The Devil Among Us Read online

  I noticed the last criminal was also holding a gun, except he had a clear shot for a PC standing directly in front of him.

  “It’s a standoff,” I said as the realisation hit us. “Who’s the PC?”

  “Ryan Shaw,” DCI Reid shared grimly, wiping the moisture from his brow. “Bit of a rookie. He ran in when the first two were down, thinking it was all over. He was caught off guard by the final guy, and now he’s a negotiating point. An eye for an eye sort of thing. One of us has to break first.”

  Either he stands down, or the armed response does. Or someone shoots first.

  “He’s hesitant,” McCall noted, squinting her light eyes to see his face clearer. The criminal was indeed shaking unsurely. “Is that--?”

  “Flynn Jones,” I whispered quietly, also recognising the last criminal standing. What was he doing getting involved in such a high profile case like this one?

  We had caught Flynn Jones a few years ago for planning a robbery. He was caught on the property before even committing the crime. He was so indiscreet that he didn’t even get past stage one without being tripped up. Flynn admitted to his plans straight away when confronted. This guy didn’t even know what being a serious criminal entailed.

  He’d been desperate to provide for his family, so we’d put him back on the straight and narrow. McCall had personally taken pity on Flynn and provided him with a respectable job that earned a decent wage. It was more than enough money to look after their family. Flynn had been more than grateful for the second chance and opportunities given to him.

  It was hard to believe that Flynn Jones was responsible for the transportation of drugs past the borders, without any consequence whatsoever. Surely a man as inconspicuous as he would've been caught well before now.

  “What about those other two?” I referred to the bodies sprawled stone-cold dead on the floor.

  “Hard to tell. They’re all sort of deformed,” McCall tried to figure them out.

  “Sam Mercedes and Robin Wood,” DC Taylor spoke up, staying instinctively close to McCall. Protectively. His jet black hair blew wildly with the wind. “They’ve not long been out of prison, on account of handling offensive weapons.”

  “They didn’t learn their lesson then,” I referenced the guns.

  Armed response was full of angst, restless even. A tall man stood up straight and attempted to diffuse the situation by calling instructions through a megaphone.

  “Put your weapon down,” he said sternly.

  Cuts covered Flynn’s arms and cheeks. He shifted on the spot, fingers twitching at the trigger. Armed response was the epitome of professionalism compared to him. A glimmer of sweat trickled across Flynn’s temples and his eye contact darted all around, apprehensively taking in the sight of the crowd. We waited with bated breath.

  “We don’t want another fatality added to our list today. I repeat, put your weapon down.” The man with the megaphone deafened everyone with the instructions.

  “I’ll shoot!” Flynn screamed in fright at the voice, gun trembling in his grip. He twitched nervously, a glint of fear shining through his eyes. “I’ll do it!” Flynn had a funny lip, tucked up at one side. It often caught on his teeth, a defining feature.

  My own palms clammed up. I didn’t exactly want to witness his death too, especially not when the media were bound to get involved. The Flynn Jones we remembered a struggling, desperate man set off on the wrong path of life but who willed himself to do better.

  “I will,” Flynn persisted, quieter this time around, clearly assessing his stakes of survival. They were approximately fifty per cent and dependent on his actions under pressure. PC Ryan Shaw's hands were held high in the air in surrender. He was pale as a sheet which wasn’t surprising given that a gun was pointing his way.

  Weapons clicked on both sides, signifying that we were all presenting our final warnings. What a day this was turning into. It was the last thing I expected after arriving at the station this morning.

  McCall flinched beside us, half-expecting to hear a dozen gunshots rip through his body. I couldn’t tear away from the action, even if I wanted to.

  Everyone paused on edge. A ray of sunlight touched his face delicately and Flynn scanned the crowds of faces staring expectantly towards him. Emotion was visible from his hurried action, but then Flynn caught sight of our CID group. Those scared, frightened and emerald coloured eyes locked onto where McCall and I were standing.

  Something inside Flynn Jones changed. A droplet of sweat fell from his heavy-set brow and grazed slowly down his cheeks, and then his chin. Begging wordlessly for forgiveness, the hand holding the trigger shuddered. It began to lower, inch by inch, and we let out a collective sigh of relief.

  The silence was deafening, apart from the sounds of cars passing on a nearby road. The noise travelled across, carried by the open air. They were going fast, for the familiar whooshing of speed filled our ears. An exhaust backfired and the loud crack made us all jump, for it was dreadfully familiar to the gunshots.

  Flynn must’ve thought so too, for he flinched in fear. The fingers positioned on the trigger pulled as he did so, sending a Teflon coated bullet tumbling and spinning towards PC Ryan Shaw. It happened in an instant.

  Bang.

  Ryan grunted and yelled in sheer pain that was almost palpable, whilst holding the shoulder which the bullet skimmed before it ricocheted to the concrete. The metallic bullet bounced, no longer a threat. When he looked down at his fingers covered in shocking, hot blood, Ryan seemed ready to faint. Having a coward handle a gun was almost as dangerous as having someone collected in charge of a lethal weapon.

  Everyone knew it was an accident, for Flynn dropped the gun immediately. It clattered on the floor and the man with the megaphone reacted with speed.

  “Hold fire. He’s surrendered.”

  Sure enough, Flynn had dropped to both knees and copied Ryan’s action for mere minutes ago. He stuttered incoherently, obviously in shock, and whimpered apologetically. Tears and snot dripped humanly onto the road, and he didn’t resist the officers who ran in to slap cuffs on both wrists.

  Ryans uniform had ripped at the shoulder, showing one hell of a nasty nick. He tried hard to disguise the obvious pain that riddled his being, attempting to be strong in front of the departments. Medical assistance was on standby, ambulances too. They had one big cleanup job to complete.

  “Geez,” McCall let go of my suit jacket I didn’t know she had held until now.

  Ryan was taken straight into the ambulance, needing sharpish patching up on the shoulder. Robin and Sam were covered up with sheets and lifted away on stretchers instantly. All that was left behind of them were the bloodstains on the road.

  I rolled my shoulder back, for they’d been tense throughout the entire scene. My jaw ached from clenching too hard. “This’ll be the front page news of tomorrow’s papers.” Truth is, I didn’t know what to say.

  “Forget tomorrow. They’ll be out tonight,” McCall agreed.

  DCI Reid was already stepping out from behind the cars, ordering us CID lot to follow suit. “It won't be pleasant. Two local boys died on the street,” he added, his booming voice cutting through the chatter that erupted from all over. “All our names will be dragged through the mud.”

  As the uniformed officers started to bundle Flynn into their police transport, a hospital worker stopped them. We could just about make out the conversation between them.

  “He’ll need medical attention first. He’s in visible shock. I’d suggest he stays in hospital for a few days. There are some nasty cuts on his body too,” the hospital worker informed and scoured Flynn’s bare skin face. Judging by the way Flynn stuttered, he wouldn’t be able to talk properly, anyway. Taking him to hospital was probably the best course of action.

  “Well, there we are then.” DCI Reid sniffed his flaring nostrils, examining the hectic scene. Armed response was packing up, barely showing any indifference to what had happened. This was their job, they saw these situatio
ns on the daily. The man who had communicated in the megaphone saluted towards DCI Reid, suggesting the rest was up to us.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  2

  We stepped over the pools of blood respectfully, but also to keep our shoes clean. The superintendent wouldn’t be impressed if we trod the substance into the station carpets. The uniformed officers stood out of the way, letting us get on with our work.

  They were our guys. We’d searched for them too long to let the others have all the fun. I yanked open the back doors of the beaten-up turquoise van. We all covered our noses in disgust at the pure stench that came out.

  “Urgh,” McCall retched at the strength of it all. It penetrated through my shirt, and I was concerned my skin would start to stain from the ugly stench.

  “Definitely them, no doubt about it.” DC Taylor plugged his nose too. It was rare seeing him out of the office. Usually, the lean constable preferred some behind-the-scenes work. Our newest recruit, Rebecca, had been the unfortunate one to stay behind at the office. Along with Tony, they were elected to fill out a bunch of monotonous reports which needed doing. They could be trusted on their own.

  We’d had a rapid decrease to our team since DCI Campbell’s retirement a year ago. A few constables had left too, leaving us with a smaller team than we were used to. It had given us a chance to bond, and it all worked out quite nicely in the end.

  “Cocaine, by the looks of things,” DCI Reid stooped and stuffed his plumper figure into the back of the van to sift through. I rounded the corner to observe the load next to McCall. Our van was stuffed to the brim with white powders, enough to last anyone years. Nobody would have suspected that the plain van on the outside contained a wealth of illegal drugs inside.

  I glanced around to where a crowd of reporters were still trying to break past the physical barrier of PCs. They flashed their cameras over the PC’s shoulders, in hopes of capturing anything they could. At this rate, we’d all be blinded soon. It seemed that the local news reporters were filming too, their microphones pointed towards the uniformed officers for statements of some capacity.

  “I can barely think over all their noise,” I grumbled, feeling an easy headache coming on. McCall noticed straightaway, knowing me all too well. She passed over a clear plastic bottle, full of water that had gone warm.

  “Take some,” she urged. “I always bring one with me these days, I never know if you’ll get a funny turn somewhere.”

  “Cheers.” The water went down my throat smoothly.

  “Dehydration is what causes headaches, you know. Keep it,” McCall informed me, and brought our attention back to the evidence. “It’s a massive shipment. Wonder where it all came from.”

  “A foreign country probably, hence the tightening of our borders. They wouldn’t be the first. There’s money here, and a lot of it too.” DCI Reid heaved himself out again, a wad of currency notes clutched in one fist.

  I whistled in amazement. They were in Scottish pounds.

  “Looks like they’ve already sold a load of this stuff.” DC Taylor suggested, huge eyes widened at the sheer amount of cash there.

  “They’ve probably transported a few other shipments past the border recently and sold them to some dealers already. They’ve made a pretty penny in doing so.” DCI Reid flicked through the wad, trying to count it all.

  “What on Earth would anyone spend all that on? It could last an entire lifetime,” McCall continued, unable to look away from the printed notes.

  Until now, Cillian had stayed uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, he could be a tad erratic and excitable, but so far I’d been impressed with his ability to act sensibly when the time had called for it.

  “Foreign strippers,” Cillian announced with finality, certain he was correct.

  I spoke too soon. Only when we stared in confusion did Cillian feel a need to elaborate.

  “Foreign money and lots of it! What else do these types of guys do on holiday?”

  “Anyway,” I shook my head in disbelief. “Robin, Sam, and Flynn. What an odd trio.” It’s true. They were.

  “Like Laurel, Hardy and,” Cillian screwed his youthful face in thought. If he tried any harder, he’d burst a blood vessel. “The other one.”

  The analogy was crap, but I understood the effect he was going for.

  “They do make a random group. Like somebody chose the worst three people at random with a criminal background and sent them out here.” I tried hard to avoid staring at the blood and focus on the drugs instead.

  “I know what you mean.” McCall shifted her weight to the back foot and folded her arms. “I never would have imagined Flynn getting involved in drugs. Especially not after we gave him a second chance. Robin and Sam, maybe, but Flynn? Never.”

  “That’s what you get for being nice. Damned if we are, damned if we aren't. Just shows, doesn’t it? We let criminals go and they’ll do it all over again. Prison isn’t a threat anymore, there are too many rules. We’ve gone too soft. They walk all over us,” DCI Reid complained, shifting through even more piles of money. “If only there was a way to keep up with the times, but bring back the old method of policing. The days where we used to frighten the bad guys and were appreciated by the good. Now, we’re hated by most.”

  He had a point.

  “I don’t know, Guv,” DC Taylor rose to McCall’s aid. “You weren’t here when we dealt with Flynn. He was comically awful.”

  Flynn Jones was like a cartoon character, where the pop-up subtitles flash up with ‘bang’ or ‘crash’. He’d fall over his own feet and slip over banana skins if there were any left on the floor.

  Cillian got involved too, his brown suit rumpled and hair barely brushed. He could be essentially harmless but a bit gormless. “I’ve still got staple holes on my desk, from when he stapled his slacks to the top.”

  We shared a bit of a chuckle at the memory.

  “We can’t deny what we saw with our own eyes.” DCI Reid shrugged, placing all the money back as we found it. “The van’s probably stolen, they usually are with these kinds of jobs.”

  “That’s true. You’ve dealt with more of these things than we.” I cleared my throat. “Whatever you say.”

  DCI Reid had transferred to our station as the replacement. We’d heard all positive things about the man before he joined, for DCI Reid was a very respected superior in the force. He was well known for charity work, very giving in that manner. He was shrewd, professional, and as efficient as the case allowed.

  “We’ll start searching for any stolen reports and look into the number plate when we get back to the station, if that would be useful?” DC Taylor suggested, gnawing on his thumbnail. All of us were turning pink from the underlying chill in the air.

  “Yep. That’s the best start.” Reid yawned and displayed a spectacular amount of chins, for our early starts knackered us all.

  A journalist broke free from the crowd and ran towards us, ready to question us until the cows came home. Thankfully, the PCs on crowd control noticed and stopped the crazed lady from going much further.

  “Anyone would think we’re a band or something,” McCall said dryly, a dusting of freckles beginning to appear on her sloped nose.

  “Apart from the fact none of us can sing, play an instrument, and we’re not exactly desirable,” I quipped, squinting in the brightness.

  “Huh. We’re already halfway there then,” she grinned, displaying a smile full of teeth and gums.

  “They’re crazy,” DCI Reid shook his significantly larger head at the gaggle of pen pushers. “We’ll get mobbed and stampeded if we’re not careful.” One bushy eyebrow raised towards them. “I’ll call forensics to the station to take their swabs. It’ll be easier than having them fight through this crowd of groupies.” He joined in with our light humour.

  Stalking to the front of the drug-laden van, DCI Reid opened its front doors to reach in and gather a set of keys still stuck in the ignition.

  “You, DC Taylor.”
Reid threw the keys into the air, and Taylor only just caught them. “You’re in charge of driving this rust bucket to the station yard.” DCI Reid banged against the van, making enough vibrations for a wing mirror to fall off. “My point exactly.”

  “Guv,” DC Taylor confirmed.

  DCI Reid plodded away, over to his own work vehicle. “Be careful. If word has gotten out that we’re in possession of these, who knows what worms will crawl out of the woodwork? There could be all sorts out there waiting for a load of these.”

  “Yeah. Watch out for the old ladies with their handbags, John. I head they’re rabid,” Cillian snorted, earning a light swat around the arm from McCall.

  Even though they didn’t flaunt their relationship at work, DC Taylor and McCall stood up for each other in the smallest of ways. Adorable really, even if it made us all a bit nauseous. Since getting a girlfriend of my own, I’d softened towards all that lovey-dovey stuff.

  “We’ll drive in convoy to keep a lookout for you,” DCI Reid continued, ignoring Cillian on purpose. “Agreed?”

  We murmured yes, splitting up to take care of our individual tasks. McCall barely ever went anywhere without me, we were partners after all. Of the work kind, anyway. Unfortunately for our late arrival, we’d parked past the crowds, which meant we’d have to brave it and/or make a run for it.

  “Ready?” I checked before heading off that McCall had steadied her nerves to brave the shark tank.

  “Always,” she said bravely as I rustled deep in a pocket to find the pair of aviator glasses I’d left there. The camera flashes alone would be enough to disorientate and blind anyone.

  “Where--?” I started and turned to ask McCall if she’d seen them.

  I didn’t need to, for I saw they were already on her face. They swamped her minuscule features, far too big.

  “Give them here. Now,” I commanded sternly, unimpressed at her dubious antics. Would she ever stop purposely winding me up?

  “But I look better in them than you.”