Read The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) for Free Online

some of the weight to rest, while keeping the strain. It must hurt like hell. It’s a rum little move I picked up outside of the traditional training avenues, and it never fails. I remember being put in it in south east asia - it is unforgettable, as your legs ache against each other vying for purchase, pulling the joints apart into a horrible position of wrenching, crackling, ripping pain. When the hold is in place, gravity does the rest, and it ain’t pretty.
    The man breathes heavily, as the strain is lifted momentarily. I’d like to get a look at him, see if it’s anybody I would recognize, but I don’t want him to see me just yet.
    ‘Is there anyone else here?’, I ask sternly. ‘Outside or in.’
    ‘One man in the car park,’ splutters the jumble of fabric.
    ‘You’ve come here to take me out, correct?’
    The man is silent for a second, so I lift him up a touch to remind him the urgency of my question. It has an immediate effect.
    ‘Yes... Yes... But I’m only following instruction. I don’t know you. Fuck...’ the man wails.
    ‘Because, of course, that makes all the difference doesn’t it.’ I say lifting higher again. I feel the joints straining against each other.
    ‘No, no, of course, Jesus...’
    ‘You’re a fucking dogs-body, aren’t you?’
    ‘What?! I don’t... Shit...’
    ‘Who sent you here, dogs-body? If it’s orders you are following, who issued them?’
    He inhales and exhales raggedly, spluttering and gasping as the blood floods his inverted cranium. His vision should be blurred by now, and his senses completely disorientated. He doesn’t answer, so I drag him higher.
    He screams. I lift further, bringing my left arm in to help. I nearly have him entirely off the ground now, and he will surely be in real pain. He really doesn’t want to give me the name of his employer. I change tack.
    ‘What’s my name?’ I hiss.
    ‘What?’
    ‘My name... What is it?’
    I lift higher again, his head now completely off the floor, eliciting a groggy yelp.
    ‘Fuck you, I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction...’
    ‘I don’t want you just to say my name, I want you to tell me what it is!’
    I’m getting tired myself, and yank higher one last time, hunkering lower and hoisting with my shoulders. I can’t see the man’s face, but it must be contorted with agony.
    ‘What is my name?!’ I bellow.
    ‘Jack Brooker!’ he screams, and with that I feel the clunk of the knee joint components dislodging from their housings, the ligaments and tendons finally giving way. As that happens, there follows a slight drop downwards as the weight of the hanging body drags the joints apart, bringing the tibias into play - which snap loudly, unable to take the strain. The man screams long and loud, a howl that echoes through the small hotel room. It is a grisly moment which brings me no pleasure at all.
    I drop him to the floor, and know that I need to shut him up. Grimacing, I grab the gun and smash the pistol butt down hard on the part of the bulky fabric where I think the man’s head is. The impact is fierce, the resulting silence immediate. He is out of his misery temporarily, into unconsciousness. I pull the curtain back, to find a battered and bruised face. He’s about mid thirties, perhaps - not much older than myself. And he looks of mixed descent, perhaps English Chinese.
    I’m not happy about what has happened to him, but it’s taught me something very valuable - someone wants Jack Brooker dead. And that same party has enough reach and power to know when the name Jack Brooker books into a hotel, or makes a credit card purchase. I just wish I’d got a name before I had to put him out.
    I need to get out of here. A party with that reach will have eyes and ears in all sorts of places. I grab my belongings, shoveling them into the rucksack in 30 seconds flat. I take the gun too, feeling uneasy taking carriage of such a weapon after so many bitter experiences in the company of firearms. It