Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) by Robert Parker Page B

An innocent child. An innocent child!
    Without thinking, Ben is moving faster, and soon, he can see the tips of the flames dancing up at the stars, and he knows he is close. One more slight rise. His knees ache and throb, and his lungs fizz with each intake of breath. Mercifully, the oxygen intake has almost completed it’s job of clearing his mind and thoughts, and he knows that if he can keep his rage in check, he can bring a cool air of tactics to what may happen next. But then he remembers he has absolutely no training for saving a baby from a quasi-voodoo sacrifice - he’ll have to follow his instincts, and his gut.
    He slows at the peak, and slowly peeps his head over the crest, and he puts together a quick assessment of the scene, as if he is about to report his findings back to a superior officer. A clearing approximately 10 metres by 10 metres. A fairly large fire just back left of centre. Three rows of low wood benches facing the bonfire. A small stone altar in front of the fire, with a swaddled object atop it. The noisy crackle of the bonfire, and above that, punctuated and soft... an infant cry. It hits Ben hard - it’s the first time he has had concrete evidence the child is even here. He feels both horrified and vindicated.
    The woman appears from behind the bonfire, carrying what looks like a white plastic supermarket bag. Ben knows that despite how he’d like to assess the scene further, he may never get a chance to separate the woman and the infant, so he makes his presence felt.
    ‘Stop there, you psychotic old bitch’, he barks, as he runs into the clearing. He knows that if he gets close enough, his physical presence will root the woman to the spot. He’ll have to judge where to stop, because too close and she will surely panic and go for the child. Too far back and he won’t have any chance to reach the child even if he tried. He picks a spot and sticks to it.
    ‘You have done enough harm to this community. This is where it stops’, Ben commands. The woman looks at him with curiosity and it’s the first time Ben has had the chance to really look at her. She is tall, no doubt, and, on this further inspection, could be anywhere in age between 50 and 65. She has a shock of peroxide blond hair, cut in a cruel and uncompromising bob. She wears a red blazer with a cross pinned to the right lapel, over a tartan skirt. Facially, she passes more than a slight resemblance to Meryl Streep, but Ben feels that could just be the copal talking. She is ten feet from the altar, but Ben would like that to be more.
    ‘I’m 15 feet from you. I can get to you and put you on your back within two and a half seconds. Get on your knees now, so that I don’t have to do that’ Ben orders.
    The woman smiles - a vile, smug, pursed grin. Ben dearly would love to wipe it off her face with his boot, if it didn’t make him feel so unnerved. She speaks.
    ‘Who are you to say what should or should not happened to the child?’ she spits.
    ‘I put that same question right back to you’ Ben retorts.
    ‘If you knew what I know about this child, about what is demanded, you would be assisting me, not apprehending me.’
    ‘At no point, ever, is the sacrifice of an infant acceptable or justified.’
    ‘And you’re evidence for this is...?’, the Baroness asks. Ben wants to answer about moral fibre and code, and simple right and wrong, but he knows none of that applies now. The simmering, acidic determination in the woman’s eyes confirm that they are long past negotiation. ‘You have no knowledge of the darkness that surrounds us, that surrounds this place, that surrounds the child.’
    ‘I know darkness. I’ve lived darkness. I’ll show you darkness, if you like.’ Ben retorts grimly. He coils his body, ready to pounce. But, with unexpected speed, the woman reaches into the carrier bag and pulls out a curved knife with an ivory handle. Ben knows the scales have tipped. His mind clouds with the horrors of what that