My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

with his boys doing their stuff when he was on remand at HMP Forest Bank. Nothing like a bit of witness intimidation to shut up a few blabbermouths. The ‘not guilty’ verdict was based on the fact that Lomas had lunged at him, and Chisel had had a legitimate reason for holding the chisel and had just ‘reacted’. With the only witness testifying being Chisel’s buddy, Jamie ‘Johnno’ Johnson, the judge and jury had no option and Chisel was freed.
    He slid off the kitchen unit, withdrew a tiny torch and went for a mooch. Nothing heavy, just valuable – the golden rule of the lone burglar. The VW keys on the lounge coffee table were tempting, but he wasn’t too arsed about car keys tonight. The cops would be knocking about, so best not. He’d stand out like a priest at a drug deal if he hit the streets in a stolen car. Anyway, he’d promised to meet Johnno, Bezzer and the rest of lads, and was running late. It was Bezzer’s eighteenth so they’d all be stocked up with beer, coke and weed, and it was only right that Chisel brought something to the party.
    Five minutes and as many rooms later, Chisel’s pockets were filled with two gold rings, a mobile phone, three credit cards, a Nintendo DSi and forty-odd quid. The bonus of the latest Grand Theft Auto made him grin. Bezzer loved this shit so, all heart, Chisel would give his mate the game for his birthday.
    Fifteen minutes of ducking, diving and skulking later, and Chisel felt secure in the sanctuary of his patch – Bullsmead.
    He could hear Bezzer and the rest of Bad Bastard Bullsmead Boys before he actually saw them, their voices carrying in the cool night air. He felt charged up as he turned into the side street off Bullsmead Road and approached his boys. They’d already started on the booze, the twats.
    Bezzer was sitting on a waist-high cable TV electrical box beside the wall of a 1950’s gable-end terraced house. He wore his trendy baseball cap side on and was supping a bottle – Lambrini no doubt. The rest were hooded up, in a mishmash of black tracksuits and jackets. They gathered noisily around Bezzer under the streetlamp, jostling positions and generally larking about. An empty bottle flew through the air and bounced onto the road, the hollow clinking echoing between the two gable-ends of the side street that the gang occupied, then rolled to a stop at the kerb.
    Chisel smiled. True to form, wannabe graffiti artist Johnno was spraying ‘BBBB’ in yellow on the wall of the end terrace while the unsuspecting occupant of the house was probably sat watching Newsnight reporting on yet another example of ‘Broken Britain’. Chisel was proud of his boys.
    He emerged from the darkness like a beast from a cave, striding toward the throng with a cocky swagger, his arms opening at his sides.
    “Yo, Chisel, what’s up?” One of the lads spotted him and their knuckles soon met in a macho greeting. He grabbed a bottle of Bud’, downed it in one and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before lobbing the bottle into the night, ignoring the smash seconds later.
    The other five repeated the knuckle greeting ritual, springs in their steps now their leader was here. They all gathered around Chisel, like flies round shit, as he told them about how he’d battered some student in McDonald’s earlier because he’d misguidedly objected at Chisel jumping the queue. His re-enactment of the punches he’d thrown and the stamping he’d done on the lad’s head produced roaring laughter and high fives from the boys.
    He then told them, with a plethora of ‘ra-ras’ and ‘innits’, how the McDonald’s staff were all pussies and had shit themselves. Plus, he’d left the lad motionless in a pool of blood on the floor with books strewn about and his girlfriend crying over him. Chisel’s impression of the girl crying was hilarious.
    “Hey, Bezzer. Happy birthday, mucker.” Chisel produced Grand Theft Auto from his pocket. “Been doing a spot of shopping,” he said,