Read on to introduce yourself with Warren Beckford from the first chapter of Worth the Risk (Worth It Book3) coming 31 December 2025…
Worthbridge didn’t look dangerous.
Not from the motorway. Nor from the blinking welcome sign wedged between a retail park and a Costa. And certainly not from the quiet sprawl of terraced rooftops curling toward the choppy sea, where church spires rose like sentinels in the coastal mist. On the surface, this one looked a doddle.
DS Warren Beckford had been in far worse places.
But he knew better than to judge a place by its postcard front. Years buried in organised crime cases, deep undercover, long hours shifting lies, Warren had learned one thing above all. It was always the quiet towns that bled the deepest.
So he pulled into a car park behind a shuttered community centre, where the Southeast Regional Organised Crime Unit (SEROCU) had set up a temporary field base and got his game face on.
New case. New team. New name.
Another life to disappear into.
He killed the engine of his black MG, stepped out, and locked it, flicking the keys between his fingers. Then, after tying back his collar-length locs, checking his reflection in the blacked-out windows of his car, he tucked his sunglasses into the V of his white tee and approached the squat brick building. Boots heavy. Mind already shifting into gear.
He buzzed for entry.
A beat.
Then a voice crackled through the box: “Yeah?”
“DS Beckford. Reporting in.”
There was a pause. Then the lock buzzed, releasing with a solid click.
Warren pushed open the door, stepping into a corridor lined with blank noticeboards and peeling paint, remnants of the community centre’s old life. With the lingering scent of instant coffee and worn-out carpet welcoming him in, along with the man standing at the end. Warren did his usual check. White, mid-forties. Buzz-cut, greying at the edges. Suit creased but clean, and the lanyard tucked into his breast pocket identified him as DI Luke Havers. Warren knew the type. Ex-Met, by the stance. Probably driven. Definitely bitter.
Warren held up his ID card.
Havers glanced at him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Top of the stairs. Briefing Room Three. Patel’s waiting.” He turned away, but not before muttering, “Try not to piss anyone off before we start.”
Warren offered a faint smile, dry and deliberate. “No promises.”
So his past precedes him all the way to the Essex coast, does it? Standard.
He took the stairs two at a time. Not out of urgency, but habit. And he moved down the corridor toward Briefing Room Three, where the air grew heavier the closer he got. He rapped his knuckles on the open door, stepping into a cloud of stale coffee and unspoken tension, the room thick enough with it to mask his own hotel shower gel and splash of Tom Ford. Inside, the task force had claimed the space like all others: a whiteboard cluttered with red string, black-and-white mugshots, and marker-smeared code names. Movement charts. Routes in and out. It was always the same: a theatre of war, laid out in marker pen and Blu Tack.
And there, front and centre, was the one who’d pulled him into this mess.
“DS Beckford, come in.” DCI Shalini Patel, head of the Radley task force.
She was the one who’d dragged his name from whatever dusty file still flagged him as “high-value asset” instead of “disciplinary headache” and plucked him out of his quiet desk exile in London. He knew how these things worked. They brought in someone like him for three reasons: one, they were trying to bury him quietly, wrap up the loose threads left behind in London and keep him out of anyone’s line of sight. Two, they needed his skillset. Deep cover. Social engineering. The dirty detail that didn’t get typed into a warrant.
And three…Yeah, sometimes, he knew, they needed a Black face in the field.
He didn’t really care which it was. As long as it got him off a desk, he could live with anything. Because desk duty? That was another kind of hell.
Warren dropped into the chair closest to the wall, instinctively angling his body to watch the exits. Two years undercover in the backstreets of south London had rewired him that way. Twitchy with his back exposed, too quick to read a room in a blink. Gang culture made him live in his peripherals.
He offered a single nod to the woman at the front.
“Morning, team.” Patel didn’t bother with pleasantries and with one click of the projector remote, the hum of chatter died. “As I’m sure most of you could recite in your sleep, Graham Radley has been the subject of ongoing investigations for years. But for the record, and because clarity is everything, let me explain exactly where we stand, and why this task force exists.”
She inclined her head at the next slide. A professionally edited headshot filled the wall. Not a mugshot. That man hadn’t ever touched a custody suite. He’d dodged the system for far too long. And Warren clenched his jaw as the all-too-familiar itch in his blood forced him upright. That was the drive in him that never quieted until a so-called untouchable finally hit the ground. This was his work. His purpose. Bringing down the bastards who strutted outside the law’s reach.
And Radley was worse than most.
Late forties. Smug. Every inch the respectable entrepreneur and philanthropist, all glossy magazine spreads and charity galas. A public mask polished so bright it dazzled. But Warren knew better. Behind the ingratiating smile was a man who ran his empire on blood and fear. A criminal mastermind hiding in plain sight.
Untouchable? Until now.
“Radley has embedded himself in Worthbridge and the surrounding towns for more than fifteen years.” Patel addressed the room as if none of them already knew this. “On record, his portfolio looks clean. Property development, a scrap metal dealership, and a network of cleaning and security firms. All registered, all compliant. But intelligence assessments identify him as the principal of a regional organised crime group. His OCG structure is layered: facilitators, recruiters, enforcers. His enterprise provides cover for money laundering, asset movement, and control of territory. At its core, the group is trafficking-led. Coercion-based recruitment is their main driver. Targeting vulnerable teenagers and young adults, particularly those with care backgrounds, debt issues, or mental health vulnerabilities. Once brought in, victims are controlled through intimidation, violence, and dependency. This isn’t a street-level gang. It’s a structured criminal business model, and its commodity is people.”
She clicked again.
The slide shifted: grainy stills of petrol stations, alleyway handovers, school gates.
“He’s good at securing loyalty. Half the kids he uses don’t even realise they’re victims. The ones who do rarely speak, and when they do, it’s under duress.” She let the silence breathe, the weight of it sinking in. “But this year, things escalated. Fourteen-year-old Alfie Carter, a student at Worthbridge Academy, tried to report one of Radley’s lookouts. He was attacked for it. His father, ex-army Staff Sergeant Nathan Carter, stepped in and nearly lost his life. The incident forced Radley’s crew underground. Not long after, a string of arson attacks tore through properties linked to Radley’s businesses. Covering their tracks? Almost certainly. Then it escalated when Worthbridge Academy was set ablaze. Alfie Carter trapped inside. If it weren’t for the bravery of firefighters, he may well have lost his life. The connection is there for anyone to see.”
Another slide.
This time: scenes from the fire. Smoke. Flashing lights. A stretcher.
“We believe the fire was deliberate. An escalation tactic set by one of Radley’s own runners inside the school. A warning. A message to anyone else tempted to talk. But it backfired. Since that night, we’ve seen movement. Slips. Cracks in the façade. Radley’s network isn’t the fortress it used to be. Fear’s creeping in, and when fear takes hold?” She peered at the room under her lashes. “People make mistakes. The kind we can use.”
She turned back to the slides.
“This operation isn’t about pressure. Or arrest quotas. No fast turnarounds. We’re not here to spook Radley. We’re here to bleed him dry. From the inside out.” A pause. Then she looked at Warren. “This is where you come in.”
Great start 👏