had no problem staring down her cleavage.
    ‘They’re a 34C,’ Darby said. ‘Satisfied?’
    ‘Very,’ he replied. ‘Nice abs too.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She looked at Trent and pointed to the mike hidden in the centre of her bra. ‘How much juice does this thing have?’
    ‘Battery’s got two, maybe three hours. Same with the one in your vest.’ Trent looked down the row, to the short SWAT officer holding the padded end of a headset against one ear.
    ‘Loud and clear,’ he told Trent.
    From the duffel bag she removed a nylon sheath holding a tactical knife with an eight-inch blade. She strapped it underneath her left forearm, resting the handle, with its dual-pronged grips for quick and easy removal, near her wrist. She put her T-shirt back on and rolled the baggy cotton sleeve over the knife. Perfect. Charlie wouldn’t see the knife, but he’d find it if he patted her down.
    Trent had good taste in equipment. He had given her a Blackhawk Tactical