CHERUB: Brigands M.C. Read online

  Jake clutched his arm and scowled, but he confirmed his sister’s story with a nod.

  As Dante sat down he noticed that Zara was holding a pair of red CHERUB T-shirts sealed in polythene bags.

  ‘Since you’ve got so much energy, Bethany,’ Zara said, ‘I’d like you to take our two new recruits Lauren and Dante across to the junior block. Find them some beds and help them to settle in. They’ll need clothes, towels and I expect they’ll want a shower after all they’ve been through today.’

  As Zara handed over the red T-shirts, Bethany reached across and tapped Lauren on the shoulder.

  ‘Welcome to CHERUB,’ Bethany said. ‘There’s an empty bed in my room if you’d like to bunk in with me.’

  In the background, a couple of boys came across to say hello. Dante and Lauren said a quick goodbye to Zara before Bethany led them out into the hallway.

  ‘All us red shirts live in the junior block,’ Bethany explained as they walked. ‘It’s pretty cool. We’ve got our own classrooms, and a big home-cinema room where we watch movies and if you like animals there’s a pet lounge with guinea pigs and mice, frogs and stuff.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened with your brother,’ Dante said. ‘It was only bread. I should have ignored it.’

  ‘It’s best not to get into too many fights until you’ve got a few months’ combat training under your belt,’ Bethany warned. ‘But you don’t have to apologise to me. Jake’s a total dickhead.’

  Part Two

  Four and a half years later …

  13. COFFEE

  May 2008

  Sealclubber was the wrong side of forty, with a white beard, a gallery of tattoos and a taste for huge silver rings. The head of the London Brigands looked out of place in the basement of a Starbucks near King’s Cross station.

  ‘Coffee here costs more than a pint,’ Sealclubber complained, glancing at the elderly Seiko on his wrist as a twenty-year-old Asian man sat down opposite. ‘Twenty minutes I’ve sat here. This better be worth it.’

  Dressed in trainers and a muscle tee, the Asian plopped a raspberry mocha Frappuccino on the table top and dropped a backpack to the floor between his legs.

  ‘Northern line sucks,’ he shrugged. ‘Hopefully I was worth the wait.’

  The surrounding tables were covered with crumbs and empty mugs, but the lunchtime rush was over and the nearest person was a suit and tie using his laptop in a booth five metres away.

  Sealclubber took a square note that the Asian man fed across the table and read it to himself: 70 AK47 assault rifles, 12 cases of 24x Swiss Army issue grenades, 40 generic .357 revolvers, 20 H&K machine pistols, 18,000 rounds M43 type ammunition, 5000 rounds .357 ammunition. Price £632,000 for delivery to specified UK location.

  ‘You starting World War Three?’ Sealclubber asked quietly, as he leaned further across the table. ‘Because this is a lot of shit, you know? My compadres down in Devon, their business is mostly villains: drug dealers and nightclub bouncers who like a piece of metal by their sides. Ten guns is a big order for them.’

  The Asian man looked disappointed. ‘Can you supply this or not? I can have the ten per cent deposit delivered to your clubhouse as soon as you need it.’

  Sealclubber was torn: he wanted to say yes on the spot and grab the commission, but he had no idea who the Asian man was and in the criminal world the more money someone has the worse an idea it is to mess them about.

  ‘I’ve got to talk with my people,’ Sealclubber said. ‘You don’t need to worry. Don’t start looking for alternative suppliers or anything like that, but I’m a businessman and I’m not gonna make you promises I can’t keep.’

  ‘We’re offering you a lot of money,’ the Asian man said. ‘You can buy these guns in the USA a tenth of this price.’

  Sealclubber flexed his fingers and his silver rings dazzled the Asian as he smiled. ‘You can buy most of this shit in any gun shop in the USA,’ he laughed. ‘Go to some African shithole and you can pick AK47s off street vendors for less than I paid for my coffee. But in case you haven’t noticed, this little island has the tightest gun controls in the world and you can’t smuggle a hundred guns and twenty-three thousand rounds of ammunition on a P&O ferry under your jumper.’

  The Asian paused, as if he was wavering over the deal. The day was a scorcher and he downed a third of his Frappuccino in three long sucks on the straw. ‘I respect the fact that you don’t want to make rash promises. When can you let us know?’

  ‘This business is all face to face,’ Sealclubber explained. ‘It’s too risky picking up a cellphone and talking about this. But I’ll set up a meeting and get back to you. You’ll know within three days, five at the outside.’

  ‘OK,’ the Asian said, as he stood up to leave.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Sealclubber said. ‘This better not be for some terrorist shit.’

  ‘It’s Birmingham street shit,’ the Asian laughed. ‘A lot of money in my community. A lot of drugs and protection rackets. There’s a war in the offing and when it starts I’m gonna be right there selling guns and ammo to whichever son of a bitch wants to buy them.’

  ‘You sound like my kind of guy,’ Sealclubber grinned. ‘Sell the guns to all them Pakis, then sit back and let the bullets fly.’

  The Asian looked narked.

  ‘No offence,’ Sealclubber said awkwardly. ‘It’s what we call brown people in my neck of the woods.’

  ‘None taken,’ the Asian lied. ‘Call me what you like, just get me the guns.’

  Sealclubber wished he either had a calculator or had paid enough attention in school maths class to work out what his fifteen per cent cut of £632,000 would be, but he was sure it was a lot of money.

  The Asian sucked his Frappuccino dry and dumped it in a bin as he walked back out into the bright sunlight. He lucked out and dived into a black cab waiting at the lights.

  ‘Hornsey Road swimming pool,’ he told the driver.

  There was a bit of traffic and the ride in the unairconditioned taxi lasted twenty sticky minutes.

  ‘Could do with a dip myself on a hot day like this,’ the cabbie said, as he pulled up outside the pool and wrote a receipt. But once the cab was out of sight the Asian crossed the street and walked into Hornsey police station, directly opposite.

  The desk sergeant pressed a buzzer to let the Asian behind the counter. He headed up to an open-plan office on the third floor that belonged to the National Police Biker Task Force (NPBTF). It was a grand name for a squad with eleven officers, two cars and no budget for overtime.

  Everyone looked towards the Asian man as he stepped into the room. ‘I think we’re in,’ he smiled. ‘Security’s a joke. I wasn’t patted down for a bug or anything.’

  ‘Nice one, Georgie boy,’ a female officer answered and a couple of other officers celebrated by banging on their desks and hurling compliments.

  ‘He called me a Paki though,’ George grinned. ‘So I’m Tasering the prick when we bust him.’

  Chief Inspector Ross Johnson had been in charge of NPBTF for the last nine months. ‘How’d it go, George?’ he asked, as he sauntered out of his office.

  ‘Not too shabby, guv,’ George admitted, as he stopped in front of his boss and rested an elbow on a beige partition. ‘He baulked when he saw the size of the order. Just hope we didn’t over-egg it.’

  Ross shrugged and smiled. ‘I’d hug you if you didn’t look so damned sweaty. If the Führer can’t deliver that quantity of weapons, he’ll still try and sell us as much as he can. That’s gonna push his supply chain to the limits and our boy at the other end of the line should get drafted in to help out.’

  George cracked a big smile. ‘Either that or we’ll screw up, lose half a million in cash, get our undercover cop killed and direct traffic until we’re old enough to retire.’

  14. PROGRESS

  Lauren Onions – now known as Lauren Adams – stepped out of the lift on the eighth floor of the main building on CHERUB campus. She wore a black C
HERUB T-shirt. Her best friend Bethany Parker was alongside, wearing a navy shirt she’d earned during an eight-month mission in Brazil the previous year.

  ‘Crappy maths homework,’ Bethany complained. ‘We should start a petition for a no homework on your birthday rule.’

  ‘No homework ever would be better,’ Lauren smiled, as the pair headed towards the doors of their adjoining bedrooms. ‘And free butterscotch ice cream in every classroom.’

  ‘Yay,’ Bethany agreed. ‘And all lessons to be taught by Rafael Nadal look-alikes with their shirts off.’

  ‘I like the way you think,’ Lauren laughed.

  Bethany opened her door, and then shot backwards in fright as a bang and a blue flash blasted out of her doorway. It was followed by orange and green sparks, a whizzing sound and a wall-trembling thud. As she stood shielding her ears a grey cloud billowed into the corridor and set off a smoke alarm.

  ‘What the bloody hell?’ Lauren gawped.

  Bethany’s twelve-year-old brother Jake and his friend Kevin Sumner had jumped out of the room directly opposite and videoed the firework display on a camera phone.

  ‘Takedown!’ Jake shouted.

  ‘You little dickhead,’ Bethany shouted back as she wafted the smoke away from her face. ‘Look at my room! Everything’s gonna stink of smoke. You could have started a fire!’

  ‘It was only a few fireworks in a biscuit tin,’ Jake grinned. ‘We had fire extinguishers on standby.’

  As Bethany rushed into her room to open the balcony doors and clear the smoke, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind, giving her a second fright. The hands were followed by a gentle kiss on the neck.

  ‘Didn’t you appreciate that?’ Bethany’s fourteenyear-old boyfriend Andy Lagan grinned. ‘If you think it was loud out there you should have been in here. My ears are ringing.’

  ‘Serves you right,’ Bethany yelled indignantly, as Andy peeled off a set of eye goggles. ‘At least you were expecting it.’

  But she managed a smile as her bathroom door came open and bodies began to pour out singing Happy birthday to you. All of her friends were there, including Lauren’s boyfriend Rat, a whole bunch of girls and a few older kids.

  Lauren’s sixteen-year-old brother James Adams stood in the middle of the gathering holding a chocolate cake with candles ablaze and Happy Fourteenth Birthday piped across the top in icing.

  ‘You look like a tomato and you smell like dog poo,’ Jake sang noisily, as he followed Lauren into the room. Andy sheepishly phoned down to ground-floor reception to explain that the building wasn’t on fire and that the siren was a false alarm.

  ‘I hate you evil bastards,’ Bethany giggled, and she plunged two fingers into the cake and wiped a brown smear across James Adams’ cheek. She licked chocolate frosting off her fingers and told everyone that it tasted great before hugging a couple of the girls.

  ‘Why wasn’t I in on this?’ Lauren complained.

  ‘You and your humongous trap,’ Jake answered.

  James placed the cake on Bethany’s desk beside a pile of forks and paper plates. She’d already opened some gifts at breakfast time, but there were more presents on her bed.

  Feeling happy, Bethany put an arm around boyfriend Andy and brother Jake and smiled for another picture.

  ‘My idiot brother and my idiot boyfriend,’ Bethany grinned. ‘But I love ’em both really.’

  *

  Eight floors down, thirteen-year-old Dante Welsh – formerly Dante Scott – sat in Zara Asker’s office. Zara had been promoted to chairman of CHERUB two years earlier and was currently five months pregnant. Pictures of four-year-old Joshua and two-year-old Tiffany adorned the desk and the window ledge behind her head.

  ‘What’s it feel like being back?’ Zara asked.

  ‘Weird,’ Dante admitted, speaking with a slight Belfast accent as he ran his hands through shoulder-length red hair.

  ‘I looked up the stats,’ Zara said, moving away from her desk towards a roll-top cabinet beside the fireplace at the opposite end of the office. ‘Thirty-four months is the second longest mission on record and easily the longest of any agent currently serving on campus.’

  ‘I was only supposed to be gone for six weeks,’ Dante smiled. ‘I met some good people, but I wouldn’t be too sorry if I never went near another Belfast housing estate again.’

  ‘And the thumb?’ Zara asked.

  Dante held his left thumb in the air, showing a nasty scar and stitch marks that ran all around. ‘Feeling’s almost back to normal. That surgeon did a blinding job sewing it back on.’

  ‘Your mission controller, Eimer, said you worked hard to keep your fitness levels up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dante said. ‘I didn’t want to come back to campus and have old Mr Large get his teeth into me. So I bought some discs and a weight bench. I went running whenever I could and I even got some sparring in with Eimer to keep our combat skills fresh.’

  ‘Great,’ Zara smiled. ‘It’s really impressive that you stuck with your training discipline over such a long mission. Though you don’t have Mr Large to worry about, he’s no longer with us.’

  ‘Praise God!’ Dante whistled. ‘Glad to see the back of that creep. What I can’t believe is that I come back after all this time and Holly’s off skiing in New Zealand. I’ve spoken to her on the webcam every week and we squeezed in a couple of weeks together at the hostel last summer, but I was really looking forward to us being properly back together.’

  ‘Your sister’s a brilliant little kid,’ Zara said. ‘My oldest Joshua has started lessons on campus. Holly’s that bit older and he says she’s a real bossy boots.’

  ‘So your kids are going to be CHERUB agents?’ Dante asked. ‘I didn’t think that was allowed.’

  ‘We got the rule change approved by the Intelligence Minister three months back. We’re always short of recruits. We conducted an informal survey and a surprising number of ex-cherubs said they’d be happy to let their children become CHERUB agents some day.’

  ‘So one day my kids could be CHERUB agents too?’ Dante laughed.

  Zara nodded. ‘Though to start with, we’re only considering kids who have two parents working on campus, or if both parents are former CHERUB agents.’

  ‘Plenty of pretty girls on CHERUB campus for me to start breeding with,’ Dante grinned.

  ‘Not for a few years I’d very much hope,’ Zara said, adopting a stiff tone but keeping up her smile. ‘Speaking of rules, you know that even though you performed outstandingly on a three-year mission I can’t award you a black shirt? It’s only for outstanding performance on more than one mission.’

  Dante nodded. ‘I don’t care. I’m still only thirteen, there’s plenty of time.’

  ‘I think it’s a stupid rule,’ Zara admitted. ‘I’d change it, but it has to be approved by the ethics committee and the Intelligence Minister and frankly I have higher priorities. However, in your case I did get the ethics committee to approve an extra mission. Specifically, this arduous mission involves a missing green marker pen, somewhere in my office. Your mission is to find it and return it to my pen pot. I believe that it was last seen somewhere underneath the chair you’re sitting on.’

  Dante looked down at the carpet and picked up the marker pen between the chromed legs of his chair.

  ‘This one?’

  ‘An outstanding mission performance if ever I saw it,’ Zara said cheerfully, before reaching into her cupboard and pulling out a brand new CHERUB tee. ‘Congratulations, you’ve earned your black shirt.’

  Dante was startled and felt a tear welling up in his eye. ‘You have no idea how desperate I was when I came here nearly five years ago,’ he said. ‘Making friends and the whole thing of getting ready for training really gave me focus. Without CHERUB I don’t know who I’d have been or where I’d have ended up.’

  ‘I just hope you’re not too old for a hug,’ Zara said. Dante stood up and Zara wrapped her arms around his back. ‘If your parents were alive they’d be
bloody proud of you, Dante. Now go upstairs and go find all your friends.’

  Dante was on a high as he left Zara’s office, but his mood dimmed as he hooked a large backpack over his shoulder and pulled a wheelie case towards the lift. Although he had a room on the eighth floor, he’d spent less than two months there after passing basic training.

  The East Belfast estate and the people he’d known during his mission felt more like his real friends. The people he’d met on campus three years earlier had probably forgotten all about him.

  There was a curious whiff of gunpowder in the eighth-floor hallway as Dante stepped from the lift.

  Zara had sent one of the cleaning staff up to his room the previous day to clean it and put fresh sheets on his bed. There were also new sets of CHERUB uniform on the bed and new boots on the floor, but people change a lot between ten and thirteen. The casual clothes in his wardrobe were way too small and Dante felt a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia at the wrestling posters on his walls and the action figures displayed on the shelf above his sofa.

  The unopened black T-shirt was crammed into the pocket of Dante’s hoodie. After stripping to his waist, he couldn’t resist eyeing himself in his mirrored wardrobe door. He liked his dramatic red hair and muscular torso, but he wished his skin wasn’t so pale and he tutted at the sight of a burgeoning zit on his shoulder blade.

  ‘I’ll get the Hoover,’ a girl out in the hallway shouted. ‘It’ll be fine as long as nobody treads it into the carpet.’

  The voice took Dante back to his first day on campus. He grabbed the handle of his bedroom door and made the girl scream.

  ‘Oh my god! I thought I’d seen a ghost!’ Lauren blurted, placing both hands over her heart before breaking into a huge smile. ‘Dante, where the bloody hell have you been?’

  ‘Ducking and weaving,’ he grinned. ‘Here and there, around and about.’

  ‘You’ve got an Irish accent!’