Oh yeah: Mr Muscles was screwed now.
His lead had completely vanished and in thirty seconds, Logan and PC Kent would be all over him like sleaze on a politician.
He fought clear of the wreckage. Looked left, then right. Probably weighing up the odds. Then grabbed the nearest girl’s bike – pink-and-sparkly – and jumped on. Standing in the seat as he pedalled away with all his might.
So much for sleaze.
Logan hurdled the other bike and one of the girls. ‘Suspect is now on...a stolen...girl’s bicycle.’ Ragged breath. ‘STOP, POLICE!’
The over-pumped lump looked back over his shoulder at that, which was probably a mistake, because one of the road’s many potholes grabbed the front tyre, and sent him straight over the betasselled handlebars.
He hit the tarmac with a crunchingthwack.
Gotyou.
Logan and Kent were almost there when he struggled to his feet, bringing the bike with him – front wheel all twisted and bent.
Scarlet gushed out of his flattened nose and shattered mouth, a scattering of bloodied teeth still embedded in the road at his feet.
But Mr Muscles wasn’t done yet.
He roared out a froth of bright red, swinging the bike like a sparkly sledgehammer.
‘Shite!’ Logan hit the deck, but it slammed right into PC Kent’s stabproof vest, hurling her sideways into an ugly VW people carrier.
She bounced off the bodywork. The bike kept on going: straight through the rear driver’s-side window with a fireworktshhhhhh...Cubes of glass sparkling in the sunlight as the car alarm yowled, hazards flashing.
Not waiting around, Mr Muscles staggered into a run, one tattooed arm held against his chest.
Logan shoved himself upright. ‘STOP!...POLICE!’
As if anyone ever did.
Instead, Mr Muscles barrelled straight through the ‘STOP’ sign at the end of the road.
A tartan-liveried glazier’s van screeched to a standstill, inches away from bursting him like a gore-filled water balloon.
He thumped his good hand against the bonnet, spinning around to glance at Logan again, keeping the momentum going as he ran across—
BANG.
The Toyota Hilux smashed right into him, sending his body whirling into the air like an Action Man hurled by an angry child. He cartwheeled over the truck’s cab and its load bay – full of broken bricks, and jagged spears of rusty rebar – then hit the road with a sickeningcrunch.
Far too late, the Hilux jammed on its brakes, jerking sideways into the glazier’s van with an almighty crash of broken double-glazing units.
Little cubes of safety glass pattered down across the tarmac.
Horns blared.
Someone screamed.
Behind the Hilux, a minibus pulled up about two feet shortof the battered body. Driver gripping the wheel, face transformed into a gargoyle grimace, staring at what was left of Mr Muscles. Then all the schoolkids in the back piled forwards for a good gawp – phones out, filming away like the horrible little ghouls they were.
Logan hurpled into the middle of the road, arms out like a crossing guard. Holding the traffic back as he hurried over to the broken-limbed, twisted mess of fractured bones and torn flesh, in a spreading pool of dark, dark blood.
Because things weren’t bad enough already...
— bluebottles, asbestos, and blood —
