Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'Sodding hell!'

Maybe they'd doubled back, or were hiding in one of the sheds, or-

Next door, someone screamed.

'How did they get…' Logan drifted to a halt, staring at the old washhouse. The roof slates were covered in a thin layer of green and grey moss, except for a line of scuff marks that stood out dark grey in the sunlight.

The firearms officer limped up next to him. 'What are we-'

'Give me a boost.' Logan waved him over, then stepped into his cupped hands, using the leg-up to clamber onto the sloping roof. From there he could see into next door's garden.

A woman was hunched up on a sun-lounger, towel clutched over her naked chest. 'Bugger off, you dirty bastards!'

Mr Mullet and his friend were already scrambling over the wall on the far side into the street beyond.

'Damn it.'

'What? What's happening? Help me up!'

Logan didn't. He ran up the roof, and jumped off, landing in a small vegetable patch. He fought his way through the purple sprouting broccoli, then ran across the garden. Behind him, he could hear the firearms officer swearing his way up onto the washhouse roof.

The wall on the far side was only six foot. Logan jumped, got his elbows over and hauled himself up as the firearms officer crashed head-first into a steaming compost heap. 'Aaaagh!'

Logan dropped onto the pavement.

He was on Grampian Road: parked cars, trees covered in emerald leaves, four-storey granite tenements with identical gardens of sun-wilted grass. The looming bulk of Sacred Heart Catholic Church sat in the background, still covered in scaffolding.

The street wasn't busy, just an old man walking his dog, a young woman with a pushchair, and a blond-haired kid on a skateboard.

And there — running across the road — the two men from the shop.

Logan yelled, 'STOP, POLICE! POLICJA! UNDERSTAND?'

It didn't work. It never worked.

Logan ran after them, bringing his borrowed Heckler & Koch MP5 up to his shoulder. 'HALT, OR I WILL SHOOT!'

The small wiry one yanked open the driver's door of a battered Mini Cooper and leapt inside. Mr Mullet spun round, his gun pointing directly at Logan's face.

Logan shot him.

Or tried to.

The MP5 just went 'click'.

'Bloody hell!'

Mr Mullet didn't have the same problem. His pistol worked: the bullet ricocheted off the roof of a Fiat Punto three feet from Logan's head.

The woman with the pushchair grabbed her child and ran for the nearest building. The old man hid behind a rusty four-by-four. But the boy on the skateboard just trundled slowly down the middle of the road, staring, mouth hanging open.

There was a grunt and the firearms officer clattered onto the pavement beside Logan. He stank, eggshells and rotten vegetables smeared all over his back and trousers. Another bullet clanged into the Punto.

The officer returned fire, but Mr Mullet was already clambering into the passenger seat. The Mini roared away from the kerb, leaving a cloud of vaporized rubber behind.

'SHOOT THE TYRES!'

They ran out into the road, Logan fumbling with the breech bolt on his MP5, trying to eject the jammed round, while the officer let off two more shots. Both slammed into the car's boot as it accelerated away.

The Mini was heading straight for the boy on the skateboard.

At the last moment it swerved around him, close enough to make his red tracksuit flap as it passed. He turned to watch it, slack-jawed.

The firearms officer said, 'Bugger this…' and thumbed his MP5 onto automatic. BRRRRRRRRRRT. Brass shell casings cascaded onto the street as bullets pinged and clanged into the Mini's boot. Logan lunged, slapping the barrel up.

Silence. Now the only noise was the squealing of tyres as the car fishtailed around the corner onto Glenbevie Road and then it was gone.

The firearms officer turned on him. 'What the hell did you do that for?'

'You've got your gun on automatic, outside, with bloody civilians in the line of fire! What is wrong with you?'

'Wrong with me? You're the one who let them get away!'

The first ambulance roared away from the Krakow General Store, lights flashing as the driver raced to Accident and Emergency. The second ambulance followed thirty seconds later, the wail of the sirens fading into the distance.

Two patrol cars sat on the other side of the road, flickering lights barely visible in the sunny afternoon. A couple of uniforms were making a cordon around the scene, stretching a roll of blue-and-white 'POLICE' tape along a perimeter of orange traffic cones, shutting off this side of the road.

What a disaster…

Logan turned away from the shattered shop window.

The place was a mess of broken glass, bloodstains, and overturned display stands — boxes of Eastern European cornflakes swelling up in a puddle of dark red.

Finnie slapped his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and scowled at Logan. 'Well?'

'Shopkeeper's touch and go: lost a lot of blood, but if they can get him into surgery… maybe. Both hoodies have concussion and one's-'

'Do I look like I care about the hoodies? What about the bloody firearms team?'

'Oh… right. Sergeant Caldwell's nose is broken, but other than that she's OK. Banks isn't so good. Paramedic says he's going to need a hell of a lot of stitches, probably a skin graft. He's lucky the broken bottle didn't go in half an inch lower or it would've punctured the jugular.'

Finnie swore and kicked a pack of toilet roll the length of the shop. 'It's a bloody cock-up! Go on then,' he pointed at Logan, 'go on, say it.'

'Say what?'

'"Told you so." I should've got a bigger firearms team. Should've had uniform backup. Should've set up a bloody cordon to stop the bastards getting away.' A packet of biscuits followed the toilet paper, crunching against the far wall. 'But no, I had to play it low key.' He looked around for something else to kick.

'How were we to know there'd be guns? It was only supposed to be three hoodies from Manchester, we couldn't-'

'Oh, really? Couldn't we? You said the shopkeeper was already paying for protection: so what exactly did you think he was going to do when someone came in and smashed up the place: bake them a cake? What's the point of paying for protection if you don't use it?'

Finnie sent a box of herbal toothpaste flying. Then went back to his phone call. 'Hello? Hello? Of course I'm still here, what did you think: I was abducted by aliens?'

Logan left him haranguing whoever was on the other end of the phone, and returned to the shattered window.

A black-clad figure was wheezing its way up Victoria Road, helmet clutched in one hand, face bright red and dripping with sweat. The firearms officer Finnie had sent after Hoodie Number One.

The officer staggered to a halt outside the Krakow General Store and collapsed against the wall. 'Ah… Jesus…' Puff. Pant. He dragged out a handkerchief and scraped it across his glistening forehead.

Logan looked around, but there was no sign of Hoodie Number One. 'Please tell me you didn't let him get away.'

'I didn't… I didn't let anyone… anything…'

'How could you let him get away?'

'He… he was… he was wearing trainers…'

'Oh you're…' Logan closed his eyes and swore. 'Trainers? That's it? He was wearing trainers?'

The firearms officer slapped his bullet-proof vest, jiggled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. 'You got any… any idea… how much this… crap… weighs?' Wheeze, cough. He waved his helmet in Logan's face. 'And it's all black! I'm… sodding melting here…'

'Oh… bloody hell.' Logan grabbed a bottle of Polish mineral water from the upturned chiller cabinet and handed it to the sweaty officer. 'Here.'

The man unscrewed the top and drank deep.