CHERUB BRIGANDS MC FREE PDF

Its agents are aged between ten and seventeen years. Cherubs are mainly orphans who have been taken out of care homes and trained to work undercover. Quite a lot. NAVY is a reward for outstanding performance on a single mission. Part One 1.

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The police spent most of their time dealing with parking offences, low-level drug dealing and burglaries of rarely used second homes. Even the Brigands knew better than to piss in their own backyard and usually kept whatever trouble they caused behind the high fences of their clubhouse. A burned out house with five bodies inside was the biggest crime in decades. Twenty-six-year-old constable Kate McLaren had never known anything like it. The media had poured into the area, split between the crime scene and the car park around Kingsbridge police station four miles away.

Photographers, journalists and TV vans fitted with satellite dishes were double parked in the street awaiting a press conference. There had been no official announcement, but it was common knowledge that two of the dead were Brigands and many journalists jumped to the conclusion that an old grudge had flared between the Brigands and a local gang known as the Headless Corpses.

The key witness lay silently in a small room filled with toys and cushions. There was a two-way mirror, a video camera mounted above the doorway and anatomically correct dolls that little kids could use to re-enact the horrible things that adults did to them.

As the only woman on duty, Kate McLaren had been asked to play mother. The child-friendly room felt too warm as Kate stepped inside. Dante was warmer still, having buried himself under every cushion and soft toy he could find. The click of the door made his eyes swivel and he flicked some hair off his face before going back to being dead. Fish and chips, bacon sandwich, a Happy Meal.

A burger? Kate ached with grief as she tried to imagine what Dante had seen. My parents got coupons when they bought petrol and you needed ten tokens to get a Smurf. Everything hurt: colours hurt, sounds hurt and so did the rubbery smell from his new trainers and the itchy label in the back of his shirt.

He wanted to speak, but at the same time thinking of even the tiniest movement filled him with dread. He said it was better to sort your own problems. The cops were scum. Snitches and informants were lower than paedophiles.

So should he be a snitch or should he wait until he was old enough to get revenge? Dante rolled slightly on the cushions and felt a burning pain in his bladder. He stood up and glowered at Kate with manic eyes and knotted hair. Kate led Dante briskly along a peeling corridor, past offices filled with desks and computers. The frosted windows had been swung open and Dante got a chill blast as he stepped up to the urinal and started pissing.

After shaking off he looked at the sinks and decided to wash his hands. Dante turned on the tap and repeatedly tugged the lever under the soap dispenser until a bright pink lake filled his palm.

When he slapped his hands glistening strands flew in all directions, spattering the white tiles behind the sink. He concentrated on the soap, finding innocent relief in swiping it up and down his hands, then rubbing them together until a lather mound pirouetted and shrank into the plughole.

Dante imagined that his mum was watching him from heaven or something. She always said he should wash his hands every time he went, even if it was just to pee. But which one of them was right? A flushing noise came from one of the stalls behind Dante. A big man emerged in a red tie and cheap suit. He slapped a copy of The Times on the tiled ledge above the sinks before starting to wash his hands.

His eyes were fixed on his hands, but his mind was back in the boxing ring from the night before. He thought about the difference between the world of his mum, where you said please and thank you and washed your hands and the world of his dad where fighting, swearing, selling drugs and farting out loud were perfectly acceptable.

I specialise in interviewing and supporting child witnesses. You must be Dante Scott. Information you give us today is more valuable than the same information might be tomorrow. As he turned the tap off, he looked up and saw that the big man was holding out paper towels to dry his hands.

Felicity was there. He pulled a gun when my dad said no. Dante suddenly felt odd, but also important. His brain ran at fifty times normal speed and the aches in his head were replaced by sparks of energy. What was it you told me about Holly? She had some stitches and lost a lot of blood.

He was terrified that the room and the cushions would send him back into the aching black space where his mind had spent the last six hours. Why did this have to happen to me? His grip felt surprisingly strong as he grasped her with tears streaking down his face. Five long strides took him into an incident room. Chief Inspector Jane Lindsay was the uniformed officer in charge of the murder inquiry. She stood by the window, peering into darkness at the press gathered in the car park downstairs.

Most of the journalists sat on the low wall around the car park or in the open doorways of their cars. A vaguely familiar face from the BBC wore a high-necked black coat. She was going out live on twenty-fourhour news, while the correspondent from Sky stood behind her camera trying to put her off by making dickhead gestures.

But he held it together for long enough to record a decent witness statement. Good all-rounder, confident and popular. They idolise their dads and the macho posturing rubs off on them.

The weapons will have been taken away and melted down. Lindsay shook her head. We knocked on his door, asked him a few questions and explained that we wanted to impound his bike in conjunction with a murder investigation.

Ross raised an eyebrow in surprise. I mean, two of their own people dead. I asked the boy and he said his friend Joe had a nosebleed while they were playing. Ross sighed. Same age as Dante, same class at school. And when I mentioned it to Kate, she said that Dante had dried blood on his arm and under his fingernails when he got here.

The doctor who examined him took swabs and photographs. Ross shrugged. No known father, mother deceased. Lindsay shrugged. It felt satisfying peeling sticky labels and tags from new BHS boxers and socks each morning. Ross slept in the adjoining room and the doors in-between were propped open. Ross himself was in the bathroom using his Philishave.

You take one and ZONK: fast asleep. No headaches?

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Brigands M.C.

The police spent most of their time dealing with parking offences, low-level drug dealing and burglaries of rarely used second homes. Even the Brigands knew better than to piss in their own backyard and usually kept whatever trouble they caused behind the high fences of their clubhouse. A burned out house with five bodies inside was the biggest crime in decades. Twenty-six-year-old constable Kate McLaren had never known anything like it. The media had poured into the area, split between the crime scene and the car park around Kingsbridge police station four miles away.

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Brigands M.C. (2009)

After moving in with a foster family, a Dutch member of another Brigands chapter attempts to murder Dante with a bomb inside the controller of a remote-controlled toy car on his birthday. Shaken, Dante moves in under the care of Ross again. Four and a half years later, biker Neil Smith tries to join Brigands M. Meanwhile, James purchases a new bike and is invited on a run with the Brigands to the Rebel Tea Party, a motorcycle convention in Cambridge. On the run, the Brigands are attacked by rival gang the Vengeful Bastards and James saves the life of Brigand Dirty Dave when a member of the Vengefuls tries to stab him with a sharpened hammer. After he and Nigel help the Brigands in smuggling arms into Britain, Julian gets scared and confesses to his father, who is a judge.

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