| Author: | Roger Busby | ISBN: | 9781476230405 |
| Publisher: | Roger Busby | Publication: | May 4, 2012 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | Roger Busby |
| ISBN: | 9781476230405 |
| Publisher: | Roger Busby |
| Publication: | May 4, 2012 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
Prologue:
The new Borough Commander had a hard-man reputation to live up to and he didn’t care who got hurt in the process. So when he planned to hit a crime ridden South London estate with Operation Iron Fist, it was up to a pair of ex Royal Marines to do something fast or the summer riots would seem like a picnic, the Met would take casualties…and someone was going to get killed.
The Hammer
Sooner or later The Hammer was going to get someone killed. Who said so? Pretty well every uniform in The Borough from the PCSOs and hobby bobbies to the response car jockeys and unit beat PCs all the way up to “Jacko” Jackson who ran the reliefs.
“We’ve got to do something about this clown before it’s too late,” Doyle voiced the lament which crackled around the factory like wild fire, “last night we only just got out of the farm by the skin of our teeth.”
“By clown,” Jackson said, “I presume you are referring to our esteemed leader, Commander Robert Douglas McGee, scourge of The Gorbals.”
“None other,” Doyle said, “And that’s another thing, I don’t understand why we got saddled with a Strathclyde nutter. I was talking to our friends up there on the Zatopec team and they said they were glad to see the back of him.”
“Ah, that’s why you’re still a DS rooting around in the weeds,” Jackson said, smiling, “Met politics, pure and simple.”
“Oh and you’d know all about that eh, Jacko, you being a Chief Super and all, wheeling and dealing with the guv’nors up at the dream factory. Back in the old days when we were booties, you’d’ve gone in there and knocked some sense into him when the dumb foot soldiers were about to get their arses kicked on the farm.”
Prologue:
The new Borough Commander had a hard-man reputation to live up to and he didn’t care who got hurt in the process. So when he planned to hit a crime ridden South London estate with Operation Iron Fist, it was up to a pair of ex Royal Marines to do something fast or the summer riots would seem like a picnic, the Met would take casualties…and someone was going to get killed.
The Hammer
Sooner or later The Hammer was going to get someone killed. Who said so? Pretty well every uniform in The Borough from the PCSOs and hobby bobbies to the response car jockeys and unit beat PCs all the way up to “Jacko” Jackson who ran the reliefs.
“We’ve got to do something about this clown before it’s too late,” Doyle voiced the lament which crackled around the factory like wild fire, “last night we only just got out of the farm by the skin of our teeth.”
“By clown,” Jackson said, “I presume you are referring to our esteemed leader, Commander Robert Douglas McGee, scourge of The Gorbals.”
“None other,” Doyle said, “And that’s another thing, I don’t understand why we got saddled with a Strathclyde nutter. I was talking to our friends up there on the Zatopec team and they said they were glad to see the back of him.”
“Ah, that’s why you’re still a DS rooting around in the weeds,” Jackson said, smiling, “Met politics, pure and simple.”
“Oh and you’d know all about that eh, Jacko, you being a Chief Super and all, wheeling and dealing with the guv’nors up at the dream factory. Back in the old days when we were booties, you’d’ve gone in there and knocked some sense into him when the dumb foot soldiers were about to get their arses kicked on the farm.”
