The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  The coppery tang of blood overlaid the dark waxy taste of plastic.

  Probably be lucky if he had any teeth left at the end of this.

  Assuming Danielle didn’t come back halfway through and shoot him.

  Logan gnawed and gnawed and—

  The cable tie gave with an audible snap.

  Ha, ha!

  Pins and needles coursed through his fingers as he sagged onto the bin-bags again.

  Two more things to do.

  He reached down and yanked at the cable tie around his ankles. Hauled. Pulled. Wrenched…

  Nope.

  OK. So even if he managed to get out of the boot, what was he going to do with his ankles fastened together: make a hop for it?

  Maybe there was something in the boot he could use, like an emergency toolkit?

  He scrabbled through the black-plastic bags down to the boot’s rough carpet lining, fingers searching… That was probably a roll of duct tape. That was a plastic bag of what felt like more cable ties. That was a roll of bin bags. And that was his peaked cap.

  No toolkit.

  Sod.

  He ran his fingers around the boot again. There was a ridge in the carpet, running from side to side, right through the middle. As if it folded… Of course – the spare wheel and all the bits and bobs needed to change it! And if the carpet folded in the middle, there had to be a handle or something at the edge closest to the bumper.

  He found a small gap to put his fingers in and pulled.

  The whole front half of the boot’s floor tried to lift up in one solid flap. Only he was lying on top of the thing, so it couldn’t.

  Aaaargh!

  Kinda weird, the way life turns out – the stuff you end up doing for a living.

  The kid was waking up, so Ian dumped him on the floor. No point carrying him if he could walk.

  Now, you know, the guys at the golf club would’ve been appalled to see this. Wee boys and girls? Oh heaven forfend you do anything nasty to the tiny ickle angels! Yeah, well, if you wanna go down that road then you might as well go vegetarian. Or worse: vegan, like bloody Sarah with her sulky teenage sighs and passive aggressive bullshit.

  Nah, when you strip it all back: human beings? Just animals, weren’t they. No different from cows, or pigs, or chickens, and nobody cried when they got put out their misery, did they?

  ’Cept the vegetarians.

  And Sarah.

  Swear to God she only did it to wind him up.

  Ian grabbed a handful of Lot Four’s hair – better to think of them as numbers: once you started giving them names, it was a slippery slope – and dragged him through the equipment store. Past the crates with all the other kids in them. And out the door into the rain.

  Dirty – bastarding – bloody – wanking – boot!

  ‘Move, you piece of shit!’

  How? How was he supposed to do this? How?

  How was this even supposed to be possible?

  Thumping back and forward didn’t make any difference. It was impossible to lift the flap when he was lying on top of the bloody thing.

  AAAAAAAAAA‌AAARRRRRRGH!

  OK: forget the toolkit. Get out of here first and then find a sharp edge to cut the cable tie round his ankles. Scissors, hacksaw, a knife…

  Logan shuffled over onto as much of his back as he could and slammed both palms upward into whatever was over the boot.

  Thunk.

  It barely budged. Had to be thick chipboard? Something like that. Something solid and wedged in tight.

  Thunk.

  Still nothing. Who the hell had a wooden boot cover?

  His hands scrabbled across it … wires and what felt suspiciously like the underside of two speakers. Which explained the wood – it was a heavy-duty DIY speaker board.

  He struggled his way over onto his front, tensed his arms, shoved, and slammed his back into it.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Harder!

  THUNK.

  And it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, was it?

  Ian hunched his shoulders as the rain battered down. Should get some decent lighting installed out here. Something better than a couple of manky wall-mounted jobs with low-wattage bulbs in them. A faint orangey glow wasn’t gonna deter thieves, was it?

  All them foreign holidays. Travel’s supposed to broaden the mind, but you try broadening a sulky bloody fourteen-year-old’s mind when she won’t eat bloody pain perdu cos it’s got honey in it and honey’s ‘cruel to bees’.

  Cruel to bloody bees!

  Ian dragged Lot Four across the concrete, not bothering to go around the puddles.

  Got to hand it to him – the kid kept his mouth shut. Not a lot of them could manage that. They’d be whingeing about the cold, or the rain. Or what was gonna happen next.

  I mean, they’re only bloody bees.

  And you didn’t need a degree in psychology to know what it was really all about. Well, you know what? Wasn’t easy raising a daughter on your own. Wasn’t his fault Kirstie got breast cancer. Wasn’t his fault the chemo didn’t work. Think that was fun for him? Watching her wither and die?

  Soon as they were within three yards of the truck, Enfield did his car alarm bit – lunging at the canopy window, barking his great big head off. Teeth flashing in the dim orange glow of them half-arsed wall lights. Good boy.

  Why couldn’t Sarah be more like…

  Ian stopped. Turned.

  There was something up with the white Clio parked three cars down. Rocking on its springs like someone was going at it in the back seat. And this really wasn’t the time, or the place, for vigorous lovemaking.

  He let go of Lot Four’s hair. Pointed a finger at the concrete beneath the kid’s bare feet. ‘Stay. You move: I don’t put you out of your misery before I feed you to Enfield.’

  Lot Four nodded, scarred arms wrapped around himself for warmth, blood dripping off his chin from the broken nose.

  See? Some kids could do what they were told.

  Ian walked over to the Clio. Had a good squint inside – no one in the front, no one in the rear, but the boot? Now that was a different matter. The internal cover thing was bumping up and down, shifting as something moved underneath it.

  Might be a dog?

  Or it might be something else.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the butterfly knife: nice, titanium, really good balance. He flipped it open with a basic horizontal, then a quick fan, into a backhand twirl. The blade shone as it spun in and out.

  Oh yeah.

  Whatever was in the boot, was about to get a new hole in it.

  Ian grabbed the boot release with his other hand.

  Clunked it open…

  Seriously: who gave a toss about bees?

  He yanked the tailgate up.

  Logan exploded from the boot, arms outstretched and curled into fists. Both ankles still cable-tied together. Snarling. Barrelling into a someone wearing a mask like Danielle Smith’s, only with a big number five on it instead.

  ‘Aaargh!’ Number Five staggered, falling backwards, crashing into the wet concrete with Logan on top of him. ‘Get off me you—’

  Logan smashed a fist into the guy’s mask.

  His head bounced off the concrete.

  Then again. And again.

  His left hand wrapped around Logan’s throat, squeezing, the thumb digging into his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Gggnnnphnnnng…’ Logan grabbed Number Five’s head and battered it into the concrete with a dull grating thunk. Pulled it up and battered it down a second time, putting his weight behind it.

  Thunk.

  The hand around his throat loosened.

  Once more for luck.

  THUNK.

  The mask flipped off, skittering away under the hatchback.

  Number Five’s eyelids flickered, as if the wiring inside was faulty. Then they closed and he sagged, strangling arm flopping out across the ground. Mouth open, breath steaming in the rain. An unc
onscious wee nyaff with forgettable features and a bloody nose.

  Logan sat up, pushed himself to his knees, and collapsed sideways against Danielle’s Clio.

  Why did…? What…?

  He looked down – not at Number Five, but at…

  Oh God.

  No.

  His black police-issue fleece glistened in the dim orange glow of a bulkhead light. The handle of butterfly knife stuck out of the fabric, at a jaunty angle, halfway between his bottom right rib and his hip.

  Ox ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as a tiny girl, dressed like an angel, is led into the cattle court by Number One.

  Number One doesn’t drag her, he holds her hand and lets her walk through the straw at her own pace, with her blonde curly hair, flowing white robes, cardboard wings, and a tinfoil halo.

  ‘I’m sure our next auction lot needs no introduction, but just in case: it’s Ellie Morton!’

  The Animals stare as she’s guided into the middle of the semicircle and Rooster bursts into a one-man round of applause that peters out into embarrassed silence when nobody joins in.

  ‘Ellie’s been the subject of a massive search by police, with articles and news reports published and broadcast all over the world.’ The Auctioneer points at her with a pantomime flourish. ‘Whoever goes home with this little girl will be the envy of everyone here!’

  Goat and Dog move in for a closer look, but Ellie backs away from them, scuffing through the straw till she bumps into Sally’s legs.

  Ellie lets out a little squeak.

  Sally flinches like she’s been burnt and Rabbit catches her arm.

  His voice is still too low for anyone else to hear. ‘Steady…’

  ‘Ellie’s only three and, I think you’ll agree, magnificent. Who’ll start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds?’

  Goat nods. ‘Twenty.’

  Dog: ‘Twenty-one.’

  Snake raised a finger. ‘My client bids twenty-five.’

  Logan gritted his teeth and took hold of the knife’s handle. Huffed out three short panting breaths.

  Come on.

  You can do this.

  He pulled and the blade slid free with a wet sucking noise.

  Logan clamped his other hand over the wound. Blood oozed out between his fingers.

  Didn’t hurt though. That was something. Probably in shock.

  He tightened his grip on the knife and sawed through the cable tie around his ankles.

  Stood. Staggered against the Clio.

  Looked down at Number Five and his stupid unconscious face.

  Logan slammed his boot into the guy’s ribs. Hard. ‘A knife!’

  Kicked him again.

  This isn’t helping.

  You need to stop the bleeding, you idiot.

  Yes. Right.

  He reached into the Clio’s boot, searching the corners with his free hand. It had to be here somewhere… Ha! Duct tape.

  Logan ripped off a palm-sized chunk, then unzipped his fleece and eased up the hem of his T-shirt. The dim orange glow turned the blood dark and glistening, like used engine oil. He wiped his sleeve across his side, taking the worst of it off, revealing a tiny black hole in the pale smeared skin. It oozed more oil.

  Somehow, seeing it made all the difference. It went from being a numb, slippery thing, to a burning oil-well – the flames ripping through his insides, burning up into his chest and down to his knees.

  ‘Arrrrgh…’

  He gritted his teeth, wiped the blood away again and slapped the strip of duct tape over the top.

  Yeah, that wasn’t going to stay there, was it.

  He took the roll and wrapped a length of tape all the way around, behind his back, across his front, pulling it tight, then added another layer, keeping the pressure on. A sort of sticky silver tourniquet. But the bloody thing still oozed.

  It would have to do.

  He tucked his T-shirt in again. Zipped up his fleece. Turned.

  A skinny boy stood beside a massive muddy four-by-four, arms wrapped around himself. Shivering. Wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms. So thin that his ribs stuck out like knuckles on a clenched fist. Hair plastered to his head. Blood running from his squint nose. Shuffling his bare feet in the rain.

  So it was true: the Livestock Mart was real.

  They were actually selling children.

  Logan staggered over and a huge dog went off in the four-by-four, spraying the rear window with saliva as it lunged and barked. What was it with these people and massive weaponised dogs?

  He hunkered down in front of the wee boy, trying not to wince. Failing. ‘Are you OK?’

  No reply, just a trembling stare.

  Up close, his pale skin was covered in small circular scars. Someone had put cigarettes out on him. So many cigarettes that it looked as if he had measles. Poor sod.

  ‘I’m a police officer. You’re all right. But I need you to…’

  What?

  Logan swallowed, looked across the rain-puddled concrete at Number Five lying sparked-out in front of the parked cars, between a pair of large agricultural buildings. The gable end of a cottage was visible at one end of the gap. A five-bar metal gate at the other. Eight parked cars – all with their number plates removed. No sign of Sweaty’s ancient Jag, Snake’s Audi, or Tiger’s Hilux.

  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Did his best to sound confident and in charge. To sound as if he wasn’t bleeding to death because someone had stuck a knife in him. ‘Are there any other children here?’

  The boy stared at him with big dark eyes.

  ‘Are there other children like you here?’

  A tiny nod, eyes flicking towards the agricultural building on the left. The one with an open door and lights on inside.

  Great.

  So much for stealing a car and speeding off to the nearest hospital. Now he had to stay here and figure out a way to rescue them. Without getting himself killed.

  Well, it wasn’t as if he actually knew how to hotwire an engine anyway.

  Gah… Why did everything always have to be so hard?

  Come on, Logan. Focus.

  First – get the boy to safety. Or as near to it as possible.

  He pointed. ‘You see those lights in the distance? I need you to go that way. I need you to keep low, and I need you to run. OK?’

  No response.

  OK. So it wasn’t ideal, but at least it was a plan.

  Logan unzipped his fleece and winced his way out of it. Draped it around the boy’s shoulders. ‘I need you to run till you find another farmhouse, far away from here, and you call the police. Can you do that for me?’

  Those big dark eyes stared up at him.

  For God’s sake!

  Logan patted him on the shoulder, trying really hard not to shout at the silent wee sod. ‘Can you be a good boy and do that for me?’

  His bottom lip wobbled. ‘I’m a good boy.’

  ‘Good. Great.’ He cupped Chatterbox’s face with his hands. ‘Off you go then.’

  The boy backed away a couple of steps, Logan’s bloody handprints on his cheeks, gathered the fleece around himself, turned, and ran. Past the end of the house, into the darkness.

  Logan gritted his teeth and levered himself upright again, left hand clutching his side as the oil-well burned.

  A tiny flash of white in the gloom as the wee boy took one last look … then he was gone.

  ‘And please don’t get caught.’

  45

  Number One leads Ellie Morton from the cattle court, holding her hand again, like a perfect gentleman.

  ‘Wasn’t she adorable?’ The Auctioneer sighs, then performs a booming drumroll on the walkway’s handrail with his gloved hands. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to our most anticipated item of the evening …’ Letting the silence hang. Building the tension. ‘LOT NUMBER SIX!’

  He throws his arms in the air and everyone turns to towards the door.

  Only nothing happens.

  Sally�
��s throat tightens, like someone’s strangling her. Aiden. Lovely, beautiful, wonderful Aiden. She’s going to see her baby again.

  The Auctioneer’s still got his arms up. ‘Lot number six!’

  Still nothing.

  She places a hand against her chest, blood thumping in her ears, mouth dry, skin tingling. And still Aiden doesn’t appear.

  The Auctioneer turns to one of his men, voice tight and clipped. ‘Number Four, will you please go see what’s taking Number Five so long?’

  ‘Nae probs.’ Number Four limps out through the door, flexing his shoulders as if he’s about to do someone an injury.

  ‘Sorry about this.’ The Auctioneer runs his fingers along the rail. Clears his throat. ‘Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t we go over the catalogue listing for lot number six?’

  Everyone turns to face him, their masked faces expressionless, but their bodies trembling with expectation.

  Sally tries very hard not to tremble. Where is he? He’s meant to be here. She went through all that horror just for this moment. She abducted a child for Christ sake. HE HAS TO BE HERE!

  ‘Our final lot of the evening is the one, the only, Aiden MacAuley!’ The Auctioneer leans closer. ‘Abducted at the age of three, Aiden’s father was brutally murdered, leading to an international manhunt, extensive worldwide press coverage, a bestselling book, and now there’s even talk of a film being made.’ The pause that follows is like a razorblade, slicing its way through Sally’s throat as the Auctioneer raises his arms again. ‘Imagine owning that child.’

  Logan limped over to the Clio’s boot, retrieved his peaked cap and jammed it onto his head. At least that would keep some of the rain off. He dug out the packet of cable ties and wipped one around the guy’s wrists, then did the same with his ankles. Slapped a big strip of duct tape across his mouth. Then grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him away across to the agricultural building on the other side. The one the wee boy hadn’t looked at when Logan asked him where the other kids were. The one with no lights on inside.

  Every step was like being kicked in the stomach.

  Which is what Number Five was going to get as soon as they were out of the rain. Possibly more than one. Heavy, ugly, stabby scumbag that he was.

  The door wasn’t locked.

  Logan shifted his grip and hauled him over the threshold and into a big metal space – every panting breath echoing around him.