Across the road, a group of young people, all of them naked, danced in a narrow park across the road, tranced out on Uber-c***k, hitting upturned plastic garbage bins with long sticks. Their chants wafted across the road, at one with the smoke generated by the spreading fires.
They skirted the men in black in front of the church. More men in black had formed a cordon around the north entrance. Within the cordon, a black van stood parked by one of the ramps that led into the church.
“That’s Clara’s Land Rover,” Hunter said.
He stepped right up to the men, pulled the gun he’d taken from the police man in Piccadilly and shouted at the top of his voice, “We’re the Green Panthers. We need to get inside the church. We believe that the trigger to the Slow King’s bomb is hidden inside. It’s lif
