Extract The Information From The Nemesis

I have an extract for you guys today! And it's a hum-dinger! So much so, I am closing the Nemesis blog tour! 

As you guys know, I love a good thriller. So, when I was asked if I wanted to be involved in the blog tour for Anthony Riches's Nemesis, I jumped at it. I'm not sure why, but this gave me strong vibes of crime thrillers I have been binge-watching during the UK's lockdowns and it just sounded perfect for me to read (Will hopefully do a review in the coming few weeks) and to chat about. 

Mickey Bale is an elite close protection officer. Which is why the Met Police has given his one fo the toughest jobs in the current climate: guarding the Minister of Defence at the moment when Chinese-British relations is at breaking point. 

But Mickey's is only working on. He's secretly waging war on a powerful London mafia gang family. One of their dealers supplier the ecstasy pill that killed his sister and Mickey wants them to suffer. He wants to take them down, one by one. 

But how far is he going to go? Will his Met colleagues realise that the man on an underworld killing spree one of their own? Or will he get away with it? 

You see why I HAD to be involved in this! 

And, because of this, I was kindly given an extract to share with you all and I hope you like. But before I do, some house keeping. I would like to thank Victoria at Head of Zeus for asking me to be involved in this tour and being very kind for allowing me to have an extract for my stop. And, if you want to say hi to the author, Anthony Riches, you can say hi to him via his Facebook (@AnthonyRichesAuthor) or his Twitter (@AnthonyRiches). Also, if you want more info on Nemesis, you can visit Head of Zeus's website. 

With all that out of the way, ONTO THE EXTRACT!

The black Loake boots, Mickey decided. A perfect match for black Wrangler Arizonas, and freshly resoled in rubber. A midnight-blue shirt, and that was him ready. Externally, at least. Looked in the mirror and got a quizzical stare back. Michael James Bale. Age forty-three, no distinguishing marks. A nondescript face, nothing to make him stand out. Not the tallest of men at six foot one, but solid. One hundred and eighty-five pounds of gym-toned muscle honed at his local boxing club. Good genes too. Strong, and in good shape. In his prime, pretty much.

Roz met him at the bottom of the stairs. The usual examination, before letting him out for the night. Looking up at him with that expression. The all-knowing, all-commanding, straight-to-the-point woman who’d charmed him over a decade before. And who still had him in the palm of her hand after all that time. With her dark hair that she wished was blonde. The all-seeing brown eyes that she wished were green, like Mickey’s. And a body that she kept very, very well toned. ‘Giving you no excuses, Mickey Bale,’ as she frequently told him. Not that Mickey wanted any excuses. A childhood spent watching his friends struggling through the debris of their parents’ failed relationships had taught him the value of holding on to what worked. And not letting go for anything.

‘Shaved? Sure there’s no-one waiting for you?’

He grinned in the way that always disarmed her.

‘Oh they’ll be waiting all right. Empty glasses and “where you been all this fucking time?” looks.’

She laughed with him. Knowing his friends well enough.

‘You will keep drinking with that lot. What do you expect?’

He let his face assume what she called his chump look. Lips pursed, eyes rolled up. Waited a moment, timing being the secret of comedy. Then face-palmed and shook his head.

‘Now you tell me?’

‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Wait… what? You’ve seen through my plan?’

A swift prod in the breadbasket to reinforce her point.

‘You come it the poor me, but really you love it. Talking shop with the boys, playing up to the image. Flash Mickey. With the guns and the cars and all that.’

He shrugged. ‘Beats the alternative, doesn’t it? Beats actually working. You know how that would have gone.’

‘Yeah.’ She turned him round and pushed him to the door. Slapped his backside for emphasis. ‘Go on. Back by eleven though; you’ve got an early start.’

He grinned at her again, accepting the heavy-lipped kiss. The door closed behind him as he stepped out into the early spring night. Down the Crescent and out onto the High Road. Warm enough in his black Belstaff jacket that had cost a fortune the previous month. Strolling under the streetlamps, he zipped it up to his neck. Clicked the placket pop-studs shut. Checked that the wrist and pocket studs were closed too. Knowing they would clatter if left unfastened. Then fastened the neck strap, not wanting the buckle to flap around.

He paused on the corner with Jervis Road. Looked up at the CCTV camera above his head. Frozen, lifeless on its gimbal mount. Still out of action. Just the way Warren liked it. Mickey quietly slipped into a doorway and squatted down. Affecting to fiddle with a bootlace. Peeped round the corner, looking down the pavement. The club opposite Warren Margetson’s pitch would still be nine-tenths empty. Its drinks too expensive while the pubs were open. But Warren was already on duty. As any good dealer would be. A professional, of a sort, Warren. And there was more than one sort of client in his line of business. Some of them dabbling. Some of them hardened recreational users. Some of them functioning addicts. And some just victims. Like Katie.