One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (15 page)

Right, let’s see where I am…

I open my eyes slowly, and a blurry world rushes toward me and gradually falls into focus. I look around… I’m in a hospital. All the classic signs are here—people in white coats, beeping, generic color on the walls and ceilings, the smell of disinfectant…

I wiggle my fingers, then my toes. I flex my wrists and crack my neck. I’ve not looked, but I don’t seem to be restrained in any way, which is always nice. If I’ve ever blacked out in the past, I nearly always wake up tied to something…

My life sucks sometimes.

I lift my head, and the white coat next to me starts to pay attention. I look out the window and see darkness. I have no idea what time it is, but it must be late.

“Where am I?” I ask, confused.

“Just relax,” says a soothing and professional voice. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve been shot. But you were lucky. There’s no serious damage, it was just a deep flesh wound. You’ll be fine after some rest.”

I frown as I try to remember exactly what happened… it suddenly comes back to me like a highlight reel...

Hotel room… Dominique… Gun…

It wasn’t luck. If she wanted me dead, I would be. She shot me exactly how she intended to.

Oh, shit… Josh!

I turn to look at the white coat who’s standing on my left, next to the bed. “Hey where’s—”

“Your friend’s fine,” interjects the voice, cutting me off. “He lost a little more blood than you did, but he only suffered a flesh wound too. He’s lying right next to you.”

I sigh heavily with relief and look to my right. Josh is indeed lying next to me, looking much the same as I imagine I do.

“You good, bro?” I ask.

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a groggy wheeze. “I hate you.”

I lie back and relax. Yeah, he’s fine.

The white coat next to me is holding a clipboard, which he’s looking at. He seems normal and reasonably smart, so I’ll let him go about his business without bombarding him with questions.

“You’re both doing really well. The stitching is top-notch, and you should heal up good as new in a few weeks. But… the police will want a word with you. Standard procedure after receiving a GSW in your hotel room, I’m afraid. You boys feeling up to it? They’re right outside.”

My jaw muscles clench as much as they can. The cynic in me doesn’t believe for a second the cops outside aren’t on Trent’s payroll. And we’re both sitting ducks lying in here.

“Gimme a few minutes to wake up, would you?” I ask.

“Sure thing,” he replies, replacing the clipboard on the edge of my bed as he walks out of the room.

As soon as the door closes, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and test my weight on them. I manage to stand with no issues. There’s a clip on my left index finger that I remove. I look quickly at the wound on my left shoulder, which is exactly as advertised by the good doctor. I’ll barely notice it after a couple of painkillers.

I’m wearing what I had on pre-bullet wound, and my tee shirt has a new hole in the short sleeve. I sigh, stretch, and look over at Josh.

“We need to get out of here,” I say.

“Figured you’d say that,” he replies as he completes the same ritual as I just had.

We both stand and regard each other silently for a moment. He seems reluctant to speak, but finds the words he’s looking for after a moment.

“So, is this it?” he asks. “Is this the moment where you get pissed off beyond comprehension, Hulk up or whatever, and go and kill everyone?”

He doesn’t ask with any humor. He just sounds tired, almost defeated—like he just wants it all to be over.

“Josh,” I say. “I’m not sure what the next move is just yet. I might be wrong, but I think Dominique did this on purpose.”

“No shit, Sherlock!”

“No, I mean, she shot us and left flesh wounds on purpose. She didn’t intend to kill us, she intended to let us get away and make it look convincing.”

He shakes his head with confusion. “I don’t follow,” he says, frustrated.

“She was paid one-point-five million dollars by Wilson Trent to kill me. I offered her two million to not kill me and say she did… She knew me by reputation, and I think she might have taken my offer.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring at me in disbelief. When he speaks, he gestures wildly with both arms—then with just one when he remembers his bullet wound.

“Are you out of your tiny, stupid, American mind?” he asks. “She wouldn’t go back on a contract, Adrian. Same way you wouldn’t!”

“Actually, Josh, I kinda did once, remember? Extenuating circumstances, et cetera…”

“Oh, sorry, Mr.
Exception To Every Rule
! Look, I’m sick of the dancing around, and the mind games and the uncertainty, okay?” He points to his arm. “I’m sick of getting shot! Whenever I’m with you, I get shot. It’s like you’re a magnet for random gunfire for Christ’s sake!”

Without warning, he slaps me hard across the face with his good arm. We both stand there in silence—equally shocked but I imagine for different reasons. After a moment, he speaks again.

“Will you please, for the love of all things Holy, just kill this sonofabitch, so we can all go home?”

My eyes are wide with shock. I understand and share his frustration, and I know he’s trying to rally me into action, but in all our years together, he’s never laid his hands on me. And vice versa.

But I’ll admit, it’s worked.

I feel a rush of unbridled rage explode inside me, tearing through my body like wildfire through a dry forest. I look around, not knowing how to handle the sudden influx of fury. It’s a small room, literally empty besides the two beds, a couple of monitors, and a window. And the door. Beyond which are two cops who are most likely on Trent’s payroll.

Either way, I can’t afford to waste time on them.

Like lightning, my right arm flies out and grips Josh by his throat. My Inner Satan behind the wheel for a moment. It’s like I’m looking on from the outside, like an out-of-body experience or something.

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “Now, stay close—we’re leaving.”

I release my grip and he massages his throat, taking in some deep breaths. But he looks calm. He’s not angry with me, and he isn’t afraid. I think, if anything, he seems relieved.

“Atta boy,” he says, quietly.

I quickly check that I have everything with me, and walk toward the door. As I reach for the handle, it swings open and a man walks in, stopping in the doorway. He isn’t a cop, and he isn’t a doctor. He’s a good height, around six feet tall. He’s not fat, as such, but his middle-age spread has gone unchecked around his waist and chin. He needs a shave and with his thinning, graying hair and old, stained, knee-length raincoat, he could easily be confused with a homeless person.

But he’s not homeless. At least he wasn’t the last time I saw him, which was close to ten years ago. He looks like shit, but I guess that’s to be expected. He’ll be close to fifty now, and the last decade is unlikely to have been good to him.

“Adrian?” he says, his voice like gravel and his breath like whiskey. “So it’s true… you
are
back.”

I take a step back, my rage quickly subsiding and making way for shock. I’ve got no idea how he found me, but the conversation I figure I’m about to have has been a long time coming.

“Hey, Frank,” I say.

Behind me, I can sense Josh quietly figuring it all out. I don’t think these two have ever met before, but he’ll know who he is, I’m sure.

“Frank?” he says out loud behind me, to no one in particular. “Jesus… you’re…”

His words trail off, so I fill in the blanks for him.

“That’s right. Josh, meet Frank Stanton—my brother-in-law.”

Silence descends on the increasingly awkward reunion for what feels like hours. Frank’s hand disappears inside his pocket and comes back out holding a small pistol. I flash a quick glance at it. It’s a Taurus 605, which fires .357 caliber magnum rounds. He aims it at me, the tiny barrel just inches from my face.

“My sister’s dead because you, you heartless bastard!”

His voice is icy calm and laced with venom. I imagine he’s rehearsed that line a million times in his head, waiting for his chance to face me and seek whatever answers he needs for his own piece of mind.

I take a step forward, allowing the barrel to touch my forehead. I push against it lightly.

“Frank,” I say. “My
wife’s
dead because of me. And my daughter. Whatever pain you’re feeling… whatever hatred’s been driving you… trust me, I’ve been there and bought the t-shirt. Please…” I hold my hands out to the side, palms open—total surrender. “Please… can we talk about this? I’ll tell you everything you want to know, I promise.”

His breathing gets more erratic. His eyes narrow and his lip curls as he battles his own inner demons. After a tense few seconds, he lowers the pistol, which I immediately snatch out of his hand and throw on the bed behind me. He takes a step back in shock.

“You left her…” he says. “You let them die.”

I sigh, massaging my temples as I look at the floor. While he’s probably spent the last God-knows-how-long picturing this moment, I’ve honestly never even thought twice about seeing him again. And for him to show up randomly at right now has really thrown me off my game. I have no idea what to say to him, but the truth is really the only option I have. And it’s not going to be an easy conversation.

“Frank, can we do this somewhere else? You’ve kinda caught me at a bad time…”

He looks at me, then at Josh. He sees our wounds and frowns. “Why would someone shoot you both?” he asks.

“Same reason you were about to,” mutters Josh, who’s sitting on his bed and watching everything unfold.

“It’s… a long story, Frank,” I say.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he replies.

“I’m sure you have, but unfortunately I don’t. Not right now. There are two cops out there who are more likely to wanna shoot me than ask me questions, and as it stands I suspect I have pretty much the entire state of Pennsylvania trying to kill me. It’s the middle of the night, I’m tired and sore, and the longer I stay here, the greater the chances of me getting dead. Can we
please
do this later?”

He seems to thinks about the situation, and what I’ve said to him.

“Come on,” he says, with a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a ride wherever you wanna go. Then me and you are gonna have a long talk.”

I nod. “Absolutely.”

He goes for the door, but I grab his arm to stop him.

“Are there definitely two cops outside?” I ask.

“Yeah, at the end of the hall.”

“Okay, let me go first.”

I leave the room first and step out into the hallway, followed by Frank, then Josh. The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead is loud in the near-deserted hospital, and my footfalls echo on the permanently buffed tiled floor. I look left and see more rooms; to the right are the front desk and the elevators. And the cops.

“Come on,” I say over my shoulder.

I stride purposefully toward the reception area. The cops are standing side by side talking to the nurse on night duty. As I step out into the waiting area, they turn and stare at me.

A few questions,
my ass.

Making a conscious effort not to use my injured arm, I rush over to them and, before they can properly react, I throw a straight right and catch the cop on the left flush on his jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. As the second moved to draw his gun, I swing my right elbow back and smash into his nose. Using my momentum, I turn and kick his knee with my left foot. He overbalances and drops to the floor.

Both cops are down and neither of them is in any state to follow me, which is good. I’ve made sure they’re not seriously injured either, just in case I’m wrong about them working for Trent.

The nurse standing behind the front desk is staring at me, eyes wide, jaw open. I avoid any prolonged eye contact with her, so I’ll be less memorable if she gets questioned later. I head for the elevators, press the button, and wait. Frank and Josh appear next to me. Josh has a somewhat bemused look on his face. Frank, on the other hand, is dumbstruck. He looks behind him at the cops, then back at me.

“Who the hell
are
you?” he asks.

The doors ding open and we all step inside. I hit the button for the first floor, and as the doors close again, I turn to him. “All in good time, Frank,” I say. “All in good time.”

24.

MEANWHILE…

OCTOBER 5
TH
, 2014

04:30

Wilson Trent’s phone rang, disturbing him from his already restless slumber. He leaned over and clicked on his bedside lamp, rubbing his eyes so they adjusted to the sudden brightness. He looked at the clock and groaned when he saw the time. He picked it up and looked at the display.

Unknown number.

“What?” he said as he answered.

The voice on the other end was female, deep and somewhat alluring.

“It’s me,” said Dominique Tevani.

“Is it done?” he asked, finding it difficult to hide just a hint of excitement from his otherwise cold voice.

“You never told me it was Adrian Hell you’d sent me after…”

“I said at the time—I gave you the location of your target and told you how much money you’d be getting. Why the fuck should it matter who it was?”

“I’m a professional,” she replied. “I like to know everything about my mark, so I can prepare for every eventuality. He’s the biggest fish in the ocean, and the fact I had no idea he was going to walk into that room left me unnecessarily vulnerable. The added risk is going to add to the price.”

“How much?”

“An extra half a million,” she said.

Trent was silent for a moment, angry at the fact someone had the audacity to try to negotiate with him. But under the circumstances, he relented.

“Whatever,” he said. “Is it done?”

It was Dominique’s turn to fall silent before talking. Then she said, “I put a bullet in him, yes. And his weird little British friend.”

He was beginning to lose his temper.

“Is that fucker
dead
?” he shouted, pausing slightly after each word for emphasis.

“It’s true what they say, y’know?” she began, ignoring his question. “You should never meet your heroes… I’m not saying he was my hero or anything, but I always admired his work. I mean, that guy was a legend in our business, y’know? Yet when I was face to face with him, it turned out he was incredibly easy to put down. He just kinda stood there and talked at me until I shot him…”

It was like she was talking in general, as opposed to directly to Trent, and her words trailed off, sounding like she was heavily distracted.

Trent stared at the receiver in disbelief before speaking again.

“Do I need to hire someone else to dispose of yet another assassin who’s begun to annoy me? Is that piece of shit dead, yes or no?”

Dominique was silent for a moment longer before answering.

“Yes,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. ‘Then it won’t be a problem delivering his head to me, will it? Midday, my office.”

He hung up and threw the phone across the room, hearing it smash against the wall before turning his light off and closing his eyes once again.

10:07

Later that morning, Trent sat behind his desk in his penthouse suite atop his office building in downtown Pittsburgh, with his chair turned around, looking out the window at the expanse of the city around him.

His
city.

It was still quite dark, with the low, gray cloud circling around in the sky menacingly, preparing to assault the city with another downpour.

Facing his desk, sitting on one of the sofas, was his accountant, Joseph Bernstein. He was wearing what looked like the same suit from the other day. His briefcase was open on the table in front of him, and he was shuffling through some papers as he spoke.

“I also need to explain the one point five million dollar expenditure made yesterday against one of the business accounts… how do you want to handle that?” he asked.

Trent didn’t turn around and was silent for a few moments. He had gotten to where he was by being a ruthless and savvy businessman, as well as a notorious gangster. He ran most of Pennsylvania because he invested heavily in the major cities within the state. He bought and expanded local businesses, creating income and employment opportunities. He financially supported local officials and state senators in their campaigns, helping them get elected. He gave to charities so the people loved him. Then, once each city was in the palm of his hand, he clenched his fist, tightening his grip on their lives and squeezing them with extortion, prostitution, arms dealing, drug trafficking… even funding terrorism, if he saw an opportunity to profit from it. He was extremely frustrated that one man had attempted to threaten everything he’d built.

He spun around in his chair and looked at Bernstein.

“It’s two million,” he corrected. “It was a personal investment, explain it however you want.”

Bernstein simply nodded and let the matter drop. He’d been Trent’s accountant long enough to know when to stop asking questions and when to gloss over certain details.

Trent pressed a buzzer just underneath his desk, and moments later Duncan and Bennett came in. They strode side by side across the room and stood behind the sofa opposite Bernstein.

“Find the woman,” Trent said to Bennett. “Dominique. I don’t trust her. Follow her and make sure she brings me Adrian’s head. And once she has… bring me hers.”

Without hesitation, Bennett simply nodded, then turned, and left the room.

Trent looked at Duncan. “I intend to take this afternoon off,” he announced. “I’ll be going to watch the Steelers’ game later from my box. Make the necessary arrangements.”

“Will do, Mr. Trent,” replied Duncan. “You think they’re gonna win today?”

“They better fucking win! I’m not in the mood for failure.”

Duncan nodded and took his leave, having learned over the years how to read Trent’s moods.

A moment later, as Bernstein was preparing to leave, Duncan re-entered the room, talking animatedly on his phone.

“What happened to fucking knocking?” asked Trent.

Duncan put his hand over the phone and held it away from his head to respond.

“Sorry, Boss, but you’re gonna wanna hear this. Gimme a minute.”

He resumed his conversation as Trent looked on with impatience and curiosity.

After a couple of minutes, Duncan ended the call and looked at Trent, his eyes betraying his fear. “Mr. Trent, that was one of my guys over in Allentown. They just got word that Johnny King’s been taken out.”

Trent slammed his fist on the desk, his eyes so wide they bulged against their sockets and threatened to pop right out of his head.

“What?” he yelled. “How?”

Duncan took an involuntary step back, seemingly reluctant to answer.

“Was it him? Was it Adrian fucking
Hell
?” Trent asked, practically spitting the name out with disgust.

“We don’t know who pulled the trigger yet,” he replied. “But it happened yesterday afternoon. We asked around and there’s a new player in Allentown who’s taken over everything except what King ran for you. My guess… it was him.”

“So quickly? Christ… Who? Anyone we know?”

“His name’s Jimmy Manhattan. Word is he made a helluva name for himself over on the West Coast. He’s old school, like you, Boss. Big reputation and his new outfit is growing fast over there.”

Trent sighed heavily as he stood, turning to look out of the window once more.

“If you no longer need me…” began Bernstein.

“Get the fuck outta here,” said Trent, without looking around.

Not needing telling twice, Bernstein left the office.

“Bring me this Jimmy Manhattan,” he said finally as he turned to face Duncan, who was shifting nervously on the spot. “I don’t care how you do it, but he’s gonna be standing right in front of me before the Steelers kick off. Am I clear?”

Duncan nodded then headed for the door.

Trent looked at his watch. It was just over ten hours until the Steelers game started. He took a deep breath and sighed heavily again.

He had a feeling the day was going to get worse before it got better.