Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘What the hell did Mr Mowat ever see in you? Heir to the throne my arse. You haven’t got the balls to...’ Reuben raised an eyebrow and stared at the gun. Then snorted. ‘Aye, right.’

The semiautomatic was getting heavier with every heartbeat, and every time he tried to swallow, his throat closed up. The silencer’s black cylinder wavered, then drifted up to point at Reuben’s chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Genuinely? You think this scares me?’

Urquhart backed away a couple of steps. ‘Guys?’

Reuben laughed. Then squatted down and opened the holdall at his feet. ‘See, the trouble with people like you, McRae, is you’re all gob and no panties. Think a gun makes you a big man? Nah.’

‘I’m not screwing about. Put your hands behind your head.’

‘What makes you a big man, is being a man .’ Reuben pulled a sawn-off shotgun from the bag and stood. ‘Gun’s only a tool.’

Urquhart backed off some more. ‘Come on, let’s not do anything we’re going to regret, right?’

‘Reuben, hands behind your head. Now .’

‘A tool’s only as good as the craftsman who wields it.’ He cracked the shotgun open and slid two cartridges into the breech. ‘Mr Mowat told me that. Wise man, till it came to you.’ Clack , the shotgun was closed again. ‘See, you’re weak, so—’

Logan shot him.

The silencer’s phut didn’t even echo.

Reuben rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t go down. He stared at the spot of red seeping into the leg of his overalls, turning the green material a dark purple. ‘You...’ He glared at Logan. Then the shotgun came up.

Buggering hell.

Logan dived over the wall of the nearest sty, battering down amongst the huge pink bodies as a loud BOOOOOM reverberated back from the corrugated metal walls, followed by a clatter of shot.

Chunks of breezeblock sparked into the air, falling as gritty dust.

The pigs squealed, dirty hooves scrabbling at the straw bedding as they tried to get away. But the sty was barely big enough to turn around in. They barged against Logan, knocking him down, snouts and teeth flashing all around him.

‘GET OUT HERE YOU WEE SHITE!’

BOOOOOM .

Gah...

How could he miss? The guy was huge and all he’d managed to hit was a leg ?

Clack , then the hollow rattle of empty shotgun cartridges hitting the concrete floor.

Now.

Logan snapped up to his knees, bringing the gun up two-handed. Phut. Phut .

Only Reuben wasn’t where he was meant to be.

Clack .

For a big guy, he moved incredibly fast. He’d got himself inside one of the other sties, sawn-off shotgun up and ready.

Logan ducked again.

BOOOOOM .

Something stung his cheek, like a wasp.

Up.

Phut .

Reuben grunted as red spread across his left shoulder. BOOOOOM .

The blast clattered against the breezeblocks as Logan dived amongst the pigs again.

‘YOU’RE DEAD, MCRAE, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE DEAD AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW IS DEAD!’

Clack . More shotgun cartridges hitting the floor.

Logan stuck his arm above the parapet and pulled the trigger. Not aiming, just hoping. Phut, phut .

‘DEAD!’

He scrambled to his feet, and there was Reuben.

The big man had Urquhart, holding him up by the armpits, arms wrapped around his chest. Urquhart’s head lolled to the side, blood darkening the front of his suit jacket.

Logan brought the gun up. ‘Put him down.’

Reuben still had the shotgun in his hand, only he couldn’t point it without letting go of Urquhart. ‘This is all your fault.’

Couldn’t get a clear shot with Urquhart acting as a human shield.

‘Put — him — down.’

The big man backed towards the far door, dragging Urquhart with him. ‘This isn’t over, McRae.’

‘I’m warning you, Reuben: put — him — down!’

‘This isn’t over by a long way.’

He stepped out through the door, letting in a whirl of snow, slamming it shut behind him.

Logan vaulted from the sty and ran, gun up and ready. Reuben wasn’t getting—

BOOOOOM .

The shotgun blast ripped through the corrugated iron door, grabbed Logan by the chest and hurled him to the concrete floor.

‘Unnngh...’

The smell of fireworks fought against the piggy stench.

His whole front screamed in searing agony, like he’d been trampled by a burning elephant.

‘Ow...’

It took three goes to get to his knees.

The front of his cagoule was shredded, the stabproof vest beneath it torn and tattered. Bits of stuffing poked out, exposing the buckled armoured plate.

Every breath was laced with jagged shards of hot copper.

‘Arrrgh.’

He pulled himself up one of the sties and stood there, one hand holding his chest, the other holding the gun.

By the time he lurched out through the punctured door, Reuben’s Land Rover was nowhere to be seen.

Logan peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the bathroom floor. Locked the door. Shuddered in the darkness. Then pulled the cord.

The light on the medicine cabinet flickered on, casting a bluish-white glow, pushing back the gloom. It washed the colour from his skin, turning it pale and ghostly. A walking corpse. Shot in the chest.

He stepped closer to the mirror, where the light was brightest.

It had been what, an hour since Reuben tried to blow a hole in him? And the bruising hadn’t come up yet. But when it did, it would be huge . His whole chest was red and swollen, with purple contusions in the middle where the majority of the shot had hit. When he prodded them, it was like rubbing vinegar into a fresh cut. Thank God the blast had to travel through that metal door first, or the stabproof vest wouldn’t have stood a chance. The guys who ran Reuben’s pig farm would’ve been cleaning up his innards for days.

Bee-sting lumps speckled his cheek — six or seven of them, all about the size of a Smarty, each one with a dark dot at the centre, as if he was a teenager again, covered with blackheads. It hurt, but Logan squeezed one of them between his thumbnails until a tiny pellet plopped into the sink, leaving a plume of pink as it sank through the water.

One was barely an inch below his left eye.

Lucky he wasn’t blinded. Lucky the door had been there. Lucky he wasn’t pig food.

Yeah. He was a lucky, lucky guy.

He gritted his teeth and squeezed out the other flecks of shot. Then opened the bathroom cabinet as tiny rosebuds of blood bloomed on his cheeks and chin. A dusty old ceramic bottle of Old Spice was half-buried behind all the moisturizers and exfoliants and cleaners and hand cream. He eased it out and splashed a couple of shakes into his palm — like Henry Cooper used to do on the adverts — rubbed his hands together, then patted at the bleeding holes.

Dear... sodding... Christ , that stung.

Logan closed his eyes hissing breath in and out. In and out. Until it settled to a steady throb. Arrrrgh... That hurt more than being shot.

A brittle laugh burst free, but he stamped on it. Forced it down.

Shuddered.

Almost killed someone tonight. Not by accident. Not in self-defence. On purpose. Premeditated.

And who knew, maybe he had actually killed someone: maybe he’d killed John Urquhart? Maybe Urquhart had caught one of those random unaimed bullets? Or maybe he’d not backed away far enough when Reuben brought the shotgun out?

The bathroom mirror was cold against his forehead.

Idiot.

Why did he have to miss that first shot? This would all be over by now.