Chapter 26
‘STOP, POLICE!’ Logan ducked out between two parked cars, heading for the other side of the road, legging it after Mr Muscles.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh!
The Seat Ibiza barrelling up Broomhill Road slammed on its brakes, nose dipping as it left skidmarks on the tarmac, and the driver probably did the same in his pants. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open as Logan stared back at him.
OK.
That was close.
Logan forced a smile, then ran for the other pavement, heading after Mr Muscles, breath-and-blood whoomping in his ears, feet slapping against the concrete slabs.
A weird echo grew and grew, and there was PC Kent, raggity bun bobbing along behind.
It might’ve taken her a while to build momentum – what with all full kit on – but she was motoring now.
Doing that high-step knees-and-elbows thing sprinters did on the telly.
‘Who . . . who are . . . who are we . . . chasing?’
You’d think it would be sodding obvious. But Logan pointed anyway. ‘Arnold Bloody Schwarzenegger!’ Then pulled out his Airwave handset. ‘DS McRae . . . to Control.’
Mr Muscles went left at the junction, by the newsagent’s, abandoning Broomhill Road for the more genteel Balmoral Place. And they were gaining on him.
Logan and Kent motorbiked around the corner, momentum taking them out into the middle of the quiet street. Doing their best to break the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.
A voice burst out of the Airwave: ‘Safe to talk?’
Mr Muscles jinked out into the middle of the road too – avoiding a pair of old ladies, blocking the pavement so they could shout at each other. Glancing over his shoulder as he drifted across the dotted line.
‘In pursuit . . . of I-C-One male . . . five nine . . . heavily muscled . . . tattooed arms . . .’
Mr Muscles hammered on, playing chicken with a black Porsche coming the other way.
Brakes screeched, the horn blaring as the car slithered to a halt – pretty much blocking the road – about three feet short of flattening him.
He didn’t even slow down.
Instead, Mr Muscles took a running leap, left foot landing square in the middle of the bonnet; the right whacking into the rubber seal at the top of the windscreen, sending cracks flashing across the glass; his left foot left a dirty big dent in the roof; and he was down the other side.
Still running.
The driver scrambled out from behind the wheel, shaking her fist and stamping her heels. ‘LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY CAR! YOU BLOODY IDIOT! COME BACK HERE!’
Mr Muscles . . . did not.
He kept going.
But Logan and PC Kent had to detour around, up onto the pavement, then back down again after they’d passed the dented Porsche.
There must’ve been an alley off to the side, because a pair of little girls shot out of it on their bicycles – one bike wrapped in rainbow-coloured tape, the other all pale-pink and sparkly, like a Twilight vampire.
Both with tasselled handlebars and a plastic unicorn’s horn cable-tied to the front.
Mr Muscles clattered straight into the pair of them, in a flailing mess of arms and legs and chains and wheels and swearing. Tumbling across the tarmac.
Hallelujah.
Logan closed the gap. ‘I need . . . need backup to . . . Holburn Street and . . . Balmoral Place!’
Oh yeah: Mr Muscles was screwed now.
His lead had completely vanished and in thirty seconds, Logan and PC Kent would be all over him like sleaze on a politician.
He fought clear of the wreckage. Looked left, then right. Probably weighing up the odds. Then grabbed the nearest girl’s bike – pink-and-sparkly – and jumped on. Standing in the seat as he pedalled away with all his might.
So much for sleaze.
Logan hurdled the other bike and one of the girls. ‘Suspect is now on . . . a stolen . . . girl’s bicycle.’ Ragged breath. ‘STOP, POLICE!’
The over-pumped lump looked back over his shoulder at that, which was probably a mistake, because one of the road’s many potholes grabbed the front tyre, and sent him straight over the betasselled handlebars.
He hit the tarmac with a crunching thwack.
Got you.
Logan and Kent were almost there when he struggled to his feet, bringing the bike with him – front wheel all twisted and bent.
Scarlet gushed out of his flattened nose and shattered mouth, a scattering of bloodied teeth still embedded in the road at his feet.
But Mr Muscles wasn’t done yet.
He roared out a froth of bright red, swinging the bike like a sparkly sledgehammer.
‘Shite!’ Logan hit the deck, but it slammed right into PC Kent’s stabproof vest, hurling her sideways into an ugly VW people carrier.
She bounced off the bodywork. The bike kept on going: straight through the rear driver’s-side window with a firework tshhhhhh . . . Cubes of glass sparkling in the sunlight as the car alarm yowled, hazards flashing.
Not waiting around, Mr Muscles staggered into a run, one tattooed arm held against his chest.
Logan shoved himself upright. ‘STOP! . . . POLICE!’
As if anyone ever did.
Instead, Mr Muscles barrelled straight through the ‘STOP’ sign at the end of the road.
A tartan-liveried glazier’s van screeched to a standstill, inches away from bursting him like a gore-filled water balloon.
He thumped his good hand against the bonnet, spinning around to glance at Logan again, keeping the momentum going as he ran across—
BANG.
The Toyota Hilux smashed right into him, sending his body whirling into the air like an Action Man hurled by an angry child. He cartwheeled over the truck’s cab and its load bay – full of broken bricks, and jagged spears of rusty rebar – then hit the road with a sickening crunch.
Far too late, the Hilux jammed on its brakes, jerking sideways into the glazier’s van with an almighty crash of broken double-glazing units.
Little cubes of safety glass pattered down across the tarmac.
Horns blared.
Someone screamed.
Behind the Hilux, a minibus pulled up about two feet short of the battered body.
Driver gripping the wheel, face transformed into a gargoyle grimace, staring at what was left of Mr Muscles.
Then all the schoolkids in the back piled forwards for a good gawp – phones out, filming away like the horrible little ghouls they were.
Logan hurpled into the middle of the road, arms out like a crossing guard. Holding the traffic back as he hurried over to the broken-limbed, twisted mess of fractured bones and torn flesh, in a spreading pool of dark, dark blood.
Because things weren’t bad enough already . . .