Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

The door opened.

A mountain of muscle stood on the top step: six foot tall and almost as wide, arms like tree trunks, angular features, receding mullet. Kravchenko's right-hand man.

Logan got as far as, 'Oh f-' before the fist slammed into his stomach. He crumpled, all the breath rushing out of him in one painful wheeze, and then his legs gave way and he crashed onto the black-and-white tiles.

Mr Mullet stepped inside, grabbed Logan by the ankles and dragged him further back into the hall. Then went back and closed the door.

Logan tried to roll over, tried to get up, but he could barely move.

Shout. Warn Wiktorja. DO SOMETHING!

Mr Mullet flicked the deadbolt into place.

Logan dragged in a rattling breath. Oh GOD that hurt.

The huge Polish man squatted down over Logan's chest. Grabbed a handful of hair, drew back a massive fist. 'Dobranoc policyjna suko.'

Darkness.

Sharp stabbing pain. Logan groaned, coughed, opened his eyes. Then really wished he hadn't.

He was in some sort of warehouse. Golden sunlight streamed through a series of small windows twenty feet above his head, a row of partially dismantled metal shelves casting shadows across the dirty concrete floor.

He was lying on his side, arms behind his back, shoulders aching along with everything else. Handcuffs, or cable-ties around his wrists, the same around his ankles.

Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.

His stomach ached, and his head felt as if something was trying to claw its way free. A rabid hangover fighting with a punch in the face. His mouth tasted of blood, and one of his teeth was loose.

Sodding hell.

Logan coughed again, the movement sending another wave of fire through his scarred stomach. He hissed in pain…

'Ah, you are awake. This is good.' Foreign accent, heavily laced with Eastern Europe. 'Turn him around, Grigor.'

Mr Mullet appeared, grabbed Logan by the collar, hauled him around through ninety degrees, then dropped him back to the floor again. And there he was: Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, looking almost exactly as he had in Rory Simpson's e-fit.

Only this time he was smiling. 'So glad you can join us, Detective Sergeant. I begin to worry Grigor hit you too hard. He is still have grudge from when you pepper-spray him.' He looked up for a second. 'Grigor, please to fetch our other guests.'

Another grunt and Grigor marched into view, then out through a side door. There was a sudden flash of blue sky and green weeds before the door swung shut again.

'Now,' said Kravchenko, squatting down in front of Logan, 'Detective Sergeant, you are man of honour, yes?'

Logan coughed again, then spat out a mouthful of blood — aiming for the old bastard, but getting nowhere near.

The Russian smiled. 'A man of fire as well. I like that.' He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling the fabric up to his elbows. 'You know who I am, yes?'

'You won't get away with it.'

Laughter. 'Do people really say this? Like in bad movie, is big cliche.' He pulled something from his pocket. It was a Swiss Army knife. 'I have business proposition for you.' He put the knife on the dusty concrete between them. 'I want Aberdeen. I want her drugs and her prostitutes. You want long, happy life. Is fair swap, yes?'

'I'm a police officer. If you kill me-'

'No, no, is not worry. I not kill you.' He produced a small tin of lighter fluid and placed it next to the knife.

Oh dear Jesus.

The side door banged open and Rory Simpson staggered in, hands tied together, his nose at a jaunty angle to his bloody face. Grigor was next, with a half-dressed, struggling woman thrown over his shoulder. Wiktorja — wearing a pair of jeans and a bra, bound hand and foot. She was screaming something behind a gag of duct tape.

Kravchenko pointed. 'Thank you, Grigor: over there.'

The big man put a hand on the small of Rory's back and shoved, sending him tumbling to the floor. Then Wiktorja was unceremoniously dumped next to him.

Logan thrashed against the concrete. 'Let them go!'

'I am think not.' Kravchenko picked up the knife. 'You will work for me. You will be my… how is called: eyes and ears? Yes?'

'Thought you already had a bent copper in your pocket.'

Kravchenko frowned. 'What is "bent copper"?'

'A policeman. You've already got some bastard working for you, why do you need me?'

'Ah, I see… sorry, my English is not so good sometimes.' He unfolded a curved blade from the knife. 'A businessman never have too much staff. So: you will work for me, yes?'

Logan closed his eyes. Screwing them tight, as if that would make them stab-proof. 'Yes. Yes, I'll work for you. Just let everyone go.'

'Good. This is good.'

Logan felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched.

'Now, just in case you are lying… Grigor, bring the fat one.'

Rory screamed.

Logan opened his eyes. Grigor was dragging Rory across the floor, the little man kicking and struggling all the way, tears streaming down his face. 'DON'T LET THEM HURT ME! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T LET THEM HURT ME!'

Logan looked up at Kravchenko. 'You've made your point. I'm not lying — I'll do whatever you want. Let him go.'

Kravchenko shook his head. 'First we must take care of Mr Simpson. Grigor?'

'YOU PROMISED! YOU SAID YOU'D… ulk-'

The burly man wrapped one arm around Rory's throat, pulling his head up, the other arm clamped over the top to keep it in place. Now when Rory screamed all that came out was a muffled squeak.

Kravchenko pinched Rory's bottom eyelid between his finger and thumb, pulling it down. 'How can you be eye witness with no eyes?'

Logan: 'You don't have to do this! I said I'd work for you!'

The curved blade shone in the cavernous warehouse. And then it went in, between the lid and the eyeball. A twist of the wrist and blood poured down Rory's face, soaking into Grigor's sleeve. Another muffled scream. And then a bloody eye sailed through the air, bouncing in the dust at Logan's feet.

'Oh Jesus…'

More screaming.

He was going to be sick.

The second eye joined it a minute later, rolling to a halt, its surface speckled with bits of grit and spots of blood.

Blue. They were both blue. Lying there, staring at Logan.

The screaming stopped. Rory slumped, and Grigor let him slide to the floor.

Kravchenko picked up the lighter fluid. 'You must to be very careful with the burning. Too much and they die. To little…' Shrug. 'There is no point burning them at all, yes?'

He flipped up the little red cap and Grigor nudged Rory over onto his back. The little man's eyes were just two ragged slits, surrounded by glistening red. Logan couldn't look.

The smell of burning meat.

The sound of crackling skin.

The car door opened and Logan fell. With both hands still tied behind his back, he couldn't do anything but slam into the hard ground, then lie there, groaning in claustrophobic darkness. No idea where he was.

'Clunk' Then the crunch of feet on dry earth, getting closer — someone walking around the vehicle towards him. Rough hands on his shoulders, dragging him backwards until he was completely out of the car. And then the darkness lifted as Kravchenko pulled the bag off Logan's head. The change from pitch black to bright sunshine was sudden and painful.

They were in a lay-by surrounded by trees. A grass verge full of yellow dandelions and tangled brambles. An abandoned armchair, the fabric stained and fraying. A ripped open bin-bag with its contents strewn across the undergrowth.

Kravchenko smiled down at him. 'Please to remember, Detective Sergeant, you do what you are told. And everything is happy.'

'Let her go.'

'I am sorry, Senior Constable Jaroszewicz is stay with me until I trust you.' Kravchenko put his foot against Logan's shoulder and pushed him over onto his back. 'You have been ask questions about Krystka Gorzalkowska, yes? Very pretty girl, is good, but she not like to make film with men, want go to policja, but Grigor is play with her. Very rough.' The smile vanished. He hooked a thumb at his driver. 'If I can not trust you, Senior Constable Jarosewicz is blinded. Only I let Grigor play with her first. And when he is finished with her, I let him play with you.'