Chapter 19
PC Duncan Lennox had a headache. Aye he might have had it otherwise too, but surely the bottle of Cutty Sark he had shared with PC Baillie hadn't exactly worked as painkiller either. He wouldn't have even remembered the label if the empty bottle hadn't been the first thing his eye focused on when he finally managed to rip open his eyelids. It was peacefully resting on his pillow until movement made it roll down and fall on the floor.
Duncan dragged himself sit up on his bed – after carefully checking it was his, his memories of the previous evening were quite messy and blurred to say the least. He wished he could have said the same of the day... the sickness that flushed over him, he wasn't quite sure if it was the hangover or the uninvited rush of memories. Dully he stared at his hands and started to wake up to the pain coming from the small burns around his body, and scrapes made by the shreds of concrete and timber he got on his face. None had known there were those petrol-cans and the fume spread in that messy labyrinth, none paid attention at first with all the racket going on and trying to get the captured agents pulled out, not before the black Londoner with funny name... Jax, who had been assessing the two agents they found, had suddenly jerked his head up and roared a warning. Christ what lungs that thin man had. But that Jax had saved their lives, and the sharp orders starting to spit out from the R/Ts right after the Alpha One had got explanation to the shouts. Although it wasn't their own Alpha One who gave those orders, and PC Duncan wondered briefly if Chief Constable Rutherford would even today enter same room with that old wolf of Criminal Intelligence 5, mr Cowley.
Auld Robbie had been there, and had told all bout it to him and Baillie and all the others who had been taken to get patched... Rutherford had wanted them to advance still deeper into that damned old warehouse despite the smell to capture the bastards, mister Cowley instead had wanted retreat, and when Rutherford had refused to order the men back, mister Cowley had shoved the plan of the building right into his face and asked him if he planned another Charge of the damned Light Brigade as the building was a bloody death-trap if there would be explosion or fire. And when Rutherford had bellowed he had been affirmed the highest authority in this operation, mister Cowley had told him he wouldn't allow perfectly good men get killed, not the police, and definitely not his own, had pushed the man away from radio, and a mere nod from him had been enough, that female agent Fischer – and actually, also Sergeant Douglas, good man, those two had stepped in between and pushed Rutherford and the radist farther off. Rutherford still had shouted about his authority while the old man had listened to reports making marks to the plan and ordering the retreat-routes, and mister Cowley had calmly told the bugger to either shut up or get out. As the man did neither, that old devil had merely given a glance over his glasses, said in a quiet tone "Remove him" and this agent Fischer had whisked the Chief Constable away as if he was nothing more than some drunken hooligan at Pittodrie Stadium. All that had maybe taken less than two minutes, or so Robbie said, and thank God for that old man, they all had got closer to the doors...
Suddenly sounds of firing pushed everything else from Duncan's mind, and the memory of hot lash on his cheek where a ricochet had passed his head like giving it a kiss. He had frozen... och, he still froze remembering. And then the flare... the explosion, och that too, but still, it was the flare, and the heat, noises in flames, the feeling of hell, and the kiss of death all in the same, and PC Baillie sitting against the wall, staring at his jammed sub. And all of a sudden, everywhere around them were flames, and the bastards were still shooting at them, until those two got back, goddammit they had come back for them, him, Baillie... the old man had ordered counts on entrances, everybody else was out but them, and those two, Doyle and Bodie, had rushed back and practically dragged them out while covering them at the same time... Och, those two, it was as if they had been reading each other's minds, everything was so smooth between them, they barely talked, and that shooting, if Duncan only could learn to be half as good...
Duncan sighed and forced himself into bathroom. Aye, right, no use thinking about that one, he'd be probably quietly knocked into penpushing, after yesterday... he didn't know what had come over him, he was usually just as cool as the next man, but he knew that if those two hadn't come, hadn't pulled him out, hadn't forced him move, he'd be dead, a charred lump they'd try to recognize from his teeth. And the thought of that, and the image, finally made young constable yield to nausea.
An hour later he had managed to swallow some breakfast. Anyway, he knew that Baillie couldn't be in much better condition, that was a sort of comfort. Except that Baillie wouldn't need to drag his arse to the station today, he'd left his report already yesterday while Duncan had rushed to the hospital hearing the latest from the doctors who would operate his grandfater today. He'd arranged his own burns be re-checked by a nurse now in the morning, as he'd go meet Gramp the last time before the op. And he should try to reach the two agents again, Gramp had said it was allright the men were there, good men as they were, he'd like to meet them when they got back to city. Duncan had tried to phone before he set off with Baillie, och those pints, he should have skipped them... or the whisky afterwards... aye he should ask Gramp if the phone had been acting up.
So. Gramp first, nurse second, finishing the cursed report third, and he would try to reach Bodie and Doyle again from the station. Maybe after that he would start feeling at least somewhat human.