One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (12 page)

We gathered our things and headed out in the Winnebago. I’m driving while Josh works his magic on his machines to find out everything we need to take the guy out.

The clouds are dark gray and the light rain looks destined to get heavier as the day progresses—according to the local radio station we’re listening to, anyway. Even if they’re right, I think it’ll struggle to beat the storm we drove in from Pittsburgh last night.

I have to admit, as I navigate my way through the traffic, it’s nice to take a small reprieve from my pursuit of Trent and do a normal job for a change. It’s just what I need to help me relax. The driving helps, too, as it allows my mind to shut down and focus on the road. They say a change is as good as a rest, but I’ve always worked best with routine. My own order in the otherwise chaotic existence of a broken world. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t crave the structure and anonymity of the life I lead. Ironically, if you look down at everyone living their lives, I imagine I’d be the more noticeable one, swimming against the current.

“This Johnny King sounds like a right prick,” says Josh, interrupting my wandering thoughts as I take a left turn and change lanes. “Get this: the nightclub he owns has a VIP room that’s invite only from King himself. It’s reportedly frequented by local politicians and celebrities. He’s criticized by local media for—and I’m quoting one magazine here—buying his own notoriety and acting more important than he could ever hope to be... Then in the next breath, he’s praised for sizeable charity donations and fundraising in the city to raise awareness for disadvantaged children.”

“Sounds to me like the newspapers are being as fickle as always,” I observe. “Even though we know he’s a piece of shit wannabe mobster, you can’t fault all the charity stuff I guess.”

“Despite it being an obvious smokescreen to distract from the fact he’s a criminal?”

I shrug. “Those kids won’t care where the money comes from…”

“Yeah, fair point... Anyway, he runs all his little enterprises from his office at the club Manhattan mentioned, The Palace, so that’s as good a place as any to take him out.”

“Works for me. What’s the building like? Is there a back way in? How many men on site?”

“Well, looking at the map, the club’s on a main street with buildings opposite and on either side. However... at the
back
of the building, there’s a small parking lot and some greenery boxed in by a fence. The other side of the fence is like a mirror image, but leads to the back of a bus terminal. The main building of which is three stories and has roof access.”

I glance over my shoulder at him as I pull up at a red light. “Is there a clear view of King’s office from the rooftop?” I ask, hopefully.

“I’ve got the structural blueprints of his club, and his office doesn’t have any windows. But, it
is
against the back wall.”

I smile as my brain races around, piecing together the hit. Images link to one another like a jigsaw and the whole thing plays out over, and over again—every possible outcome.

“Sniper rifle,” I say as the lights change, and I set off again. “Perfect!”

“I can go in for clean-up after you take King out?” Josh offers, with a hint of excitement in his voice.

I think about it. I can’t imagine there being much resistance there during the day, and it’s not like he can’t handle himself.

“Sure,” I nod. “You can even take my babies if you want, for luck.”

“I get to use the Berettas?” he asks with excitement and disbelief.

I smile as I quickly glance back at him again. I swear to God, his eyes are so wide they might actually just drop out of his head.

“Yeah, why not!”

“Ah, Boss, you’re the best!”

We both laugh, the familiar comfort of our small unit working as normal—light-hearted preparation for a violent undertaking.

I turn another corner and notice the quality of the buildings quickly declining. Everywhere looks run down and abandoned.

“I guess we’re here,” I say.

Another half mile down the road, there’s a large compound on the right. A chain-link fence surrounds it, but it has no gate—just a gap where one should be. I drive straight in and pull up in the middle of the large compound. I kill the engine and check my guns are at my back. Not that I don’t trust Manhattan or anything, but, y’know… I don’t trust Manhattan!

“You ready?” I ask Josh.

He shuts his laptop and stands up, throwing on his hooded sweater.

“All set,” he replies.

We step outside and look around. There are three huge warehouses in front of us, opposite the entrance, plus two on our left and one off to our right. Each one is the width of two houses side by side, I’d say. From the looks of things, some of them are empty. The ground around us is dark and wet, stained from the storm the night before. There are large puddles of rainwater in potholes all around.

I can’t see any signs of life, but there’s a medium-sized van parked out front of the warehouse on the right. I tap Josh on the arm and point to it, and we set off walking across the yard. As we approach, I see a small door embedded in the larger entrance, which resembles a small aircraft hangar. The door opens inward and man steps out and leans against the frame, watching us.

“What’s the name of this guy again?” I whisper to Josh as we approach.

“Oscar Brown,” he replies.

I nod and look straight at the doorman, who’s set off walking to meet us. I hold my arms out to the side, as a gesture of peace.

“We’re here to see Oscar,” I shout over. “Jimmy Manhattan sent us.”

“What you want with Mr. Brown?” the guy replies. His voice was low and gruff, like someone who smoked forty a day.

“I’m shopping,” I say, smiling.

We all stop a few feet from one another, and about twenty feet from the door. The guy looks us both up and down. He’s not much shorter than I am, but with a barrel chest and a round gut. He’s powerful, but his muscle is obscured by years of, what I’m guessing is, heavy drinking.

“Are you a cop?” he asks, indignantly.

“Are you a retard?” I reply instinctively, immediately cursing myself for engaging my mouth before my brain. It’s like an impulse—any sign of a threat and my Tourette’s kicks in.

He starts to move his right hand behind his back, and I react by preparing to punch him in the throat, but a voice from over by the door distracts us all.

“You must be Adrian?” it says.

The guy in front of me visibly relaxes, and I look over his shoulder past him at the figure that’s appeared by the door. He’s a short man, overweight with thinning, greasy hair, and a smile like a used car salesman. He’s grinning and leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest.

“Jimmy told me you were coming,” he continues. “Forgive my friend—he’s just doing his job. I’m Oscar—welcome to my supermarket!”

I look at the building, which doesn’t look like much from the outside.

“No problem,” I shout back as we set off walking toward the warehouse door. I muscle into the doorman’s shoulder on the way past, sending him slightly off-balance.

“Be cool, Adrian,” whispers Josh next to me. I wave my hand dismissively in silent response.

Oscar ushers us both through the doorway and into a kind of reception area, following us inside and shutting the door behind him.

“Jimmy tells me you’re in the market for some hardware...” he says, more a statement than a question.

I nod. “I am. Not sure I’m in the right place though,” I reply, looking around. The room we’re in consists of a desk facing the door and a battered couch against the right hand wall. And that’s it. The office area runs the full width of the warehouse, but it can’t be more than seven feet deep... The actual building is massive on the outside, but inside is tiny in comparison. I look at Josh, who, judging by the frown on his face, shares my confusion.

“No offence, mate,” he says to Oscar. “But for a supermarket, you’ve not got much in the way of, y’know... anything.”

Oscar smiles, probably anticipating the reaction. I’m guessing it’s not the first time he’s come across it. He produces a small remote control from his pocket and presses a button.

“Don’t be so quick to judge,” he says.

There’s a rumbling somewhere in the background as mechanisms burst into life. We turn and see the entire back wall split down the middle and slide apart like giant doors. As they part, they slowly reveal more and more of what they conceal.

I have no issue admitting that my jaw has physically dropped open.

“Fuck me...” I say quietly.

“Happy Christmas...” adds Josh.

Oscar pushes past us and walks through to the warehouse proper. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.

We both follow him through the doors, which have now opened fully to reveal the remaining, hidden area of the building. From the floor, almost all the way to the ceiling are fourteen long metal shelving units, laid out in rows. They are huge! And they’re full of weapons… everything from handguns to hand grenades, from rocket launchers to claymores. You name it; Oscar apparently has it.

We walk slowly, looking all around with an odd sense of wonder.

“What d’you think?” asks Oscar, who’s stopped halfway down one of the aisles.

“Impressive,” I reply, sincerely.

“Thanks. I have a smaller complex over in Pittsburgh, but this is my main storage facility. Now, as I’m sure you can appreciate, gentleman, I like to conduct business quickly.” He gestures around him with both hands. “What do you need?”

I look quickly at Josh, silently asking if he’s happy with how we intend carrying out the job. He nods back. I turn to Oscar.

“I need a high-powered sniper rifle, good for a thousand yards,” I explain. “Fifty caliber, as I need to punch through a brick wall in one shot.”

Oscar thinks for a moment, and walks back past us and then down the next aisle to our left. He re-appears a moment later holding a sniper rifle. It has a long, thin barrel with a disproportionately large square muzzle and a fold-down bi-pod stand attached to the underside of it. He smiles at me as he holds it out for me to take.

“The Steyr HS,” he declares. “It’ll fire the fifty cal’ Browning Machine Gun rounds happily enough. Good for sixteen hundred yards.”

I take it, feeling the weight, and inspecting the weapon. It’s pretty light—can’t be more than thirty pounds.

“Very nice,” I say approvingly.

“And you’re in luck—that’s actually the newer M1 variant, with the five-round mag attachment, as opposed to the old single bolt-action model.”

“Excellent. I’ll take it.”

“A man who knows what he wants—you got yourself a bargain there, my friend.”

“Have you got a thermal imaging scope for it?”

Oscar ducks back into the aisle and re-appears moments later holding a small, long box with another even smaller box balanced on top.

“Thermal scope and fifty cal’ BMG rounds,” he says.

I smile, very satisfied with the hardware. This place is like Disneyland!

“Bag it up,” I say, handing the rifle back to him. “That’s everything I need.”

“You not gonna ask how much?”

“It doesn’t matter about the cost,” I reply with a shrug. “I don’t think you’ll rip me off, given how impressive and established your business is.”

Oscar smiles proudly. “You good for handguns? Can never be too prepared, y’know...”

I reach behind me and draw one of my custom Beretta 92FS pistols with a blood-red devil face engraved on the butt. I hold it out by the barrel, offering it to him.

“I’ve got it covered,” I say with a smile.

He let out a low whistle as he takes it, inspecting it with a professional eye.

“Very nice…” he says nodding. “These are in great condition.” He hands it back and claps his hands once with a smile. “Okay, that’ll be sixty-five hundred for everything.”

I turn to Josh. “Would you be so kind as to pay the man?” I ask him.

Josh turns and walks back out to the reception desk with Oscar behind him, carrying my purchases. I take a deep breath and let it out with a heavy sigh, looking around at the warehouse one last time before following Josh.

Time to go to work.

19.

11:56

We’re parked across the street from King’s nightclub. We left Oscar’s supermarket and headed straight here, but the journey back took a little longer than before because the streets were busier, crammed with shoppers and commuters and family sedans. I’d driven here while Josh worked away on his laptop in the back. I wanted to get a feel for the place before heading for the bus terminal and settling in for the kill. After sitting at seemingly every red light in the damn city, we finally arrived here a few minutes ago.

“Looks closed to me,” I say, looking at the club.

“Must just be strip joints that cater for the desperate midday crowd,” Josh offers without looking up from his computer.

I smile. “You sure you’re okay with going in on clean-up duty after I take care of this King asshole?”

Josh closes the laptop and looks across the street for a moment before turning to me. “Of course,” he says with a smile. “I’m looking forward to it, and I wanna help. Not just sit here and talk you through everything like always.”

I notice a look in his eyes. A twinkle, almost. I’ve not seen it since we’d arrived in Pittsburgh a few days ago. He looks like his old self—not the worrying, vaguely depressed old woman I’ve managed to turn him into over the last week or so. It’s great to see, and it gives me a boost as well. It’s good to be on a normal job, back in the old routine, away from the self-inflicted drama of Wilson Trent. It’s not just therapy for me, it’s something I think we’re both long overdue.

I reach behind me and unfasten my holster, handing it over to Josh. These are my pride and joy… my babies. I used to have the 92A1 variants, but I lost them. These were a gift; replacements from a friend back in San Francisco.

Christ… my time there feels like another life entirely.

The guns sway back and forth gently as I hold them up, presenting them to Josh almost like a badge of honor.

“Be good to them, and they’ll be good to you,” I say.

He reaches over and takes them from me, smiling. “I feel like we’re missing the bright light shining down through the clouds, illuminating the power I now hold in my hands,” he says, laughing. He looks me in the eyes. “I’ve got your back, Boss.”

“I know,” I say. “Come on, you sentimental old woman, let’s go get into position.”

We switch seats and Josh starts the engine, pulling away from the curb and driving us round the block to the staff parking lot at the back of the bus terminal, which overlooks the back of King’s club. I climb out, stretch my arms, back, and crack my neck, before pausing to take a good look around.

The back of the parking lot has a chain-link fence around its perimeter. Across from it is the rear entrance to The Palace, separated by a small alleyway, which runs in between the properties. There are a couple of trees around, but nothing to obscure my view. Behind me is the main office building of the bus terminal, which is three stories high and has access to the roof by way of a fire escape that climbs up the sidewall facing the parking lot. From the rooftop itself, I’ll have an unimpeded view of the club.

I open the side door of the Winnebago and take out the sports bag containing my recent acquisition. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I sling it over my shoulder, feeling the comfortable and familiar weight of the weapon inside. Not counting my little escapade on Alcatraz a week or so ago, it’s been a long time since I’ve used a sniper rifle for an actual hit, and there’s always something oddly satisfying about watching your target drop from a thousand yards away, having never seen the bullet coming.

And I mean satisfying in the purely professional sense of the word… not in a weird, psychopathic kind of way, just so we’re clear!

Josh has fixed the holster in place and is putting his earpiece in as he walks over.

“All set?” he asks, handing me an earpiece of my own.

“Good to go,” I say, taking it from him and putting it in place.

We quickly check our comms are working, and then set to work.

“Wait at the back entrance for my signal,” I say. “Once you’re inside, don’t take all day—sweep quickly and cleanly up to his office, confirm the kill and get outta there. Clear?”

“Crystal, Boss. Don’t worry about me, okay? I got this.”

And I believe him. We’ve been through a lot together over the years. He wasn’t always my own personal nerd—he was, and still is, a very capable soldier. And like he said to me a few days ago, practice doesn’t do anyone any harm every once in a while.

We bump fists and head our separate ways without another word. I take a quick look around and, seeing there isn’t too many people nearby, sprint over to the fire escape. I notice just the one security camera, which is covering the back door to the building. It’s static and easily avoidable, so I’m confident no one will see me. I hadn’t expected much in the way of security to be honest—I mean, who in their right mind would want to break into a bus terminal?

Luckily, the ladder on the fire escape is already down, so I climb up and make my way to the first platform. It doesn’t take very long, and as I step onto it, I look across the parking lot and see Josh scaling the fence at the back of the club. He drops down into a crouch, waits thirty seconds, and then heads over to the back door, keeping low.

I smile to myself and carry on, moving quickly along the platform and up the next flight of steps, then again until I come out on the rooftop. Despite the heavy cloud and the high mist that indicates a pending shower, I have a pretty good view all around me, and I pause for a moment to soak it in. The Allegheny River runs parallel to the building on the north side, with the Crosstown Boulevard off to the east. There’s a closed maintenance door on the roof leading into the building.

I’m all alone up here.

I crouch down at the edge of the roof, looking across to King’s club. I can see Josh in position, waiting patiently, ever aware of his surroundings. I set the sports bag down and unzip it, taking out the Steyr HS rifle and looking at it approvingly for a moment. I take out the thermal scope and carefully attach it into place, making sure I don’t remove the lens cap until the last minute, to avoid any flare-up that might give away my position.

You never know who’s watching…

Next, I load a clip of ammunition with the fifty cal’ rounds and slide it into the horizontal receiver on the barrel, slamming it firmly into place. I push the bi-pod stand down into place and lie down on my front, adjusting myself so I’m comfortable.

I might be here a while…

I lift the rifle into place in front of me, tucking the stock into my shoulder and flipping the lens cap up, so I can look through the scope. I use my left hand to adjust the focus and activate the thermal imaging. The world goes dark, and the heat signatures of everything and everyone around me appear in my line of sight in a blur of reds, blues, and yellows. I look at Josh crouching by the exit.

“I see you,” I whisper into my earpiece.

“Good,” he replies. “Any sign of life?”

I look up at the back wall, where I know King’s office is and scan the area. “Nothing yet. We just need to play the waiting game now.”

“Copy that.”

An important part of this job is patience. Ironic, given my general lack of such things. But when I’m working, it’s different. If need be, I might have to wait hours for King to show...

12:21

“I’ve got movement,” I say to Josh. “Two targets are in the office now; one standing, walking back and forth, the other sitting down.”

“The guy sitting down has got to be King, right?” he replies.

“That would be my guess, yeah, but I’ll take them both out to be safe.”

I take a long, slow breath, steadying my heart rate and composing myself. I line the crosshairs up on the colorful image of King’s head, adjusting slightly for the wind.

“Got him in my sights,” I confirm, tweaking the focus slightly.

I take another deep breath, and everything slows down around me. The individual background noises sound off to me in turn. I can hear the chaotic bustle of the traffic on the Boulevard… the gentle roar of the water from the river... a bird squawking overhead, lost in the clouds… After each one registers in my ears, it disappears from my radar, eventually leaving an un-natural silence. It’s in this moment when I prepare myself, focusing on the task at hand.

The sound of the shot will be loud—especially a fifty caliber round—but it shouldn’t attract too much attention. I’ll be long gone before anyone tracks down the source of it anyway.

“Ready when you are, Boss,” Josh says.

I move the scope subtly back and forth, practicing the shot. King’s head—bang... quick to the right, second target’s chest—bang. Job done. I replay it almost a dozen times. I’m maybe eleven hundred yards away. At this distance, I need only move the barrel of the gun a millimeter or so. The movement is so precise, the slightest error in judgment on my part and I’ll miss my shot by ten feet…

I re-focus on King and line up the shot once again. My finger tightens on the trigger. I slow my breathing down, steady my arms, and push my weight forward, planting my feet into the ground so I have a firm base.

One breath, in and out.

A second, in and out—slower this time.

The third, in... And out as I squeeze gently on the trigger. The gunshot’s louder than I anticipated, and the recoil slams the stock into my shoulder. The bullet traveled the distance in a fraction over a second, punching through the wall and into the head of Johnny King. I see the figure through the scope slump to the floor, motionless; the heat signature slowly fading away. I quickly line up and fire at the second target in the next breath, hitting him in the chest. He too falls to the floor.

I take a deep breath and let it out with relief.

“You’re up,” I say to Josh.

I place the rifle down and get up to a crouch as watch him enter the building. I pack everything away, hastily make my way down the fire escape, and back over to the Winnebago. I put the sports bag in the back and get in behind the wheel. I sit and focus on my breathing, urging the adrenaline rush to subside. I tap my fingers on the wheel impatiently as I wait for Josh to come back out.

Five minutes pass. I’ll admit I’m starting to worry. I’ve not heard any gunshots, but I’m not sure I would from this distance anyway. Finally, a few moments later, he appears in the back doorway. He walks casually toward the back of the parking lot, clears both fences with an ease not befitting his age, and climbs into the passenger seat next to me.

“All good?” I ask.

His face is solemn and his eyes are serious. I was expecting him to look more... I don’t know—alive, or something, after coming out of there.

“I think we just cemented ourselves in the annals of history as being the two most unlucky bastards ever to walk God’s green Earth,” he says.

I sigh.

“Of course we did... what’s happened now? It wasn’t King we killed, was it?”

“Oh yeah, you took out King—great shot, by the way. Manhattan will be well pleased. I swept the building, managed to take down the three other guys in there without firing a shot.”

“Nice.”

He shrugs modestly. “Thanks. I got to King’s office, saw him and another guy dead, and thought, great—a nice, clean hit. I figured I’d have a look at his papers and on his computer, to see if there was anything of interest. May as well, while I was there.”

“Can’t hurt...” I agree, nodding.

“I found a lot of accounts information, which I’m sure Manhattan will be glad of. I downloaded them to a flash drive I happened to have on me. I always carry one, just in case I ever need it.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I had a quick read through his financials,” he says. “Johnny King used his club for many things, most of them illegal. Including, but not limited to, laundering money for various gangsters and corrupt politicians within the state...”

“Right…”

“Want to have a guess which gangster in particular was his biggest client?”

His words hang there for a moment as a painful silence descends.

“Johnny King worked for Wilson Trent…” I say, closing my eyes and massaging the bridge of my nose in frustration.

“He basically ran Allentown for him, which accounted for a sizeable percentage of Trent’s overall income,” Josh confirms. “And we just killed him. Well…
you
just killed him.” He turns and pats my shoulder. “Nice going…”

I laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. “For fuck’s sake…”