A Good Day To Die by Simon Kernick Page B

my left was the other workman from the cafe, a stocky guy with a long head and a small moustache. Those were the only details I got, because I was too busy concentrating on the black baseball bat swinging casually from one hand. From the other side of the car and out of vision, I heard number three shout that I had gas.
    Time's of the essence in these sort of situations. I sprayed the gel again, aiming at Moustache, but he turned his head to one side and I only managed an indirect hit. He rubbed at one eye and cursed. I'd stopped him, but he wasn't going to be out of the equation for long.
    I swung round, the effort making my vision blur again, and tried to aim at number three through the fuzz. I sprayed wildly as he came towards me but I think I missed, and then I was pressing the button and nothing was happening. The gel had run out. I'd been told you didn't get much for your money. One or two sprays and that was that.
    I turned to run as assailant number three's baseball bat came into view. He was holding it two-handed, and seemed to know what he was doing. He lashed out, striking me hard on the back of my legs before I could get out of range, the force of the blow sending me stumbling to the ground. I fell forwards into mud, fumbled momentarily in my pockets, then rolled round so I could see what my chances were.
    They weren't looking too good. I was in woodland. A wall of pine trees rose up on either side of the muddy track that the car - a silver four-wheel drive, the same one from outside the cafe - had come down. I could make out the sound of an aircraft flying unseen through the unbroken white cloud, miles overhead, but there was no hum of nearby traffic. Moustache continued to rub his right eye, but still held on to the baseball bat. Assailant number three, shorter and thinner than his friend, with more hair, was smiling and swinging his bat jauntily. Number one, Scarface, was on his knees a few feet to my right, head in his hands. 'Fucking bastard,' I heard him hiss. I guessed he'd be out ofthe equation for another five minutes or so, by which time I'd have either escaped or been battered back into oblivion. At the moment, it looked like the latter.
    I shut my eyes, then opened them again, focusing on the two men coming towards me. My vision began to clear at what some might argue was exactly the wrong time.
    'How's yer head?' asked number three in a thick Glaswegian accent. 'Must be hurting.'
    'It's going to be hurting a fuck of a lot more in a minute,' said Moustache, gripping his bat as if he was getting ready to hit an almighty home run. His accent was East London, and he was still blinking aggressively against the effects of the gel.
    They stopped on either side of me, looking down. 'You're harder than we give ye credit for,' said number three. 'But nae hard enough, ah'm afraid. Now shut yer eyes and we'll make it quick.' He lifted his bat, as did his colleague. 'That'll do you nae good, son,' he added, motioning to what he thought was the empty CS gel canister in my hand as I raised it slowly.
    From somewhere off to the left, I heard a noise in the trees. Something running, getting closer. Then a man's voice, calling out, 'Tex, get back here!' The voice was still some distance away but the dog was a lot nearer. Perhaps he'd heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. If he had, I was grateful. I'd always liked dogs.
    'Whattae fuck?' cursed the Scotsman, looking towards the trees.
    Still lying on my back, I squeezed the button on the second canister and the gel shot upwards and straight into the face of Moustache, who I'd identified as the most immediate threat. He jumped back, but his muffled curses suggested I'd got him this time. I swung my arm round, still depressing the button, and more gel hit the Scotsman.
    But he'd had that one second to react while I took out his colleague, and he used it to jump back out of the way. As the spray sputtered and died all too quickly, he came back fast, striking