Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Plsss...’

‘Going to be one or the other. What’s it to be, quick and shooty, or slow and thumpy?’

Lying at Logan’s feet, Tony sobbed.

‘Or, if you like, you could go to the pigs as you are? All thrashing and screaming as they eat you alive. Might be more fun for them. Bit of sport.’

‘Plsss...’

‘Going to have to hurry you, Tony: gun or hammer?’

‘Gnnn... Gnnn.’

‘Good boy.’ Reuben pointed with the hammer and Captain ABBA stepped onto the plastic, hauling back the semiautomatic’s slide. Chick-clack . All primed and ready to fire.

Logan hauled in a breath.

Do something.

Now.

Do it now .

Because otherwise it’d be too late and...

He frowned as Captain ABBA held the gun out to him.

The guy stood there, with the primed semiautomatic held at arm’s length by the barrel. ‘Here you go, chief.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Nope.’ Reuben shook his head. ‘See, I’ve been telling the doubters, McRae isn’t going to screw us over. McRae can be trusted. And right now I’m trusting you to put Tony out of his misery.’ A shrug. ‘And in case you’re wondering, he’s dead either way. Question is: are you on the team or not?’

OK...

Logan reached out and took the gun. Heavy. Cold. No idea what make it was, but there were Cyrillic letters above the trigger guard. He pulled the slide back a fraction, far enough to see a sliver of brass in there. Loaded. Thumbed the magazine release and let it fall into his palm. It was nearly full — had to be nine or ten shots in there.

Captain ABBA smiled. Then backed away until he was on the concrete floor again.

Really?

Logan clicked the magazine back into place, then pointed the barrel right between Tony’s eyes. Poor sod probably couldn’t see much — they were a mass of broken blood vessels set in swollen bags of dark purple. They’d broken his nose, probably his jaw too.

‘Plsss dnnnt...’

‘Come on, McRae, chop-chop. Some of us got a funeral to go to.’

‘Plsss...’

Kill Tony, or be killed. Same bloody dilemma he’d been facing for days, only with the names changed. Murder or be murdered. Round and round and on and on.

Well, enough. Time to take a stand. Go out with bang.

He was dead anyway.

Logan snapped the semiautomatic up, two-handed, and aimed right at the middle of Reuben’s chest.

‘Tsk.’ The big man shook his head. ‘Dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

‘I won’t kill for you.’

Smiler stayed where he was, hands in his trouser pockets — nowhere near his revolver. Mr Teeth remained by the door, noodling away at his game. Captain ABBA just sighed.

There was a scenario like this on the firearms training course. Only there the bad guys were printed on bits of paper stuck to chipboard. They didn’t bleed and scream and die.

Logan slowed his breathing and clicked off the safety catch.

Samantha had been right all along. This was the only way. Didn’t matter if he liked it or not, he didn’t have any choice.

‘See, McRae, that doesn’t look too trusting, does it? You’re not being a team player, there.’

Do it.

Right now.

Pull the damn trigger.

So he did.

Click .

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

Bloody gun wasn’t working.

He racked the slide back — chick-clack — sending the unfired cartridge flipping end-over-end out onto the plastic sheet, and pulled the trigger again.

Click .

Reuben grinned. ‘Do you really think I’m that stupid?’

One last go.

Chick-clack . Another cartridge went flying.

Click .

‘That’s the funny thing about guns, McRae: don’t work without a firing pin.’

Logan lowered the semiautomatic.

Idiot.

Of course they wouldn’t give him a working gun.

‘See, this whole thing’s been a test, hasn’t it, Tony?’

Lying on the floor, Tony cried.

‘A wee test to see how big your balls are, McRae.’ Reuben held out a hand and Captain ABBA handed him a white bath towel. ‘We weren’t going to shoot Tony. Nah.’ He wandered onto the plastic sheet. It scrunched beneath his rig boots. ‘Wouldn’t do that.’

Tony struggled to his knees. ‘Thhnkkk yyyy...’ His swollen lips trembled, a mixture of drool and blood spilling down his chest.

Reuben hunkered down beside him. Dabbed the towel against Tony’s face, turning the white tufts pink and red. ‘There we go. That’s better, isn’t it?’ He passed him the towel.

‘Thhhnnnk yyyy...’ Tears and snot and trembling. He held the towel over his face; blood soaked into the fabric.

‘Shhh, it’s OK.’

Logan backed away. ‘You weren’t going to kill him?’

‘Tony’s learned his lesson, haven’t you, Tony?’

‘Pllssss...’ He placed a grimy hand against his own chest, fingers splayed. ‘Immm srrrryyyy...’

Reuben stood. Stepped behind the snivelling figure and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘So, Tony, what are we going to do with Sergeant McRae? What do you think?’

The whole thing was one big set-up.

‘Shall we give him a second chance?’ Reuben’s voice chilled. ‘Or shall we show him what happens to disloyal wee shites?’ He snatched both ends of the towel and hauled, snapping Tony’s head back so his face pointed to the ceiling, covered in blood-flecked white fabric. Reuben wrapped the ends into one fist. Then battered the hammer down into Tony’s upturned towel-covered face. Once. Twice. Three times. Fast. Putting his weight behind it. The sound of cracking bone gave way to wet sucking noises as the white fabric became saturated with scarlet.

Logan stepped forward. ‘NO!’ But Smiler’s revolver appeared again, pointing right at his head. He froze.

Four. Five. Six.

Tony’s right foot twitched in time with the blows, but the rest of him sagged in place — only held upright by Reuben’s grip on the towel.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Reuben let go of the dark-red fabric and Tony’s body slumped sideways onto the plastic sheet. No movement. No breathing. A puddle of blood oozed out onto the surface.

The whole thing had taken less than eight seconds.

Logan swallowed.

Smiler kept his gun levelled at him.

‘Oh yeah.’ Reuben stood there, grinning, puffing for breath. ‘That’s what we do to them.’ He passed the hammer back to Mr Teeth, who dropped it into a plastic freezer bag and ziplocked it tight.

A shadow filled the doorway behind him, then John Urquhart stepped into the garage all dressed up in funeral black-and-white. He glanced at the body on the floor, then up at Reuben. ‘Going to have to go or we’ll miss the start.’

‘They’ll wait.’ Reuben crossed to the far side of the plastic sheet. Picked what looked like another suit carrier from the shadows and pulled out a packet of baby wipes. Rubbed a couple across his face, clearing away the tiny spatter of red dots. He kicked off his boots. ‘You screwed up, McRae. Was going to let you do the job, prove you’re trustable, but now? Nah.’

Oh he was so screwed.

Logan tightened his grip on the semiautomatic. It might be no good as a gun, but it would still work as a cudgel.

Reuben untied the arms of his boilersuit and the whole thing fell to the floor, exposing a pair of hairy legs and red pants. ‘I’m going to go bury Mr Mowat, and then I’m going to have a chat with a chief inspector friend of mine.’ A pair of black trousers came out of the carrier, and he pulled them on. ‘Tell him how you took a bribe.’

‘I didn’t take any bribe!’

A white shirt was next, buttoned up by thick brutal fingers. ‘Twenty grand over the asking price, wasn’t it? Twenty grand of Wee Hamish Mowat’s money.’