Death to Bankers. Simple, brutal and horribly real – the
three words that form the calling card of the gang murdering their way across
the City of London.
Anarchists taking twisted revenge for the financial crisis
or is the story more complex? City trader Will Stratton is caught up in a fatal
vortex of corruption, violence and terror. The clock is counting down the
seconds of his life and time is running out…
Here's a taster from the first chapter:
DEATH TO BANKERS
Chapter One
The young
man stopped walking, turned and listened: no footsteps now, nothing but a
distant swish of tyres on wet tarmac. Closer at hand was the ever-present sound
of the river. Must be hearing things, he thought. Get a grip. Peering into the
darkness, he wiped the rain-streaked lenses of his glasses, straining to see if
there really was someone back there keeping pace with him, but the world beyond
the little pools of light on the Thames-side path was lost in shadow. He smiled
nervously to himself at the thought of anyone following him. After all, why
would they? And yet the doubts nagged still; after all, it wasn’t the first
time.
The last time it had happened was on the walk home from the
Tube station a week earlier. He’d dismissed it as coincidence, at worst a
mugger looking for an easy mark but put off by the chance appearance of
passers-by. Tonight, not five minutes after leaving the Waterman’s Arms and
feeling a little unsteady on his feet, he’d heard footsteps close behind him.
When he stopped, so did they: when he moved on they continued, closer now. This
wasn’t even his part of town, not somewhere he’d ever been before. To him London was a city of
islands, patches of firm ground, stitched together by the fine thread of the
Underground and surrounded by uncharted waters such as these.
He set off once again, walking more quickly as the path
followed the Thames in a wide loop around a scrubby
patch of grass and weeds bordering the back fences of the terraced houses which
pressed against the river. Ahead was a stretch of boardwalk, better lit; and on
a lamp-post was a sign pointing inland to the Tube station – another half-mile.
Maybe I’ll get a cab, he thought as he approached the fork in the path.
Suddenly, movement in his peripheral vision caught his
attention. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows. Then a hand gripped
his arm painfully hard. ‘So you don’t want to talk to me? You don’t like me?’
The man spoke with a continental accent – Italian, probably, he thought,
turning to face him but making no effort to shake free. He’d heard the voice
before. Their faces were now inches apart and under the stark light from
overhead he recognised the man he’d spoken to briefly in the pub. He let out a
sigh of relief. ‘God. You made me jump, creeping up on me like that. What do
you want?’
‘You know what I want.’
‘Look, I told you. I have to go home. I’ve got work
tomorrow,’ he said to the stranger. Then lowering his eyes, ‘We could meet
again if you like. Maybe come to the Waterman’s Arms again?’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said the Italian. ‘But surely, just
five minutes? There’s nobody around.’
He released himself from the stranger’s grasp. ‘No. I told
you. I’m going home. It’s late. Too wet and cold. Not tonight. Not here.’
‘Is true. You don’t like me do you?’ the stranger said, his
tone becoming petulant.
‘It’s not that,’ he said, raising his hand to touch the man’s
face. ‘Let’s do this properly. You know, another time. Somewhere comfortable,
warm and dry.’
He felt the hand clamped round his arm again and heard the
voice say, ‘No. I want you now.’
The Italian jammed something into his ribs and when he looked
down, he saw to his horror that it was a semi-automatic pistol. He gave a
nervous laugh: this has to be a joke. Play along with him. ‘Look, there’s no
need for that… if there’s somewhere we could go, but not here, not outdoors.’
‘Good. Walk a little with me. By the river.’
‘But you’re going the wrong way, I need to get home –’
‘I said I want you to walk with me,’ the stranger’s insistent
tone once more backed up by a dig in the ribs with the pistol. They walked on
in silence through the persistent drizzle until they came to a gate in the
fence and a sign saying “Gilmore’s Stairs – Port of London Authority”.
The Italian released his grip. ‘Stop here,’ he said, putting his arms on the
top rail and staring down into the black water. ‘We should talk a little.’ He
slipped the gun back into his outside pocket.
The young man joined him, the rain on his glasses
transforming the lights of the far bank into diffuse blobs and smears of
brightness. ‘What is there to talk about?’ he asked, his nerves slowly calming
and the fear caused by the appearance of the gun now replaced by a delicious
frisson of anticipation.
‘Your friend?’
‘He need never know.’
‘I am pleased,’ said the Italian.
The young man remained leaning on the railings and seemingly oblivious
to the weather, for a moment turned away from him, gazing towards the distant lights
of Canary Wharf, apparently deep in thought. ‘He won’t know,’ he said once
more. As he did so, the Italian slid his hand into a deep pocket, sewn into the
inside of his coat, and his hand closed around the handle of a hammer.
He never knew what hit him, nor did he even feel it, so
savage was the initial blow to the base of his skull. Ignoring the fine aerosol
of blood that spattered his face, the Italian allowed him to slump to the
ground and rolled the inert form face downwards. Six more well-aimed blows to
make sure and the job was done. The Italian wiped the excess blood off the
hammer on a patch of wet grass: the rain could take care of the rest. Then,
opening the gate, he pulled the body down the stairs and into the darkness
below.
To be continued...
If that excerpt whetted your appetite to read more, you can buy Death to Bankers from Amazon. Just click on one of the links below:
Amazon UK
Amazon.com
No comments:
Post a Comment