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

sporting a developing shiner under his right eye from Sniffer’s kick earlier.
    “Well, he’s in safe hands now. There’s always a chance.” Jack doubted his own words as he whispered them, mindful of people passing on the other side of the wall.
    It was DJ’s turn to sob.
    Jack put a consoling arm around his shoulders, feeling him shudder fitfully. “Come on. We’re all in it together, mate. Sorry for punching you.” Wisps of the chilled night air followed Jack’s reassuring words like cigarette smoke.
    “S’alright. It was my idea, so it’s my fault. Simple as.”
    Wozza, still appearing stunned, looked at Jack but didn’t speak, his face pale in the moonlight.
    Jack lit a cigarette, gave it to DJ, then asked, “When you fired those shots, do you reckon you hit any of them?”
    DJ took a long drag, exhaled, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring before turning to Jack. “Yeah. I saw one fall down holding his face. I think it was Kingston.”
    More silence, more repercussions.
    Ged shattered the silence, his deep tones incapable of whispering. “If Lenny dies, those fuckers will pay. Mark my words.”
    “I’m with yer on that, mate,” said DJ, through snarling teeth. “Even if he doesn’t die.”
    “And when my cousins find out, the shit will hit the fan big time.”
    Jack knew Ged was right about Lenny’s brothers, but rationale was required. Despite Jack’s grave concerns for Lenny, and criticising DJ earlier for his selfish reaction, he was now thinking of self-preservation.
    “Lads, we really need to get our stories straight, you know. The cops’ll be sniffing around soon. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not going down.”
    They sat on the damp ground for hours, smoking and debating their options, until somewhat satisfied. All four of them clasped outstretched hands, pledging to stick together and to never speak to anyone else about tonight.
    Jack trudged home, unable to shake the vivid flashbacks of the dark red hole in his poor friend’s skull, wondering how he could possibly hide all this from his family. He hated lying and he knew, deep down, this would always be the biggest lie of his life. It would haunt him forever…
     
     

Sixteen years later

Chapter One
     
    Detective Inspector Jack Striker stroked a hand through his lightly gelled, raven-black hair, closed his eyes momentarily and took in a calming breath. He wasn’t particularly shocked to find a young man whose face had been beaten to resemble a piece of rare steak. After all, this was Bullsmead, one of the largest and notorious council estates in Manchester, if not Europe, and he’d seen worse – much worse.
    His apprehension stemmed more from the pending work ahead. It was his first case since returning to his old stamping ground on promotion as a substantive DI in the force’s Major Incident Team. And he knew the eyes of the B Division’s top brass would be scrutinising his every move.
    Having cautiously entered the white SOCO tent, while wearing a matching protective suit, he stooped his six-foot-one-inch frame and studied the battered body at his feet, the crimson reflecting vividly under the bright portable lighting. The lad’s denims were spattered in blood, his head swollen, misshapen. Visual ID was impossible at this stage, unless someone here knew him.
    Striker shook off the initial apprehension, the excitement of the chase spurring him on. Time to get things moving. “Who is he? Any witnesses?”
    Also in a white protective suit, portly, non-PC-DC Eric Bardsley held up a fat finger. He responded on his radio to the female comms operator asking if more troops were required at the scene. “Come ’ead, love. What do you think?” He rolled his eyes deridingly, his distinctive tones, gruff from years of chain-smoking, clearly revealing his Liverpool roots.
    Bardsley’s origin had been swiftly pounced upon by the many football-crazy Manchester City and United fans he worked with at Bullsmead nick. They had