CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,98

a bright blue flame plunged through the nylon over his head and swung towards his chest.

James was thankful for all the hours of combat training he’d done on CHERUB campus as he pulled his legs up to his chin, flipped himself head over heels and sprang gymnastically to his feet.

It was the last thing the attacker was expecting, and the stunned, flame-lit face of a wiry biker made James feel like he was in a dream from some weird zombie movie. He swung with the chain, slicing open the biker’s cheek. A Karate kick to the kidneys sent James’ attacker crashing to the ground, crushing Shampoo Jr’s tent. The burning torch landed alongside and set fire to the nylon fabric.

James’ tent and a dozen nearby were burning. The air was getting too hot to breathe and the skinny biker showed no signs of getting up. He’d suffocate, or at least get badly burned, if James left him, so he hooked his helmet over one arm before grabbing the biker’s ankle and dragging him between a line of tents on to clear grass.

Half a dozen men fought nearby as James swatted out the flames on his opponent’s jeans and rolled him in the dirt to make sure. The patch on the back of his jacket read: Bitch Slappers, Luton. He saw that part of the patch had torn off as its owner got dragged through the dirt, and knew that stealing it would earn him kudos from the Brigands.

As James dug his gloved fingers under the stitching and ripped the patch off he heard a gunshot. It was a long way down the hill, but it crushed any lingering doubts about whether he should leave.

James stuffed the patch inside his backpack and dodged behind Shampoo Jr, who was down in the dirt and about to get stomped by three Bitch Slappers. He thought about wading in, but in a mass brawl even the best fighter can get stabbed from behind or knocked out by a stray punch and he’d taken too many risks already.

The worst of the fighting hadn’t reached the back of the Brigands’ campsite. A couple of the toughest Cardiff Brigands stood by one of the coaches, armed with machetes. The coach itself had its engine running. All the seats were filled with women and sobbing kids, but more were piling on board to sit on laps or stand in the aisle.

James ran up to his bike and saw that someone had worked their way along the line with a hammer, smashing lights and tipping them over. His Kawasaki seemed to be leading a charmed life: the only damage he could see in the dark was an indicator lamp that had shattered when the Honda trail bike next door had been kicked over.

After hauling the Honda back on to its stand, James straddled his Kawasaki and put on his helmet. His backpack hung awkwardly from one shoulder and he wasn’t even sure if the zips were done up, but he could stop and fix that later. He needed to get out of the danger zone as fast as he could.

There was a muffled crunch as James kick-started his engine. His heart leapt, thinking that he’d been sabotaged, but he’d actually heard a Bitch Slapper hurling a stone slab at a side window of the packed coach.

The last passengers ran aboard and the driver began reversing with the two Cardiff Brigands leaning from the open doorway. As James pushed off he saw that the slab had ricocheted off the toughened glass, but he could see people screaming in the seats next to it and the coach driver couldn’t pull away until he’d made a tricky reversing manoeuvre on to a tree-lined avenue.

The Bitch Slapper was picking up the slab and if it hit the window a second time it might punch a hole and seriously injure the kids inside. James still had the chain wrapped around his glove and he unwound it as he drove off at walking pace. With one hand on the handlebars, he opened the throttle and his Kawasaki accelerated hard. The ground was bumpy and it was a fight to keep the bike under control, but he steered up on to the road beside the coach and lashed the Bitch Slapper across the back with the chain, slicing through his leather jacket and tearing into his back.

As the Bitch Slapper collapsed, James lost control of the chain, which swung around and cracked his visor. He wrenched