Free Black Coke by James Grenton

again anytime.’
     
    Elijah watched Amonite strut down the street, deftly side-stepping the potholes with the grace of a catwalk model despite her oversized frame. Any white man or woman in their right mind would never walk alone through Kingston, even in broad daylight. But Amonite was different. Nobody would attack such a monster. Or if they did, they’d regret it.
     
    With a sigh of relief, Elijah turned back into the relative coolness of the church.
     
    He had important work to do.
     

Chapter 13
    North London, UK
8 April 2011
     
    N athan strapped on his bullet-proof vest and scanned the street. They were in Hackney, one of the roughest areas of London. Wheelie bins overflowed on the pavement outside a crumbling Georgian house with boarded-up windows. A scrawny Alsatian skulked around the rusty metal gate. It barked at passers-by like an emaciated Cerberus trying to guard the gates of hell.
     
    ‘That’s the one.’ Steve jabbed a finger. ‘Typical crack den, in all its fucked-up glory.’ He turned round to inspect the riot police shuffling around impatiently behind them. They were all kitted up in black overalls with blue helmets and visors and see-through shields and truncheons.
     
    Nathan wiped his forehead. The overcast sky was releasing a persistent drizzle. Street lamps flickered to life as the late afternoon sun struggled to break through. He’d hardly slept again last night. Caitlin had got wasted at dinner in the Spanish restaurant, so he’d just about carried her home. He’d then lain in bed, staring at the moonlight through the curtains, going over his conversation with Cedric. His heart raced at the very thought of Amonite in the UK
     
    ‘Alright, lads,’ Steve said. ‘Let’s get cracking. You know the score.’ He looked Nathan up and down with his bright blue eyes. ‘So, Natty boy, fancy a go with the old enforcer?’ He patted the metal battering ram that was leaning against the brick wall.
     
    Nathan tried to smile. ‘Sure.’ He cradled the enforcer in his arms. It was as heavy as it looked.
     
    Two wraith-like crack-heads emerged from the house. They stumbled down the pathway to the gate, kicking the dog into silence. One had a black woolly hat and a ripped army coat. The other had a faded Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt and shivered in the cold. Their gaunt faces fell as the riot police charged towards them, Nathan in front with the enforcer.
     
    Nathan kicked the gate off its hinges. He shoved past the crack-heads, sending them tripping over the dog, into the rubbish-strewn garden. He sprinted for the front door and braced himself for the crash. He hoped the door didn’t have a New York latch: an iron bar placed diagonally across the door frame to prevent rival gangs from breaking in.
     
    It didn’t.
     
    Shards of wood exploded. The door crumpled. Crack-heads scattered in the hallway. Nathan hurtled past like a missile, straight into the kitchen. A half-naked young woman with short bleached hair and skinny arms sat at a table, puffing on a crack pipe. Nathan skidded to a halt in front of two comatose men sprawled on the floor amid used syringes, empty pizza boxes and scraps of tin foil. The acrid stench of burning drugs and stale sex filled the smoky air.
     
    The riot police piled in, swearing and shouting. They whacked addicts with their truncheons, pushed them to the ground, handcuffed them. Some fought back, swinging chairs, throwing cans and bottles and bits of furniture. Nathan dropped the enforcer. He headed for the fighting in the stairway. An addict with wide eyes and a nasty grin swung a knife. Nathan blocked and punched his attacker, who crashed backwards against the wall. Nathan ducked past a policeman who was pinning another addict against the banister. He raced up the stairs three at a time.
     
    Tony had to be in this house. Steve’s snitch had seen him here a couple of hours ago.
     
    A movement caught his eye. He ducked to the right as a cricket bat cut the air