On the opposite side of the street, the back doors of an unmarked Transit Van burst open. Four firearms officers staggered out into the afternoon and lumbered across the road, machine pistols at the ready. After baking for three and a half hours in the back of the van they looked knackered. Being dressed all in black probably wasn't helping.
Logan watched Sergeant Caldwell puff and pant her way to the front, line her team up, and give the signal. They lurched their way into the Krakow General Store.
'You sure four's enough?'
Finnie climbed out into the sunshine. 'Three hoodies with knives versus four firearms-trained officers with sub-machineguns. I think we'll be OK, don't you?'
The shouting from the shop got even louder. Polish, Mancunian, and over the top, Caldwell yelling, 'ON THE FLOOR! I'm NOT GOING TO TELL YOU AGAIN!'
Logan and Finnie ran for the shop.
28
Logan skittered to a halt on the glass-scattered pavement and peered in through the smashed window. The little shop was full of struggling bodies, flying fists, pushing, shoving, and foul language. Mr Wojewodzki was slumped back against the wall, staring down at his stomach and the knife handle sticking out of it. Bright red spreading across his white shirt.
Four firearms officers, two hoodies… and two unidentified men.
One was small and wiry, banging a hoodie's head off the counter, blood and chunky KitKats falling on the linoleum. The other man was huge: at least six foot two, broad as he was tall, with a haircut that could only be described as a receding mullet. For a moment Logan thought they might be customers caught up in the fighting, and then he saw the gun. It was a semiautomatic pistol — large, chunky and black — clutched in the big man's hand.
Half of the firearms team were on the ground, struggling with the hoodie who'd slashed Kevin Murray's face, but the two remaining officers had their submachine guns pointing at Mr Mullet's forehead. Sergeant Caldwell yelled over the screeching car alarm, 'DON'T MAKE ME SHOOT YOU!'
The big man sneered. 'Nie wierze w to…' and then he was glaring at the bleeding shopkeeper, 'Oklamales mnie!'
'PUT THE GUN DOWN!'
'Nie rozsmieszaj mnie.'
'I'm NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN: PUT THE GUN-' She never got any further, because the small, wiry man dropped the hoodie he'd been battering off the countertop, grabbed a bottle of Grass Vodka and smashed it into her face. BANG. The bottle cracked the safety goggles, broke her nose, then shattered against the edges of her helmet. Glass and liquid went everywhere.
Caldwell staggered, slipped and went crashing down onto the shop floor in a slick of blood and vodka.
Her colleague only looked around for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Mr Mullet lunged, shoved the sub machine gun out of the way, and jammed his semiautomatic up under the officer's chin.
'Oh Jesus…'
Logan stepped over the hoodie groaning on the pavement, and kicked the door open. The big man swung the gun round.
BOOOM!
Logan dived to the ground and the glazed door exploded in a shower of safety glass behind him.
Nobody moved.
The firearms officer brought his MP5 up again… then screamed, blood spurting from a jagged slash in his face. The small, wiry man had stabbed him with the broken end of the vodka bottle. The officer let go of the submachine gun and clutched at his cheek. Bright red spattered all around him.
Mr Mullet yanked open a door at the back of the shop and barged through. His partner leapt the counter and followed, slamming the door behind him.
Finnie shouted at the two officers still struggling with Hoodie Number One on the floor: 'What the hell are you doing? Go after them!'
They let go of their prisoner.
Mistake.
Hoodie Number One snapped an elbow into one officer's face and kneed the other in the balls, then ran for it. He leapt through the shattered shop window, landed on the glass-strewn pavement, scrambled over the Citroen with the blaring car alarm, and sprinted out onto the road. Arms and legs pumping like a gold medal athlete. A huge truck slammed on its air-brakes, shuddering and hissing to a halt on the hot tarmac, missing him by less than six inches.
Logan scrambled to his feet and ran for the door behind the counter. Just in time to hear something go, snickt. The handle wouldn't budge.
Finnie stormed into the shop. 'Get that bloody thing open!'
'It's locked.'
'Then kick it in!'
BOOM — Logan slammed his foot into the woodwork just beside the lock. Nothing. BOOM — again. BOOM — the whole door rattled on its hinges, but stayed resolutely shut. 'It's not moving…' One more go: BOOM. This time there was the groan and creak of splintering wood.
Behind him, Logan could hear Finnie ordering someone to chase the disappearing hoodie.
Last time: BOOM. The door flew open and Logan staggered into a long corridor lined with boxes and crates filled with Polish jars, bottles and tins. A fire exit lay open at the far end.
He took two steps, stopped, then hurried back into the shop.
Finnie stared at him. 'What the hell are you-'
'Gun.' Logan grabbed the stabbed officer's Heckler & Koch MP5, and ran back through the door, down the corridor and out onto a short flight of stairs. It overlooked a large back garden festooned with washing hanging from lines that crisscrossed back and forth between the eight-foot-high walls. A collection of outbuildings lay down one side, leading to an old washhouse with cobwebbed windows.
No sign of the two men.
He hurried down the stairs and out onto the grass, ducking beneath a batch of assorted ladies' underwear. With all the clothes and sheets, it was impossible to see more than four feet ahead. He ducked down and scanned the grass below the washing, looking for feet and legs. Still nothing.
How was he supposed to… Logan froze.
The sound of puffing and groaning came from behind him, getting louder. He span around, snapping the submachine gun up to his shoulder, just in time to see a grim-faced firearms officer limping down the stairs. He had his gun in one hand and his groin in the other, teeth gritted as he picked his way across the grass.
'Are you OK?'
The officer grimaced. 'Right in the bloody balls…'
There was a clang, and what sounded like Polish swearing, somewhere down at the far end of the garden. Logan shoved his way through jeans and towels, enveloped in the plastic-floral smell of fabric softener. But by the time he'd reached the bottom of the garden, there was no one there.
'Sodding hell!'
Maybe they'd doubled back, or were hiding in one of the sheds, or-
Next door, someone screamed.
'How did they get…' Logan drifted to a halt, staring at the old washhouse. The roof slates were covered in a thin layer of green and grey moss, except for a line of scuff marks that stood out dark grey in the sunlight.
The firearms officer limped up next to him. 'What are we-'
'Give me a boost.' Logan waved him over, then stepped into his cupped hands, using the leg-up to clamber onto the sloping roof. From there he could see into next door's garden.
