Free The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) by Robert Parker

all.
    ‘You know I do, Michael’, replies Jack. ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’
    Mr. Nike says nothing, merely opening the rear passenger door, then resting his arm against it.
    ‘So... shall we?’ says Michael, running a hand through that abhorrent hair, and it flops straight back into place thanks to what I can only imagine is thanks to years of precisely aligned mistreatment. I opt to let this situation play out - it’s just more intel at this point.
    ‘You got it.’ says Jack, walking towards the car, while turning to me. ‘Would you mind the car for me?’
    I merely nod back, while keeping an eye on the other men. Neither meet my gaze, nor acknowledge my presence. They seem cool, experienced, regimented almost. Well oiled. Well versed.
    It stays that way as they reverse backwards and out into the roadway, then accelerate gradually away. As they go, I can almost make out Mr Nike glance in his wing mirror at me, but I can’t be sure. I turn back to the waterside, and let the cool breeze float across me. It smells icy, and dark. Like the rivers I visited in my youth. Gulls shriek through the low whistle, but I can’t see them. My eyes are centered on the house opposite. Felix Davison’s house.
    It’s as grand and beautiful a home I could ever hope for, and I know that, thanks to my actions and choices, I will never live in such luxury. No, I have made my bed, and I must lie in it. I suppose I could take my money, and flee overseas. Find a sunny little country where my English money will go a long way, with a nice little nook I can call my own (with a favorable anti-extradition policy for good measure), and leave Great Britain to her own devices. God knows she deserves it.
    But I’d only fidget, and frustrate myself. I have reached an uneasy agreement with myself, that the past is the past and it can stay where it is, within reason. No time for guilt anymore. Do good in the name of the memory of what I did, but that’s as far backwards I’ll glance. No paralysis by over-analysis. Progress is now. And my attention lies with that beauteous glass lair across the sloshing murk of the Manchester Ship Canal, and what serpents lie in her belly.

9
    Behind the wheel once more, my foot gleefully reunited with that Lexus gas pedal, I weave my way back to the city centre, looking for a new base for at least the next few hours. I feel my immediate future features a combination of research and waiting.
    I know of an old haunt that could do with some work, but will be fine for the immediate future. I’m not proud, I’m not picky, and the Campanile on the edge of town doesn’t ask for ID. It’s only a couple of minutes away. I’ll aim for that and ask what they’ve got.
    My mind floats off and around to Jack, and where he went with those blokes. I’m guessing they are something to do with the Berg, and his father. He recognized them, and they appeared non-threatening - well, as non-threatening as you can when you pretty much demand someone come with you.
    In the military world, when you needed some info on a certain subject, directive or tactic, you couldn’t just hit the world wide web and get an answer within seconds. I’m not used to intel on tap, and I’m keen to get started. Google might yield nothing, or it might be fit to spill the beans all over the show. I might be able to get more assistance from an hour on the laptop than 24 hours hours stomping the streets shaking down as much of the city as I can. But in the era of social media and it’s narcissistic lure, I’m willing to bet that something has slipped somewhere, and from what I’ve seen and heard, I think I can at least get things rumbling.
    I remember, as I pull into the hotel car park, that there is something else I could do with finding on the internet, and it is something I’m not sure I will be able to find with a quick search engine foray. I need to find someone that can fake me an identity. Someone trustworthy, reputable and