One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (19 page)

29.

ADRIAN HELL

16:16

We’re all in my motel room. Josh is sitting at the table by the window and working away on his laptop, planning his digital bank robbery. Frank’s sitting on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I’m pacing back and forth, impatiently. I’m so close to this all being over, I hate all the waiting around. But I know we need to do this right.

“What time will the game kick off tonight?” I ask.

“About eight,” Frank replies, without looking up.

“Okay,” I nod. “We’ll need to make sure we’re in place about seven.”

“You’ve got a plan?” Josh asks, his head still buried in his laptop. “That’s not like you…”

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I say with a half-smile.

I know we’ve only got one real chance of the plan working. Trent will be expecting us to make a move sooner rather than later, so he’ll have increased security without a doubt. Josh needs time to make sure the online heist goes off as planned, so I have to rely on Frank’s help to get ready for the game later this evening.

“Where are we up to?” I ask Josh. “Are you good to go?”

“Now I know where all Trent’s money is, I have to program my virus to infiltrate all the different accounts simultaneously, then transfer the money into the single account I’ve set up in the name of a dummy corporation. What I’m then gonna do is use a different algorithm to re-transfer the money in small amounts, no more than a dollar, to random bank accounts across the country. The algorithm will continue to run, moving each individual small amount every half hour into a new account, making it practically impossible to trace the money once it’s left Trent’s accounts.”

Frank finally looks up. “Jesus Christ, you can do that?” he asks, taken aback by how extravagant the plan sounds.

Josh nods. “It’s not easy, but I can,” he says. “I’ve been putting together the code since we arrived on the East Coast. Only thing missing was Trent’s financials. Now we have them, the final piece is in place.”

“Can the origin of the code be traced?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised that Frank seems to understand at least half of what Josh is saying. I’m completely lost, and I’m happy to sit thinking about how it’ll all play out once we get to the Steelers game.

“I’m using every encryption I have to bounce and mask my signal. It’s not unbreakable, but it’ll take a lot of people a long time, and that’s all that matters. Once Trent’s dealt with, the algorithm can stop, and we can simply put the money where we want it and ride off into the sunset very rich men.”

“How much money does he have, exactly?” I ask.

“Close to quarter of a billion dollars, all in all.”

“Christ…” mutters Frank.

I let out a low whistle. That’s some serious change… I’m not doing this for the money—I’ve got plenty of my own. But someone like Trent shouldn’t be allowed that amount of money or the level of power it grants.

“Nothing can replace what I’ve… we’ve lost,” I say, looking at Frank. “But you have to admit, that’s a helluva compensation payout.”

He nods absently, lost in his own thoughts.

“You want anything to drink?” I ask them both. “I’m just gonna go to the vending machine in reception and get a bottle of water.”

“Pepsi, please,” says Josh.

“I’m good, thanks,” Frank replies.

I open the door and step outside. The sky’s gray, filled with low cloud. It’s stayed dry for most of the day. It’s starting to darken, and the temperature’s dropped a little as the light starts to fade.

I look around quickly. The parking lot’s empty, apart from Frank’s sedan, which is in the middle, directly facing the row of three rooms we’ve rented.

I shut the door behind me, but immediately stop, alert.

What was that?

I just heard a low, hollow whooshing noise. It sounds far away and is worryingly familiar. It’s the same noise I heard over a week ago, in San Francisco. It’s the unmistakable sound of someone firing a rocket launcher… I quickly look around for the source. A small, bright light appears from directly opposite the motel complex, seemingly from the rooftop of a nearby building. Everything slows down as I see it rushing toward me, far too late to be able to do anything. I stand watching with dumbfounded horror.

“Guys! Hit the deck!” I shout as loud as I can, hoping they hear me from outside.

The rocket hits Frank’s car, which disappears in a thunderous explosion and a brilliant flash of light that sears my eyes as the force of the blast hits me, sending me crashing backward and through the door, taking it off its hinges.

I’m lying flat on my back, on top of the door on the floor of my motel room. Every time I blink, I see flashes of white—my eyes sore from the blast. My ears are ringing too and I’m disoriented as I prop myself up on my elbows.

“Is everyone alright?” I ask, hoping for a response.

I sit up and look around the room. Frank’s lying face down on the floor on the other side of the bed. Josh is still sitting at the table, his hands frozen over the keyboard of his laptop, his eyes transfixed on the now open doorway, and his jaw hanging loose.

“What the…?” he starts. “Adrian!”

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” I say, holding a hand up and waving it slowly. “Did anyone see who or what hit us?”

“No, we heard you shout, then everything went boom.”

“Frank, you okay?” I shout over.

He grunts, which I take as a sign he’s fine, albeit a little shocked and disgruntled that his car’s just been decimated.

I stand slowly, blinking and rubbing my eyes in an effort to clear my vision. I look out of the doorway at the parking lot. The sedan is a flaming wreck, with car parts littering the area. I step outside, feeling the heat from the explosion on my skin. I can’t see anything, or anyone, but as the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear a motorcycle approaching from the left. Behind me, I hear Josh shout something to Frank, but the words are drowned out as a black Ducati turns into the parking lot and comes to a stop just inside the entrance. A leather-clad figure climbs off it, dressed completely in black. They have a rocket launcher, loaded, over their shoulder and a gun belt around their waist with a pistol attached. They walk toward me, undoing the chinstrap on their helmet. As they lift it off, long dark hair falls out and rests on their shoulders.

“Hey, big boy,” says Dominique Tevani, as she drops the helmet on the ground and draws her pistol in one swift motion. “You miss me?”

“Oh…” I say, trying to hide my surprise and displeasure. “It’s you. I kinda hoped me and you had developed an understanding after we last met?”

She smiles that killer smile, but without any of the playfulness I saw before.

“That was a momentary lapse of reason,” she says. “Nothing more.”

She fires off a few rounds in succession, causing me to run to the right, staying low and diving for cover behind a group of bushes that runs periodically around the border of the parking lot.

Without a moment’s reprieve, I hear her drop the pistol, swing the rocket launcher around on its shoulder strap, and take aim at my room.

“No!” I yell, but it was futile.

She pulls the trigger and fires. The rocket makes its whooshing noise again—only it sounds much louder this time. A second later, my room and the ones either side of it explodes in a shower of brick and fire.

I look over from my cover as flames billow out in all directions. My eyes are wide with a mixture of emotions, including fear, anger, and sadness. I don’t know what to think, and as my brain fights to kick into survival mode, I just about manage a single word.

“No…”

16:32

I’m kneeling behind the bush, staring blankly at the remains of the motel for what feels like hours. But my brain finally kicks into gear and tells me I’ve only been there a few seconds, and that I need to take out my Berettas and fight.

So I do.

I reach behind me, drawing both guns simultaneously, and then stand and walk purposefully toward Dominique, firing round after round at the beautiful bitch that’s just blown up my best friend and my brother-in-law.

She standing, still holding the rocket launcher, looking on with proud satisfaction at the carnage she’s caused. My bullets distract her and she dives to her right, dropping the launcher and retrieving her pistol before returning fire.

We both zigzag and run and dive behind whatever we can, trading bullet for bullet. I’m squeezing the triggers in sheer anger. I’m not even aiming at her; really, I just want to fire at her over and over again, to let my pain and hatred flow out of me with every round.

She clicks on an empty chamber a second before I do. We both stare at each other for a moment, catching our breath, feeding off the adrenaline and feeling the heat from the flames. In the distance, I hear sirens. All kinds of emergency services will be arriving in a few minutes.

I throw my guns down and run at her. She does the same, and we meet in the middle near her motorcycle. I know against someone like her that leading with an attack is be a bad move, so I anticipate her first punch, which is a right hook to the kidney, and lead with a block with my left arm. Positioned correctly, she punches the bend of my elbow. She doesn’t miss a beat, and immediately counters with a swinging left hook aimed high at my left temple.

I see it coming a mile away, so I duck and roll under it to my right, before launching my own—a straight right punch—at her face, which connects sweetly on her left cheek. As she rocks backward from the impact, I step through and push my right foot through the kneecap of her back leg. The angle is perfect, so it doesn’t break, but it knocks her farther off-balance and sends her crashing to the ground. I take a step toward her but hesitate, my survival instincts taking over from my emotions, protecting me. I let her get back to her feet. She’s favoring her right leg after the kick to her knee, but she isn’t fazed at all.

“Screw you, Adrian!” she yells over the noise of the crackling flames. “Just accept it—you’ve got nothing left. I’m doing you a favor taking your life. What have you got to live for?”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s a classic attempt to knock me off my game psychologically. I was trained a long time ago to stop myself from reacting to any degree of mental attack like that. What I’m surprised at, is how quickly she’s resorted to what we in the business would consider a last resort tactic. Is she really getting
that
desperate so quickly?

I smile back at her and slowly shake my head. “Nice try.”

She charges at me again, leading with a roundhouse kick from the right that’s aimed at my side. I hook my left arm under the leg, catching it and absorbing what little impact made it through. I’m going to drop my right elbow down across her extended leg, as it’ll cause farther damage to her knee. But as I’m about to, she jump up with her left leg and hooks it round, kicking it into my right temple. It takes me by surprise, and I let her go as I drop to my knees. My head’s spinning from the impact and it momentarily disorients me.

She lands on her front, but bounces back to her feet and pounces on me immediately. She delivers a knee to my jaw, which I just about manage to get my hands in front of, but I do little to parry it. It sends me sprawling backward to the ground. I have no comprehension of my surroundings as I lie spread-eagled on the parking lot, looking up at a sky black with smoke and alive with the glow of the blaze.

I grunt in pain as she leaps on me, straddling my chest. Her thighs tighten, gripping my sides like a vice and squeezing the air out of me. I buck once with my hips, as hard as I can, but she holds on and rains down blow after blow on my face. I get both my arms up, and my forearms take the brunt of the punishment, but I’m in serious trouble if I stay where I am for long…

I thrust my hips up again, this time dislodging her slightly. Sensing a way out, I buck one last time and roll to my left. She loses her grip and falls to the side. I continue to roll over and wind up on top of her with her legs either side of me, resting on my hips. She manages to keep me at a distance by pushing down with her legs, forcing my hips back, but I land a couple of good shots to her head and body.

She winces in pain but fights on; her stunning features contorted with rage and desperation as we each struggle to gain the upper hand. I throw a straight right, aiming for the bridge of her nose. If I connect, it’ll break it and make her eyes water, blurring her vision, and restricting her ability to take a deep breath. But as I throw the punch, she catches my arm with both her hands and holds my wrist, pulling me toward her and wrapping her legs around me. She crosses her feet behind me, trapping my head and right arm completely in the triangle formed by her legs. She squeezes with every ounce of strength she has left and pulls me farther toward her. The pressure on my throat is tremendous, and I’m instantly constricted.

I can feel myself losing consciousness...

…I re-focus on her as the world fades back to life.

I must’ve slipped away then…

…and again! Shit! I need to get out of this—the bitch is killing me!