Off Duty
Truth And Lies
RIOT ACT
Charlie Fox book two
by Zoe Sharp
A self-defence expert with a motorbike and an attitude, Charlie Fox doesn't need to go looking for trouble. It generally finds her. House-sitting for a friend seems like an easy favour at first but the house in question is in the Lavender Gardens estate. Teenage gangs are running riot and Charlie's desperate neighbours have been forced to employ an expensive – and ruthless – security firm to apply rough justice where the legal kind has failed. The situation gets even uglier when a young Asian boy is fatally wounded in what appears to be a racially motivated shooting.
Caught in the middle of an urban battlefield, Charlie's more than able to take care of herself but then she comes face to face with a spectre from her army past. As the tensions rise, lives will depend on Charlie working out just who she can really trust . . .
RIOT ACT
Charlie Fox book two
excerpt
Chapter Five
As I turned in to Kirby Street a big man carrying what looked like a baseball bat stepped out of the shadows into the road in front of me.
My first thought as I grabbed for the front brake was that Roger had somehow already got wind of my intention to go the distance, and had sent the boys round. Timing and logic didn't come into it. This was straight gut-reaction fear.
The Suzuki's tyres slithered on the wet greasy tarmac as I locked the wheels up tight, stepping the back end out. Somehow, I managed to bring the bike to an untidy halt within about six feet of him, slanted across the road. I put my feet down, shaky, heart bouncing against my ribs.
The man had made no move to get out of my path. Arrogance made him confident that I would stop in time. That I wouldn't dare run him down. I wondered if he tried the same tactic with buses and trucks.
For a couple of beats, nothing happened. Then he swaggered forwards to meet me, and I saw that the baseball bat was actually one of those oversize torches. The type so favoured by jumped-up security guards without the authority to carry a weapon for real.
He came right up to the fairing, crowding me, tall enough for me to have to crick my neck up to make eye- contact with him through my visor. His was a face that had seen some action, the bridge of the nose lumped with scar tissue. There was the line of an old knife wound cutting through his moustache stubble from nostril to upper lip.
He was a sizeable bloke, wearing the black bomber jacket and dark cargo trousers of the professional bruiser. I've come across enough of them in my time to recognise the type without needing a diagram. I was reminded strongly of the local vigilante leader, Langford.
It was only when he spoke that my preconceptions took a knock. “OK, sonny, where do you think you're going?” he demanded, surprising me with the genuine cut-glass accent that came out of his thuggish mouth.
I didn't bother to correct his mistake. Even in these enlightened times nobody expects a girl to be riding a motorbike. “Home,” I said shortly, my voice muffled by my scarf. “What's it to do with you?”
“You'd be wise not to take that tone with me, my lad,” he warned with a grim smile. He thrust his chin forwards, showing me his teeth and the whites of his eyes all the way round the irises. The skin of his face was stretched over wide cheekbones that protruded through it, revealing the shape of his skull.
Close up, he was older than I'd first thought. Even under the streetlighting, I could see that the hair cropped short to his scalp was silver, not blond. The lines were etched deep into his face like penknife graffiti in an old school desk.
“Come on,” he said, roughly now. “Let's have that helmet off and have a look at you.”
“
At that moment another figure appeared from a ginnel between two houses and joined the first. He was younger, shorter, not so broad in the shoulder, but the haircut and the uniform was the same. This was starting to get creepy.
“You got trouble, boss?” he asked, not taking his eyes off me. His voice wasn't nearly so far upmarket, but he was trying hard to match it, and his tone was hopeful, spoiling for a fight.
I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of sticky situations, but I didn't have to be to work out that now was a good time to back down.
With a sigh I yanked my gloves off and undid the chinstrap holding my battered old Arai helmet in place, pulling that off over my head.
For a moment, surprise held them still, then the big bloke laughed.
“Well, well,” he said softly. “I'd no idea that I was in the presence of a lady.”
“You're not,” I said, my voice icy. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who you are and what the hell is going on?”
“My apologies,” he said, mocking. “My name is Ian Garton-Jones. Myself – and Mr West here – and my colleagues, have been contracted in a clean-up capacity on this estate.”
I suddenly remembered my last conversation with my neighbour over the garden fence. She'd mentioned a Mr Garton-Jones, but I feigned ignorance. “Clean-up?” I queried, frowning.
“That's correct.” He showed his teeth again. The Rhodesian Ridgeback, Friday would have made the gesture look more friendly. “We're here to gather up all the rubbish, the crap, the dregs, and the trash, and keep it off the streets,” he said with deliberate emphasis. The inference was clear.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked flippantly.
He shrugged. It was of no importance to him. “Whatever it takes.”
“And that involves doing a ‘stand and deliver’ routine on every passing motorist coming into the estate, does it?”
“Oh that's just a temporary measure, Miss??” He left the question hanging.
