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

feels strange to the touch - a little lighter than I remember. That added weight of bad intentions is gone. I check it over. I recognize the piece immediately as a Glock 17, somewhat modified for the silencer. The Glock 17 is one of the most popular pistols in worldwide law enforcement, but this... this is something a little different. I’m ashamed to say I like it. I stick it in my waistband, and I’m out of the door less than a minute after the altercation had reached it’s wretched climax.
    I need to get to Jack. I also need a new base, and a new identity, quicker than ever. I can’t go around town pretending to be Jack Brooker, when there’s quite obviously a hit out on that very same name. I might as well wander around with a sandwich board advertising myself as the man himself. What on earth is he involved with?

5
    The taxi slows to a stop in a charming, verdant neighborhood about fifteen minutes drive west of Manchester, in Worsley. The properties are sure handsome, with the ornate appointment yet modest size of moderate wealth, and the sun even threatens to shine, if only a touch. According to the taxi clock, it is 8.50am. I pay the driver, and hop out.
    There are autumn leaves all over the street, and this picture-book scene of successful England is really quite lovely. It immediately piques my interest in Jack a little more - most notably the notion that the guy who helped out a murderer (even though he might not know that) with what can only really be classed as money laundering lives here in this quiet, upstanding, comfortable setup. I walk to the house in the corner, to the address he specified when I text him after breakfast.
    The house itself is a white stone beauty, with two pillars either side of the door, manicured gardens and two stories of living space. The door is a solid slab of mahogany, and, as I use the heavy black iron door knocker, I hear the echo on the other side of polished surfaces. I wait a moment, listening to the birds chirruping high in the trees, but there is no answer. I try again, applying a little more force. Still no answer.
    I leave the porch, and crane my neck up to look at the windows. Nothing visible, with all the curtains open. I glance back at the street - empty. Is this odd? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been in a fairly opulent neighborhood in a while. So, just to make sure I really stick out like a sore thumb for any passers by, I walk around the side of the house, trying not to look like a burglar. I follow the fence which separates Jack’s house (or is it?) from the neighbors, and end up in a small back garden. It is well-manicured, canopied by oak trees and much smaller than I expected. It really has a perception of scale, despite the moderately close wooden fence, but then I realize that the property backs onto a golf course. A big, bloody beautiful one - not exactly the correct golf parlance I believe, but it is certainly a good view. And then I notice Jack, sitting on the decking that leads up to the back of the house and it’s porch doors.
    He stares out at the golf course, wearing a hoody and sweatpants, holding a glass of orange juice. However, judging from the half-full, unmistakable blue bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, that’s not the only thing in the tumbler. I head over to him, stepping up onto the decking and grabbing a spare chair to pull over.
    ‘I’m sorry mate,’ I say, knowing that that will carry little weight but serves more as an opening gambit than anything else.
    Jack turns to me, his face torqued with emotion. He’s ordinarily, if I dare myself to say it, a handsome bloke. A shaven head, sharp features, and eyes that could burn a hole on the moon, such is their intensity. Yet now what sits ahead of me is a young man ruptured by fear and sorrow. His eyes scream for help, but his gritted teeth seethe vengeance. It’s a complex, dangerous look, which I have seen many times in the haze of Iraq, or the blazing sun of Afghanistan. It is a look