Strike Back by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

come down heavier now. It was dripping into Porter’s hair, and he could see a small puddle starting to form inside his half-eaten kebab. He edged backwards into the archway, but the two men moved forwards, so they were both kneeling just a few inches from his face.
    ‘Because that’s how it works here on the streets, doesn’t it, Jimmy?’ persisted the shorter man. ‘One bloke has a bit of lucky, and he shares with his mates.’
    ‘And we’re yer mates, Jimmy,’ said the taller man.
    ‘Then get your fucking hands off my booze,’ Porter snapped.
    ‘But nobody’s taking your stuff, Jimmy,’ said the shorter man. His hand was reaching out for the vodka bottle. ‘Sharing, that’s all –’
    Porter snatched the bottle away. He put its neck to his lips, and took a hit of the alcohol, relaxing as the vodka mixed with his bloodstream, dulling his senses, and easing the terrible aching in his left leg.
    ‘If we all shared, maybe the world would be a better place, Jimmy,’ said the taller man. ‘Maybe men like us wouldn’t have to live out on the streets.’
    Porter suddenly snapped to attention. The rain was coming down harder now, lashing into his face. ‘The world is full of thieving, useless scum like you two. That’s why there’s blokes like me on the street. That’s why –’
    The sentence wasn’t finished, but Porter knew he would never get to complete it. The first blow had landed straight in his stomach, knocking the little wind he had left out of him. The second collided roughly with his jaw, snapping his head backwards. The vodka bottle had loosened from his hand, and as his balance wobbled, the taller man had jumped up and taken it. He put it straight to his lips, drinking three or four shots in one go. The effect on him was as instant as it was ugly: his face folded up into a snarl, and his boot crashed hard into Porter’s side, breaking into his ribcage. ‘Fuck off, you Scottish bastards,’ yelled Porter.
    The scream rose up through the alleyway, but he could tell no one was listening. You could run through the streets with an axe through your head in this part of town and no one would pay a blind bit of attention. Even the police didn’t bother to venture down these alleyways: they couldn’t stand the smell. I can scream all I want to. Nobody’s going to come and help me. Not now. Not ever.
    The blows were lashing into him now, as hard, as relentless and as unthinking as the raindrops. Both men were standing up, handing the vodka bottle to one another, taking long, deep swigs on the pure alcohol. It was cranking up their aggression, turning a robbery into a beating. Their sturdy, leather boots, the one bit of clothing on them that wasn’t falling to pieces, smashed into his chest, into his face, and into his legs. He was absorbing the blows, rolling with each one, unable to offer any resistance. The vodka he’d already drunk dulled the pain, and he hardly felt the blows as they crashed into him, but he could tell how much damage they were doing to his already weakened body. There was blood everywhere, on his face, his hand, inside his sodden trousers, but still the blows kept coming. All I can do is wait for them to get bored of kicking me. And then see if I’m still alive at the end of it.
    As he lay on his side, Porter could hear the Scotsmenstaggering down the alley, laughing drunkenly. He watched as a trickle of his own blood spat away from the cuts in his face, and, caught up in the lashing rain, swirled away towards the gutter.
    Where it belongs, he thought bitterly, as he closed his torn and cut eyes and let consciousness slip away from him.
    Groggily, Porter opened one eye then another. He was lying flat, his face down in a puddle of water that was crimson from his own blood. His whole body ached, and another of his remaining teeth appeared to have come loose.
    Slowly, he tried to lift himself up. He had no idea what time it was, but it was already dark, and the lashing rain