CHERUB: The General by Robert Muchamore Page B

whatever else ends up stuck to the bottom of a police van.
    ‘Here driver,’ one of the cops said loutishly, as he leaned towards a grilled porthole and looked into the cab. ‘Can’t you find some nice bumpy roads for our boy on the floor here?’
    The cops were breaking all sorts of rules on the handling of prisoners, but if you assault a police officer you can be sure they won’t treat you nice when they arrest you. Not that James needed any extra bumps: police vans have firm suspension designed for speed not comfort and every pothole or dink in the road sent a jarring pain through the spot on his back where he’d been whacked by the baton.
    ‘Conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism,’ one of the three male officers said cheerfully. ‘Possession of a deadly weapon, assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. You’d better get yourself a good lawyer.’
    ‘Not to mention a criminal hairstyle,’ the woman added.
    As a CHERUB agent James knew he’d never face any of those charges but the ribbing still riled him as laughter filled the steel box. More came when his body flew up and slammed the floor as they rode up over a speed bump at more than thirty miles an hour.
    ‘Ooopsie daisy!’ someone laughed.
    The driver shouted through the grille between the cab and the rear compartment. ‘Was that too fast?’
    ‘I dunno,’ the female officer said, as she pressed the heel of her boot down a bit harder. ‘We’ll find out if you drive round the block and go over it again.’
    ‘Quite a pretty boy too,’ one of the men joked. ‘The gays in prison will love you.’
    James was close to blowing up, but sensible enough to realise that it would be all the excuse they’d need to lash out with their batons and maybe throw in a few volts from their stun guns for good measure.
    After a slam from another speed bump the van slowed right down, and while James couldn’t see where they were going it was obvious they were pulling into some kind of parking compound.
    ‘On your feet, toss-pot,’ the biggest officer ordered, before opening the back doors and jumping out.
    James rolled on to his back, but with his hands cuffed behind him it was tricky getting off the floor and jumping out. He looked around and saw that he was in the well lit parking lot at the rear of a police station.
    ‘Getcha butt inside,’ an officer barked nastily. He poked James in the back, but his body language changed when he saw a superintendent accompanied by another man walking across the tarmac towards them. James was relieved by the sight of Mission Controller, John Jones.
    ‘Is this your boy?’ the superintendent asked John.
    John nodded and looked at the giant officer. ‘Slice his cuffs and return his belongings.’
    The female officer looked pissed. ‘What’s going on, boss? The little shit was in the meeting with Bradford. Then he body-checked me and damned nigh threw me down a flight of stairs.’
    ‘Ours is not to reason why, Catherine,’ the superintendent said firmly. ‘The green-haired boy got away. Anyone who says otherwise can expect the remainder of their police career to be brief and unpleasant. Is that clear ?’
    ‘Crystal, boss,’ the woman sighed, shaking her head as another officer sliced the plasticuffs off James’ wrists.
    ‘Have a nice life, officers,’ James chirped.
    ‘I don’t care who you are, boy,’ the woman growled. ‘I wouldn’t recommend showing your face around these parts ever again.’
    James waved his hand contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you go home and shove a broom handle up your—’
    ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ the superintendent interrupted.
    ‘Don’t make a bloody scene,’ John growled, as he grabbed James by his arm and shoved him towards a Jaguar parked on the opposite side of the car park.
    ‘My back’s killing me,’ James moaned, as he lowered himself into the front passenger seat. ‘Bitch slammed me in the back with her baton.’
    ‘Sounds fair enough,’ John said sarcastically