Close to the Bone

48

A ball of smoke coiled up into the drizzle as Logan and Rennie dived to the ground. Then a moment of silence, broken only by Sim groaning.

The door lay half-open. A shotgun was fixed to the back, mounted in a makeshift metal frame, both barrels sawn off down to the wooden grip. Barking exploded from somewhere down the gloomy corridor. Then the scrabble of claws on tile and a gigantic Alsatian burst into view, going so fast it skidded into the wood cladding on its way around the corner. Big red mouth snapping around a million glittering teeth as it charged down the hallway at them.

‘Gah!’ Rennie lunged forward, grabbed the end of the blue pipe and hauled the door closed again.

THUD — the Alsatian slammed into the back of the door, barking and growling.

Logan scurried over to Sim, through the wet grass.

She lay on her back, both arms curled up and in, clawed hands covering her face.

He pulled them apart. . Blood trickled down her left cheek, more from her forehead. Little slivers of wood stuck out of her skin like quills.

‘Are you OK? ’

‘Oh. . poop!’

Logan helped her to sit up while the dog hurled itself against the door.

So much for the element of surprise.

The front of her stab-proof vest was a mess — the Kevlar torn and peppered with splinters. Logan undid the straps and hauled it off her.

The black T-shirt underneath was soaked with sweat, but other than that, she was fine. He sat back on his heels. ‘You lucky sod.’

‘Ow. .’ She stuck a hand in the middle of her chest and pushed. ‘Like being kicked by a cow. .’

‘Door must’ve taken most of the blast.’

‘Jeepers. .’

Rennie peered in through the hole in the door, then ducked back as the dog lunged, teeth snapping, at the gap. ‘Aaagh! Good doggy, nice doggy.’

‘Can you stand? ’ Logan pulled her to her feet.

‘Ow. .’

The whole bloody thing was a disaster.

‘Will you shut that dog up? ’

Rennie flattened himself along the side of the door. ‘If you’ve got any good ideas. .’

Sim grimaced, levering herself upright. Then stuck out her hand. ‘Pepper-spray.’

Logan dug it out of his pocket and handed it over.

She lurched towards the door, snapping the cap off. ‘Right, you hairy little poop.’ The flat of her palm smacked into the wooden surface a couple of times and the dog went berserk, snapping at the opening. She gave it a faceful of spray.

Barking. Slavering. Barking. Silence. A high-pitched yelp burst out from the other side of the door. Then whining and yowling.

Sim shouldered the door open. No bang this time.

Inside, the place stank of wet dog, pepper, bleach, and something meaty: like oxtail soup.

The Alsatian was tearing around in a tight circle, back hunched, tail between its legs. Sim marched into the gloomy corridor, grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, and hauled open the nearest door. It was a filthy galley kitchen with yellow linoleum, a cracked sink, and a prehistoric electric cooker — a huge pot bubbling away on the stove. Sim hurled the dog inside and slammed the door on it.

‘Never send a man to do a woman’s job.’

Logan’s shoes clacked on the chipped floor tiles. By the front door a flight of stairs led up to a small landing, doglegging around to the left. A white glow seeped out from beneath the other doors lining the corridor, making it look as if the place had been fitted with trendy mood lighting. He tried a handle, and it swung open on the surface of the sun. .

Harsh light jabbed into his corneas, followed by a wash of heat that tried to squeeze the air from his lungs.

He stuck one hand up, shielding his eyes, and the room slowly faded into view. Two rows of lights hung from the ceiling, blazing down on a sea of chest-high cannabis plants, their dark-green five-fingered leaves gleaming. A walkway snaked between the aisles of growbags, lengths of black plastic tube looping from plant to plant. The walls were papered with tinfoil, bouncing the glaring light around the muggy room.

The other two downstairs rooms were the same, the only difference being the colour of the light bulbs.

Whoever it was, they’d gone from stealing the McLeods’ to growing their own.

Back to the hallway.

‘OK,’ Logan pointed over his head, ‘on three, we-’

A loud bang and chunks of plaster exploded out from the wall by his head.

Back into the nearest cannabis hothouse. Rennie went crashing through a stand of plants, Sim slithered to a halt on the other side of the door.

Slivers of tile erupted from the floor, then twice more as bullets turned them into shrapnel.

Logan dropped to his hands and knees and peered around the doorframe.

A man in boxer shorts and a long black bathrobe stood at the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, a semi-automatic pistol in the other. White socks on his feet. A thick joint stuck out between his bared teeth, smoke curling through his patchy beard and long black hair. Eyes narrow and bloodshot. He wobbled from side to side, then raised the gun and squinted one eye shut.

It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t be.

BOOM — the noise reverberated back and forth from the walls as another chunk of plaster erupted into dust. Nowhere near where they were hiding. Too drunk and stoned to hit the side of a bus.

Could it?

Logan had to shout over the ringing in his ears. ‘Anthony? Anthony Chung? ’

The gun wobbled around again, barked twice, tearing twin holes in the door opposite.

Rennie scrambled back through the cannabis plants, five-fingered leaves sticking in his hair. ‘But Anthony Chung’s dead!’

BOOM — another floor tile exploded.

‘Yeah, well, as ghosts go, he’s not taking it lying down, is he? ’

‘You said his dad ID’d the body!’

BOOM, BOOM — one in the doorframe, one in the wall.

His dad was obviously a lying bastard. Not only was Anthony Chung very much alive, there wasn’t a tribal tattoo on the left side of his neck.

Sim wiped a dribble of blood from her eyes. ‘We can’t just sit here like a bunch of lemons.’

BOOM — the ceiling got that one, dust drifting down and shining in the light from the open growing-room door.

Rennie licked his lips. ‘We rush him. His aim’s crap, right? We all run at him at the same time and. .’ He stared at Logan. ‘What? ’

‘You’re an idiot. We are not charging a man with a loaded-’

BOOM — another floor tile.

Click.

Logan stuck his head around the door again. Anthony Chung had one eye squeezed shut, holding the gun up in front of his face — moving it backwards and forward as if that would help get it in focus. The slide was racked all the way back, the round barrel protruding a good three inches, smoke curling from the hole.

He staggered back a step, then his eyebrows shot up and he dropped the Jack Daniels bottle. Reached for his dressing-gown pocket.

Logan charged, the shattered tiles gritty beneath his feet.

The bottle of bourbon hit the stair carpet and bounced, amber liquid spraying from the open neck.

Anthony Chung’s hand disappeared into his pocket.

The bottom step creaked as Logan launched himself up the stairs, taking them two at a time, arms and legs pumping.

The hand reappeared with a huge chrome-plated semi-automatic.

Three more steps.

The gun came up, pointing right between Logan’s eyes.

Too slow. .

Anthony Chung grinned. ‘Bye, bye.’ And pulled the trigger.