Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Told you: I’ve got two kids to put through university and a police pension that won’t cover the mortgage when I retire.’ She stepped around him, putting herself behind Reuben and the shotgun. ‘If you’re working up to a lecture about loyalty, don’t bother. I know what you did to DCI Steel, McRae — she might be a useless old bag, but you wouldn’t know loyalty if it gave you a lap dance.’ Becky stuffed her hands in her pockets and sniffed. ‘Come on, Reuben, time’s wasting. Do him and get it over with.’

‘What?’ Reuben grinned. ‘And miss out on all this fun?’

The shotgun flashed up, the barrel smashing into the bridge of Logan’s nose. It sent him staggering backwards, arms windmilling as the snowy verge disappeared beneath his feet. And he was gone...

Hot yellow orbs flashed across the dark sky, screaming and jabbing as Logan went crashing through branches and bushes, tumbling over and over, their jagged limbs clawing at his face and hands.

Then a loud crump and he was on his front in the snow, head-down on the hill, tangled in the undergrowth.

Ow...

‘Oh for God’s sake. Are you happy now?’ McKenzie’s voice cut through the silence.

‘You listen up, you curly-haired wee bitch, you are here because I own you. Understand?’

Logan rolled over onto his back and tried to blink away the ringing in his ears.

Up.

Get up and run.

Yes, because being bright fluorescent-yellow in the woods wouldn’t get him shot at all, would it?

He unzipped his high-viz jacket and struggled out of the thing. Rolled away as the sawn-off barked. A rain of pellets clattered through the branches. One bit at his hand, but not hard enough to break the skin.

That was the trouble with a sawn-off, it was great for close quarters — you could clear a room with one with a single blast — but over longer distances? The shot spread out too far, too fast.

Logan scrambled behind the upturned Fiesta as the shotgun barked again, pinging and clanging against the dented bodywork. Everything tasted of hot pennies. He ran a hand across his mouth — it came away warm and slick and black in the moonlight. Blood dripped from his burning nose, the world stank of meat and peppercorns.

Reuben’s voice boomed out. ‘COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE, MCRAE!’

No chance.

He dragged out a hanky and wadded it against his bleeding nose.

Could head down the hill. Stick to the trees and make it as far as the sea. Might get a signal on the Airwave down there. Call in the cavalry.

‘LET’S MAKE THIS EASY, SHALL WE, MCRAE? YOU COME OUT AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE LIKE A BIG BOY AND I WON’T KILL YOUR DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT FRIEND. HOW DOES THAT SOUND?’

Terrible. He’d probably kill them both anyway.

Logan peered around the Fiesta’s boot.

Reuben stood at the road’s edge, caught in the Range Rover’s headlights, using his shotgun as a pointer — directing Allan Wright and Gavin Jones down the slope. They were harder to make out than their boss, almost vanishing as they picked their way through the snow and bushes. Gavin Jones on the left, Allan Wright on the right.

OK, stocktake.

Logan patted his equipment belt: one set of limb restraints, one set of handcuffs, one extendable baton, and a can of CS gas. Throw in an Airwave handset that wasn’t getting a signal and that was it. God knew where the torch had got to, probably buried in the snow somewhere.

A hard crack sounded from the left, followed by a ringing thud that vibrated through the Fiesta’s bodywork.

A voice from the right, Wright: ‘YOU GET HIM?’

There was a pause, then Jones shouted back. ‘DON’T KNOW.’

What good were limb restraints against guns?

Should’ve listened to Urquhart and taken the semiautomatic with him.

Yes, because that worked so well last night, didn’t it?

‘That’s what you get for being a bloody wimp.’

Logan unhooked his CS gas. ‘Oh that’s helping, is it?’

‘If you’d killed Reuben when you had the chance, instead of fannying about, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up.’

Two men armed with handguns, one armed with a sawn-off shotgun.

Turn around and get the hell out of there.

Laughter echoed down the hill. ‘HEY, MCRAE, MCKENZIE TELLS ME THIS ISN’T ANY OLD DETECTIVE SUPER-INTENDENT: SHE’S YOUR SISTER ! OH THAT’S PRICELESS.’

Another hard crack from the left, closer this time. The bullet sizzled through the air over his head.

‘WELL?’

‘DON’T THINK SO.’

‘MAYBE WE SHOULD—’ There was a crunch and the popcorn crackle of breaking branches. ‘AAAAAAAArgh!’ Then a thump.

‘AL?’ Jones crashed through the undergrowth off to the right. ‘AL? YOU OK?’

‘Argh...’ The sound of someone spitting. ‘THODDING HELL.’

‘WHAT HAPPENED?’

‘I BIDT MY TUNG!’

Reuben’s voice bellowed over the top. ‘YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO DO TO YOUR SISTER, MCRAE?’

The crunching sound of feet on frozen snow was getting louder. A minute or more and they’d be on top of him.

Don’t just crouch there — do something.

Logan took a deep breath and backed away from the Fiesta. The trees were thin and spindly, nothing thick enough to stop a bullet.

‘I’M GOING TO CARVE HER LIKE A SUNDAY ROAST AND FEED HER TO THE PIGS, ONE SLICE AT A TIME, WHILE SHE WATCHES.’

He ducked, creeping into a clump of whin. The dead seedheads hissed at him. Another six foot further on, the ground dropped away, plummeting into the darkness. Edge of the world.

‘YOU THEE HIM?’

‘HOW? DARK AS A BADGER’S ARSE DOWN HERE.’

‘YOU LIKE THAT, MCRAE? OR YOU GOING TO COME OUT AND BE A MAN?’

The guy on the left, Jones, had reached the overturned Fiesta. He was a vague dark outline against the bushes and patches of snow, sharp nose swinging from side to side, as if he were scenting the air. He whirled around three hundred and sixty degrees, his gun up at head level, twisted on its side — gangsta stylie.

Idiot.

No sign of idiot number two.

Logan ran a hand across the ground. Sticks. Twigs. Dirt. Rock. It wasn’t big — barely the size of his fist, but it’d do.

He threw it off to the right, deeper into the woods. It clattered and rattled through branches, its final thunk swallowed by the snow.

Jones spun around and a flare of light exploded from the end of his gun, illuminating him in all his thin and pointy glory. The crack echoed around the ravine.

Logan blinked. Blinked again. But the flash was a hard burst of yellow-white, etched across his eyes.

‘JONETHY: YOU GET HIM?’

‘MAYBE.’ Gavin Jones was even less visible than before, hidden by the shot’s afterimage. ‘YOU SEE ANYTHING?’

‘WHAT’S KEEPING YOU PAIR OF IDIOTS? FIND HIM!’

‘You think it’s that easy?’ Jones’s voice was barely a mutter. ‘You limp your fat arse down here and kill him yourself.’ He picked his way down the hill, crackling through the bushes.

Closer. Closer. And then he was level with Logan’s clump of whin... and then he was past.

Logan flipped the cap off his CS gas, pulling the canister from its holster. The coiled bungee cord holding it to his equipment belt tightened as he stood up and aimed. ‘Hello, Ugly.’

Jones span around. ‘Jesus—’

Logan mashed his thumb down on the trigger.

‘AAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ He folded in half, both hands covering his face, the gun still clenched in one fist. ‘MY EYES! AH JESUS...’

Logan helped him take his mind off the CS gas by kneeing him in the groin.

‘JONETHY?’ Wright’s thick lispy voice wasn’t far away — slightly further uphill to the right. ‘JONETHY! YOU OK?’