The Devil Among Us, Ramsay Sinclair [black books to read .txt] 📗

whispering in the background. “I hate that you’re being brave. Brave but absolutely, ridiculously stupid.”

“Thanks,” I said sincerely, knowing this was her way of telling me she cared. “It's Seafield House.” The tyres struggled to grip against the churned mud and the four damp walls of the old house came into view.

“The abandoned one?” she hissed. “This gets better all the time.”

A swell steadily built above the crumbling chimneys of Seafield House that might have churned out smoke once upon a time. They’d been out of use for years and reached as tall as the thicket of trees that had grown wild and unkempt. The almost derelict building dripped from the damp, mould and moss. There were no streetlights here so I could barely see anything in the downpour.

“McCall, I’m going to have to go on foot,” I shared and fumbled with my seat belt. “Their meeting’s happening now and I can see their van outside. I’ll speak to you soon.”

“Finlay--!” she protested, but I had already hung up and shoved the phone into a random pocket. My heels dug and got stuck in the dirt as I followed the track without the car. Our Volvo was nearly sinking into the ground as I left it stranded. My already sodden hair hung limp and obstructed the view of Seafield house until I slicked it backwards. A powerful, howling wind caught my ears and nose and turned them a vivid red.

Sneaking up towards the building, I could see the decorating van clearer now. No wonder they got past the borders so easily, nobody would suspect small-time decorators like they were pretending to be, to transport major shipments of drugs.

Someone was sitting inside and reading a paper. At least one of us was staying warm and dry. I’d catch pneumonia soon enough if I carried on doing so much walking in this weather. On closer inspection, I saw that he was the fake police guard that had been posted outside of Flynn’s ward. The one that supposedly slipped him the poison. He started to look up towards me, but I ducked behind a stack of discarded building bricks. Their headlights were on a constant full beam and cut through the hazed rainwater to illuminate the areas surrounding Seafield house.

A faintly familiar scent of petrichor rose from the layer of storm clouds, replacing the prominent burning of rubber tyres. Lurking behind the stack of bricks, I had to peek out every now and again to assess the situation. There was a huge open gap of grass which I had to cover before being able to reach the building, with every chance that the guy in the van could catch me during the act.

He seemed to glance towards the abandoned building at approximately thirty-second intervals, which equated to exactly one page of his newspaper. If I calculated and timed the sprint correctly, to start mid-way through his page-turning, the distance could be covered with a full-scale pelt, providing that I didn’t slip on the slimy floor or that the man didn’t get bored with his article.

It was a risk that had to be taken.

Salt from the waterfront coated my tongue and the chilled air filled my lungs painfully. A sandy type of grit coated my smart shoes, and I stayed crouched low. The guy in the driving seat finally turned a page, and the countdown had begun.

Squelching noises integrated with the rhythm of the falling rain as I stalked across the open space. It was how no-man's-land would have felt during the war. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine the copper bullets tearing my body apart; being gunned down in the most vulnerable position that a person could be in.

There’s a moment when you’re frightened when all the places you could have been instead flashed before you, a sort of palpable and fearful nostalgia. The image of Abbey lying in bed this morning came into my mind. What I would have given to have stayed at home and entwined my legs with hers. Anything would beat being sodden to the bone.

Heartbeat hammering in my ribcage, I heaved a sigh of relief when my hands finally made contact with the slick brickwork of Seafield House. The house covered any sight of me from their van. A smashed-in, ground-floor window was situated directly in front. I had to hide below the window ledge to ensure I wasn’t visible to the people on the inside. Squeezing my eyes shut, my butt hit contact with the grassy turf.

I’d nicked my fingertips, and the blood washed out with the water. With a dry throat and sore hands, I sat and listened intently to the grave voices echoing out of the empty building.

27

DCI Reid’s voice escaped between the walls that divided us. Although out of sight, his mellow vocals carried across the empty rooms of Seafield House. Scuffles from numerous feet also joined in the concoction of resounding sounds.

“I’ve got them here.” He rattled an object that sounded heavy. “Take these.”

Who was taking what? There came a couple of clinks that followed suit, an unmistakable sound of guns loading.

“Straight from our storage again. In case you need them,” he continued abrasively, and I unmistakably heard the sound of one of their guns clicking. “That’s it now, yes? My part’s over, and you can move onto the next station.”

My body froze in shock and fear.

“The money’s all been transferred to my account, I trust,” he continued and waited for the reply that followed. A ball of clouded confusion weaved itself into my brain, fogging up even the simplest thought that tried to breakthrough. What were his plans with this pay-off?

This second man was gruff and croaky in comparison. “All there. We’re heading for the next hit now. Straight there, as we said.”

There were choruses of agreement. These guys severely outnumbered me, and they all had weapons on them.

“I mean it. All the money goes straight to me, as arranged, or so help me, God…” DCI Reid warned