Paradise Burns (8 page)
SIXTEEN
‘Uranium! Are
you kidding me?!’ shouted Josh down the phone.
After I left The Four Seasons, I’d made
my way back to my hotel, taking a very roundabout route back in case I was
being followed. Once I got there, I had a proper read through all the documents
I’d lifted from Jackson’s briefcase. They were definitely the deeds to the land
that Pellaggio wants. All sorts of legal crap I didn’t understand over the
dozen or so pages, and on the last page, a space for a signature. Which Jackson
hadn’t got round to doing.
I then grabbed a shower and thought
about how I’m going to handle this with Jimmy Manhattan. I was quite open with
him before, but I know a lot more than I did this morning, and there’s no way I
can give the mob access to that land. As it stands, I’ve only got to deal with
one crazy group of extremists. If the mob got a hold of their own uranium
deposit, they’d sell it to all the other crazy groups of extremists, which
would be a devastating turn of events.
I came to the conclusion this wasn’t an
easy fix, and I gave up trying to find a solution for now. So I rang Josh and
got him up to speed on the day’s developments.
‘That’s right, Josh,’ I said. ‘Uranium.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘Okay. Josh?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to calm down.’
‘Got you.’
There was silence on the line for a few
moments.
‘You good?’ I asked.
‘I’m good,’ he replied.
‘Okay then. So, first things first. Who
are Dark Rain and how did they know to tail me before I’d even made a move
against Jackson?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. The only
people you’ve interacted with are the mob, correct?’
‘Yeah. You thinking there’s someone in
Pellaggio’s crew who’s working for Dark Rain?’
‘That’s the only logical scenario I can
think of right now.’
‘I agree. Which leads me to my next
problem. What do I do about Jimmy Manhattan?’
‘Well, you can’t give him the land.’
‘I know that. But I can’t tell him why,
either.’
‘Can you not just say that Jackson didn’t
have the documents with him?’
‘No, because he would’ve expected me to
keep him alive long enough to find out where they were.’
‘Ah, good point.’
‘I’ll think of something. The priority
right now is Dark Rain. I need to know where they are and what they’re
planning. What do you have on this Roman Ketranovich that Clara mentioned?’
‘Adrian, this guy is hardcore. He served
in the Russian military and was a member of the Spetsnaz Special Forces for
nearly fifteen years. He was in the thick of it back in the eighties, when Bin
Laden was over there fighting and killing Russians. He fought against the
Afghans, and was known for his brutal torturing and relentless killing,
apparently.’
‘He sounds lovely.’
‘Seriously, this guy is up there with
Hitler, Stalin and Simon Cowell! He was badly injured in a firefight and was
left for dead by his comrades. He survived and has been underground ever since.
There’s very little on him after he was declared K.I.A. in the early nineties.
Dark Rain must be his revenge.’
‘So he’s pissed at America, pissed at
Russia and is after some nuclear material? Well, this couldn’t possibly end
badly.’
‘Exactly. Plus, if this guy is working
with GlobaTech Industries, he’s got some serious backing, so it’s conceivable
that he could infiltrate the local mob.’
I sighed. I’ve been sighing a lot since
I got to this place. Probably because, so far, everyone I’ve spoken to in
Heaven’s Valley is either trying to kill me, or other people. You could argue I
bring it on myself by doing what I do, but even you have to admit this
situation is astonishingly FUBAR’d.
‘Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,’ I
said. ‘I have to tell Jimmy Manhattan that he probably has a rat in his midst,
and that he can’t have the land, despite Jackson being dead.’
‘And I’m sure both bits of news will go
down a storm,’ said Josh.
‘Yeah, like a proverbial lead balloon.
Next, I need to track down this Dark Rain outfit and find a way of neutralizing
them before they can get their hands on any of this uranium.’
‘Have you given much thought to how
you’re going to stop an entire army on your own?’ he asked.
‘Short of knocking on their front door
and asking them nicely to stop, no. I’m open to suggestions though.’
‘You never know, that might work. We
rarely try the asking politely route.’
‘There’s a good reason for that.’
‘Very true.’
‘Right, I’m off to see Jimmy Manhattan.’
‘I’ll keep my eye on the local news
channels for any updates,’ he chuckled.
‘Oh, ye of little faith. I’m sure it
will be very civilised, and he’ll be understanding and sympathetic to our
situation.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really.’
I hung up and pulled on my leather
jacket and strapped my holster to my back. I then put both of my custom
Berettas at my back, so they formed the T-shape. My spider sense was tingling
big time. This was going to get ugly, and I’m going to be on their turf when it
did.
I picked up the folder with the land
documents in that I took from Jackson and slid them under the mattress of my
bed. Then I left my hotel and walked down the street, heading toward the Neon
district.
It was late evening as I walked down the
street. It was warm, and the sky was clear of any stars. Just the half-moon
beaming down its greeny-white glow. The roads were still busy, although not as
bad as they were during the day. There were just as many pedestrians though –
dressed for a night out as opposed to a day in the office. Guys wearing
expensive shirts with jeans and shoes. Women of varying ages wearing dresses
that looked like they’d ran out of material halfway through production. And me,
marching into battle.
Josh rang me, so I clicked the bluetooth
headset on.
‘Yeah?’ I said.
‘You on your way to The Pit?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. Here’s a little something to help
you.’
Down the phone, he began playing “Highway
To Hell” by AC/DC.
I walked on, guns at my back and a smile
on my face.
SEVENTEEN
At night, The
Pit looks very different. There’s a long line of people queuing to get in down
the block – a selection of the half-dressed women and the over-dressed guys I
saw roaming the streets on the way here. The velvet rope by the door was
guarded by a doorman with a clipboard. The sign is flashing blue and white. All
around me, there are people and lights and cars and the constant, low hum of
the bass line coming from behind all the doors.
I walked to the front of the queue and got
the doorman’s attention. I hadn’t seen this guy before. He was a big guy. He
was a couple of inches shorter than me, but a great deal wider - and he wasn’t
fat. He had a black tee shirt on that looked three sizes too small for his
chest and arms, which were literally bulging with muscle. He had black jeans
and black boots and was wearing an earpiece.
I didn’t get a chance to say anything.
‘Back of the line, asshole,’ he snarled.
I let his attitude slide. I wasn’t in
the mood for unnecessary confrontations. I’m sure they’ll be plenty of
necessary ones in a few moments.
‘Hey, take it easy, Conan. I need to see
Jimmy. It’s urgent,’ I said.
He eyed me up and down, then spoke into
his radio. After a few moments, he unhooked the rope and motioned me in, much
to the dismay and protestations from many of the people still in the line.
I walked into the club, and entered the
main area, which this morning looked so spacious. Now, there were easily a
hundred and fifty people crammed in there. I looked around quickly, before I
entered the throng of bodies that were laughing and dancing and drinking.
Behind the bar, at the far end, were seven people serving - three guys and four
girls.
In the far corner, stood in front of the
red curtain was the big guy from this morning, with the fire axe tattoo on his
head. I figured that’s where I was heading. I instinctively touched my lower
back, to check my guns were secure, and set off through the crowd.
I glided through the masses, slowly
making my way through to the other side. Two guys were stood in front of me,
seemingly trying to hit on the same girl. They were blocking my path.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, to no avail. The
music - if you could call it that - was deafening in here.
I tapped one of them on the shoulder to
get his attention, and when he looked at me, I gestured past him, to signal I
needed to get by. He looked at me like he’d scraped me off his shoe, then
shoved me at the shoulder. He turned back to his friend, and they both laughed.
The girl also seemed to find this amusing.
It would appear that a large percentage of
the population woke up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off.
And they were succeeding spectacularly.
I tapped his shoulder again. When he
turned toward me again, he went straight for another shove. This time, I caught
his right hand with my left and held it. This caused him to turn and face me
properly. As he did, I placed my right hand flat on his chest, and used my
middle finger to find the little dip at the top of the ribcage, in the center
at the bottom of the throat. I found the dip, and pushed my finger in, and then
down. With the right amount of pressure, you’d be amazed how effective this is.
He dropped to his knees almost instantly, crippled with what would be a brief
but excruciating pain throughout the body.
Seriously, try it. But only on someone
you don’t like, because it hurts.
He balled up on the floor, shocked and
short of breath and holding his chest. His friend went wide-eyed as I turned to
him, staring through him with my dead eyes. He thought about making a move for
all of two seconds, then decided against it and ran off through the crowd. I
turned to the girl, who had overcome her shock and was now smiling at me. I was
probably twice her age, and she was probably half my IQ.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘That was really cool.’
She smiled and walked up to me, putting
a hand on my chest.
‘You wanna buy me a drink?’
I took hold of her wrist and removed her
hand, placing it back by her side.
‘I’m old enough to be your father,’ I
replied. ‘And even if you weren’t too young to be here, I’m married.’
She pouted, clearly not used to not
getting her own way.
‘Fucking asshole!’ she shouted, then
stormed off towards the exit.
I shook my head in disbelief.
An image of my wife, Janine, drifted
into my head. She would have found that hilarious. I smiled to myself.
God, I missed her. She was the only
woman I’ve ever loved. And likely ever will do.
I re-focused and walked on, eventually
coming through the other side of the crowd, and face to face with Axe Tattoo
Guy. He looked me up and down, then looked over my shoulder at the hole in the
crowd I’d just caused. He looked back at me.
I shrugged.
Maintaining his expressionless gaze, he
stepped aside and held the curtain back so I could walk through. I stepped
inside and found myself in a dark, narrow corridor. Ahead of me was a fire
exit. On the left were two wooden doors. I went for the doors, but the big guy
stopped me.
‘Hold up,’ he said, in a big, deep,
steroid-induced voice.
‘What?’ I asked, turning back to look at
him.
‘Hands against the wall, spread your
legs.’
Shit. No sense in rocking the boat this
early on though.
‘If I see any rubber gloves, you and me
won’t be friends any more.’
‘We ain’t friends anyway, asshole.’
I faced the wall, put my hands out in
front of me and spread my legs. He patted me down, and inevitably touched upon
the twin Berettas at my back.
He said, ‘Hand ‘em over, nice and slow.’
I reached behind me and took them out of
the holster, one in each hand. I let them hang loose over my index fingers by
the trigger guard. He took them off me and placed them in a bucket that was
just inside the entrance on the left, which I didn’t notice when I first walked
through the curtain.
‘I want them back,’ I said to him. ‘They’re
my babies.’
‘Whatever. Through them doors.’
He pointed to the wooden doors on my
left and I went through them.
I entered what I assumed was the main
office of the club. In front of me was a small bar and two sofas arranged in an
L-shape. One couch facing me, the other at ninety degrees on my right. The bar
was in the corner where the couches met.
The room stretched away to the left. The
wall to my left was see-through, and I realized the mirror behind the bar out
in the club was one-way, so you could see everything from this side. Against
the far wall was a large, oak desk with a computer on it and a phone.
Stood behind the desk, looking through
the mirror surveying his little empire was Jimmy Manhattan. Next to him, sat
down, was an older man in his late sixties. He was balding with the remains of
his gray hair combed back. He had a gray goatee beard on his long, drawn face. His
hands were resting on the desk in front of him, adorned in a variety of gold
rings.
Roberto Pellaggio, I presume.
