Page 4 of Worth the Wait
He grabbed the radio mic. “Delta Two One—received. Show us en route.”
Becca swung the Astra around at the next junction, tyres crunching over loose gravel as she switched on the blues. The flashing lights tore through the sea mist, scattering a few lingering gulls.
“Better not be some kid pissing about with a scooter.” Becca tutted, already scanning the grey sprawl of the promenade.
Freddie stayed quiet.
Because his gut, the one that hadn’t let him down yet, said this wasn’t just a fight.
Not today.
Not with Radley’s shadows creeping closer to the kids who couldn’t defend themselves. And if he was right? Then whoever was about to get their name written up in Freddie’s notebook wasn’t only a teenage thug looking to score points.
They were a spark.
And the whole bloody town was soaked in petrol.
The skatepark hunched at the edge of the promenade like a broken tooth. Concrete bowls tagged with graffiti, bins overflowing, the air heavy with stale weed. Becca swung the car in hard, tyres squealing a warning. Freddie was out before it stopped fully, boots slamming onto cracked tarmac, scanning.
Movement. Voices. The distinct edge of a scuffle behind the far ramp.
He sprinted towards it, Becca on his heels.
Two lads legged it across the grass. Skinny, fast, and gone before Freddie could even get a shout out. Another kid remained on the ground, hands up over his head, trying to shield himself from the blows raining down from a feral teenager above him.
“Oi!” Freddie shouted, closing the gap.
The aggressor looked up, thenran.
Down the far side of the bowl, up the concrete bank, slipping on wet grit, and tearing off across the park in a jagged sprint.
Freddie launched after him.
“Whitmore foot chase,” he shouted into his radio. “Male, mid-teens, grey hoodie, black joggers. Heading east, towards the seawall.”
The wind tore past his ears as he pounded after the boy, closing the gap with every stride. The kid was fast, no question, but running scared, making mistakes. Cutting across open ground. Glancing back.
Freddie saw his moment.
He lunged forward, arms out, and tackled him. They both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and grit. The teen squirmed, kicked, thrashed like a cornered animal, but Freddie rolled with it, locked a forearm across his chest, got a knee into the small of his back.
“Stay down!” he barked.
The kid wriggled, shoving back hard, until he saw the uniform over his shoulder.
“Calm down. Now!” Freddie gripped the kid’s arm while pulling a set of cuffs free. “What’s your name?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“I said, name!”
The lad’s eyes snapped towards him. “They started it!”
“Started what?”
No answer except for a spit on the gravel.
Freddie hauled him up to his feet. “You have anything on you? Knife, blade, anything I need to be aware of?”
