Free Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage by Luke Preston Page B

this?’
    Bishop dug his fingers into his jeans pocket, pulled out the tape recorder and showed it to Rayburn. For just under ten minutes Rayburn paced the footpath chain-smoking cigarettes with the tape recorder pushed to his ear. His face contorted at different moments with what he heard and when it was over he didn’t say anything for a long time.
    ‘You need to be taken into protective custody,’ he eventually came out with.
    Bishop took the recording from Rayburn and slipped it in his pocket. ‘I don’t need protection.’
    He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and paced. ‘Don’t be an idiot. This is bad. Real fucking bad. Cops pulling jobs. Cops killing citizens. Cops killing cops.’ Rayburn pointed down the alley to the badges working the scene. ‘Taylor couldn’t have been alone. You think they’ll give a fuck that you’re a cop? They’re cops. You won’t last ten minutes out on the street.’ He shifted his gaze back to Bishop, nodded at his service weapon. ‘Is that it?’
    ‘Uh huh.’
    Rayburn pulled out an evidence bag and with a flick of his wrist it opened. ‘Put it in.’ Bishop hesitated until Rayburn pulled a second piece from the waistband of his trousers and handed it over. ‘Take my backup.’
    Bishop dropped his service weapon inside and palmed Rayburn’s backup. He checked the rounds: loaded.
    The scene was wrapping up and the time to roll Taylor into the body bag had come. They threw him in roughly. Nobody complained.

Chapter Fifteen
    Twenty minutes into the ride and nobody had said a word. Warren drove at a steady, cautious speed. Every once in a while, he’d shoot a glance in the rear-view mirror, his gaze meeting Bishop’s for a moment before shifting away as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Bishop was in the back seat, sandwiched between Russell and Cooper. Russell had bad breath and Cooper BO. There wasn’t anything Bishop could do about either. Rayburn sat up front in the passenger seat and stretched out.
    A dog ran in front of the car, slowed in the middle of the road. His yellow eyes lit up. Warren swerved around him.
    Nobody said anything.
    It had been two nights since Bishop last slept and he was wide awake: his body running on adrenaline and fear. Bishop stared through the windscreen as the streets blurred past. Not too long ago, the whole area was its own city of industry, made up of rows of factories that pumped out useless products nobody needed, now it sat dormant.
    Rayburn leant forward and pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it popped out and he raised it to light his cigarette, Bishop could just make out the mark on his wrist in the glowing coil. It was a stamp.
    The number seven.
    Rayburn sensed his mistake even as he made it, he turned, saw it all over Bishop’s face. He went for his weapon. His gut got in the way.
    Bishop rammed his elbow into Russell’s throat. Head flung back. His back arched. A scream shoved into an angered moan.
    Russell, weapon behind him. Struggled to reach. Gave up. Threw a jab to Bishop’s ribs. Let out a yell. Another jab. He heard a crack.
    Rayburn, weapon in hand. Swung Bishop’s way. He lifted his knee to chin. Catapulted forward. Rammed Rayburn’s gun hand to the dashboard. Pushed it there. Held it.
    Bishop pulled his weapon and rammed it under Russell’s chin. Pulled the trigger.
    CLICK.
    CLICK.
    CLICK.
    No firing pin.
    The vehicle swerved. Warren pulled his gun. He swung it over the seat and fired.
    Bishop went deaf.
    He was covered in glass and the rear window was gone.
    Russell jabbed Bishop’s broken ribs.
    Rayburn was slipping free.
    Cooper pried at Bishop’s elbow.
    Warren took aim again. His eyes darted between Bishop and the road. Bishop and the road.
    Warren pulled the hammer back. The blast came. A muzzle flash scorched Bishop’s leg, but the bullet buried itself in the back seat.
    Bishop took a fistful of Cooper’s hair. Rammed his head through the passenger window. Broke