Ian Rankin: Mortal Causes

More barriers were being erected, and Rebus saw van doors open and half a dozen police marksmen appear, their chests covered by black body armour.

'Is Kilpatrick okay?’

Lauderdale asked.

'Should be, depends on the ambulance.’

'How much stuff does Soutar have?’

Rebus tried to remember. 'It's not just explosives, he's probably toting AK 47s, pistols and ammo, maybe grenades…’

'Christ almighty.’

Lauderdale spoke into his radio. 'Where are they?’

The radio crackled to life. 'Can't you see them yet?’

'No.’

'They're right in front of you.’

Rebus looked up. Yes, here they came. Maybe they were expecting a trap, maybe not. Whichever, it was still a suicide mission. They might get in, but they weren't going to get out.

'Ready!' Lauderdale called. The marksmen checked their guns and pointed them ahead. There were police cars behind the barriers. The uniforms had stopped moving people away. They wanted to watch. More onlookers were arriving all the time, keen for this preliminary event.

In the lead car, Davey Soutar was alone. He seemed to think about ramming the barricade, then braked hard instead, bringing his car to a stop. Behind him, four other cars slowed and halted. Davey sat frozen in his seat. Lauderdale lifted a megaphone.

'Bring your hands where we can see them.’

The car doors behind Davey were opening. Metal clattered to the ground as guns were thrown down. Some of the Gar-B started to run for it, others, seeing the armed police, got out slowly with hands held high. Others were awaiting instructions. One of them, a young kid, no older than fourteen, lost his nerve and ran straight for the police lines.

Overhead, the first fireworks burst into brief life with a noise like old-fashioned gunfire and mortar. The sky sizzled, the glow lighting the scene.

At the first noise, most people flinched instinctively. The armed police dropped to a crouch, others spread themselves on the ground. The kid who'd been running towards the barriers started screaming, in fright, then fell to his hands and knees.

Behind him, Davey Soutar's car was empty.

He'd shuffled into the passenger seat, opened the door, and made a dash to the pavement. Running low, it took him only seconds to disappear into the mass of pedestrians.

'Did anyone see? Did he have a gun?’

The Army personnel moved in warily on the lead car, while police started rounding up the Gar-B. More weapons were jettisoned. Lauderdale moved in to supervise his men.

And John Rebus was after Soutar.

The one place there wasn't much of a crowd was George Street: you couldn't see the fireworks from there. So Rebus had little trouble following Soutar. The sky turned from red to green to blue, with small pops and the occasional huge explosion: Each explosion had Rebus squirming, thinking of the bomb disposal unit busy back at Soutar's car. When the wind changed, it carried with it wafts of musical accompaniment from the orchestra in the Gardens. Chase music it wasn't.

Soutar ran with loose energy, almost bouncing. He covered a lot of ground, but it wasn't a straight line. He did a lot of weaving from side to side, covering most of the width of the pavement. Rebus concentrated on closing the gap, moving forwards like he was on rails. His eyes were on Soutar's hands. As long as he could see those hands, see they weren't carrying anything, he was content.

For all Soutar's crazy progress, Rebus was losing ground on the younger man, except when Soutar turned to look back at his pursuer. That's what he was doing when he ran out into the road and bounced off a taxi cab. The cab was on St Andrew's Square. The driver stuck his head out the window, then pulled it in again fast when Soutar drew his gun.

It looked like a service revolver to Rebus. Soutar fired a shot through the cab window, then started running again. He was slower now, with a slouch announcing a damaged right leg.

Rebus glanced in at the cab driver. He'd thrown up all over his knees, but was unhurt.

Give it up, Rebus thought, his lungs on fire. Give it up.

But Soutar kept moving. He ran through the bus station, dodging the single-deckers as they moved in and out of their ranks. The few waiting passengers could see he was armed, and stared in horror as he flew past them, jacket flapping, for all the world like a scarecrow come to life.

Rebus followed him up James Craig Walk, across the top of Leith Street, and into Waterloo Place. Soutar stopped for a moment, as though trying to come. to a decision. His' right hand still gripped the revolver. He saw Rebus moving steadily in his direction, and dropped to one knee, taking two-handed aim with the revolver. Rebus stepped into a doorway and waited -for a shot that didn't come. When he peered out again, Soutar had vanished.

Rebus walked slowly towards where Soutar had been. He was nowhere on the street, but a couple of yards further on was a gateway, and beyond it some steps. The steps led to the top of Calton Hill. Rebus took a final deep breath and accepted the challenge.

The rough steps up to the summit were busy with people climbing and descending. Most of them were young and had been drinking. Rebus couldn't even summon the breath to yell something, 'Stop him' or 'Get out of his way'. He knew if he tried to spit, the stuff would be like paste. All he could do was follow.

At the top, Calton Hill was crowded with people sitting on the grass, all eyes turned towards the Castle. The view would have been breathtaking, had Rebus had any breath to spare. The music was being piped up here too. Smoke drifted south across the city, followed by more tinsel colour and rockets. It was like being the onlooker at a medieval siege. A lot of people were drunk. Some were stoned. It wasn't gunpowder you could smell up here.

Rebus had a good look around. He'd lost Davey Soutar. There was no street lighting here, and crowds of people, mostly young and dressed in denim. Easy to lose someone.

Too damned easy.

Soutar could be heading down the other side of the hill, or snaking back down the roadway to Waterloo Place. Or he could be hiding amongst people who looked just like him. Except that the night air was chill. Rebus could feel it turning his sweat cold. And Soutar was only wearing a denim jacket.

As a huge firework burst over the Castle, and everyone stared up at the sky and gasped and cheered, Rebus looked for the one person who wasn't watching. The one person with his head down. The one person shivering like he'd never get warm again. He was sitting on the grass verge, next to a couple of girls who were drinking from cans and;waving what looked like luminous rubber tubes. The girls had moved away from him a little, so that he looked the way he was: all alone in the world. Behind him on the grass was a gang of bikers, all muscle and gut. They were shouting and swearing, proclaiming hate of the English and all things foreign.

Rebus walked up to Davey Soutar, and Davey Soutar looked up.

And it wasn't him.

This kid was a couple of years younger, strung out on something, his eyes unable to focus.

'Hey,' one of the bikers yelled, 'you trying to pick up my pal?’

Rebus held up his hands. 'My mistake,' he said.

He turned around fast. Davey Soutar was behind him. He'd slipped off his jacket and had wound it around his right arm, all the way down to the wrist and the hand. Rebus knew what was in the hand, disguised now by the grubby denim.

'Okay, pigmeat, let's walk.’

Rebus knew he had to get Soutar away from the crowd. There were probably five bullets still in the revolver. Rebus didn't want any more bodies, not if he could help it.

They walked to the car park. There was a hot-food van doing good business, and a few cars, their drivers and passengers biting into burgers. It was darker here, and quieter. There wasn't much action here.