Good Intentions - Adrian Hell #6 (Adrian Hell Series) (30 page)

There’s a large desk on the left, with a few chairs standing around it. One of them has been knocked over—must’ve been the door. There’s a whiteboard on the wall facing the entrance, filled with writing and diagrams in a blue marker pen. To the right is a large metal shelving unit, like lockers without doors. There’s a small compartment running along the top and bottom, with safety helmets and work boots resting haphazardly in each one respectively. The middle section is long, and has safety apparel hanging there—reflective vests and coveralls, mostly.

I point to the corner of the room behind the table. “I want you to crouch there. Stay quiet and stay hidden. I’ll be back soon.”

She takes a step toward me, looking panicked. “Wh-where are you going?”

I gesture outside. “Worst case, there are eight guys just arriving, armed to the teeth and looking to kill us. I’m gonna go ask them real nice not to.”

“Adrian, you can’t. You’ll—”

I smile and shake my head. “No, I won’t. This is what I do. Back when it was twenty-on-one, yeah, that was stupid. But eight-on-one, I can handle. Trust me.”

She holds my gaze for a moment and then nods. She moves to the corner and crouches down behind the table. I walk back over to the lockers and search quickly through each section. I strike gold in the middle one. Behind the clothing that’s hanging down, on a small shelf, is a rusted, black metal toolbox. I open it up and immediately grab the claw hammer resting on top. It has a flat circular part on one side, for getting the nails in, and a curved, two-pronged hook on the other, for getting them back out again.

Perfect.

I look back at Kaitlyn and smile, trying my best to look reassuring. I don’t think it’s working though, because she looks terrified. I just nod to her and step outside before she starts trying to talk me out of this again.

I move along the front of the cabin and press my body against it as I reach the end. I stare ahead and see the smoke billowing into the sky in the mid-distance. A sea of flashing lights has surrounded the crash already.

Let’s hope no one comes looking for the survivors…

Holding the hammer low and close, I peer around the corner to my left. Straight ahead is a large, brick archway, which looks as if it might be the future entrance. Beyond that, the majority of the walls are no more than waist high, with taller pillars and girders sticking up periodically. There are at least two different levels of scaffolding, which forms a roof, of sorts, lined with walkways and ladders. There are plenty of opportunities for cover, but I’ll have to stay low and move quickly between them.

I strain to listen for any movement. I can’t hear the tires of the Suburbans anymore, so they’ve stopped somewhere. My guess is they’ll fan out and sweep through the site quickly. Orders will undoubtedly be to shoot on sight.

Eight highly trained operatives, employed by an organization of elite assassins, all armed with assault rifles. And me… holding a hammer, with my good hand in a cast and a head wound that’s bleeding so badly I can barely stand or see…

I’ll be fine.

Oh, which reminds me…

I crouch, rest the hammer on its head, and use my T-shirt to wipe more blood off my face and away from my eyes.

That’s helped a little.

I retrieve the hammer and make my way around the corner, jogging under the archway and into the main building site.

Dude, this is fucking nuts… You know that, right?

I do, which is why you’re going to help me, old friend. ‘Fucking nuts’ is your specialty.

As I duck to the left and press myself against one of the wide pillars, lyrics from an old song run through my head, which seem fitting, under the circumstances.

“Don’t you ever… tame your demons. But always keep ’em on a leash…”

My Inner Satan is definitely not tamed. We’ve just come to an understanding. And right now, it’s time to let him have some fun.

I go to move along the low wall to the pillar on the opposite side, but the crunching of boots on gravel freezes me to the spot. There’s a guy heading right for me, just around the corner over my left shoulder. I glance to the ground to make sure I’m hidden from his line of sight. I rest my head back against the wall. The warmth of the new concrete is pleasant on the back of my head. I tighten my grip on the hammer, turning it in my hand so the flat surface is facing out.

I look left and right, but I can’t see any signs of anyone else immediately near him.

I need to time this just right, and hit hard and fast to minimize any exposure so early on.

I close my eyes and bring the hammer up to my chest, counting the steps, picturing where the guy is in my head.

Three…

Two…

One…

I lean left and whip the hammer out as hard as I can. The flat, circular metal head smashes into the kneecap of the guy as he draws level with me. The impact sends his leg flying out from under him and he drops heavily to the ground beside me, his face ricocheting off the dirt. He’s dressed in a lightweight black outfit, with a thin Kevlar vest over the top. He’s wearing an earpiece linked to a comms unit sitting in his back pocket.

Any hesitation now will get me killed. Time and luck are running out, in terms of how long I have before Horizon, or someone else, decides I’m not worth the hassle and just blows my head off.

I’d like to avoid that, if at all possible…

So I don’t pause for a second. I smash the hammer down onto the side of the guy’s head. Once… twice… three times in quick succession. Momentum making each blow heavier than the last. His body jerked after the first. I heard bone crack after the second. The third one was like splitting a watermelon. Thick blood erupts in a fountain from the gaping hole I’ve created in his head, just above the ear, level with his temple.

I put the hammer down beside me and shuffle to my feet. Using only my left hand, I drag the guy’s body around the corner and rest it against where I was just sitting. I unhook the assault rifle from around his neck. It looks like a modified AK-12, with an ACOG scope and a long, thin suppressor over the barrel.

Nice.

I hook the strap over my right shoulder and let it hang loose at my side. I stay in a low crouch and pick up the hammer again. It’s good that I have a weapon, but the hammer’s quieter. No sense in announcing I’m here until I need to.

Right, seven left…

I take some deep breaths, trying to keep my heart rate down. I’m listening for any more footsteps.

I think I heard something to my left.

I turn and make my way along the low wall, all the way to the opposite end. I peek around the corner, but I don’t see anyone. I quickly use the back of my hand to wipe some excess blood from around my eyes.

Across the walkway is a ramp that leads up to another level, which starts a little farther forward from where I am. The additional height would be an advantage…

I scurry across the gap and step slowly and carefully up the ramp, desperate to keep any noise to a minimum. The floor above drops level with my eye line as I climb. I hear some more footsteps—sounds like they’re away to my right…

I glance around, taking in the details of my new surroundings. There’s a large group of crates sitting on a wooden pallet in the middle of the floor. There’s a high concrete ledge ahead of me, and some makeshift barriers made from metal poles running along the left edge.

I make it over to the crates and drop down behind them. I can hear another guy approaching from the far side. There must be another ramp over there that leads down to the other side of the site. I peek between the crates, and after a moment, the guy walks into view. He’s dressed the same as his recently-deceased colleague.

Which way’s he going…?

He’s walking straight toward me. I need to know which way he’s going to move around these crates.

Come on… come on… make a move, asshole…

…

His footsteps are getting louder.

…

He’s literally four feet from me, on the other side of these boxes. I hear him adjusting his grip on his AK-12.

…

He steps to his right.

Got you!

I move right myself, counterclockwise around the crates. I come up behind him, stand up straight, and bring my arm up—the hammer turned around so the curved hook is exposed.

I strike him with brutal accuracy, burying the claws in the base of his skull. The squelch as they pierce his flesh sounds loud in the ghostly silence of the construction site. He drops with a thud, pulling the hammer from my grip as he goes down. I crouch beside him to retrieve it from his—

“Hey!”

Oh, shit…

I snap my head right to see another guy standing at the top of the ramp, frozen for a split-second, staring at me.

I spin my body round to face him. The momentum swings the rifle forward, and I move my left hand to catch it. Instinctively, I grab the handle and squeeze the trigger, letting out a short burst of suppressed fire. He’s close enough that I don’t need to worry about aiming, even with my weaker hand. The bullets punch into his stomach and chest. He flails backward and slumps against the low wall behind him.

Two more down… five left.

“He’s over here!”

Uh-oh.

Gun still in hand, I move over the wall in front of me, which runs almost the full width of this floor, separating both ramps. I peer over and see the five remaining guys regrouping just below me.

If they have any sense—which I’m assuming they do—they’ll split up and approach up both ramps. I can’t shoot in both directions at the same time, so that’s the logical approach, if they intend trying to kill me.

They’ll either split into a three and a two, or they’ll split into two teams of two and leave the last guy in the middle on his own, to give them an additional level of cover. I know what I’d tell them to do, and I’m conscious of giving them either too little, or too much, credit here…

My gut says a three and a two.

I peer over the edge again. Two men are just disappearing out of sight, running for the ramp behind me. The other three are heading to the one nearest to me.

Damn, I’m good!

Now, which group am I most likely to beat to their respective ramp?

I jump up and sprint to the ramp on the right. I stand next to the dead guy and use my foot to push him down. He hits the bottom at the exact moment the three guys appear.

I drop to one knee and empty the mag at them. My field of vision is narrow and focused. Their dead colleague dropping on them took them by surprise—they’re standing like rabbits in the headlights as I shoot them like fish in a barrel.

Not that I condone animal cruelty in any way…

The strain on my left arm is intense, holding the rifle steady and absorbing the recoil while trying to remain even remotely accurate. I hear the wet impact over the staccato scream as bullets tear into them. They never stood a chance.

I wait for the last body to hit the ground before turning to look over at the other ramp.

“Oh, fuck!”

The remaining two men are already standing by the crates, their rifles leveled at me. Gunfire sounds out as they—

Ah!

Uh!

Ah!

Ow!

Shit!

I fell sideways and rolled down the ramp! Those bullets must’ve missed me by a hair’s breadth.

Jesus Christ, that was close!

The blood on my face is stinging my eyes, and I’m running out of clean T-shirt to wipe it with. This head wound is pissing me off.

I landed heavily, but the dead bodies cushioned my fall. My cast is definitely durable, although my right hand is hurting like hell. I look back up the ramp. I’m squinting in an effort to stop the blood flowing into my eyes. It looks like…

Yeah, both guys are standing at the top, looking down at me, their rifles aimed at me, and their stance relaxed, confident. They’ve got me dead to rights. I’m lying flat on my back, my gun’s God-knows-where, I’m really starting to feel dizzy from all the blood coming out of my head, although, right now, that’s probably the least of my problems…

Time stops as a hail of bullets sounds out without warning. I screw my eyes tightly shut and grit my teeth, bracing for the inevitable onslaught I have no chance to prepare for. This is it. I’m about to—

…

…

…

…

…

Huh?

What happened?

The shooting’s stopped, but I’m still breathing. I’m not that lucky, and it’s unlikely they’re that bad at shooting…

I use my left hand to wipe the blood from my face and slowly open my eyes. I raise my head slightly and stare up at the top of the ramp. The two men aren’t there anymore. Instead, I see Kaitlyn, breathing heavily, holding an assault rifle.

What the…?

“Oh my God, Adrian! Are you alright?”

I relax my head again and let out a heavy sigh. Then I smile. Then I start laughing.

Sonofabitch!

I hold my left arm up long enough to make the universal OK signal with my thumb and trigger finger. Then I close my eyes.

It’s been a long fucking day.

25

20:36
AST

The sounds of the city drift in through the open windows on a lazy breeze as we navigate our way through the bustling metropolis of Abu Dhabi. The burnt-orange sun is a beacon in the evening sky, dominating the landscape as it begins its descent.

After Kaitlyn saved my ass in Qatar, we found the first aid station on the construction site. It was fully stocked, and there was even a change of clothes in one of the lockers. I grabbed a new T-shirt, given how torn and crimson-colored my old one was.

She patched me up pretty good, but I still look like shit. I have a bandage wrapped around my head, stained dark with blood from the cut I sustained in the crash. She’s right—I’m going to need stitches in that bastard. My right hand is pulsing with agony, too. It’s taken a real beating, despite the sturdy plastic cast protecting it. I’ve taken some painkillers, which helped for a while, but now it’s at the stage where only a few beers will do.