Blind Eye. Stuart MacBride

were already clad; doors hung; double glazing in; architrave, windowsills and skirting nailed in place. Logan froze on the top step and whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’

      ‘What…?’ Steel frowned. ‘Why the hell are we creeping about?’ She took a deep breath, ‘POLICE! Come out with your hands up and no one has to get hurt!’

      A voice sounded in one of the bedrooms: ‘Kurwa!’

      A figure exploded out of the open bedroom door – large, male, it was difficult to tell much more than that in the dark. He had something in his hand. Something long, that glinted in a rogue sliver of light. Crowbar.

      He tried to take Logan’s head off with it, swinging the thing like a broadsword.

      Logan ducked and it whistled by close enough to ruffle his hair before embedding itself in the plasterboard. Logan slammed his fist into the man’s stomach.

      He didn’t collapse and roll about on the floor in agony, he just grunted and yanked the crowbar out of the wall, taking a puffball of Rockwool with it.

      Oh God…

      Logan flipped the cap off his pepper-spray and gave him a liberal dose in the eyes.

      ‘Aaaaghh… Matkojebca!’

      It was close quarters. Too close. The jet hit and spattered back off the man’s face, a mist of stinging liquid that coated everything within a three-foot radius. Including Logan.

      ‘Ah, Jesus!’ It was like being sandpapered with dried chillies, his eyes were on fire, he could barely breathe.

      The crowbar smashed into the balustrade, bounced, and went spiralling down the stairwell.

      Steel swore.

      Clang, crash, bang, wallop.

      When Logan peeled his eyes open again, the man at the top of the stairs was just a blurry figure: on his knees, swearing and panting.

      God that stuff stung…

      Steel shoved past Logan shouting, ‘POLICE! Get your arse—’ She smashed backwards into the balusters with a splintering crack.

      Logan staggered against the wall, trying to peer through the pain and tears as a second figure loomed at the top of the stairs. Logan dragged up the canister of pepper-spray. ‘You! Face down on the ground!’

      The man stepped forwards, right arm whipping out, grabbing Logan’s spraying hand and twisting it back on itself.

      Logan swung a left hook, but the man blocked it, took hold of the sleeve and yanked him off balance.

      ‘Let go you bas—’

      A knee slammed into Logan’s stomach, and his world went from bad to worse. The pepper-spray was painful, but this was agony, tearing across his scarred abdomen. His legs gave way.

      A hand wrapped itself into his hair, pulling his face up.

      Even through pepper-spray blur the silhouette was unmistakeable: a semiautomatic pistol. The man pressed the barrel against Logan’s forehead, cold metal on hot skin.

      At this range the bullet would leave a little burnt halo around the entry wound as superheated gas forced the chunk of copper-jacketed lead out of the barrel and into Logan’s skull. The hole would be about the same size as a garden pea on the way in, bigger than a grapefruit on the way out, spreading grey and pink and red all over the nice new plasterboard walls.

      Logan closed his stinging eyes.

      And then the Airwave handset in his pocket went off, the voice of Control announcing that backup was on its way.

      The man let go of Logan’s hair and patted him on the cheek.

      ‘You are lucky boy today,’ he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. ‘I let you live. You remember this.’

      Then he was gone, dragging his fallen friend with him.

       6

      Logan knelt on the floor with his forehead resting against the cool chipboard. He was still alive… Oh thank God.

      He could hear the gunman and his friend thumping down the stairs; Steel groaning; a magpie cackling somewhere outside; the blood singing in his ears. Fear-induced adrenaline made his whole body tremble.

      Maybe now would be a good time to be sick?

      A crash sounded from downstairs and Logan struggled to his feet, forcing his wobbly legs to take him to the big window at the far end of the hall. It was double-glazed, the glass covered in blue plastic to keep it clean and scratch free while it was being installed. He twisted the handle and wrenched it open. The world was a blurry haze. Logan wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and squinted through the tears.

      The gunman had made it out of the front door – he was half dragging, half carrying his friend across the dry mud of the drive.

      Logan scrubbed at his eyes again, but the two men wouldn’t stay in focus. And then they were on the pavement and the tarpaulin-draped scaffolding that covered the house hid them from view.

      He clambered out of the window and onto the little walkway of boards outside. They bounced beneath his feet as he staggered to the outer edge, yanking back a green tarpaulin sheet. Logan took a deep breath and yelled: ‘STOP POLICE!’

      They didn’t even turn around. The two blurry figures hurried along the pavement towards the CID pool car: the one with Rory Simpson handcuffed in the back.

      For a brief moment Logan caught sight of a pale blob – Rory’s face, peering up from the gap between the front and back seats – and then the gunman and his friend were past.

      They disappeared from view, and the sound of a car starting echoed up from the street below. The engine roared, the wheels spun, and it accelerated away: getting out of there before the sound of distant sirens got any closer.

      They were gone.

      Logan staggered back to the landing, where Steel was lying slouched against the cracked woodwork of the banisters, head lolling, making incoherent mumbling noises.

      ‘Inspector? Are you OK?’

      ‘Nnnffff … can’t find my hat … mphhhh…’

      Logan dug out his Airwave handset and called Control, telling them to get an ambulance over here ASAP. He slumped back against the banisters next to Steel, listening to the background chatter of the control room as it got everything organized.

      His stomach ached, the initial biting pain settling down to a dull throb. His face wasn’t much better. No doubt about it – they came, they saw, and they got their arses kicked.

      Logan stared through the open doorway into the darkness of the bedroom the gunman had burst out of. There was something lying on the floor.

      He grunted his way to his feet and wobbled into the room.

      It was a large bedroom, complete with ensuite shower, he could just make out the tiles glittering in the gloom. The whole place smelled of scorched meat.

      The something lying on the floor was a man, smoke curling up from the holes where his eyes used to be.

      He was large, heavily built, muscle just starting to turn to fat. Half of his left ear was missing. Simon McLeod.

      Logan didn’t think it was possible, but today had just got even worse.

      The ambulance sat on the road beside the skip, flanked by a pair of patrol cars. Half a dozen uniformed officers were already going door-to-door. Logan watched their fuzzy, out-of-focus figures from the tailgate of the ambulance, while a paramedic rummaged about in the back.

      ‘Right,’ said the man, dressed in a wrinkly green jumpsuit, ‘head back and we’ll wash that crap out