that people crossed the road to avoid and his stubbly face and bent nose looked about as innocent as a Russian battle tank.
A tear welled, but the adrenaline kick nixed it when he heard the Führer’s
Mercedes. It rumbled into his cul-de-sac, skimming past fancy houses before crunching up the gravel drive. The E-class saloon was a brute. Top of the line AMG sports model, with a V8, blacked-out windows, fat tyres and fancy alloys.
James recognised the three men inside as he grabbed a rear door on the passenger side. The Führer was in the driving seat, short and poisonous with his miniature Hitler-style moustache. The front passenger was Rhino, a biker and long-time Brigands
associate who’d never actually joined the gang. In the back was Dirty Dave. Bald and with a thick moustache, he owned half of the strip clubs and massage parlours in South Devon.
‘Morning all,’ James said, as he lowered himself on to the tan leather.
He was surprised to get shoved back out by Dirty Dave. ‘What’s on your back?’
he barked angrily.
James panicked as he realised he was still wearing his biker jacket. It bore the patch of the Monster Bunch, marking James out as a member of this feeder gang to the Brigands.
‘Wear your patch in a car,’ the Führer growled, shaking his head contemptuously
as he reached under the dashboard and pulled the lever to open the boot. ‘Shit for brains.’
For outlaw bikers the coloured insignia on the back of their jackets was sacred.
They often travelled in cars, but it was against the rules to wear your club patch while travelling on more than two wheels.
James backed up and jogged to the rear of the car. The interior of the boot was
huge. There was a pink golf bag belonging to the Führer’s wife and two leather Brigands jackets folded lovingly so that the patches were on display. More significantly James saw two baseball bats, a pair of crowbars and a cricket bag bulging with guns and ammunition boxes.
‘Let’s go make money!’ Rhino said cheerfully, as James slammed his door and
the eighteen-inch alloys spun in the gravel.
*
Their destination was Kam’s Surf Club, a dozen miles east of Salcombe. Two
storeys high, the restaurant hung precariously close to a cliffs edge, its blue planks weathered by salt spray off the sea below. Kam’s food was a mix of noodles and burgers, with a fifties-style counter, vintage jukebox and surf memorabilia hanging off the walls.
The joint would be packed out come tourist season, but that was a couple of
months off and the only customers at two on a Tuesday afternoon were German
backpackers, cocooned in a romantic bubble as they shared a calamari platter and watched waves crashing in the rocky cove below.
‘Service!’ the Führer boomed, as he came through the door. ‘Mr Kam, stop frying
them rats and get your dirty yellow can out here.’
The Germans were unnerved by the presence of four aggressive looking bikers.
James was last through the swinging doors, eyeing the tanned legs emerging from the female backpacker’s cut-off jeans as he recognised Johnny Cash playing Ring of Fire on the jukebox.
The chef and owner came out of his kitchen. Kam was stocky, with his straight
black hair tied in a ponytail and a striped apron around his waist. He smiled at the Führer, but body language made it clear he was the last person Kam wanted to see.
The Führer turned to James. ‘Get the VHS.’
As James headed towards the service counter, Dirty Dave stepped up to the two
backpackers. The girl looked at her boyfriend. He was chunky, going for the lumberjack look in his plaid shirt and Aran sweater, but he’d never thrown a punch in his life.
‘I don’t want trouble,’ the German said in stilted English as he raised his hands.
Dirty Dave stopped half a step shy of the table. The Germans recoiled as he
reached over and rammed a piece of battered calamari in his mouth.
‘Tasty,’ he said, nodding as he chewed. ‘Dirty Dave likes a bit of the old
octopus.’
The female backpacker glanced anxiously at her man. James spoke no German,
but it didn’t take a genius to translate let’s get the hell out of here.
Dirty Dave reached towards his trousers. The German flinched, thinking he was
going for a weapon, but instead Dave hooked his thumbs around his belt loops and yanked down his jeans. The woman caught the briefest glance of Dirty Dave’s flopping penis before shooting back from the table and screaming.
‘How’s about some English sausage?’ Dirty Dave sneered. ‘Let me show you the