Harold Roberts was a 31-year-old businessman. He lived in London, he owned a Volvo S60, his watch was a golden Rolex and he sorely regretted stealing the briefcase he was currently clutching in his well-manicured hand. That is to say, he didn't regret stealing the suitcase as much as he regretted stealing the money inside it. He was fairly certain that Chris R. felt much the same way. He probably missed his two million pound sterling something fierce. Harold's pinstripe suit was stained and torn, and his Italian loafers were covered in mud as he fled through the backstreets and alleyways of Brixton.
"Bloody Polacks," Zeke said, taking a bite of his pizza. He glared at the men across the street through the car window. They wore orange vests and safety helmets, and from their labor came clatters and bangs as their hammers and picks smashed down the walls of an old, abandoned house. "They come wanderin' in 'ere, takin' all the jobs meant for proper English blokes," he said, turning towards Ugly Jack. "This country's a right bloody mess, innit?"
Ugly Jack grunted in agreement. A dusty leather jacket covered his broad frame, and a pair of black sunglasses covered part of the bulldog-like face that had earned him his nickname. He kept his black hair cropped close to his scalp, a pair of impressive sideburns framing his face. Ugly Jack never talked much, but Zeke, his partner in crime, more than made up for his near constant silence. Zeke was the polar opposite of his companion. He was short and wiry, always equipped with an ill-fitting suit, a fedora and a mouth that never stopped working.
Author's note: This is the first part of a possibly ongoing series. More to follow.