Gilchrist saw that Jessie had tricked Magner into half-trusting her. He was standing a little closer to the monitor, and as Jessie leaned towards the screen she slid a hand into her jacket pocket. By instinct, as if Jessie had explained it to him in advance, Gilchrist knew what he had to do.
‘Help me up,’ he shouted.
Magner glanced at Gilchrist, who had a hand outstretched for a pull up to his feet. The SIG Sauer wavered for a moment, as if Magner was undecided who to shoot first – Gilchrist or Jessie. And in that split-second of indecision, Jessie moved.
With a speed that surprised Gilchrist – and Magner, as it turned out – she slipped her hand from her pocket and squirted something into his eyes while her other hand struck out at his gun arm.
Gilchrist winced as Magner pulled the trigger – once, twice – the bullets ricocheting off the concrete wall over Jessie’s shoulder. Another couple of shots blasted at the ceiling, as Magner squealed in pain, one hand at his eyes, the other waving the gun.
The echo of the explosions reverberated back to them like rolls of thunder as Magner collapsed to the floor with a grunt and a thud that spreadeagled his body – Jessie had just hit him full in the face with one of the torches from the workbench. In a second she stood astride him, trapping his gun arm under one boot. But instead of cuffing him, she swung the torch at his face again. The splash of blood and the sound of tearing cartilage told Gilchrist she had broken Magner’s nose. One more hit for good measure cracked his jaw and knocked him unconscious.
‘Jesus, Jessie,’ Gilchrist gasped.
She turned to him then, and he saw nothing but raw fear in her eyes. Before he could reach her, she had both hands to her face and the torch clattered to the floor. Her shoulders shuddered, breath heaving, as she sobbed, ‘Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ-’
Gilchrist took hold of her, pulled her to him. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’ But he knew he had to act fast, and he pushed her away. ‘It’s Mhairi,’ he said.
That stopped Jessie mid-gasp. ‘What?’
‘At the cottage. That’s who Purvis is going to shoot.’
‘What about him?’ she said, glaring at Magner.
‘He’s not going anywhere,’ Gilchrist said, removing a pair of FlexiCuffs from his jacket. He cuffed Magner’s hands behind his back, and an ankle to the steel leg of the workbench. Next, he retrieved all three mobile phones from the bench and handed Jessie her Beretta. ‘I never saw that,’ he said, ‘and you never brought it,’ then picked up the torch from the floor.
‘We don’t have time,’ Jessie gasped. ‘We’ll never catch up with Purvis.’
‘We do, and we will.’ He powered up his mobile, nodded at the pepper spray in Jessie’s hand, and said, ‘Remind me never to fall out with you.’ Then he ran towards the entrance shaft.
He reached the metal rungs and clambered up, praying he was not too late. He pulled himself out of the shaft with a speed that surprised him – adrenaline will do that – and crouched on the floor of the anteroom. He clicked on the torch and shivered its beam over the bare walls and floor.
‘Give me a hand up, will you?’
He grabbed hold of Jessie’s hand, and tugged her from the shaft.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’m all puffed out.’
Gilchrist knew that Jessie was still in shock, that her heart and lungs would be working overtime to settle her system, which would take time. But they had no time. He eyed his mobile, and saw he now had a signal.
He found Mhairi’s number and pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Come on come on,’ he said, following Jessie from the anteroom, through the next small room, and into the barn. The noise from the generator was loud enough to shake bones, and he pressed a hand over his ear to block off the sound. The air smelled fresh, and felt cold enough to cut skin. He breathed it in as his sense of smell returned to him. ‘Come on, Mhairi, answer for crying out loud.’
For one insane moment, he thought of stepping outside and running across the fields to warn her. But Purvis was armed with a shotgun, and wearing night-vision goggles. Gilchrist could do nothing for Mhairi unless he reached her by phone. He watched Jessie’s beam dance across the walls as she searched for a light switch. ‘Call for back-up,’ he shouted and killed the call. He was about to try again when his blood froze at the snarling growl.
He tried to turn, but his legs seemed to have lost all connection with his brain.
By the light from his torch, his peripheral vision picked up movement as something dark rose from the shadows and powered towards him.
Just in time, reflexive instinct jerked his arm up to protect his face as the Rottweiler slammed into him with the momentum of a prop forward. His forearm felt as if a man-trap had snapped on to it, and he grunted in pain as his back hit the floor.
He could smell the dog’s hot breath, hear the primeval savagery in its snarls as its drool splattered his face, its jaws gnashing and tearing through his leather jacket and into the meat of his arm. Its back legs were scrabbling, claws tearing into his thighs, as it tried to surge forward for the kill. With his free arm, Gilchrist managed to grip the dog’s neck, fingers sinking into its short fur, and he tugged for all he was worth. But against the wild strength of an enraged Rottweiler he was barely holding off the attack, only delaying the inevitable.
If it released his arm and went for his throat, he stood no chance.
Then the barn lit up like a lightning strike.
The Rottweiler never noticed.
Gilchrist gasped, ‘Jessie,’ as he caught the firework crack of a gun and felt the thud of the bullet. The Rottweiler released his arm and turned its head to its flank, as if something had irritated it. Then it returned its attention to the task at hand and, with lips pulled back in a snarl that bared canines long and hard enough to crush bones, went for Gilchrist’s throat.
He had time only to cross his arms in front of his face.
Another firecracker popped.
The Rottweiler’s snarl turned to a pained whine.
Another pop.
Gilchrist felt the strength drain from the beast as its whine changed to a burbling growl, and its splattering drool turned pink.
Then Jessie’s boots were by his head, and he could only gasp for air as she pressed her Beretta to the dog’s head and pulled the trigger.
Not even a whine that time.
Gilchrist pushed the Rottweiler off him, rolled to his side, tried to catch his breath. His trousers were bloodied and ripped where the dog’s claws had dug in. The sleeve of his leather jacket could have been put through a shredder. He felt the warm stream of blood running the length of his forearm to drip from his fingers.
‘I’m scared to ask,’ Jessie said.
‘I’m scared to look.’ He gripped the torn sleeve and tried to staunch the flow of blood. From the amount dripping from his fingers, he knew the attack had not severed his radial or ulnar artery. He was losing blood, and in pain, but it could have been much worse.
‘Did you manage to call for back-up?’ he asked.
‘Battery’s flat,’ she said. ‘Forgot to charge it.’
Gilchrist glared at her. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’
‘It’s a woman thing.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Right. Okay. First things first. Are you any good at tourniquets?’
‘I used to be a Girl Guide.’
He pulled off his jacket to reveal a torn shirt sleeve soaked in blood, grabbed the material, and ripped most of it off. At first glance, his arm looked a mess, but he rubbed his hand over it and confirmed they were mostly flesh wounds. Just one, deeper than the rest, was pulsing blood.
‘Okay, Florence Nightingale. You’re on.’
Jessie did a fine job of making a tourniquet out of the remnants of his shirt sleeve. She assured him she did not want it too tight in case it stopped the blood flow to his fingers; just enough to stop the worst of the bleeding.