One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (24 page)

“You want to know what I did to your boss?” I ask him. “I beat him half to death with my bare hands and then made him bite the curb. I killed him by putting my boot through the back of his head. I heard the crunch as the top of his spine snapped, and his jaw damn-near fell off.”

I can feel the gun start to quiver slightly against my head. I don’t know if it’s down to anger or fear, or both—I don’t care, either. It doesn’t matter. The point is that he’s emotional, and he’s going to make a mistake. And when he does, I’ll kill him.

“Nice speech,” says Manhattan. “But, I’m afraid, very much un-necessary.”

The door opens and another fifteen well-armed men dash in and form a wide semi-circle between the door and me.

Ignoring the gun, I do a slow three-sixty of the room, turning clockwise and looking around to buy myself some time while I figure out my next play. I have fifteen men between the door and me. Next is a mostly empty space with a goldfish bowl on a stand in front of the large windows. Then there’s the desk with Manhattan behind it and three men in front of him. The other guy, brought in with Manhattan, was sitting on the sofa, bleeding from a bullet wound and looking faint. And finally, the far wall on the right is, again, mostly empty, save for some artwork on the walls and a display cabinet containing two identical samurai swords that are probably worth more than I can imagine.

I clench my jaw muscles tightly in silent frustration as my number of viable options for survival decreases by the minute.

“As you can see, Adrian,” he continues. “Any threat you make is futile. You’re done. I’ve waited a long time to see you die, and I intend enjoying every second of it.”

With Josh down for the count still, Bennett walks over to the desk and places his gun down in front of Manhattan. “Can I have the pleasure of beating him to death for you?” he asks.

Manhattan couldn’t smile any wider if he tried. “Be my guest,” he replies, before turning to Duncan. “Both of you can have a little fun, if you’d like.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Duncan, whose emotions are slowly being replaced by a wicked, confident smile. I let out a heavy sigh and brace for the inevitable. And sure enough, before Duncan put his gun down, he whips it into the side of my head, forcing me to one knee while the throbbing subsides.

I know they’re both trained fighters, and I know not to underestimate their abilities. But I also know that, quite simply, I’m better.

Bennett is in front of me, with Duncan to my right. I’m still down on one knee, holding the side of my head. Waiting…

Bennett comes at me first. He throws a kick with his left leg, executed perfectly—he swings it round in a wide arc, his leg stiff. He’s thrown his hip over, putting every ounce of momentum behind the kick. He’s aiming for the side of my head, and if it connects, that one blow will end things right here, right now.

But I knew it was coming. I’ve been watching him. Out of the two of them, he clearly thinks of himself as the more senior, which means he was going to want to go first. And I’ve been watching his stance.

After speaking to Manhattan, he turns and puts his right foot forward, with his back leg on the ball of his foot. I’m on one knee, which practically begs for a head kick. As it swings around, I jump up and hook my right arm around his leg, grabbing hold and absorbing some of the blow in my side.

But I’d met his leg, instead of waiting for it to come to me, so it hadn’t quite gained full momentum and consequently doesn’t have the stopping power it would have otherwise. With his left leg held out straight, and a look of complete shock on his face, I step through and thrust my left foot through his right kneecap, snapping his leg in half. I let go of his left leg, and he collapses on the floor, writhing and screaming in agony.

One down…

I turn to Duncan, who is also standing frozen in shock at how swift and brutal my defense is.

One to go…

We face each other and I wait for his move. His stance is loose, and his guard high; his years of training making him a very effective fighter. Patience is the key to beating him. Let him come to me, then defend and counter…

His eyes never leave mine, and they’re burning bright with rage. I know what story my eyes are telling. After years and years of fighting and killing, I know what my Inner Satan looks like. It sometimes even frightens me, so God knows what this guy’s thinking right now.

He snaps a jab forward, falling short of the mark, then follows it with a huge straight right. Knowing the jab wouldn’t come near me, I position myself for the obvious follow-up.

I side step to the left and bring my right arm up, bending it to guard the right side of my head and creating a lethal point with my elbow. I time it perfectly, and his punch connects with my bent elbow at full speed. Even as the rain battered the glass all around us, and the thunder and lightning assault the skyline, I hear the crunch as the bones in his hand shatter under the impact. He screams, dropping his guard to hold his injured hand and taking a step back.

“You bastard!” he yells.

Ignoring him, I swing a loose, half-powered left hook that catches him on the unguarded right-hand side of his face. Instinctively, he raises his left arm up in a weak attempt at blocking, but in doing so, he exposes his ribs on the left. I drop my right shoulder, duck low, and unleash a right hook in his side, just below his armpit. The ribs there are like matchsticks, and it only takes one decent punch to shatter them.

Again, the sound of splintering bones echoes around the room, which has quickly fallen silent in shock. Duncan crashes to the floor, and I simply stand, breathing heavily but otherwise completely unaffected by their joint effort to kill me. I turn to look at Manhattan, whose arrogant smile has faded, replaced by an all-too-familiar look of resentment and frustration. I say nothing. I simply stare at him—my face devoid of all emotion.

Manhattan takes Bennett’s gun from his desk and aims it at me. “You think that means anything?” he asks. “You think you still stand any chance of making it out of here alive? You’re surrounded by nineteen guns. Even the mighty Adrian Hell can’t survive this!”

I smile, slowly. His face turns from anger to uncertainty almost instantly. “You don’t get it, do you?” I say, rhetorically. “Even though I agreed to work for you, and took the opportunity to have you owe me one, it’s not completely unexpected that you’d stab me in the back the first chance you got, given our history. End of the day, I only came to this city to kill Trent, and I did. I came here afterward to burn his legacy to the ground, for no other reason than I was angry and it was something to do to let off some steam. I’ve been building up to this day for almost a decade, and now I’ve done what I set out to do, I honestly don’t care if I get out of here in one piece or not. I’m done. I’m tired. I want to stop. People like me don’t retire with their pensions, Jimmy. People like me kill for a living and when we go, we go out in a blaze of glory. But let me tell you this: if tonight is my last night, I’m making damn sure there’s nothing left of Wilson Trent. And that includes what remains of his business. You’ve taken over? Fine—just means you get to die before I do.”

He lowers his gun, regarding me for a moment as silence descends. All around, the armed men look uneasy. Far below us, I figure the corrupt cops are standing by, waiting for their orders. Next to me, Josh has taken a seat on the sofa opposite Manhattan’s injured man. He looks at me and smiles weakly. He would’ve heard my speech, but knowing we’re still surrounded, he’ll know there’s nothing to argue about or discuss.

“I say again,” I continue. “If tonight’s my night, I promise you that you’re dying first.”

Manhattan glances around the room and the clacking noise of eighteen guns being aimed directly at me fills my ears. He raises his again, his finger squeezing lightly against the trigger.

“For a year and a half, you’ve been a pain in my ass, Adrian,” he says. “I had to play nice with you to get this far, and it’s made me sick, but it was the only way. When the opportunity arose, I knew I had to play it just right to gradually involve you and set you up for this very moment. And it worked perfectly. Apart from Paulie over there getting shot, it couldn’t have gone any better. Now… goodbye, Adrian.”

I watch as his finger tightens even more on the trigger. I look over at Josh quickly, exchanging a moment in which I silently apologize and he silently tells me to forget about it. Then, I simply close my eyes and wait to hear the brief sound of bullets before an eternal darkness washes over me...

36.

22:13

Huh... still no gunfire.

What’s going on? It’s been at least twenty seconds… what are they waiting for?

Wait… what’s that? It sounds like… is that a helicopter?

I open my eyes and see Jimmy Manhattan standing in front of me, still pointing his gun at me but looking distracted, like he’s listening for something.

That’s definitely a helicopter. Even over this storm, I hear the blades whirring away, getting closer with each second that ticks by.

I look around at Josh, who’s clearly heard it too—he’s moved to the edge of his seat and is straining to listen over the noise of the rain barraging against the glass and the thunder and lightning rampaging across the sky outside.

I glance at the eighteen men who are surrounding me. They’ve not moved an inch, but they’re all exchanging uncertain glances with each other as they presumably wait for Manhattan to give the order to open fire.

As I turn back around, to look at Manhattan, a UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter banks to its right and swings into view outside, almost level with where I’m standing. Manhattan turns to see it. The men surrounding me do the same.

I see a bright flash and instinctively drop to the ground as gunfire suddenly erupts, shattering the glass and cutting through the group of men like a hot knife through butter. I’m lying face down with my arms covering my head. I glance behind me to make sure Josh has found some cover too. I can’t see him, so I’m guessing he has.

I roll away to my left, past the desk, and toward the empty space in the office. I look up at the helicopter hovering outside with murderous intent. A flash of lightning illuminates the night sky, and I glimpse Frank Stanton hanging out of the side of the chopper holding an assault rifle.

I laugh out loud. Sonofabitch!

Josh appears next to me, sliding to a stop and planting himself flat against the floor.

“What the hell’s going on?” he yells.

“It’s Frank!” I reply over the noise. “That crazy bastard’s leaning out the back of Oscar’s helicopter with an M-16!”

I roll over on my back and lift my head to look toward the door. Out of the eighteen men Manhattan had protecting him, I count fourteen of them down and out already. There’s an insane amount of blood covering the walls, like someone has dipped a huge brush in red paint and flicked the bristles all around. The four who remain alive are trying to find some cover and return fire.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Manhattan’s man, Paulie, hit the floor in between the sofas, but I can’t tell if he’s seeking cover or has taken another bullet.

“Get out of here,” I shout to Josh. “Pick your spot and run for the door. Get Trent’s money altogether in one of our accounts and lie low. I’ll contact you when this is over.”

He shakes his head. “No way, Boss!” he yells back. “We leave here together, or not at all!”

We’re lying to the side of the desk, which is still the only effective cover in the room, despite having splintered beyond recognition from the onslaught of bullets. Manhattan’s on the floor, on the other side, frantically scrambling across the room, off to the right and away from the gunfire.

“I’m finishing this before I go anywhere,” I say, pointing to Manhattan.

“I’ll save the I-told-you-so for if we get out of here!” Josh says.

“Can’t wait…”

I raise a hand over the desk, to try to catch Frank’s attention and get him to quit shooting. After a few moments of me waving, he must’ve either seen me or run out of bullets, as he stops firing. I stand, slowly; squinting as the wind and rain blasts through the broken glass from outside and stings my face. I look out at Frank, who I can see is now sitting down in the back of the helicopter, smiling. He gives me a salute, which I return. He then leans forward and taps Oscar on his shoulder, signaling it’s over, and the helicopter pulls away and disappears above us, out of sight.

The sound of the storm fades in as my hearing returns to normal. I survey the room, looking around for anyone left alive. It seems Frank managed to take out all the men…

BANG!

What the…? I spin around, stepping back into a fighting stance on instinct, despite being aware that a punch is futile in a gunfight. Josh is down on one knee holding one of my Berettas. He’s aiming past me and away to the right corner. I follow his gaze and see the last man sliding down the wall to the floor, leaving a dark red stain behind him.

“Thanks,” I say, turning back to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. “Now will you go and kill Manhattan already!”

I walk away to the right, toward the display case with the samurai swords on their stand. The glass has shattered, like every window has. The wind is strong and it’s whipping the rain into the room, making the floor wet and slippery. Broken shards crunch underfoot as I stride purposefully toward Manhattan, who’s sitting with his back to the other side of the display case stand.

“Jimmy!” I shout. “Get your ass out here!”

Manhattan stands and steps out into view. He doesn’t have a weapon, and his suit has ripped in several places from the glass.

“You’re done,” I say to him. “And I’m gonna do what I should’ve done the first time we met…”

“I’m not letting you take everything away from me again!” he shouts. “I’ve worked too hard and been through too much to lose it all now!”

He grabs one of the swords and unsheathes it, revealing a very shiny and very sharp blade about three feet long. He grabs the hilt with both hands and charges at me.

Being unarmed against a weapon is never ideal, but I can usually manage in most situations. But I have to admit, I’ve never gone up against a sword before. The length of the blade means I can’t get in too close without being stabbed or sliced, and there’s little I can do from distance with my fists. I have to maneuver myself close to him… I’m working on the assumption that Manhattan isn’t a secret samurai master or anything. But he’s lethal by nature, and I remember all too well his skills with a small blade… I’m not about to underestimate him.

I take a step toward him, and he swings the blade down at me, left to right. I lean back to avoid it and spin to my right, putting a little distance between us. As he loses his footing from the momentum of the swing, I take the opportunity to move farther round toward the display case, taking the remaining sword. I draw it from its sheath and hold it in my right hand, familiarizing myself with its weight. It’s a gorgeous weapon—the hilt is gold, adorned with blue and red crystals and formed at the end into the shape of a dragon’s head.

Manhattan turns, raising his sword once more, poised for another attack. I hold mine out horizontally with one hand, lining the tip of it up with his chest.

“So, we’re going to duel this out like two old-fashioned gentlemen?” I ask.

For a man who’s in his mid-fifties, he’s still pretty lively. He says nothing; he just screams with a visceral hatred and runs at me again. As he gets close, he lifts the sword high and slashes it down. I bring mine up to meet his, parrying the strike off to the left, leaving his left hand side temporarily exposed. I step forward and thrust my right foot into his stomach, forcing him backward. He loses his footing on the wet floor again and falls on his ass.

“Fuck you, Adrian! You are my
nemesis
!” he snarls as he struggles to his feet.

“Really?” I say. “You’re nothing to me. You’re something I’d scrape off my boot and forget about.”

I wait for his next attack. He’s breathing heavily, and he’s far too emotional to do anything remotely effective. This fight’s already over.

He winces as he gets back to his feet; the effects from the kick to the stomach make his deep, heavy breaths look that little bit more painful. When he raises the sword again, even with two hands, he’s noticeably struggling with the weight.

He takes one step and swings it up from his right hip across at me. I step back and left, so the blade moves away from me. As it does, I hit it with my sword, giving it added momentum that carries Manhattan away with it. He falls forward, his face bouncing off the floor and the sword flying from his hand. He slides a little on the wet floor, shards of glass cutting into his skin. He stops very close to the edge, where one of many thick glass windows once stood between Wilson Trent and a thirty story drop.

“Get up,” I say, walking toward him. “Get on your feet and face me, you sad little shit.”

He pushes himself up on all fours and looks back at me.

“You’ve destroyed everything, you sonofabitch!” he yells. “Everything!”

“Well, it serves you right for trying to make a living as a crime lord, when all you were ever good for was cleaning Pellaggio’s shoes. You crossed me for the third time. That’s two times more than anyone else ever has. And now it ends. Stand… the fuck… up!”

Slowly but surely he gets to his feet again, standing in front of me with his back mere inches away from the city below us, defiant to the end. The wind whips through the entire top floor of the building. With every window decimated and every inch of the floor covered in blood and glass, the cold rain blows in unhindered, stinging my face. I raise my sword, resting the blade on Manhattan’s left shoulder.

“Any last words?”

“Yes,” he replies, with a sudden calmness that comes with accepting the inevitability of your own demise. “See you in hell.”

I smile at him. “Save me a seat, you arrogant old bastard.”

In a flash, holding the sword in my right hand, I spin clockwise in a circle, whipping the blade around and cutting Manhattan’s head clean off. As I complete my turn, before his decapitated body can slump to the floor, I lash out with my left foot and kick him out of the window and into the storm. I look down as his head rolls to a stop a few feet away in the corner of the room.

I look over at Josh, expecting a sarcastic comment or something, but he’s just standing there with an apologetic look on his face. Next to him is Paulie, his torso covered in blood from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. In his good arm, he has a hold of one of my Berettas, and he’s aiming it at Josh’s head.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Josh!” I say. “I turn my back for two minutes…”

“I was distracted watching you go all Highlander over there, I didn’t see the sneaky little bastard coming up behind me,” he replies, sounding almost embarrassed.

“Hey, assholes,” interrupts Paulie. “I’m standing right here, and I’ve got the gun, so how’s about you both shut the fuck up, okay?”

I throw my sword to the floor, the clanging of the metal echoing around the room over the persistent noise of the wind and rain. Thunder rumbles outside as I stare at my gun in the hands of someone else and feel a renewed anger inside.

“Look, I don’t know you,” I say to him. “I’ve killed a lot of people in a short space of time, including two of the biggest criminal masterminds in the country. I’m tired. Just take this opportunity and piss off, will you? It’s a one-time only offer.”

Josh drops to one knee and slams his elbow into Tarantina’s stomach. He grunts and lets go of my gun, taken by surprise and not strong enough to do much about it. As he doubles over, Josh stands again, bringing his right knee up into his exposed face. Tarantina flies backward, landing spread-eagled on his back, unconscious.

“Thanks, Boss,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply. “You about ready to get out of here?”

“I am, but there’s one slight issue with that…”

“You mean all the cops outside?”

“Yeah, I imagine they’re having a field day with that headless corpse that just landed on ‘em!”

We both laugh, and bump fists.

“That was just beautiful, Adrian. I didn’t know you could handle a sword so well…”

“Me neither,” I admit with a shrug. “Saw it in a movie once and thought I’d try it.”

Josh laughs. “Even your pop culture references end with a dead body!”

I smile and walk over to retrieve my Berettas, holstering them both at my back.

“So, seriously man, how are we getting out of here?” Josh asks.

“Maybe I can help you out with that?” says a voice from over by the door.

We both look up and see Frank standing there, smiling. I walk over and extend my hand, which he shakes firmly.

“You missed all the fun,” I say. “Did you get the girl to safety?”

“Oscar flew us to the hospital,” he explains. “I made sure she was safe and left her to check herself in—figured it’d prompt too many questions if I went in with her.”

“Smart. I wonder who she was… and why Trent kidnapped her?”

He shakes his head and shrugs. “No idea. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t seem ready to talk to me, so I didn’t push her. Just dropped her off then flew back here to save your ass.”

“Whatever—I had it all under control…”

“Sure you did, Adrian.”

The three of us laugh, and then walk slowly back to the roof. The storm is still raging as we open the door, and lightning forks across the sky as the rain bounces head high off the ground. The helicopter blades start up and as we climb inside, Oscar turns around in the pilot’s seat.