Good Intentions - Adrian Hell #6 (Adrian Hell Series)

GOOD INTENTIONS

BOOK 6 IN THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES

by

JAMES P. SUMNER

GOOD INTENTIONS

First published in Great Britain in 2016.

First edition.

Copyright © James P. Sumner 2016

The right of James P. Sumner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, situations and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, place or event is purely coincidental.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Good Intentions (Adrian Hell, Book 6)

More Books by the Author

GOOD INTENTIONS

1

Unknown

??:??

I snap my eyes open and gasp in a desperate breath as I shoot bolt upright on whatever it is I’m lying on.

What the fuck just happened?

I glance around but nothing looks familiar. I check my arms. There aren’t any tubes or needles or anything. There’s no window in front of me. No audience. The floors, the walls, and the ceiling are pure white. There’s a faint buzzing of lights somewhere overhead.

I put a hand to my chest, searching for the reassurance of my heartbeat.

Wait…

Oh,
there
it is!

Okay, so I’m not dead.

First of all… Yes! I’m
not
dead!

Second of all—not wishing to sound ungrateful or anything—but
how
am I not dead, exactly? The last thing I remember was getting the lethal injection. I’m pretty sure that’s meant to kill you. The clue is in the name, right?

I sigh. One thing at a time, Adrian.

I lie back down. It feels comfortable, soft. I move my hands and legs. I’m not tied to anything. I lift up the sheets. I’m wearing light-green scrubs.

So is this a hospital?

It doesn’t look like one. I can’t even see a door… just plain, white walls all around me. No equipment beeping, no clipboards, no doctors, or nurses. Just me, in a room, slightly confused.

I stay still for a few moments, breathing in and out, relishing the air entering my body. It’s weird, doing something I’d already come to terms with giving up. I had prepared myself for the inevitable... I felt ready to die. I wasn’t thrilled about it, obviously, but I figured I had it coming after everything that’s happened. And I don’t just mean in the Oval Office—I mean over the last fifteen years or so of killing people for a living. You don’t get your own cloud, a halo, and a set of wings for that shit. You get fire, brimstone, and a pitchfork straight up the ass.

Which brings me back to my original question. How am I not dead? Was I spared by some miraculous, inexplicable twist of fate? Or, am I
actually
dead, and this is just some crazy, vivid afterlife hallucination?

Oh God, I’m not in the final season of
Lost
, am I? Fuck…

Okay, focus.

I examine my extremities. Everything seems okay.

I look around the bed. I’m definitely not plugged into anything…

I put my hand to my chest again, feeling the steady thump of my heart.

Definitely
breathing. Just making sure…

I throw the covers back and swing my legs over the side, placing my feet on the clean, tiled floor.

“Ah, shit, that’s cold!”

I stand slowly and pace around in a small circle, making sure I don’t fall over or throw up or something.

Yeah, I’m fine.

I close my eyes, take in a slow, almost meditative breath, and then re-open them. I look around the room once more, but this time with a composed, expert eye. There
must
be a door somewhere, even if it’s well hidden. I make my way along the walls, all around the room, moving my hands carefully across the surface, feeling for anything camouflaged by the layout, like a door or window or switch. Anything.

It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually arrive back where I started. No luck.

What the hell? How did I get in here if there’s no door?

Okay, that’s… strange. But I’m not too concerned. End of the day, if I can’t easily get
out
, chances are no one can easily get
in
. At least not without me noticing. No, the thing I’m more bothered about is who put me in here. Who’s watching me? I mean, come on—there’s no way whoever did this isn’t keeping tabs on me, right? So where is it? Where’s the camera?

I check the room again—the ceiling, in the corners… I check the walls for any security panels I might have missed the first time round… I check the bed, the floor, myself… Nothing. No sign of anything.

Huh… That’s something else that’s fucking weird—why would anyone imprison me somewhere like
this
and not keep an eye on me?

I sigh.

Whatever. I’ll just add it to the list of shit that doesn’t make sense at the moment.

I have an overwhelming urge to call out, but I stop myself. I physically bite my tongue to stop words escaping. That would be the worst thing I could do. Just because no one’s watching, it doesn’t mean they’re not listening. If they can’t see me, they might not know I’m awake yet, which means I could still have some element of surprise. Besides, crying out is a sign of weakness and fear. I’m neither weak nor afraid, but I don’t mind admitting, I’m starting to get a little worried. I’ve gone from being dead, to being alive, to essentially being a prisoner, all in the space of about five minutes. Something isn’t right…

I continue to gaze around in search of any clue as to what’s going on. The walls are clean. There’s nothing on the floor. There’s nothing on the—

Wait a minute.

I stretch up and touch the ceiling with my fingertips.

Jesus, that’s a bit low, isn’t it?

And it’s not the same as the other surfaces. The walls are solid and sturdy, made from thick white paneling, and the ceramic-tiled floor is cold and harsh. But this feels fragile, temporary, like plywood painted a gloss white to blend in.

Hmmm…

I stand on the bed, hunching low, pressed against the ceiling. I slam my fist against it a couple of times. It sounds hollow and weak. I reckon one good knock and…

I slam my hand a third time, and a thin panel goes flying up and away to the side, revealing a network of metal beams forming a grid a few feet above me.

Jackpot!

I reckon these beams will take my weight—they look sturdy enough. I stand straight and reach up. I’m just a bit too short. I compose myself, and then jump up on the spot. I manage to grab one, and I try hoisting myself up, but I struggle to find the necessary strength. I hang down for a moment and catch my breath, then I swing my body back and forth slightly, to generate some momentum before trying again.

This time I manage to climb up onto it.

The beam’s narrow, but strong. The thick metal girder is colder than the tiles were. Carefully, slowly, I stand, balancing sideways with my feet at ten and two and my arms out to the side. I look around. The beams seem to cover the same area as the room, but from what I can see, beyond that is spacious and mostly empty in every direction, like a massive warehouse or an aircraft hangar, shrouded in darkness.

Okay, now what, smartass?

I shuffle along toward the middle, where there’s a cross-junction of beams. It’ll be easier to stand on that while I’m working out my next move. I crouch, place a hand down next to me for stability, and look around. Despite the surrounding gloom, I can see faint traces of light ahead of me. I can’t make it out from here, but it could be an EXIT sign above a door, maybe? Any light is better than none though, so that’s where I’m heading.

Now I just need to get down…

I stand cautiously and shuffle along, minding my step and making my way to the nearest edge. I peer over at the floor below. It’s about ten feet, I reckon, which could be worse. I crouch again, place both hands to my right and drop down, twisting as I do and hanging from the side. I glance down again.

Ah, piece of cake!

I let go and drop the last couple of feet, landing quietly on the cold floor of what definitely looks like an aircraft hangar.

CLICK-CLICK
.

I know that sound…

I feel the barrel of a gun press gently against the base of my skull.

Shit.

I hold my hands out to the sides, palms open.

“Don’t move,” says a male voice I don’t recognize. “Turn around slowly.”

I sigh. I start turning my body clockwise, getting maybe halfway around before making my move. It’s an instinctive reaction. I didn’t consciously choose to do it, but when someone puts a gun on me from behind, there’s only one thing I’m ever going to do…

I whip around, fast and sudden, and bring my hands up. I grab the guy’s wrists, forcing him away from me. As I complete my turn and face him, I slam my palm up against the underside of his fist, knocking the gun loose from his grip and into the air. I catch it with my right as I jab his nose with my left. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to distract him and maybe make his eyes water a little, ultimately giving him something to think about other than me. I level the gun at his forehead, ensuring the safety is off and my finger is resting against the trigger guard.

I smile. “I moved. Sorry.”

I’ve never seen the guy before. He’s a little shorter than me, lean and toned. He’s wearing jeans and a jacket with fashionable sneakers. He’s holding his nose and looks pissed.

Well, it serves him right. Sneaking up on me like—

CLICK-CLICK
.

CLICK-CLICK
.

Oh, come on!

I glance left and right. Two more men have appeared, and they’re aiming guns unwaveringly at my head.

The guy in front of me flashes a cocky smile. “You shouldn’t have moved.”

I flick my eyebrows in agreement. “Yeah, fair point.”

I put the safety on with my thumb, hook my finger in the trigger guard, spin it in my hand, and present him with the butt of his gun. He takes it calmly and I hold my hands out to the sides again. “Sorry about that. Can’t blame a guy for trying, though, right?”

He promptly knocks the safety off again and places the barrel against my forehead. “Have you got the silliness out of your system now?”

I shrug. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I was contemplating taking
this
guy’s gun…” I nod to my left. “…and shooting you in the knee as I elbow
this
guy…” I nod to my right. “…in the throat. Then, seeing as you all have the same model Sig Sauer, I figured I would take the mags from two of them and head for the exit armed with the third… see what happens.”

He raises an eyebrow and exchanges a look with his friends that I take as uncertainty over whether or not I’m joking.

I’m not.

I smile. “But then, that’s an awful lot of effort, isn’t it? How about
I
promise to behave if
you
all promise not to shoot me until I speak to the man in charge.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think you’re not?”

I smile again. “I’m sorry, friend—don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not management material. Forgetting how quickly I took your gun off you just then, people in charge don’t get sent in first. So come on, who’s calling the shots around here? I figure I owe them a drink.”

Footsteps echo in the darkness to my right. They’re slow, patient. Whoever it is, they’re in no hurry. This could be them now…