The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

message to my cerebral cortex, that I am far from alone. The years of training paying off, rendering me a highly perceptive sensory panel, able to take what is around me and process it with little effort.
    But what it can’t tell me, is the intention of the visitor. Nope, I’m on my own with that one. But the visitor doesn’t know I have any inkling of his or her presence, so if I carry on as normal, I might be afforded a couple more moments to locate them. So I whistle a little, and drop the change in my pocket noisily onto the dresser, while my eyes scan the room, and I take off the jacket. The bed appears untouched. It’s a solid bedstead, so nobody could be secreted underneath. The bathroom may be a decent port of call - but it’s the curtains I’m interested in. They cover the entirety of the window, right down to the floor, easily enough to conceal a person. There is no bulge, but as my eyes sweep the floor, I see the giveaway. A hint of shadow in the far right hand bottom corner, where a person leaning against the window is blocking the less-than-blazing midday sunlight from reaching the floor, like the rest of the curtain hem. I reach for the TV remote, and flick it on. A bit of sound is necessary to mask my next move, both from my unwanted visitor and any curious ears in the neighboring rooms. As soon as the TV crackles to life, I run for the window.
    Feeling my footsteps, the visitor flinches and moves forward, creating an outline in the purple curtain. The outline of someone about six feet tall, built solidly, with a strange protuberance midway up his body, pointing out into the room. As I run, the protuberance spits fire in a hushed harsh flick, no more, creating a hole in the curtain right at the tip of the point. A silenced pistol, which the visitor is clearly not afraid to use.
    I let my training do the rest, filling in with my brain whenever my body asks it for an instruction. On this occasion it doesn’t, and I have dealt with the assailant before I even know I have. I duck low, then rise as I meet the bulging figure, firing my right arm up to my opponent’s upper torso. When my arm meets what feels like shoulder, I grip wholeheartedly and yank forward, while twisting my body to the left and bending over, ripping my target to the floor in a basic but effective judo throw.
    The curtain rips from it’s rail, raining sunlight and little white curtain runners down on us both, as my opponent’s head hits the floor. I reach for his legs, mindful of where the gun might be in this tumbling mass of fabric and angry human, and manage to grab both ankles. He starts to buck, as he recovers slightly from the head impact, but I kick low and hard into the curtain, laces forward. I hit something meaty, and waste no time in interlocking his legs in an upside-down cross-legged yoga pose. Fluidly, I insert my right hand between the two crossed calves, grabbing the lower of the two and pulling upwards with a yank. A sharp scream let’s me know I’ve got it - a modified Indian death lock, as the weight of the hanging body exerts immense pressure on the crude coat-hanger shape I have made out of his legs. I lift higher, to intensify the scream, as the strain against the bones intensifies, like an extremely vicious volume button. As I lift, suspending the visitor in space, still swaddled in curtain, I kick again, just to get the message home - I’m in charge now.
    ‘Put the gun down or I lift again,’ I say. I lift slightly to show him just how nasty it could get, and the man cries out. ‘I lift higher, and your tibias snap just below the knees. Then your ligaments, well... They’ll strip from your bones as they struggle to hold your fucking legs together’.
    ‘Shit! OK!’ the man screams, the gun flopping out and thudding on the carpet.
    ‘You tell me true answers. For every second I think you are not, I lift. The higher I get, the closer your legs get to snapping.’
    I lower his head to the floor, and allow