Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

Logan took a sip of whisky. ‘I’ve got a choice?’

Smiler snapped his fingers and one of his mates stepped forwards — a wee bloke with big blond sideburns and a ratty ponytail — holding out the body bag. Only up close it looked a lot more like a suit carrier.

The gun twitched towards the stairs. ‘Better get changed, Sergeant. You’ve got an appointment.’

Bench seats ran down both sides of the Transit’s load bay. Logan sat on the driver’s side, with Smiler at the other end, blocking the door. One of his mates, a thin man with bad teeth and a lazy eye, sat opposite, playing on a hand-held games console. Tongue poking out the side of his mouth as the thing bleeped and binged.

The van lurched around a corner, then accelerated.

That would be them leaving Banff.

Difficult to tell. There were no windows back here — the walls lined with big rectangles of chipboard covered in metal hooks and the vacant outlines of tools.

Goon Number Three had the radio on in the cab section, singing along to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ at the top of his voice. The noise rattled through the bulkhead wall, clashing with the plinkity music from Mr Teeth’s game machine.

Logan loosened his tie: black, like his suit and shoes. It wasn’t a bad fit, but it wasn’t exactly classy. The kind of outfit you could pick up for a few quid at one of the larger supermarkets. All three of them dressed up like something out of Reservoir Dogs .

He jerked a thumb at the bulkhead. ‘So, what, we’re on our way to a Blues Brothers revival?’

Smiler didn’t smile. ‘Shut up.’

Thick plastic sheeting covered the load-bay floor. Just right for preventing all those nasty, hard-to-clean bloodstains.

Not too hard to see how today was going to end.

Should have listened to Samantha. Should have listened to Wee Hamish Mowat. Should have killed Reuben instead of sitting on his backside waiting for the murderous bastard to make the first move. Well, it was too late now.

But then again, it was always going to end this way, wasn’t it? In a kill-or-be-killed world, the normal people always ended up dead.

Logan let his head thunk back against the chipboard.

Yup, this was turning into a really top-notch Friday the thirteenth.

The engine noise dropped to a low growl, then the Transit swung to the left. Crunching came from the wheel arches. They’d turned onto gravel. Either a track or someone’s driveway. Which meant the magical mystery tour was about to come to its unpleasant conclusion.

More crunching.

The van rocked and lurched a bit, then slowed to a halt.

Through in the cab, the seventies musicfest died.

Then came the clunk of the driver’s door and the scrunch, scrunch, scrunch of his footsteps.

Here we go.

The back door opened, letting in a flood of sunlight.

Smiler turned and hoiked a thumb at the view. ‘Out.’

Logan clambered down from the tailgate onto a gravel driveway at the side of a rough stone building surrounded by trees. A door hung open, its red paint flaking like leprous skin.

A large finger pointed at the dark hole of the doorway. ‘In.’

Something twisted deep inside Logan’s chest.

Maybe there was a way out of this? Slam his elbow back and up into Smiler’s face. Ram the arm forward and break Mr Teeth’s nose. Kick Captain ABBA in the balls. Then run for it before any of them got themselves together.

Deep breath.

It wasn’t going to work.

But it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose, was it? Probably wind up dead either way.

OK. In three, two—

A cold hard lump pressed against the back of his neck. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Logan turned, just far enough to see Smiler out of the corner of his eye. That cold hard lump was the snub-nosed revolver’s barrel.

Yeah... Maybe not.

Logan straightened his tie instead. Took a breath. Then marched in through the door.

Inside, it was one big gloomy room, the only light coming from the doorway behind him and a couple of dirty skylights. There was barely enough to make out the bare rafters and the closed garage doors.

And the big sheet of heavy-duty plastic spread out in the middle of the concrete floor. Like the one in the van, only much bigger and with stitches of duct tape holding it down.

A big hand in the small of his back propelled him forward, until he was standing right in the middle of the crinkly sheet.

‘Stay.’

The thing in Logan’s chest twisted again, turning his heartbeat up to a deafening thump. Thump. Thump. Sweat prickled across the back of his neck.

He was going to die here. Slowly. Then be dragged away for pig food.

Smiler retreated to the shadows while Mr Teeth took up position by the door. He was bent over his Gameboy/DS thing again, pinging and dinging away to repetitive doodly music.

No sign of Captain ABBA.

Slow calm breaths.

And then Reuben appeared in the doorway. He’d stripped off to the waist. The patchwork of scar tissue and fur that marked his face continued down his barrel chest and across his gut in a foot-wide strip of twisted skin. His bottom half was covered in a pair of overalls, the arms tied in a knot beneath his stomach. Big rig boots on his feet — nice and heavy with steel toecaps. Perfect for kicking someone to death. ‘’Bout time.’

Reuben rolled his head to one side, then the other. Flexed his shoulders. Puffing himself up. ‘Some of the guys think you can’t be trusted, McRae.’ The hands were next, coiling into huge fists. ‘Think you’re going to stitch me up.’

Logan swallowed. Forced his chin up.

Don’t tremble. Don’t let the bastard see you fall apart.

Fight back. Make him pay for it.

‘See, I can’t have that, McRae. Can’t have that at all. Got to have a hundred and ten percent loyalty from my team. You get that, don’t you?’

He’d come fast and he’d come hard. Use that bulk of his to pin Logan down and then batter the living crap out of him.

Logan shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent.

OK. Go for the eyes. Gouge them out of his fat ugly head.

At least then he’d have something to remember him by.

The lump in Logan’s chest wound itself into a knot.

‘Take this wee prick...’ Reuben stepped aside and Captain ABBA was back, hauling a shivering man with him.

The newcomer wore nothing but a stained pair of pants, the elastic going at the waist. Bruises made angry patterns across his skin, wrapping around his legs, torso, and face. He clutched one arm to his chest, the elbow swollen like a grapefruit and the wrist flopping in a way nature never intended, fingers poking out in all sorts of horrible directions. ‘Plsss...’

The word barely managed to squeeze its way out of his swollen lips.

Reuben pointed, and Captain ABBA dragged the man onto the plastic sheet and dumped him at Logan’s feet.

‘This is Tony. Say hello, Tony.’

He coiled up on the floor, tears and snot ribboning his face. ‘Plsss... Plsss dnt kgggh mmmi...’

‘Tony thought it would be fun to help himself to the merchandise and the profits. Didn’t you, Tony?’

‘Plsss...’

‘Well, Tony, was it fun?’

‘Mmmm ssssrree...’

‘Too late to be sorry, Tony. That ship sank long ago.’

‘Plsss dnt kgggh mmmi...’

Reuben snapped his fingers.

Mr Teeth put the Gameboy away and pulled out a claw hammer. Captain ABBA produced a semiautomatic.

All the moisture vanished from Logan’s mouth, tightening his throat. He held his hands up. ‘Come on, Reuben, you don’t have to prove—’

‘I’m not an unreasonable man, Tony, I’m going to give you a choice.’ Reuben reached out and took the claw hammer. ‘You want this or the gun?’