One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (11 page)

“You! Piece! Of! Shit!” he yells.

I smile to myself, sit back, and close my eyes.

We’re probably still about an hour out, and it’s almost ten-thirty. I imagine we’ll end up camping out in the Winnebago for the night, then go and see Manhattan first thing in the morning.

Everything lights up outside for a split second as lightning explodes across the night sky, followed a few seconds later by a loud rumble of thunder.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Not seen weather this bad in a while.”

“Doesn’t look like it’ll let up any time soon, either,” I add.

We hear a phone ring. We both look at each other and frown.

“Is that you?” I ask.

“Not me,” he replies, shrugging.

“Me neither.”

I look over my shoulder into the back of the van, trying to listen and pinpoint where the ringing is coming from. I follow the sound and realize it’s originating from the phone I took off Trent’s pet cop. I get up and walk over to it, picking it up curiously. I look at the screen.

“Huh…”

“What’s up?” asks Josh, quickly glancing over his shoulder.

I hold the phone up to show him. “It’s Trent,” I say.

His eyes go wide and I feel a nervous excitement wash over me.

“You gonna answer it?” he asks.

I smile and answer it, pressing the speaker button as I sit back down next to Josh.

“Yeah?” I say casually.

“What the fuck took you so long to answer your goddamn phone?” yells Trent. “What’s happening? Did you find him?”

I close my eyes and take a long, slow, calming breath. I’m about to declare war, and once I do, it will only end in either his death, or mine. The point of no return...

I open my eyes again. Every aspect of myself has been removed so only my Inner Satan remains, and he’s about to have a conversation he’s been waiting for, for close to a decade.

“Yeah, they found me,” I reply.

There’s a moment of silence on the line.

“Who is this?” Trent demands.

“It’s the Grim Reaper, asshole,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“You...?”

“Me.”

“Where are the cops?”

“I left one in an alleyway with a broken face, and the other is bound, gagged, and unconscious in the back of my van.”

More silence.

“You’re a dead man,” says Trent.

“You first.”

“You killed my son!”

“You killed my wife and daughter... do you really want to start a game of who owes who?”

“What’s it been? Eight years since you ran like a fucking pussy?”

I take a deep breath, resisting every urge I have to let his words get to me.

“A lot can happen in eight years,” I say.

“I’m gonna find you, and when I do, I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what? Assume I’m still the inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears amateur who unknowingly shot your boy in the face? Then what? You gonna shout and curse at me some more? Remind me of what you did to my family? You listen to me, you sonofabitch—you ask around, alright? Adrian Hughes died eight years ago. The monster I am now,
you
created, and I’ve earned somewhat of a reputation in my time... I’m coming for you, you piece of shit, and I’m gonna bury you and anyone who dares get in my way.”

I hang up, wind the window down, and throw the phone across the interstate. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and close the door on my Inner Satan once again, before turning to Josh. He’s staring straight ahead at the road, eyes still wide.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing... I just forget sometimes how much of a scary bastard you can be.”

I sit back and relax.

That was nothing compared to what I have planned for Wilson Trent.

We drive on through the storm for another half hour pretty much in silence. Then another ringing phone sounds out. This time, it
is
mine. I look at the screen. An unknown number. I look at Josh and shrug before answering.

“Hello?” I say with a sigh.

“Adrian? It’s Jimmy Manhattan.”

I roll my eyes and mouth ‘Manhattan’ silently to Josh, who mirrors my reaction.

“And what can I do for you?” I ask.

“I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to my offer of a contract...”

“As it happens, Jimmy, I have. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I have a window in my schedule to fit you in. We’re driving to Allentown as we speak to come and see you. I was gonna surprise you, but we’ve been stuck on I-76 for hours.”

“Excellent news!” he says, sounding very pleased, although I detect a hint of relief in his voice as well. “I’ll arrange for you to spend the night at The Carrington with me. Head straight there and we’ll discuss the details in the morning over breakfast.”

“Don’t get carried away with yourself and start thinking we’re friends, Jimmy. I’m only coming to see you to talk. I’ve not agreed to anything yet.”

“No, no—of course. Tell the front desk when you arrive that you’re there to see me, and they’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say, before hanging up.

“So?” asks Josh, looking over.

“We have rooms at The Carrington Hotel being arranged for us, courtesy of Mr. Manhattan. We’re to head straight there, apparently.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oooo, very nice! See? This is how we should be living, Boss—five star all the way!”

I shake my head and laugh. “Whatever lights your candle, Josh.”

I sit back, put my feet up on the dash, and rest my head back against the seat.

What the hell have I let myself in for?

17.

MEANWHILE…

22:31

Wilson Trent stared at the phone in his hand as the line went dead. He hated cell phones. Whenever he was angry, he could always slam the receiver on a normal phone down on the base unit, but with a cell, it was hard to express how angry you were when you simply pressed a button to hang up. He settled instead for launching it across his penthouse office into the far wall. It smashed and scattered on the floor.

His two enforcers were with him. Duncan sat on one of the sofas in front of the desk. Bennett was leaning against the wall over by the door.

“Everything alright, Mr. Trent?” he asked.

Trent regarded him for a moment. He actually quite liked him, and Duncan. They’d been in his service for several years and were both very capable men. They were smart enough not to ask too many questions, and they were the epitome of loyal.

“
That
was that fucking bastard, Hughes!” he shouted, pointing at the remains of the phone. “Two of our cops found him and he took them out...”

He let his words trail off as his anger superseded his ability to form coherent sentences.

“You want us to go after him?” asked Duncan, standing up, almost to attention.

Trent shook his head. “No, but I want you to ask around, find out who this guy thinks he is.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“He said he’s here to kill me, and that he’s not the person I think he is. So I wanna be ready for when he comes at me.”

“You got nothin’ to worry about, Mr. Trent,” said Bennett, walking over to join his partner. “He’s one guy, and you took out his family already... He’s desperate. What can he possibly do to you?”

Trent pointed a finger at him. “Complacency is the mother of all fuck-ups,” he said. “Find out who he is and why he’s so goddamn confident.”

He picked up a copy of Adrian’s picture off his desk and threw it at Duncan, who picked it up off the floor and quickly showed it to Bennett. They studied it together for a moment, and then looked up at Trent.

“Leave it with us, Mr. Trent,” said Duncan. “We’ll find the bastard.”

They turned and left, leaving Trent alone in his office. He turned and stood looking out the window at the thunderstorm currently battering down on the city.

His
city.

He wasn’t afraid of the threats Hughes had made. Not by a long shot. But he wasn’t stupid, either. There was an old saying: forewarned is forearmed. He wanted to make sure for his own piece of mind that he was fully prepared for him when he attacked. And he firmly believed that he
would
attack. It would be a futile attempt, of course, but he was clearly a desperate man, like Duncan had said—consumed by some glorified revenge mission. And desperate men can be capable of immense things.

Wilson Trent was a very intelligent man, and had gotten to where he was by making smart decisions and executing his strategies with ruthless efficiency. He’d already put the word out to the cops in the city on his payroll, and in the morning he’d broadcast his message statewide. Every dealer, pimp, muscle, cop and politician in Pennsylvania would have a picture of Adrian fucking Hughes, with notice that Trent wanted him—alive, preferably, but it wasn’t essential—and that there was a substantial reward for whoever found him.

There was a knock on his door, which interrupted his train of thought.

“What?” he shouted, without looking.

The door opened, and Bennett walked in.

“Mr. Trent?” he said.

“Thought you’d gone for the night?” he asked, finally turning round.

“I had, but I figured you’d wanna hear this right away.”

“Hear what?”

“I showed the picture you gave me to the men still in the building. I gave them a description and said to put the word out to their contacts in the city to be on the lookout for Adrian Hughes.”

“What do you want, a medal?” said Trent, impatiently.

Bennett took a breath, holding it for a moment. “Well, one of them said they know a guy who does a bit of work now and then in the killing business. Not a shooter, just a broker for information. Anyway, he rang him there and then and gave the description, and his contact told him he knew exactly who we were looking for and that we should cut our losses and, I quote, not fuck with the guy.”

Trent frowned as he approached something akin to concern for the first time in a long time. It seemed strange to him that a low-level no-mark who gave information to hitmen would know exactly who he was looking for. It was certainly one helluva coincidence.

“How had this guy heard of him?” he asked.

“Mr. Trent,
everyone
has heard of him. When I heard his name, even
I
had, though mostly hearsay. He’s a fucking ghost story, Boss.”

Trent slammed his hands on his desk with frustration. “For fuck’s sake, would you grow a pair? Who is he?”

Bennett swallowed hard, almost afraid to say it out loud, for reasons he hadn’t quite figured out himself. “He’s Adrian Hell.”

The words lingered for a moment in the silence, but Trent simply shrugged—the impact lost on him. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s the best there is,” continued Bennett. “He’s legendary. Some people even say you can’t kill him.”

Trent looked borderline disgusted. “Don’t be fucking moronic!
I’ll
kill him with my own fucking hands if I have to. He’s a nobody—just a rank amateur who ran away from a fight after I tore his world apart. You say he’s the best? Find me a professional killer who disagrees and bring them to me. I’ll pay them whatever they need to take him out, if that’s what it’s gonna take.”

Bennett looked at him for a moment and nodded. “I’ll get right on it, Mr. Trent.”

He left the room without another word. Trent turned back to the window and looked out, his view of the city below clouded by the rain-covered glass. He knew that somewhere out there, Adrian Hughes was planning his death.

He smiled.

“I don’t care who you think you are, you piece of shit,” he said to himself. “I’m gonna find you, and when I do, I’ll make sure your reputation gets buried as deep as you do.”

18.

ADRIAN HELL

OCTOBER 4
TH
, 2014

01:15

The rain had eased a little during our unexpectedly epic road journey, and we’d arrived in Allentown about an hour ago. We took a swift detour to dispose of the kidnapped cop we had in the back—we left him in the doorway of a shop on a quiet street, without his phone or wallet or badge… That should keep him entertained for a while.

As advised, we headed straight for The Carrington and checked in as guests of Jimmy Manhattan’s. A porter showed us to our rooms, which were as exquisite—if not more so—than our suites at The Hilton back in Pittsburgh. Josh went straight to his room and crashed, tired after the long drive.

I grabbed a shower and changed my clothes, and I’m now lying on the bed flicking through the available channels on the TV.

My room’s a modest size, but the decor and furnishing is flawless. In addition to the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall facing the bed, there’s a nice, dark wooden desk and chair in the corner against the far wall, to the right of the window. A standing lamp is to the left. The door to the bathroom is just inside the room on the left, and the facilities are lavish. The shower was powerful and it felt great after so long on the road to stand under clean, hot water for fifteen minutes.

I’m not in the mood for sleeping—I’ve past the point where I feel tired, and after the run-in with the cops and the phone call with Trent earlier in the evening, my mind’s racing to piece together everything I want to do in order to take him down. It’s the first time I’ve operated without a contract, without a justifiable purpose given to me by a paying customer, as Josh had put it. I’m feeling an uneasy sense of freedom to everything at the moment, and I’m finding it difficult not to run with the situation and lose control. I’m more conscious of it happening now, after the conversation with Josh yesterday. We need to do this right, and I have to treat it like any other job. Research, preparation, and impeccable execution.

The channels on this TV suck… Sports, pay-per-view, music... I finally settle on a local news channel. There are two guys discussing Pittsburgh’s upcoming NFL game, which is taking place on Sunday. Sport’s never particularly interested me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I had a daughter? If I’d had a little boy, I’d probably know all about football, baseball, hockey, and everything else. I briefly imagine what it would’ve been like playing catch with my son… I soon find myself remembering all the time I spent with my baby girl, Maria. She was gorgeous. She had a big, cheeky grin that always made her look like she’d been up to no good. I smile fondly, happy in a way because I still have clear memories of my family.

I close my eyes, remembering the last time I held my beautiful daughter in my arms…

09:02

The knocking on my door wakes me up. I stand, stretch, and turn the TV off before answering it. Josh barges past me into the room, looking very awake and happy.

“Hands off cocks, hands on socks, my friend!” he says as he enters. “How nice is this hotel? And the shower... my God! Adrian, you
seriously
need to try to the shower.”

I’m still standing at the door, half-asleep, staring into the hallway. “Morning, Josh,” I say, wearily. “Do come in.”

I shut the door and walk back over to the bed, sitting down heavily and falling back.

“You ready?” he asks. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m starving! Plus we’re meant to meet Manhattan over breakfast.”

I lift my head just enough to make eye contact. “Jesus Christ, Josh, will you calm down? You sound like… a hyperactive child on Christmas morning who’s seen a bicycle-shaped present under the tree.”

He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Wow… that’s a really random and long-winded metaphor. Fine, take your time, whatever. Don’t mind me. I only drove for ten hours yesterday without a break and—”

“Oh my God, alright already!” I say, sitting up and stretching again. “Come on, you whiny bitch.”

He punches the air and cheers. “Now you’re talkin’! I’m gonna have so much bacon, I’m gonna oink.”

I stand and shake my head with half-comical, half-genuine disbelief, unable to suppress a smile. We head for the door. I open it and let Josh out. I’m about to follow him, but I stop myself. I walk quickly back inside and get my guns.

I’m not making
that
mistake again!

We walk to the elevator as I fasten the holster to my back and adjust my top so it covers the Berettas. We ride it down to the first floor and head past the front desk to the restaurant. A waiter greets us, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo and bow tie.

“Morning
Jeeves
, has Jimmy Manhattan arrived yet?” I ask as we approach him. “We’re meant to meet him here for breakfast.”

The waiter looks down his nose at us in disgust. “Ah, of course. You must be Mr. Manhattan’s
guest
.” He says, in an accent so stuck-up and pretentious, he sounds more British than Josh does. “He’s not long since arrived himself. If you would follow me please,
sir
.”

I don’t like Jeeves.

He turns and sets off into the restaurant, so we both follow him. He leads us to the far right where, in the corner, I see Jimmy Manhattan sitting alone at a table. He stands as he sees us across the room, placing his napkin on the table.

I look at Josh. “Here we go,” I say.

I quickly glance around the restaurant. The tables are decorated with a white cloth, and have expensive-looking silver cutlery laid out on them. The place is probably half-f with the breakfast crowd—a mixture of businessmen, couples, and families. I look at the tables close to Manhattan.

“I count six bodyguards,” I whisper to Josh as we navigate our way between tables.

“Seven,” he replies. “You missed the guy on his own near the fire exit.”

I look off to the right, about halfway down from where we are, and there’s a man sitting alone, reading a paper and drinking coffee, occasionally glancing up at Manhattan.

“Well spotted,” I say with a nod.

We reach the table, and Manhattan smiles, extending his hand.

“Adrian!” he says. “So glad you could make it.”

“I don’t shake hands, Jimmy—no offence.”

His smile never falters. “Of course. Please,” he says, gesturing to two empty seats at his table, “join me for breakfast.”

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” the waiter asks Manhattan as Josh and I take our seats.

“No, that’s fine, thank you,” he says, waving him away and sitting down. He looks at me and gestures to a jug on the table. “Coffee?”

I nod and he pours me a cup. He looks at Josh, who waves in refusal.

“So, what’s the job?” I ask him.

He laughs. “Straight to business... I forgot how professional you can be, when you put your mind to it.”

“Just don’t want to hang around when I’m surrounded by all your bodyguards,” I counter, with a humorless smile.

There’s a moment’s silence as Manhattan regards us both with something vaguely resembling admiration.

“Okay,” he begins. “Two weeks ago, you left me in a hospital bed, having just saved my life. From there, you killed Danny Pellaggio and traveled across the country to Pittsburgh. I, however, spent a week recovering before flying here, to Allentown, where I’m doing...” he pauses and gestures around him at the opulent expanse of the hotel, “...rather well for myself.”

“If you’re doing so well for yourself, why are
we
here?” asks Josh.

Manhattan looks at him and smiles. “And you must be the infamous British brains behind the legendary American mouth...” he replies before looking back to me. “Tell me, Adrian, is it fate that brought us both to the same state? Or something else?”

“We’re not here to discuss me,” I say, calmly. “You got a job for me or not?”

“My apologies,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Of course. As your friend pointed out, there
has
been a particular bump on the otherwise smooth road of transition. A gentleman by the name of Johnny King refused my offer of partnership, and has since responded—we suspect—by stealing from one of my newly acquired businesses and killing two of my men. I’d like him removed from the picture.”

“So, this is a straightforward mob hit? Not some convoluted catastrophe like the last time you tried to hire me?” I ask.

Manhattan smiles, but refrains from commenting.

“Why don’t you get one of your own men to do it?” I continue. “Why me?”

“I want to make a bold statement,” he replies. “I want to send a message to anyone else who might one day think of testing my authority that if they do, they will be violently eradicated without prejudice. There’s no denying your reputation. And I have no problem admitting my reasons for hiring you specifically are purely for some good PR.”

Josh scoffs. “So you make it look like Adrian Hell is on your side, and everyone backs off, afraid?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

I stroke my stubble and think about it. I don’t work exclusively for anyone. Never have and never will. I know some people who do, and it works well for them, but it’s usually something you go for when you’re starting out. I don’t need any help building a reputation, and I certainly wouldn’t want to limit my earning options.

But… Manhattan’s plan does make sense, at least from his point of view. Appearances can be deceiving, and all he’s going to do is make it
look
like we’re best friends, and that alone will be enough to secure his position of power for a long time. No reason why I can’t benefit in much the same way. It won’t do any harm, especially when I’m going after Trent. If I can make it look like I’ve got the backing of his only legitimate competition, it might throw him off his game—force to him to look at more than just me. With him distracted, he’ll be much easier to get to.

“A hundred grand, up front,” I say after a moment. “Wire transfer to a numbered account that Josh will give you.”

Manhattan seems surprised, but recovers instantly. “A fair price. Anything else?”

“Yeah, I want to use one of your contacts to source my hardware. And, I want a favor.”

His eyes narrow slightly with skepticism. “What do you have in mind?”

“Nothing… yet,” I say. “But when I need you, I’ll make the call, and you’ll be there, regardless. After that, we’ll be square and can start all over again.”

Manhattan’s silent as he thinks about my proposal. I see in his eyes that he’s looking at every angle, weighing up every pro and every con—much like I would do.

“Okay,” he says, finally, breaking into a smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Josh looks at me, silently asking if I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I nod imperceptibly to reassure him. He then looks at Manhattan and hands him a business card with my details on it.

“Here’s the account information,” he says. “Let me have confirmation of payment within the hour.”

His tone is formal, almost off-hand, and I can tell he doesn’t approve of the deal. But I also know he understands the reasoning behind it. Manhattan, who knows me well enough to know not to screw me over, is essentially the new kingpin of Allentown, and now he owes me one. I’m in the process of attacking the kingpin of the rest of Pennsylvania, so that favor will definitely come in handy. And if all I have to do is take out a low-life wannabe nightclub owner, who’s told Manhattan to go fuck himself, then so be it—hardly breaking a sweat for an invaluable return.

I stand, prompting Josh and Manhattan to do the same.

“Okay, we’re done here,” I say to Manhattan. “You can contact Josh with the details of where I can find this King guy, and who I can speak to about some hardware for the job. Once I know the money’s in the account, I’ll make my preparations and carry out the hit. All goes well, I’ll be out of your city in twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he replies with a nod.

Without another word, we walk off back to the elevator, meeting the eyes of every one of the bodyguards who stare at us on the way out.

“That went well,” says Josh as we walk back across the foyer and past the front desk.

“You don’t approve, do you?” I reply—more of a statement than a question.

He shrugs. “I know you know what you’re doing, and I understand why we’re doing it. I just don’t trust Manhattan.”

“You should always trust your spider sense,” I say. “But we both know Manhattan’s too smart to try to screw us over. He benefits from this more than we do.”

“Oh, I know.”

We step inside the elevator, and I press the button for our floor.

“So, what’s really on your mind?” I ask as the doors close.

“Just pissed off I didn’t get to eat any breakfast,” he replies.

10:12

After meeting with Manhattan, we both went back to my hotel room and waited for the confirmation of the wire transfer. It came through after half an hour, and ten minutes after that, Josh got the text with the address of Manhattan’s contact in the city where we can go to get some hardware. The guy he uses works out of a warehouse in an old industrial complex about five miles out from the city center. We also got the details of where our target is.