‘They call you the Kingmaker. Tell me about that.’
Davis Bracey, his face twisted in agony, didn’t answer. Sweat beaded off every inch of his bare upper torso. Not because of the heat of the room, but because of his body’s physiological response to stress. To pain. He clutched his right hand – the mangled fingers on it – to his chest, his body crumpled into a heap in the corner of the tastefully decorated room. Tastefully decorated like all of his plush townhouses. Bracey’s home. A sanctuary, usually.
Not tonight.
‘They call you the Kingmaker,’ James Ryker repeated from the chair in the middle of the room. A chair Bracey had originally been sitting on for this… conversation. Until he’d slipped off the seat as he writhed about in terror and pain after he’d suffered the third of several breakages to his digits. So Ryker had decided to use the chair instead. Relax a little until he was finished here. ‘Tell me about the name.’
‘I… didn’t choose it.’
‘No?’
‘No. And it nearly got me killed! The… They…’
‘The Syndicate?’
A pause before Bracey responded, as though weighing up whether to acknowledge the reference. ‘They hated that the press were… talking about me like that.’
‘Like you were more important, more influential than you really are?’
Bracey found an inner strength to send a fighting glare back at Ryker. Which only told Ryker this man could still take more suffering if that was the path he chose.
‘You’re called the Kingmaker because according to many people, you pulled the strings to get the last three UK prime ministers into office.’
Bracey humphed, defiant now.
‘You’re saying that’s not true?’
He didn’t answer.
‘But I know the real story,’ Ryker said. ‘It wasn’t you at all. Look at you. You’re nothing. You only ever did what you were told.’
Still no response. So Ryker rose from the chair, towering over the man on the floor. The intimidation worked and Bracey cowered.
‘Tell me about the Syndicate,’ Ryker asked.
‘I don’t know anything!’
‘Who’s in charge?’
Ryker crouched down and reached forward and Bracey initially tried to fight him off but his resistance didn’t last long. Ryker took hold of the injured hand, held it gently like it was a bird with a damaged wing.
‘You know what comes next,’ Ryker said.
‘Please!’ Bracey screamed. ‘Please, don’t.’
‘Then tell me what you know.’
‘I do what I’m told! That’s all. I’m not one of them. I have to do what they say to keep me and my family safe!’
‘Who’s in charge? Give me names. Then I’ll be gone.’
‘I don’t know who’s in charge!’ Bracey yelled, defiance winning out again in a momentary burst of strength. Until Ryker slapped him hard in the face and then crushed the stricken hand in his grip. Bracey’s eyes popped wide open and he gasped and silently screamed as though the pain was too much to even make a noise.
‘Last chance,’ Ryker said, taking hold of an intact finger.
‘Please! Don’t…’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Okay! I’ll give you a name.’ Tears fell as he sobbed. ‘But please… Promise me… Promise you won’t kill me.’
‘Just tell me the name.’
‘Okay.’