A man in boxer shorts and a long black bathrobe stood at the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, a semi-automatic pistol in the other. White socks on his feet. A thick joint stuck out between his bared teeth, smoke curling through his patchy beard and long black hair. Eyes narrow and bloodshot. He wobbled from side to side, then raised the gun and squinted one eye shut.

It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t be.

BOOM – the noise reverberated back and forth from the walls as another chunk of plaster erupted into dust. Nowhere near where they were hiding. Too drunk and stoned to hit the side of a bus.

Could it?

Logan had to shout over the ringing in his ears. ‘Anthony? Anthony Chung? ’

The gun wobbled around again, barked twice, tearing twin holes in the door opposite.

Rennie scrambled back through the cannabis plants, five-fingered leaves sticking in his hair. ‘But Anthony Chung’s dead!’

BOOM – another floor tile exploded.

‘Yeah, well, as ghosts go, he’s not taking it lying down, is he? ’

‘You said his dad ID’d the body!’

BOOM, BOOM – one in the doorframe, one in the wall.

His dad was obviously a lying bastard. Not only was Anthony Chung very much alive, there wasn’t a tribal tattoo on the left side of his neck.

Sim wiped a dribble of blood from her eyes. ‘We can’t just sit here like a bunch of lemons.’

BOOM – the ceiling got that one, dust drifting down and shining in the light from the open growing-room door.

Rennie licked his lips. ‘We rush him. His aim’s crap, right? We all run at him at the same time and. . .’ He stared at Logan. ‘What? ’

‘You’re an idiot. We are not charging a man with a loaded—’

BOOM – another floor tile.

Click.

Logan stuck his head around the door again. Anthony Chung had one eye squeezed shut, holding the gun up in front of his face – moving it backwards and forward as if that would help get it in focus. The slide was racked all the way back, the round barrel protruding a good three inches, smoke curling from the hole.

He staggered back a step, then his eyebrows shot up and he dropped the Jack Daniels bottle. Reached for his dressing-gown pocket.

Logan charged, the shattered tiles gritty beneath his feet.

The bottle of bourbon hit the stair carpet and bounced, amber liquid spraying from the open neck.

Anthony Chung’s hand disappeared into his pocket.

The bottom step creaked as Logan launched himself up the stairs, taking them two at a time, arms and legs pumping.

The hand reappeared with a huge chrome-plated semi-automatic.

Three more steps.

The gun came up, pointing right between Logan’s eyes.

Too slow. . .

Anthony Chung grinned. ‘Bye, bye.’ And pulled the trigger.

Chapter 49

49