Dark Blood

Fuck…

Andy Connelly, AKA: Mr Big-and-Bald, wiped his hands on a wodge of blue paper towels. From above Logan could hear the sound of a cistern filling up again. Completely missed the flush.

Connelly dropped the towels on the floor as Logan stood.

‘Andrew Connelly, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Steven Polmont—’

‘He doesn’t have the money any more.’

Logan pulled out his pepper-spray. ‘Face down, on the ground, do it!’

‘That’s what you’re after, right? Mental Mikey’s little eighteen million pound nest egg?’

‘Eighteen million?’

Shrug. ‘So they say. But the little shite’s frittered it all away, hasn’t he?’

‘On the floor.’

‘Transferred into the offshore bank accounts of Mikey’s successors.’ Connelly frowned. ‘Shame, could’ve done with a couple million, you know? Set me up somewhere warm and sunny till the heat dies down on that Polmont prick.’

Connelly nudged the unconscious project manager with his foot. ‘Course this crawly wee fuck wanted to give it all to the boss, didn’t he? Wanted to make up for all the dodgy goods and drugs you bastards seized.’

‘I’m not telling you again: on the floor, now!’

‘See, if Knox doesn’t have the money any more, he’s fuck-all use to nobody. You want him, you can have him.’

Lying on the floor behind him, Knox mumbled, kicking the floor.

‘Yeah, I want him.’

Shrug. Connelly turned and walked through the lounge door. ‘He’s yours.’

Logan frowned. That was a lot easier than he’d been expecting. He glanced back at Knox, lying trussed up on the floor, opened his mouth to say something, and then Connelly hit him – a side-on rugby tackle that sent them both crashing against the wall. Hard enough to crack the plasterboard.

They went down in a tangle of limbs, Logan gasping for breath as his scarred stomach screamed at him, swinging fists, elbows, knees, anything to get the bastard off.

Only Connelly was bigger, heavier, and a hell of a lot stronger.

Less than thirty seconds and he had Logan pinned to the chipboard, face down, with his knee in the middle of Logan’s back. The big man grabbed a handful of Logan’s hair, hauled his head up off the floor, then slammed it down again.

Logan threw an elbow back, but all he got from Connelly was a grunt.

His forehead battered into the chipboard again.

Bright lights chasing darkness. Jackhammers in his brain. Thumping.

And then a hand grabbed his flailing wrist and pinned it to the floor.

‘Never, ever, take your eyes off the prize.’ Connelly reached out with his other hand, and Logan watched him drag the nail gun over.

‘Fucking get off me!’

The nail gun’s nozzle was cold against the back of Logan’s hand.

‘See, it’s got a pressure safety trigger, have to press down to fire.’

THUNK.

Logan screamed, even though the pain hadn’t kicked in yet. It…He stared at his hand. The nail was sticking through his sleeve, pinning it to the chipboard.

THUNK. Another nail on the other side.

Kneeling on top of him, Connelly laughed. ‘What? You thought I was going to put a nail through your fuckin’ hand? What kind of animal do you think I am? Sides, get blood on the floor, have to hack up that whole chunk of chipboard and replace it…’

‘GET THE FUCK OFF ME!’

‘Ah well, it’s only chipboard.’

THUNK.

Silence.

There was a half inch of dark grey metal sticking up out of the back of Logan’s hand. Fire raced up his arm. ‘FUCK! AAAGH! FUCKING…FUCK!’

‘Fancy another one? Piercin’s all the rage these days, but.’

THUNK.

‘FUCK!’

‘See: did that one at an angle so your hand’s stuck. Chippies call it dovetailin’ the nails. Is that no’ interestin’?’