One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (20 page)

I frantically hammer her left hand side with small hook shots from my free arm, but I can’t get enough momentum behind them for them to do any significant damage.

My mind races to think of a way out. I look around as much as I can, but there’s nothing nearby I can use.

It’s getting harder to breathe as she tightens her grip around my neck and shoulder. I’ve given up trying to fight my way out with my free arm. There’s only one thing left to try…

On my knees, being pulled forward by Dominique, I slowly bring one leg forward, then the other, so I’m in a low squat. I grip one of her wrists with my right hand as much as I can, and grab her waist with my left and squeeze, sliding my hand underneath her body. Then, with one insanely difficult gulp of air, I use every last ounce of energy I have to stand up.

The strain on my legs and arms is intense, and it momentarily causes her thighs to tighten even more, but I somehow manage to stand up straight. I hold her above me, her toned stomach pressing against my face. She’s no longer pulling me by my right arm—I have a hold of her instead of the other way around. My left hand is underneath her ass, holding her steady for a split second; the scene frozen in a violent, almost sexual position.

Then I use everything I have left to slam her down on the blacktop. I bend forward and put all my momentum into pushing her through the goddamn parking lot. Her back and head connect first, with a sickening thud. She lets out a grunt of pain as I fall forward, landing on top of her, exhausted. Her body twitches once as my weight crushes her, then she remains still.

I push myself off and fall back, so I’m sitting down facing her. There’s an expanding pool of blood flowing slowly out from underneath her head as she lies motionless.

I gasp for air, remembering I’ve just been starved of oxygen and I’ve asked my body to use much more than it had available.

My surroundings bleed slowly into focus. The heat from the blast, the darkness of the sky, the noise of the sirens…

Shit!

I scramble to my feet, coughing as I massage my throat. The police and the fire department will be here any moment, so I have to make myself scarce. I gather up my guns and holster them. I stand staring at my decimated motel room for a moment.

Josh…

“Adrian!”

I frown.

Josh?

“Adrian!”

What the…

“Josh?” I shout, unsure if the voice is even real.

I look around and over to the right, close to where the reception building is, I see Josh and Frank standing, looking on.

I walk over slowly, relieved but confused. “How the hell did you…?”

“We ran out after the first explosion,” Josh explains, “just before that crazy bitch blew up the motel. I’m guessing you didn’t hear me shouting?”

I shake my head. “I thought you were both dead…” I say.

Josh raises an eyebrow. “Were you upset?”

I shrug, keeping my face deadpan. “I paused for a whole thirty seconds to mourn you before I moved on with my life. I almost shed a tear…”

A smile creeps over both our faces at the same time, and we laugh out loud. But before I can say anything else, a voice behind me interrupts our short-lived reprieve.

“Adrian!”

I turn and see Dominique, staggering toward me like an extra from Dawn of the Dead. How the hell is she still alive?

“Adrian, I... I have to kill you... You don’t understand!”

She’s completely helpless, and has no chance of even raising a hand to me. I almost feel sorry for her.

“Dominique, it’s over,” I say. “Get out of here and don’t look back.”

“I can’t!” she continues. “You... have to... die!”

Before she can take another agonizing step toward me, I hear three loud gunshots from behind me. I freeze and close my eyes instinctively, tensing my entire body. Despite the noise all around, the next few seconds pass in silence.

I open one eye… then the other. I turn and see Frank standing with his legs wide apart and his Taurus 605 held out in front of him with both hands, smoke twirling from the barrel.

I relax and look at Josh, who’s standing with his mouth open, staring blankly at me. I slowly turn back and see Dominique lying on the floor, blood pumping from three bullet holes in her chest.

I look back at Frank. Josh is slowly pushing his arms down. He’s in shock at having just pulled the trigger.

I walk over to them both hurriedly. “We need to leave…now,” I say.

Frank doesn’t answer, or even take his eyes off Dominique’s body.

“Frank!”

He turns to me.

“We need to move.”

He nods vacantly and turns to follow Josh, who has set off running past the reception area and over the small wall to the road beyond. We catch up with him and cross the street.

“We’ll split up here,” I say. “We’re only about fifteen minutes from the city’s center on foot. We’ll all meet up in half an hour outside the Hilton, okay? We’ll lay low in the Winnebago.”

They both nod.

“Frank, are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies, unconvincingly.

I nod again, letting the matter drop, and we all set off in different directions.

I take one last look behind me as I set off, looking at Dominique’s motionless corpse with the fire burning fierce and bright behind it.

What a goddamn waste.

30.

MEANWHILE…

18:46

Wilson Trent was sitting at a table in a small restaurant close to Heinz Field, the home turf of the Pittsburgh Steelers. When the opportunity arose, he liked to indulge himself by going to watch the team he’d supported since he was a child. It was the one thing he took time out to do just for himself. He worked hard running the empire he’d built over the last thirty or so years, and football was his own little reward. He was proud of the fact he was able to see the stadium from the window of his penthouse suite as well.

He was a creature of habit, and before every game, he came to the same restaurant for something to eat. He was surrounded by his own protection detail. There were two men by the door, one at the counter and two, one at each table, either side of him. The rest of the place was mostly empty. That’s why Trent liked it so much—all the crowds heading to the game went to the bars nearby or for pre-match drinks and food in the stadium itself, meaning he could enjoy his meal in peace before surrounding himself with the noise of the fans.

The door opened and Bennett walked in, striding purposefully toward Trent. He approached the table and cleared his throat, announcing his arrival. Trent didn’t look up from his food.

“I hope you have good news for me,” he said.

Bennett shifted nervously on the spot for a moment before replying. “I did as you asked, Boss,” he said. “I followed the assassin.”

“And?”

“She fired a rocket launcher at Adrian’s motel room. She blew up their car, then fired again and blew up half the motel.”

Trent half-smiled. “You’ve got to admire her approach.”

Bennett took a deep breath before continuing. “But she didn’t kill him, or either of his friends. She had a pretty brutal fight with him and he drove her head into the goddamn parking lot –split her skull wide open. To her credit, she got up and went after him again, but some guy shot her dead.”

Trent put down his knife and fork and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He took a small sip of his water before finally looking up at one of his most trusted enforcers.

“She failed?”

Bennett nodded.

“So Adrian fucking Hughes—Hell… whatever he calls himself—he’s still alive?”

He nodded again.

“How
fucking
hard is it to kill someone?’ he yelled, causing everyone in the restaurant to fall silent and turn to look at him.

He took a deep breath as he felt his anger swirling around inside of him, like he was trying to contain a tornado is a coffee mug. He paused for a moment before standing and grabbing the knife off his plate. He walked over to the nearest occupied table, where a young man and woman were sitting. They both looked terrified and couldn’t take their eyes off him. Trent grabbed the man by the hair and yanked his head back, then thrust the knife into his exposed throat. Once… twice… and a third time before leaving it sticking out as blood spurted in a thick, crimson fountain all over the table and the young woman. She started screaming, and Trent picked up the man’s fork and stepped around the table, grabbing the woman by her hair and driving her face into the table. Once… twice… her nose burst open and blood gushed down her face. Then, holding her head back, Trent jammed the fork into her right eye and pushed her aside, causing her to fall to the floor.

Nobody screamed. Nobody moved. Everyone froze.

Trent walked back to Bennett.

“See how fucking easy it is?” he said, frighteningly calm after his moment of explosive rage. “Why can’t anyone kill Adrian Hell?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Trent looked at each one of his men individually before turning back to Bennett.

“I’m going to the game,” he announced. “You are going to find that sonofabitch and bring me his head. Or I’ll take each and every one of yours.”

He left the restaurant, hastily followed by all his men, except Bennett, who he left standing there.

19:14

Trent stepped into his private box in Heinz Field, which was behind the goalposts at one end of the ground. He had a slightly raised, unobstructed view of the entire field. He sat down and looked out, relaxing and forgetting all of his troubles. The view alone was well worth the thousands of dollars he paid each season. Floodlights were beaming down on the field below as the players warmed up, ahead of kick-off.

Inside the booth, a small wall that came waist-high, then a double-glazed window, which could be slid open if required. He always preferred having the window open, weather permitting, to soak up more of the atmosphere. He leaned forward and looked up at the evening sky, which was all but black and threatened another downpour. He hoped the weather would hold off long enough for the game to finish.

Surrounding him were the five men who had been with him in the restaurant, all standing in a loose semi-circle behind him. There was a knock on the door, and a caterer came in pushing a trolley with a bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket on it. It was a vintage Krug Brut, which was Trent’s personal favorite, and was around two thousand dollars a bottle.

“Drink, sir?” asked the caterer.

Trent nodded silently without taking his eyes off the field. The Steelers were warming up and he was genuinely looking forward to seeing them play for the first time since the new season had started.

“How do you think the Steelers will fare this season?” asked the caterer.

Trent frowned and looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust, wondering why someone would feel the need to make small talk with him. The caterer seemed unfazed, oblivious to who Trent was.

“You ask me,” he continued. “I think they’ve got a good shot at it. Although, I’m not really much of a fan, myself. Never quite understood the appeal of the game. Like, for one thing, why do they call it football? They hardly touch the ball with their feet… And it’s not even a ball, really—it’s not round…”

Trent held up his hand to stop the caterer talking. His eyes narrowed as he looked him up and down. His long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, the white shirt creased and partly un-tucked. He threw a quick glance to one of his men, who understood the silent command instantly and reached into his jacket, gripping the butt of the gun he had holstered inside. The other men quickly took note and followed suit.

“Do I know you?” asked Trent. “Because you’re a real talkative guy, and way too comfortable in my presence. So, do we know each other, or do you just dislike breathing?”

The caterer put the champagne bottle down slowly and held his hands up in silent apology. “No sir, don’t think we’ve met before. I’m new to the job.”

Trent stood and squared up to him. “Where are you from? Your accent sounds British.”

The caterer nodded slowly. “I’m from London,” he replied.

“And how long have you worked here?”

He checked his watch before answering. “About twenty minutes…”

“What?”

Trent’s men all took a step toward their boss, sensing the need to offer protection. But the door burst open, kicked in from outside. Everyone turned round to see who was in the doorway. The caterer stepped in close to Trent and pressed a knife against his kidney.

“Yeah, we haven’t met, so let me introduce myself… My name’s Josh. I believe you know my friend?”

Josh nodded to the doorway, where Adrian Hell stood, a Beretta in each hand and an evil smile on his face.

31.

ADRIAN HELL

17:01

We all arrived back at the Hilton hotel within minutes of each other, and we’ve congregated in the parking lot around the Winnebago. Frank looks out of breath and Josh seems frustrated, but we’re all in one piece, which is a blessing.

“Everyone okay?” I ask.

Frank’s leaning forward, his hands resting just above his knees. “I haven’t done that much exercise in years,” he replies.

Josh remains silent, pacing up and down for a few moments.

“Josh…?” I say.

“My laptop’s fried,” he says, eventually. “Damaged beyond repair in the blast. I salvaged what I could and downloaded it to a USB drive, but I don’t know if I’ve got enough to launch my virus and attack the accounts.”

I sigh heavily. If that’s the case, it’s a massive blow to us. The attack by Dominique had been completely unexpected, and I’m lucky to still be alive after fighting with her. I just hope Josh can still work his magic with what he has. He hates it when his toys get damaged…

We all clamber into the back of the Winnebago and Josh turns on a spare laptop, sitting down at his makeshift workbench in silence. I sit on the old sofa along the back and rest my head against the pillows. It’s been a long few days. I feel tired, I’m sore from various fights and gunshot wounds, and the light at the end of the tunnel has just been moved a little farther away than it was before.

I look over at Frank, who’s shifting uncomfortably on the spot, like he’s unsure if it’s okay for him to sit down. His hands are trembling a little, and he’s sweating. And not, I suspect, purely because of the run to get here.

“You did great back there, Frank” I say. “Are you alright?”

He smiles half-heartedly and gives a weak nod. He looks like he’s uneasy at receiving a compliment for having just taken a life—probably for the first time. He’s nervously looking around and fidgeting with his hands.

“Ever fired that gun of yours before?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“You’re a great shot,” I say with a smile, trying to help him relax and to lighten the mood a little, help take his mind off the pending onset of shock. Again, he forces a weak smile.

“Frank, it’s never easy taking a life…”

“Says the professional killer?” he scoffs.

“Yeah, says me. I’m speaking from experience. It’s never straightforward squeezing that trigger, and you should be thankful that you feel as bad as you do.”

“Thankful? Why the hell would I be
thankful
?”

“Because if you didn’t feel bad, or uneasy, or scared… if you felt complete indifference to the fact someone is no longer breathing because of you… you’d be me. And you wouldn’t want
that
, trust me. Being me sucks.”

He regards me for a moment in silence, then turns and walks through to the front, sitting down in the passenger seat and staring out across the parking lot.

“Halle-fucking-lujah!” Josh shouts.

“Good news?” I ask.

“I was able to use what I saved from my laptop, and we’re good to go, Boss. I literally press this button, and we steal quarter of a billion dollars from Wilson Trent and hide it in plain sight across the country until such time as you wanna keep it all in my bank account!”

I look at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay,
your
bank account…”

“Better…” I say with a smile. I check the time. Despite the unexpected setback, we’re still on track for my plan to work. “Do it,” I say.

Josh smiles, looked down at the Return key on his laptop, and, with a brief moment of ceremony, presses it.

“Boom!” he exclaims. “You now have two hundred and fifty million dollars… Drinks on you?”

I laugh, and we bump fists. This is a huge victory for us, and much needed, given the last couple of hours. But we still have a long way to go.

“C’mon, we need to get moving.”

“Where?” he asks.

I smile. “I’ll fill you in as you drive.”

17:42

Josh is driving with me next to him. Frank’s sitting on the sofa in the back in silence. I figure it’s best to leave him to it, let him deal with things in his own way. The poor guy has really been thrown in at the deep end, and the last twenty-four hours have been really tough on him.

Having called ahead for directions, we pull up outside Oscar Brown’s other warehouse complex—his smaller one in Pittsburgh. Well, I say
smaller
, but the place is still huge. There are two massive buildings directly in front of us, which look like aircraft hangars. There’s another, smaller building over on the left, which Oscar told me to head for.

We get out and make our way across the broken, wet concrete. I check the time on my phone. I hope to God that he’s here—there are no signs of life, and we’re cutting it fine as it is.

“Where are we?” asks Frank as he climbs out behind us.

“Second home of the world’s first illegal arms supermarket,” I reply.

“Sorry I asked…” he mutters to himself.

As we approach, the door in front of us opens and Oscar Brown appears with a big smile on his face. “You found it okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say. “Sorry to drag you halfway across the state on short notice, but time is of the essence. I need a… specialty item.”

He regards me for a moment, sensing the tone and the mood. “Step into my office,” he says, beckoning me with his hand.

I turn to Josh. “You wait here with Frank,” I say. “I won’t be a minute.”

“What you got up your sleeve, Boss?” he asks with a frown.

I smile and follow Oscar into the warehouse.

18:25

We’re parked outside the service entrance at the back of Heinz Field. I’ve just finished explaining my plan to Josh and Frank, and they seem impressed, despite some initial concerns.

“You’re crazy,” says Frank, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re actually certifiable, you know that?”

“It’s been pointed out to me once or twice, yeah,” I reply. “So, are you in?”

He gestures with his arms in mild exasperation. “Why the hell not…”

I smile and turn to Josh, raising an eyebrow and silently asking him the same question.

“I just don’t understand… when did your Inner Satan start making insane, yet beautifully intelligent, schemes like this one?”

“What can I say?” I reply. “I got inspired, I guess. Unique circumstances… unique approach.”

“Unique? Good—because it’s really weird not being the brains behind this outfit!”

We laugh and get out of the Winnebago. I instinctively check my guns at my back by tapping both barrels. Josh stretches and cracks his neck and shoulders, as if he’s limbering up for a workout. Inside, Frank lowers the window, having slide into the driver’s seat. Leaning out, he looks at me.

“I’ll pull up over there,” he says, pointing to an empty area of the parking lot. “See you on the other side.”

“Thanks, Frank. I appreciate your help with all this.”

He nods and gives me a tired half-smile before driving off, leaving Josh and me standing side by side.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” he replies.

We bump fists and walk over to the service entrance, where security and catering companies come and go during game days. The door’s open, and we can see one security guard just inside. Ahead of us, two men wearing red t-shirts enter, flashing the guard the passes they have attached to a lanyard that hangs around their necks.

“I’ll handle him,” I say, striding forward ahead of Josh.

“I bet you will…” I hear him say behind me.

I walk through the door, and the security guard stands up from the stool he was sitting on, holding out his hand to stop us. He’s a tall, dark-skinned man, very broad—just on the overweight side of well-built. He has short black hair and a thin moustache. He’s dressed in jeans and a navy blue jacket.

“Got ya pass?” he asks.

“Y’know, I’ve gone and left it in my car,’ I say, patting my pockets as if searching for it. “But I’m running really late, can you just let me past and I’ll come and get it on my break later.”

The guard’s face is expressionless, almost bored. He’s probably heard it all a thousand times before. “No pass, no entry,” he says.

I sigh. Why doesn’t anyone ever just accept the story I tell them? Why do they always have to give just enough of a shit about whatever they do to make me have to resort to plan B?

Without another word, I leap forward and smash my forehead into the bridge of his nose. He’s about my height, which means I’m able to get the perfect angle as my head arches forward. I connect sweetly, and the guard falls backward like a tree and sprawls out on the floor.

Josh appears behind me, walking past, and stepping over the unconscious body with an exaggerated lunge.

“Smooth…” he says.

“I did try the subtle approach,” I reply, defensively. “He just wasn’t buying it.”

He turns around and starts walking backward as he speaks. He holds his arms out to the sides. “Well, God loves a trier!” he says with a laugh. As he turns back around, he bumps into a caterer coming out of one of the rooms on the left. “Ah, jeez… sorry, man,” he says.

The caterer says nothing, just waves him away as if to say it’s no big deal. But as he’s about to walk off, Josh grabs his arm and holds him in place, looking him up and down before looking over at me with a smile. He turns back to the caterer.

“Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but… I’m gonna need your clothes.”

The guy looks horrified and immediately tries to make a run for it, but Josh trips him up and punches him in the face on the way down, knocking him out cold. I walk over to him, exaggerating the step I take over the body of the unconscious caterer.

“
Smooth
…” I say with a smile.

“I learned from the best,” he replies.

He drags the guy into the room he’d just come out of and a few minutes later re-appears dressed as a caterer. The shirt’s a bit too small for him, and he can’t tuck it in properly at the back, but it won’t make much difference. He looks believable, and that’s the main thing.

“Put your hair in a ponytail,” I say. “They wouldn’t let you wear it down if you were serving food and drink to people.”

“No probs…” he says, tying it up.

On the wall a bit farther down the corridor is a large, laminated floor plan of the stadium and seating. We walk over to it and find the exact location of where Trent’s private box is.

“You sure this plan of yours will work?” he asks me.

“Nope… but it’s a really good plan, and if it
does
work, it will be a brilliant way to get rid of someone like Wilson Trent once and for all.”

“He certainly won’t see it coming, that’s for sure.”

“No one expects me to think this much about something, that’s why.”

“No kidding!”

“Screw you,” I say with a smile. “Right, you go find some props, I’ll wait for my cue.”

We set off in different directions, knowing that in little under an hour, this could all be over.