Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) (11 page)

“I don’t think the sniper’s going to fall for the chicken trick again,” said Gary.

CHAPTER 12

Graeme released a roar and knocked a jumble of ornaments off the nightstand in Craig’s room. He’d just wasted precious ammo on fucking chickens. He couldn’t believe it. This whole village was diabolical. Still, he had to admit it was a smart move, those lights moving so erratically in the pitch black had freaked him out. For a second he’d been convinced it was the ghosts of Blair Dubh and in his panic he’d fired at them.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he chided himself. That was it, enough fucking about. He had to move his plan along. The next step was to prevent the emergency services coming in before he’d completed his mission.

The wonderful thing about Blair Dubh was its isolation - dense woodland on one side and the sea on the other, only one road in or out and a single track road at that. It would be easy enough to keep them out. Fortunately he had a little surprise already arranged. He’d set it up earlier to prevent anyone from escaping the village.

He picked up his black backpack and strapped it to his back, slung the rifle over one shoulder then drew the small pistol from his belt and gripped it firmly as he jogged out of the room and down the stairs. He pressed his face to the living room window but no movement was visible outside. He looked past the bodies lying in the street as though they didn’t exist. He felt neither pride nor glee in his work, just a sense that right had been done. To get any satisfaction from his work would be a sin. None of them were moving. He hadn’t liked putting a second bullet into the body that had moved, he liked a swift, clean kill. He wasn’t one to revel in the pain and misery of others but it had been necessary.

He stepped outside and took a moment to gauge the weather, important when using a rifle. The wind was just a gentle breeze but the sky was still alive with thunder, accompanied by the odd flash of lightning and it felt even warmer, his thin black jumper damp with sweat. The storm still hadn’t got going yet but Graeme had the feeling it was just a temporary lull. He hoped it got worse, it was working for him.

“Get down,” whispered Craig when he saw a tall figure striding down the street.

“What is it?” said Gary, ducking down behind the window, pulling Hughes with him.

“I think it might be the killer,” replied Craig, standing side-on to the window, pressing himself back against the wall

“What if it’s not? What if it’s an innocent villager who doesn’t know the danger?” said Hughes. “You have to get out there.”

“Oh we do, do we?” said Gary. “Why don’t you go out there instead? You’ve done sod all so far.”

“I swear to God Constable, just one more impertinent word and you’ll be on report.”

“It won’t be a word you’re going to get, it’ll be a fucking fist,” he snarled back.

“Quiet, both of you,” said Craig, eyes riveted to the tall figure. “I think it’s definitely the sniper.”

“How do you know?” said Hughes.

“Because he’s carrying a gun.”

“How can you tell in the dark?”

“Because the lightning just lit him up like a Christmas tree.”

“Did you see his face?” said Hughes.

“No, he’s at the wrong angle. He’s holding a pistol and he has a rifle over one shoulder. I’m a detective, I’m good at recognising subtle clues like that,” he said sarcastically.

“Well, I suppose we should tackle him,” said a reluctant Hughes.

“Are you bloody mad?” said Craig. “He’s got two guns. We set foot out there and he’ll just shoot us.”

“We can’t let him get away.”

“I don’t think that’s his intention,” said Craig, noting how slowly the man - and he was pretty sure it was a man - was walking, as though out for an innocent stroll. “Oh Christ, he’s stopping outside the pub.”

“Hell, what do we do?” said Gary, practically hopping from one foot to the other.

All they could do was watch helplessly as the man raised the pistol and opened fire on the pub, sending bullets ploughing through the windows, shattering the glass. Screams were carried towards them across the street.

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Craig but this time it was a prayer, his thoughts flying to his mum.

The figure lowered the gun and carried on his way.

“What’s he doing?” frowned Hughes.

“Just letting them know he hasn’t forgotten about them and to keep them inside the pub,” said Craig. “He’s up to something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see.” Craig craned his neck to try and keep the sniper in his sights but he disappeared from view, blending into the blackness. “Looks like he’s gone to the road out.”

“Maybe he’s leaving?” said Gary hopefully.

“I doubt it. He’s got something planned that’s designed to keep us here.”

“Should we get back across to the pub while he’s distracted?”

“I think it’s the only chance we’re going to get and he might have hit someone when he fired inside.”

“Fine. You two go first, I’ll bring up the rear,” said Hughes.

It might have been dark but both Craig and Gary could sense the fear radiating off Hughes, not that they were surprised.

“We’ll go out the back way,” said Craig, addressing Gary. As far as they were concerned they were two police officers and a helpless member of the public. They couldn’t rely on Hughes for anything.

Quietly they snuck out the back door and down the small lane, moving as stealthily as they could. It was slow going. They paused at every strange sound, analysing it before moving on, all the while the knowledge that there could be injured people needing their help spurring them on.

As they came round the side of the last cottage on the block, directly opposite which was the pub, they skidded to a halt. They had to get right across that road and to the back of the pub without being shot. Craig didn’t like their chances.

With every flash of lightning they could make out the bodies still lying in the street, Craig’s eyes wandering to Iza, involuntarily replaying the moment her head had exploded, and he felt sick.

They all looked in the direction the sniper had gone but could see nothing.

Craig turned to his two companions. “Ready?” he whispered.

“No but we can’t hang around here all night,” Gary whispered back.

“Don’t look, just keep running. Keep low and zigzag. On three.”

Two faces, pale in the moonlight, nodded.

“One, two, three.”

Craig dashed out of his hiding place, frantically veering left then right as he pelted across the road towards the pub, its door offering sanctuary. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst and he was finding it difficult to catch his breath, not because of the exertion but because of the threat of a bullet ploughing into his body at any moment.

There was a cry from behind him and the sound of someone falling. For one shameful moment Craig considered ignoring it and carrying on but he forced himself to glance over his shoulder and saw Gary on the ground. Hughes jumped over his fallen colleague and carried on running for the pub.

“Bastard,” yelled Craig, shouting at both the sniper and Hughes as he hurried to Gary’s side, dragging him out of the path of a second bullet, which whistled past his head.

“Leave me,” groaned Gary as Craig dragged him behind the shelter of Gordon’s four by four, just in time to see Hughes disappear around the back of the pub. It was alright for some.

Pain shot through Craig’s side from where he’d been shot earlier, Gary’s weight tugging at the wound. “Don’t be so fucking stupid,” he said. “Where did it hit?”

“My back.”

Craig touched his back and was appalled when his hand came away wet and sticky. Gary started to tremble in his arms, his face so white it seemed to glow.

“Don’t you even think of fucking dying,” growled Craig, anger and fear bubbling up inside him.

“I don’t…intend to,” he gasped. “I’ve got tickets for…the big match.”

Loud thuds sounded around them as more bullets battered into the metal of the vehicle, some pinging off it and ricocheting dangerously. All Craig could do was hold onto Gary and try and shield them both as best he could using the vehicle as cover. When there was a pause in the firing he chanced a glance around the vehicle and saw a tall, slender shape making its way towards them. The figure appeared to be reloading but Craig knew he didn’t have enough time to get himself and Gary the rest of the way before he’d finished.

“Just go,” said Gary. “Freya will be really pissed off if you get shot.”

“Stop being brave and let me fucking think,” said Craig, trying to come up with a way out of this but he had nothing. All they could do was sit there and wait for the sniper to finish them off. Hughes was nowhere in sight, the treacherous, cowardly little bastard.

“You shouldn’t have come back for me,” said Gary, his voice growing weaker.

“There was no way I was leaving you,” he replied, voice just a gentle murmur as he thought of his wife and son. A lump formed in his throat. He would have really liked to see what sort of man Petie was going to become and grow old with his wife.

There was a loud bang from behind and Craig turned, squinting when he was dazzled by the light emanating from the open doorway of the pub, which was filled with Gordon clutching an enormous shotgun.

“Get inside,” he yelled as he unleashed a volley of shot in the direction of the sniper, who turned and ran for cover.

Hauling Gary’s arm over his shoulder Craig raced towards salvation, slowed down by his colleague’s weight, worried by how limp he’d gone.

“Take that you prick,” roared Gordon over the noise of the shotgun, eyes lit up with a maniacal glee.

Craig and Gary dodged around him and inside. Bill was waiting to greet them and he caught Gary, taking his weight from Craig.

“He’s been shot in the back,” said a breathless Craig as Gordon slammed the pub door shut and locked it. “Lizzy.”

“Lay him down on his side,” she called as she rushed through the pub towards him.

Between them Bill and Craig managed to lay Gary on a rug on the floor on his left side.

“Oh bloody hell you idiot, you had to be brave and macho,” said Steve, hurrying to his friend’s side.

“Shit, it’s penetrated his vest,” said Craig when he saw the hole in Gary’s black stab proof vest.

“Is there an exit wound on the front of the vest?” said Lizzy.

“No,” said Steve.

“In that case we can take it off,” said Lizzy. “I need to know if the bullet’s still inside him.”

Between them Craig and Steve managed to remove Gary’s vest. “Sorry mate,” said Steve when he groaned in pain.

They all stared at the neat round hole in Gary’s left upper back. The front of his shirt was pristine, not a drop of blood.

“The bullet’s definitely still inside him,” said Steve. “That’s good, isn’t it?” he said hopefully.

“It will be acting as a cork to stop him bleeding out,” said Lizzy. “But I can’t do anything for him, he needs to get to hospital as soon as possible.” She looked down at Gary. “It’s important you stay as still as you can, okay? You don’t want to dislodge the bullet.”

“I’ll try,” he gasped, bald head beaded with sweat.

Craig spied Hughes out of the corner of his eye and shot to his feet. “This is all your fucking fault.”

Hughes’s eyes nervously flicked from left to right as everyone turned to look at him. “It was nothing to do with me.”

“Gary risked his life to save you and what did you do when he got shot? You stepped over him. All you could think about was saving your own life, you cowardly little shit.” Craig had never felt hatred like it in his life. He actually fantasised about beating the man to death, smashing his pompous little head in until it was a cracked mess on the floor. It welled up from some deep, black place inside him that he hadn’t even realised existed until now, but Blair Dubh had the habit of bringing out the worst in people.

“Nonsense,” Hughes blustered, backing up as Craig started to advance on him. “I was running to get help from the pub.”

“Bollocks,” yelled Craig, hands balling into fists, the fantasy of killing him growing in intensity.

“D…do not talk to me like that,” he stammered.

“Not only do you put my wife in danger but you get Gary shot too. You’re a fucking liability,” he yelled before lunging at Hughes, who released a cry and staggered back, hands held out before him in a vain attempt to ward him off.

Craig grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and drove his fist into his stomach before punching him hard in the face. Hughes fell across a table, hand to his nose, blood dripping between his fingers, whimpering. He looked to the rest of the room for assistance but they were all watching him stonily.

“Constable, I order you to help me,” he cried to Steve.

“Go fuck yourself,
Sir
,” he replied, crouched by Gary’s side, eyes cold.

No one lifted a finger to help as Craig dragged Hughes back to his feet and slammed him up against the wall.

“You’re finished as a copper,” Craig snarled in his face. “I don’t care if you are best buddies with the Chief Constable, you are fucking done.”