Big City Jacks Read Online Free PDF Page A

90-degree left-hand turn into Springfield Road, which was the one-way street looping round the nightclub.
    â€˜Christ!’ he muttered and slammed on the brakes, wrenching the wheel down to the left.
    Nothing happened. The car did not slow down. There was no pressure on the brake pedal.
    â€˜What?’ cried Renata.
    Roy held on grimly, pumping the pedal repeatedly.
    Still nothing.
    â€˜Fuck!’
    The Escort swerved and the back end came round. Roy found himself travelling broadside into the path of an oncoming black cab.
    Renata screamed, realizing the car was totally out of control. It was not a scream of delight anymore.
    Roy knew there was nothing he could do. He braced himself for the coming impact.
    â€˜Ooops, he’s lost it,’ one of the officers in the following police car stated coolly.
    Both cops saw the Escort being driven at high speed towards the left-hand bend, realized it wasn’t slowing down, saw the brake lights come on, saw it still wasn’t slowing down, saw the car twist mid-road and start to skid sideways into the unsuspecting cab.
    The taxi driver tried to veer away, but there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to manoeuvre and in the end he just slammed on and held on for dear life.
    The area of the stolen car which smashed into the front of the taxi was around the offside back door and rear wheel arch. Both cars became a tangle of scrunching metal. The Escort came off worst. It was old, rusty and past it; it disintegrated like a vampire being hit by a shaft of daylight.
    The impact threw Roy hard against the driver’s door, but somehow he managed to avoid banging his head against the window. He was stunned for a moment and was surprised to be still sitting on the driver’s seat, hands holding the wheel. Next he was astounded he could open his door – which actually just dropped off its hinges and clattered to the ground – and he climbed out.
    â€˜Come on, let’s fuck off!’ he yelled.
    It was only when he stopped to glance back at Renata that he saw she had not been quite so lucky.
    Roy’s shock at her bloody and smashed appearance was over in an instant when his self-preservation gene kicked in. Without a further backward glance, he ran, leaving her in the car.
    He had a pretty good idea she was dead.

Two
    L ynch leaned over the snooker table, lined up his cue and slammed the white ball into the pack of reds to break off the game. One red dropped luckily into a pocket and the white ball rolled into a potting position behind the blue. He sniggered at his good fortune and his opponent shook his head disparagingly.
    As he lined up his next shot, his mobile phone rang. He cursed but answered it and listened intently before ending the call with a terse ‘Been chased and dumped in Blackpool? Interesting.’
    He stood up and bounced the thick end of his cue thoughtfully on the floor. ‘Bloody Blackpool,’ he muttered thoughtfully.
    â€˜Eh?’ his opponent enquired.
    â€˜Nowt.’ He dropped into position over the snooker table again, but once more his phone rang out. ‘Shit . . . yeah?’ he answered.
    He walked across to the window and gazed down on to the street below the private club, a quiet Manchester street, close to the town centre.
    â€˜You’re sure he’s there? Right . . . right . . .’ As he spoke and listened he became more and more agitated and excited. ‘Leave it with me. He pressed the ‘end call’ button and redialled immediately. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he muttered. ‘Biggars? It’s me again . . . got a location this time . . . yeah, a grass . . . how are you fixed? Can you finish? Can you provide the necessary tools and equipment? Yeah, yeah . . . good, half an hour . . . I’ll be there . . . you’ll need a shooter, too, just in case . . . yeah, nice trip to the seaside . . . see ya.’
    Lynch picked up his cue and walked back to the snooker table,