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Chapters (88)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dear Reader …
  4. Also by Robert Muchamore
  5. PART ONE
  6. Walter J Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. PART TWO
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. PART THREE
  47. Walter J. Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. FIFTY
  60. FIFTY-ONE
  61. FIFTY-TWO
  62. FIFTY-THREE
  63. FIFTY-FOUR
  64. PART FOUR
  65. FIFTY-FIVE
  66. FIFTY-SIX
  67. FIFTY-SEVEN
  68. FIFTY-EIGHT
  69. FIFTY-NINE
  70. SIXTY
  71. SIXTY-ONE
  72. SIXTY-TWO
  73. SIXTY-THREE
  74. SIXTY-FOUR
  75. SIXTY-FIVE
  76. SIXTY-SIX
  77. SIXTY-SEVEN
  78. SIXTY-EIGHT
  79. SIXTY-NINE
  80. SEVENTY
  81. SEVENTY-ONE
  82. SEVENTY-TWO
  83. SEVENTY-THREE
  84. EPILOGUE
  85. Discover more books and sign up to the Robert Muchamore mailing list at muchamore.com
  86. Have you read KILLER T?
  87. 1 SLASHED RUBBER
  88. 2 NOT HARRY POTTER

There were a few cheers as the TV news cut to live scenes, with a sunset sky over Piccadilly Circus. Most protestors had gone home, but a few hundred troublemakers had stuck around to battle the cops.

As the correspondent crouched beside a burnt-out Lexus, police with riot shields faced masked protestors and a barrage of souvenir plates looted from Pride of London gift shop.

‘Gerard, you’re missing all the fun,’ Zac joked.

All joy got sucked out of the restaurant when a woman with a stiff face and grey lampshade hair came on screen for an interview. Her caption read: Yvonne McMahon, Minster for Communities and Local Government.

‘This government is committed to providing excellent local services. We respect the passion of people who came out to protest, particularly the hard-working council staff, teachers and care workers. And I can assure them—’

‘Minister, your government was elected with manifesto promises to increase local government spending,’ the newsreader interrupted. ‘After last week’s violence and today’s huge protests, will there be a spending review?’

The minister shook her head. ‘There will be no spending review. In real terms, this government will be spending eight-point-four per cent more on local government services than the previous …’

The rest of the minister’s response got drowned in a restaurant full of jeers.

‘This is why we need real action,’ Gerard roared, pounding a fist into his palm. ‘Left wing, right wing, they’re all bandits! We need bombs!’

This triggered outrage and debate. A few radicals agreed with Gerard, but the majority were in the violence-is-always-wrong camp. Georgia was amused by the way nobody seemed to be listening to anyone but themselves, then Zac shot to his feet with the loudest voice in the room.

‘There hasn’t been a revolution in this country for hundreds of years,’ Zac said passionately. ‘The political class is way too comfortable. You just saw the minister brush off today’s protest. Bombs might not be the way forward, but we need something more than peaceful protests.’

A few tables over, Gerard stood up and glowered at Zac.

‘Something like what?’ he asked.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The area in front of the house was full of limousines and cop cars, so the riot truck could barely get in the gate. As Julius and Gabe weaved between cars towards their home, police officers went the other way, carrying boxes out to dark blue vans.

Teddy, the soft-spoken political technologist, held the front door. Gabe shot under his arm and found his mother by the bottom of the main staircase.

She squeezed Gabe and kissed his sweaty forehead as Julius looked around. More cops were carrying boxes down the stairs. In the large living area to the right of the front door, a dozen men and one woman were deep in conversation. At the poolside, bodyguards and drivers in suits and dark glasses sat on loungers, awaiting orders.