Angels’ Cut excerpt of #1 in the Angels’ Share series

Enjoy an Angels’ Cut excerpt

This Angels’ Cut excerpt is an extract from the tale of greed, fraud and murder. Eilidh’s explosive dossier exposes cynical corruption and criminality feeding into dark corners of the UK Establishment.  Large chunks of money evaporate like a whisky producers’ Angels’ Share.

Fearful of exposure and losing their ill-gotten gains, Bizz decides something must be done. Taken with callous efficiency, she is in lethal danger. The hospital scene is a tough and poignant sample from the Angels’ Cut excerpt.

Taken

Expecting a happy catch-up with his wee sister, Sam Duncan comes to London. She’s missing. Danger closes as fast as his express train. Any thoughts of a pleasant visit evaporate. Someone wants him dead, and a hair-raising quest begins. Sam’s investigative skills, honed as a tier-one operator working, alongside the police, are needed. Things ar tough in this Angels’ Cut excerpt.

A little chumocracy goes a long way

Does ‘chumocracy’ or ‘cronyism’ or ‘kleptocracy’, involve criminality? It does, as politicians, officials, bankers, business people and gangsters line their pockets with public money, lots and lots of it. Soon the danger is stratospheric. People die, as in the Angels’ Cut excerpt.

Target the family

Both Sam and Eilidh plummet into confused and malicious webs of betrayal, murder, cover-up and stunning violence. Eilidh is lost. Can Sam find her? Will they survive? As if that isn’t enough, gangsters target his family. With his trusted warrior colleague, Tonka, facts emerge and, close behind, mayhem.

Criminality and cover-ups

People say – ‘it’s a cover-up’ … ’it’s one law for them and another for us’ … ‘we bale out the banks and they get the bonuses’ … Just for once, wouldn’t it be nice if someone flushed the criminals out? Well, here you go, you have come to the right place.

Greed, cosy corruption … follow the money

The greedy fear exposure. Money is all. What will bad people do to protect a criminal investment? For instance, how much do criminal insiders steal? Is the £190 billion ($265 billion) reported by Experian in November 2017 fake news?

Scare her off or kill her?

Will her first success, as an investigative journalist be her last? Will she survive? Will she die? The Angels’ Cut excerpt shares a sense of this.

Reader Comments

“I could immediately identify with his main characters, even those shady, dangerous individuals in the upper echelons of society. In this respect the story is also a measure of how eroded has become our trust in our leaders, the high and mighty of our land. His action scenes are particularly well handled – the opening scene in South Armagh is shockingly realistic. In fact there’s a gritty realism throughout this book which will linger long in the memory. All in all this is an impressive piece of work by a talented writer.” Abrach, UK

“Not your common or garden thriller, not by a long shot. A thriller it undoubtedly is, but with characters who are far better developed and fleshed out than many others of this ilk, characters who live, breathe and about whom the reader ends up caring deeply. The fact that the storyline is brilliantly crafted and the level of detail is enough (and accurate enough, too) to keep the most dedicated hardware anorak on side is just icing on the cake.” D Gixxer, UK

“As this book opens, it seems an exciting, and very readable, action thriller. Then as the characters are developed one is drawn in by the witty dialogue, by the fierce and touching family loyalties, and by the noble defense of the vulnerable against those who would abuse them to their own ends. Initially repelled by the violence in this novel, I felt, as in Stieg Larsson’s novels, the visceral satisfaction of seeing justice meted out to the abusers of women.” Maryann N, WA USA

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Enjoy your Angels’ Cut excerpt. Book available worldwide.

An Angels’ Cut Excerpt

Sam ended the call. ‘She’s back in intensive care now: not stable, no visitors, it sounds critical. I need sleep.’

‘Shit!’ Cal said.

‘I’ll go to the hospital first thing,’ Sam said.

‘One other thing.’

Sam yawned. ‘Sure, what’s on your mind?’

‘This isn’t my patch and we don’t want to rock the boat. Especially not with Macho Mike in charge over here.’ Cal said.

‘Macho Mike?’

‘Yeah, Mike Swindon. Puts the hard in hard man. An excellent investigator who’s aggressive and gets results. Yanks would call him “lean ’n’ mean”. I’d add balding, broken-nosed, ugly, backed by an in-your-face, no-shit, no-fools attitude. For some mysterious reason, his people love him.’

‘Hmmm. We’ll need to win him to the cause. I’ll walk back to the digs and find my own way to the hospital.’

‘Right-oh. See you tomorrow.’

Sam knew the hotel from his old life. The night porter welcomed him, and they enjoyed ten minutes of chit-chat while Sam downed a whisky and water. In his room, he thought of the injured girl and his wee sister, Eilidh. He disliked being on a battlefield without knowing where and who the foe was. Mulling things over, he fell asleep.

Trapped behind glass, Eilidh was beyond reach in Sam’s dream. She held out her hand, and his fingers bumped against icy cold crystal as he grabbed for her. The desperation and fear in her voice echoed and re-echoed. The scene and sounds kept repeating until his alarm stopped the treadmill. Twenty minutes of meditation eased things, a good way to start the day.

He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched.

Back in the hospital at 07:00, Sam chatted with the charge nurse.

‘Does she have anyone?’

‘No. Nobody’s come near, except you.’ 

‘Prognosis?’

‘Critical. She hasn’t been helped by her poor physical condition, as well as the brain injury, fractures and lacerations. The beating caused internal bleeding. She’s very poorly.’

‘Okay to sit with her?’

‘Why not?’ The nurse took him to the bedside.

Sam looked around. More than once he’d been plugged into similar systems. This young woman lay at death’s door with no one there for her, alone in the medical machine. He sat down and gently took her hand. At times like this, compassion welled up in him. He imagined her life before the assault, noticing the tracks of intravenous drug use on her arms and the broken-nailed and dirty-fingered hand he held. Her chalk-white face lacked expression, with shut eyes and a slack jaw. Only the battering and contusions added colour. With a tube still taped to the side of her mouth and her head swathed in bandages, Sam couldn’t detect any improvement.

What benefit would survival bestow on her? Might she recover only to return whence she came, perhaps to an untimely death? Would she still sell herself for money to buy drugs or food? Was a return home a possibility? Had she a home to return to? Who cared enough to spend the time to help her help herself? He dozed.

Around 07:30, the girl’s hand twitched, and her eyelids fluttered. The rhythmic tone of the medical monitor altered. The alarm blared. A crash team burst in, blocking the exit with action and equipment. Sam retreated to the wall and admired the teamwork as the life signs display continued flatlining. She was declared clinically dead at 08.13.

No one noticed Sam, and when the door became free, he walked out. Someone was waiting for him.

…

A balding, broken-nosed, somewhat ugly man leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed. Dressed smartly in a blazer, slacks, shiny shoes and a red and blue striped silk tie, he was tall and fit looking, maybe forty years of age. He moved to stand in front of Sam, dark reptilian eyes staring from a belligerent scowl. His lips compressed almost to invisibility just before he spoke.

‘So you’re the holy man who persuaded a certain black man of my acquaintance to get off his bloody patch!’ The voice rasped in a sharp London accent, overflowing with restrained and angry energy.

‘And you’ll be Macho Mike.’ Sam offered his hand. It was ignored.

‘It’s people like you who’re more trouble than you’re worth, screwing around in things which are none of your business. In the bloody way, all the bleedin’ time.’

‘Have you thought about Clorets?’ ‘What?’

‘The breath freshener.’

‘Hnn …?’

‘Your breath smells worse than my dog’s and, if you must stand so close, something minty would do a lot for your PR.’ Somewhere out of sight a suppressed snicker snorted out.

‘You’re on my patch.’ Mike squeaked with indignation.

‘And you are badly out of line.’ Sam’s voice resounded with military formality and bearing. ‘Are you trying to start a battle or communicate with me?’

Silence. The policeman took a step backwards. Intimidation usually worked just fine. Sam said, ‘A number of points, Inspector. One, the black man of my acquaintance is an Inspector and colleague of yours whom I know and respect. Two, I hope racist tendencies didn’t drive your disparaging remark about the hue of Cal’s skin, given recent events in the Met.’ Mike Swindon made to speak as Sam held up his hand in a forceful stop gesture. ‘Three, I’m not bleeding, at least not last time I checked.’ Macho Mike tried to speak again, only to be stopped once more. ‘Now, there’s a choice here. Start again or escalate to a final conclusion. What would you like to do?’

Swindon gazed at the man in front of him. His eyes were hard, calm and perhaps a little angry. The ‘Vicar’ stood full square in his space and challenged him: not scared, not going to back down, ready for him. ‘Start again,’ Swindon said, quiet, stalled for now, but not forgetting.

© Mac Logan