Plugged - Eoin Colfer [41]
We splash through the street sweeper’s backwash to the stairwell. Deacon swings herself around a lamppost, her coat balloons and I realise she has underwear and a shoulder holster on under there and nothing more.
Something occurs to me. ‘Careful, Detective.’
Too late. A bullet punches into the lamppost, sending a church bell bong along its shaft.
I pull Deacon away from the stairwell. ‘Did you bother to disarm your partner?’
‘She was dead. Why disarm her?’
Detective Deacon is the kind of person who would argue with St Peter.
‘Obviously she is not as dead as you thought.’
Deacon gets a two-handed grip on her automatic. ‘This is good. If I can take her alive, she can put me in the clear. Ish. The trunk bit could take some explaining.’
‘Call it in, then.’
‘With what? The spy radio in my panties?’
A mailman runs past us shouting into his radio, effectively doing the calling in for us. We have about three minutes before this place is swarming with police.
I lie on my stomach, wiggling my fingers at Deacon. ‘Gimme the Cobra.’
Deacon looks at me as though I’m asking her to donate a kidney. ‘Give you the what?’
‘You’ve read my file, Ronelle. This is what I do.’
Deacon slaps the gun against my chest like it’s a subpoena.
‘Make sure you shoot the right cop.’
I don’t respond. All this wisecracking is more exhausting than the gunplay.
My subconscious flicks through my memories for an appropriate Lebanon flashback, but I force that kaleidoscope of mayhem back down. Now is not the time for dwelling in the past. It would be a shame to take a bullet in the head because I was reliving Operation Green Line.
The basement stairways on my block are pretty uniform: cast-iron railing, eight steps down and a midget door wedged into a concrete alcove. These nooks were not built for someone of my size. I grab a rail and drag myself along the pavement, shirt rasping against the slabs.
There is noise below. Laboured breathing and rustling of material. I sense that Goran is nearly done, but it doesn’t take much energy to pull a trigger one last time. I’ve seen guys fight for half a day, fuelled by nothing more than bile.
I screw my eye socket into the tiny wedge of space between the railing and the pavement.
Deacon tugs on my pants. ‘What do you see?’
‘I see a leg.’
‘Just one?’
‘The other one’s bent back. I think she fell down those last few steps.’
‘Good. You see a weapon?’
I wiggle forward another inch. Goran’s hand is flapping like a fish out of water; her gun glints just out of reach.
‘Dropped it. Let’s go.’
I scramble to my feet, but Deacon is up before me, elbowing past to the first step.
She’s fast, but not fast enough. There is just time to register an impression of Goran’s battered and bloody frame, slumped like a broken mannequin, when the door behind her opens. An extremely hairy pair of hands reaches out, grabs Goran by the shoulders and hauls her inside. She’s gone in a second, like she was never there. The door slams and bolts are shot.
‘You see those hands?’ says Deacon, stunned. ‘Like goddamn monkey hands. Can you believe that?’
I push past her and knuckle the door. It’s steel-reinforced.
‘Get it open, McEvoy. Use some military trickery.’
I try to trick the door with my shoulder. The central panel buckles and wobbles but does not give.
‘Got an oxyacetylene torch tucked into your underwear beside that spy radio, Ronelle?’
‘I’m thinking of a word, McEvoy. Hobble. You remember that one?’
We don’t have time for this. Cloisters is a small place and shots fired is big news. Half the police force will be landing on this block any second, and I don’t think now is a good time for armed company.
‘So, are you waiting for backup?’
Deacon thinks aloud. ‘I can’t wait. I need to follow the monkey hands.’
‘You’re getting in deeper, Ronnie. Every step you take makes it harder to go back.’
Deacon has a look in her eyes, like she’s squinting at the horizon. ‘We’re getting in deeper, McEvoy. Us. Okay, we’re on a tangled road now, but it could straighten out.