groin. 'I swear to God,' said Verity. 'Get your fucking arse over here.'
Tears welled in Eddie's eyes but he did as he was told.
'Answer the phone, Ted,' said the voice in Verity's ear. 'What we've got to say is better said over a secure line, right? Don't you agree?'
Verity ripped off the earpiece and pointed at the fork-lift truck driver on the floor. 'Get a shotgun taped to his neck, now,' he shouted to Owen, keeping his own weapon aimed at the West Indians.
Owen grabbed the duct tape and pulled the injured man to his feet. 'Give me a hand,' he said to Eddie.
'If you're going to go through with this, I'm out of here,' said Doug.
'You're not going anywhere,' said Verity.
'This ain't no Three Musketeers thing,' said Doug. 'You do what you've got to do, but I'm walking out now.'
'I'm with him,' said Fred, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
The telephone rang again.
'We're going out together,' said Verity.
Eddie was winding tape round the fork-lift truck driver's neck.
'They're not going to let you drive away,' said Macdonald.
'They won't have a choice,' said Verity. 'What are they going to do? Shoot at us while we've got these guys by the short and curlies?'
'And what are you going to do when they say there's no deal?' said Macdonald. 'Blow the heads off civilians?'
'They'll deal,' said Verity.
'If that's what you think you don't know the cops.'
'Do you?' yelled Verity. 'Is that how they knew we were here? Did you grass us up?'
'Screw you, Verity,' said Macdonald. 'I don't need this shit.'
Verity pointed his shotgun at Macdonald's midriff, his finger on the trigger. Macdonald swung his own shotgun up so that it was levelled at Verity.
'Guys, for fuck's sake!' shouted Owen. 'We're on the same side here!'
'We're in this together,' said Verity. 'If we split up now, it's over.'
'It's over anyway!' roared Macdonald. 'You just don't see it.'
'Bob, we're damned if we do and damned if we don't,' said Owen.
Macdonald snarled at Owen, though he kept his weapon on Verity. 'You told me this was a straight robbery,' he said. 'In and out before anyone was the wiser, you said. Now we're taking hostages.'
'The cops are going to say we took hostages anyway,' said Owen calmly. 'Soon as we tied them up we were holding them against their will. Look, I brought you in on this because you were a cool head. Don't let me down now.'
The phone stopped ringing. Outside the warehouse they heard rapid footsteps. Then silence.
Macdonald lowered his weapon. 'Okay,' he said.
Verity stared at him, then nodded curtly, acknowledging Macdonald's change of heart. 'Check the door,' Verity said. 'Don't open it, just listen.'
Macdonald walked towards it. As he passed Verity, he turned suddenly and slammed the cut-down stock of his shotgun into the man's stomach. The breath exploded from Verity's lungs and he doubled over. Macdonald brought the stock crashing down on the back of Verity's head and Verity dropped like a dead weight.
Owen stared at Macdonald in amazement. Doug and Fred cheered. The Glaswegian tried to rip his shotgun away from the warehouseman's neck but the duct tape held firm and he cursed. Macdonald swung his gun towards him. 'Don't even think about it, Jock,' he said.
'You're dead,' said Owen. 'When he gets hold of you, you'll be wearing your balls around your neck.'
'If we go out there tooled up, we're dead anyway,' said Macdonald. He backed away from Owen. The Glaswegian ripped his shotgun free with a roar. He aimed it at Macdonald as the warehouseman slumped to his knees.
Macdonald kept backing away. 'I've no problem with you, Jock,' he said, 'or you, Jeff. I just want out of here.'
There was a loud bang at the entrance and they all jumped. As the Glaswegian turned to look at the metal door, Macdonaldsprinted down the warehouse. He ducked between two towering stacks of pallets, then zigzagged right, left and right again. He dropped the shotgun and kicked it under a pallet, then sprinted towards the rear of the warehouse. Behind him he heard the metal door crash open, then the staccato shouts of men who were used to their orders being obeyed. 'Armed police! Down on the floor, now! Down, down, down!'
Macdonald zigzagged again, and reached the warehouse wall. The emergency exit was at the mid-point and he ran towards it. From the front of the warehouse he heard a single shotgun blast, a burst of automatic fire, then more shouts. He wondered who had fired. Owen was too much of a pro to shoot at armed police. It was probably the Glaswegian. Macdonald hoped he hadn't hit anybody and that the police had been firing warning shots. A pump-action shotgun against half a dozen Hecklers was no contest.
Macdonald kicked the metal bar in the middle of the door, which sprang open. An alarm sounded in the distance. The door bounced back and he shouldered his way through.
'Armed police!' shouted a Cockney accent. 'Drop your weapon!'
Macdonald stopped dead and raised his hands in the air. 'I'm not carrying a weapon, dipshit!' he shouted, then stood where he was, breathing heavily.
'Down on the ground, keep your hands where we can see them!' shouted the officer. He was in his mid- twenties, dressed all in black with a Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap with POLICE written across it in white capital letters. His Heckler was aimed at Macdonald's chest. Two more armed officers stood behind him, their guns aimed at Macdonald.
'Can we all just relax here?' said Macdonald. He took off his ski mask and stared sullenly at the three policemen. 'Okay now?' he said. They looked at him grimly.
'Down on the floor!' said the oldest of the three, gesturing with his Heckler.
'Yeah, right,' said Macdonald. 'Look, I don't have time for this.' He moved to walk by them. The Cockney swore at him, raised his weapon and slammed the butt against the side of the Macdonald's head. Macdonald went down without a sound.
Macdonald came to lying on his back, staring up at a man in a white mask wearing a dark green anorak, shining a small flashlight into his left eye. Macdonald groaned. He heard the wail of a siren and realised he was in an ambulance. He tried to sit up but the paramedic put a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him down. 'Lie still, you've had a nasty bang on the head.'
'He hit me,' said Macdonald. 'Why the hell did he hit me?'
'Because you were resisting arrest, you twat,' said a Cockney voice.
Macdonald tried to sit up again.
'Really, sir, I wouldn't,' said the paramedic. 'There's a good chance of concussion. We're going to have to give you a scan.'
Macdonald tried to push away the paramedic but his arm wouldn't move more than a few inches. He looked down. His wrist was handcuffed to the metal bar of the stretcher he was lying on. He tried to raise the other. That was cuffed, too. The cop who'd hit him was sitting next to him, the Heckler cradled in his lap. He had a long face with deep-set eyes and he'd turned the baseball cap round so that the peak was at the back. 'I should have hit you harder,' he said.
'What the hell's going on?' asked Macdonald, groggily.
'Your mate shot one of ours,' said the cop. 'You're all going down for attempted murder on top of armed robbery.'
'He's okay?'
'Your mate? Took one in the arm. He'll live.'
'Screw him, he almost got us killed. The cop who was shot, is he okay?'
'Now you're worried, aren't you?' The cop slapped his Kevlar vest. 'Vest took most of the shot, bit of damage to his lower jaw. But the intent was there and you're all in it together.'
Macdonald lay back and stared up at the roof of the ambulance. They were moving at speed, the siren still
