One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (6 page)

I nod again to show my understanding.

“Thanks,” I say. I squeeze the trigger once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead.

I turn and walk back into the kitchen. Josh is over by the counter on the left hand side, leaning against it looking bored. Billy’s sitting at the table, resting on his elbows and intermittently twitching in his seat and looking in random directions—like he keeps seeing a fly in front of him and he’s trying to see where it’s gone.

Without saying a word, and before he even had chance to look up, I take aim and fire, shooting Billy in the side of the head. The spray of crimson hits the back door and window above the sink, and his body falls off the chair, crumpling to the floor.

“We’re leaving,” I say to Josh.

I turn and head for the front door leaving Josh standing, wide-eyed and speechless, looking at Billy’s dead body.

9.

MEANWHILE…

OCTOBER 2
ND
, 2014

10:08

It was a cool, gray day as Jimmy Manhattan walked down North Thirteenth Street in Allentown. He had a new, charcoal gray three-piece suit on under a long overcoat, with new, shiny black shoes. Since arriving in the city the previous day, he’d immediately checked himself into a suite at The Carrington—a very expensive hotel near the center of the city. From there, he’d contacted Paulie Tarantina, advising him that he was in the city and asking him to gather as many people still loyal to him as he could find, and arrange a meeting at a local bar. It was a modest establishment previously owned by Roberto Pellaggio, and Manhattan was on good terms with the current manager.

He walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his collar turned up against the wind. While it wasn’t too cold, he was feeling the effects a little more after sustaining his injuries and the subsequent stint in hospital.

He felt the Walther PPK against his arm. He had it in a holster under his suit jacket. He was no stranger to violence, and was comfortable using a gun if he needed to. In the past, he had simply relied on his reputation to avoid any confrontations, but now things were different, and he realized that, at least for the time being, he would be wise to protect himself.

He took a left on Liberty Street and walked along until he came to Walkers Sports Bar. Out of habit, he glanced around before opening the door and walking inside.

It took a moment for his aging eyes to adjust to the poorly lit interior. It was quiet, as places like that tended to be at that time in the morning. The bar ran along the right hand side, with one guy standing behind it cleaning the glasses. He looked up, nodded once at Manhattan, and then resumed his duties.

Manhattan walked through the bar area toward a huge TV screen mounted on the far wall. The whole area was full of tables and chairs, for when big sporting events were being shown there. Approaching it, he saw stairs off to the left, leading to another large, open plan bar area above. He went up and saw another bar facing him, although there was no one behind this one. To the right were some tables and a door leading to the restrooms. On the left, at the back of the room, was a group of men—maybe fifteen or so, all of varying heights and widths and ages. There was low, idle chatter among them, which stopped as Manhattan appeared.

He walked over and stood in front of them, eyeing each one individually for a moment, seeing who was present.

“Gentleman,” he began as he took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a nearby chair. “Thank you for coming.”

Tarantina stepped forward and extended his hand to Manhattan. He was short and slightly overweight, but still a well-built man. In his late forties, his weathered face had seen some difficult days, and his dark eyes had a stern glint in them, that hid something but betrayed nothing. He had thick, dark hair was flecked with gray, and a moustache the same.

Manhattan shook his hand firmly.

“Paulie,” he said. “I appreciate you arranging this meeting on such short notice.”

“Anythin’ for you, Boss,” he replied in a strong Philadelphian accent.

“Here’s where we stand, gentleman,” said Manhattan, now addressing the crowd. “When Roberto Pellaggio died, his surviving son, Danny, took over the family business with myself acting as his advisor. We put things into motion that didn’t pan out, and as a result, Danny was killed and I was shot and hospitalized.”

He paused and surveyed the crowd. There was no emotion, no concern, just understanding of the facts. Also, no sign of any loyalty to the Pellaggio’s, just as he’d hoped.

“I’ve called you all here today,” he continued, “because I believe you are all like me—looking for an opportunity to start over... create something that will become great. I’m looking to build a new business on the East Coast, where I started out many years ago, and I want you all to be a part of it. Thanks to the work by our friend, Paulie, I’m aware of a number of small-time operations and businesses in this city, which I believe would benefit from new management. I’m eternally grateful to all of you for your support, and I can promise you, quite honestly, that you’ll be rewarded handsomely for it. In the meantime, if you have any contacts of your own that you trust, you’re welcome to introduce them to our new family.”

There was a murmur of agreement and approval over what he said. Manhattan took a deep breath and allowed himself a small smile. Everything was working out nicely—exactly as he’d planned.

“So how do we do this?” asked one man toward the back of the room.

Manhattan paused for a moment, to make sure he used the most effective wording possible. “We will co-ordinate our efforts and reconnaissance and, looking at the locations of these businesses, aim to make our approach to them simultaneously.”

There was another murmur among the crowd, this time of shock and excitement.

“That’s a pretty gutsy move,” said another man, admiringly.

“Yes, it is,” Manhattan agreed. “When you’re starting out, you need to make a bold statement. In one swift and uncompromising strike, we will establish ourselves as the driving force in this city. Anyone who doesn’t join us will be removed. Is that clear?”

A final rumble of agreement rose in the room.

“Thank you for your time, gentleman. Keep your phones close by—instructions will follow later today.” He looked at Tarantina. “Paulie?”

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Tarantina shook a couple of hands as he made his way over to Manhattan.

“Boss?” he said.

“You’ve done the leg work on all the people operating in Allentown. Is there anyone you’re concerned about?”

He shook his head.

“Not really. There’s one guy who probably accounts for a third of all activity in the city—much bigger than the rest. He might be less willing to cut us in, but that still shouldn’t be a problem. Especially when we’ll have everyone else behind us.”

“Good. I’ll let you work out the logistics. You’ll be able to reach me at my suite at The Carrington. Keep me updated.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Tarantina turned and walked back to the thinning crowd of men, and Manhattan put his overcoat back on and headed downstairs.

He left the bar and made the short walk back to his hotel, took the elevator up to his floor and entered his room. He laid his coat and suit jacket on the bed, and then walked over to the large window that ran floor to ceiling, un-strapping his holster and placing it on the table next to him. He put his hands in his pockets and stared out at the city below him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

All that lay before him would soon be his.

10.

ADRIAN HELL

10:31

Josh hasn’t spoken much since last night at Billy McCoy’s house. No disputing that I had to take those guys out—I can’t run the risk of Trent getting word that I’m back in town just yet. I have to keep the element of surprise, as that’s pretty much the only advantage I’ve got.

After leaving McCoy’s place, we went back to the hotel and got some sleep, then set off early this morning to get a quick breakfast before paying a visit to Shakes.

We found a nice little café just a short walk from where we’re staying. It looked clean and the menu looked appetizing, so we’ve come in, found a table, and placed our order.

The tables are a standard marble-effect with a wooden trim, and the booths are an aged red color. A row of seating runs in front of the counter, with a smaller stretch of booths down each side. The large window looks out at the parking lot out front.

“Adrian,” says Josh, as a waitress brings our coffee over, “about last night...”

“It was necessary,” I say, cutting him off before he has chance to say anything else. “We couldn’t risk them talking to Trent before we’ve had chance to plan our attack.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he counters. “But you’ve always,
always
pulled the trigger for a price, and even then, it was after I’d convinced you the target was deserving of a bullet. That’s how we work, man. Last night...” He trails off momentarily, as if he’s searching for the right words. “…Last night you executed them, Adrian. I saw it in your eyes—there was nothing. No remorse or hesitation. I know I’m hardly in a position to argue the finer points of morality, given what we do for a living, but to me there’s a difference between being an assassin and being a murderer. I saw you cross that line last night, Adrian... And it scared the shit outta me.”

I take a sip of my coffee and think about what he’s just said. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I just see myself as being on a job and doing what I need to do, so I can get to the target—who, in this case, is Wilson Trent. I’ve done much worse for the sake of a contract than kill a drug addict and his dealer. I’m genuinely struggling to see his point, but at the same time, I know he wouldn’t have said anything if there was nothing to it.

I take a deep breath and sigh heavily.

“Look,” I begin. “This isn’t just another contract. This is Wilson Trent. I’d tear this world apart if it meant I could put a bullet in his head. You said yourself this has been a long time coming. You must’ve known that once we got here, there would be no holding back? That I’d show zero restraint in going after him?”

Josh nods his head slowly, reluctantly conceding my point.

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “I guess, even after all these years, it’s just strange seeing you act in a way that I can’t justify.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like I’ve said, when we get a contract, we do our research and take them out. There’s no emotion there... it’s just a job. And I think knowing that makes it easy for me to justify doing it. But there was no job last night—no contract or moral justification. You simply murdered two people in cold blood—albeit really horrible people... but nevertheless, the lack of... anything on your part just looked borderline psychopathic.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Josh—I do. But I’m not apologizing. I fully intend killing a lot more people before this ends, and every one of them will likely deserve it. Every now and then, my demons need to come out so they don’t consume me. And I’m fortunate that my life allows that with some level of valid reasoning. I’m not a mindless psychopath or a calculated serial killer, I’m a professional assassin—I rely on my darkness to keep me alive. And I rely on you to keep me in check—which you do a spectacular job of, by the way.”

He smiles. “Ah, shucks!”

We both laugh, and any tension quickly disperses.

“I appreciate you speaking up,” I add. “But I need you to be okay with whatever I decide is necessary here.”

He shrugs. “I remember watching you via that satellite feed take out Roberto Pellaggio and his small army in the space of about ten minutes. That guy had pushed you farther than I thought possible, and he deserved everything he got. It was insanely beautiful to watch. But last night, Billy McCoy hadn’t done anything to you, and you still unleashed that tiny Satan of yours. I guess I’m just used to seeing more… provocation. But I know why we’re here and the bottom line is: whatever it takes. Right?”

“Amen, brother.”

I lean over the table and we bump fists just as the waitress brings us our breakfasts. We eat heartily, pay the check, and head back to the hotel to collect our things. We’re in the Winnebago and on the road within twenty minutes.

“Okay, so where is this place, do you know?” I ask, as we stop at a red light.

“It’s in Hazelwood,” he replies. “Not far from here. We’re gonna have to be discreet with this though, Boss. If this
is
one of Trent’s businesses, he’ll have security cameras, hired muscle on site, you name it. You’re about to make yourself very visible, and we need to minimize that as much as possible.”

I smile. “It will be as if I’m a gentle breeze, disturbing no one.”

He quickly throws me a skeptical glance. “Bullshit. Not only does that not even make sense, we all know you’re about as subtle as a tank.”

I shrug. “Guilty... But I’ll do my best.”

“Just give me five minutes when we get there before you go in, see what I can do with my toys to help you out.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe get the blueprints of the building, disable the security feed, use satellite imagery to see who’s inside...”

“Christ, you can
do
all that?”

Josh simply smiles and focuses on the road.

“Jesus...” I say quietly, shaking my head and laughing. “I’m glad you’re on my side…”

11:22

The drive was reasonably short and uneventful, and twenty minutes later, we pulled up opposite the club. I get up and move into the back of the Winnebago, retrieving my guns from my travel bag and attaching the holster to the base of my back. I pull my jacket on and adjust it so it covers them. Josh appears next to me, sitting down at the workbench and turning on his laptop.

“Right, gimme a minute,” he says as his fingers move over the keys like a pianist in the middle of a concerto. I watch the screen as he works his magic, different windows opening and closing in a blur. “Okay, here are the schematics for the building,” he says, pointing to the screen. “At the back of the main club area, you have two doors—one straight ahead and one off to the right. The one that will be facing you leads to a corridor at the back of the building. Turn left to the office and right to the changing rooms.”

“Okay, so I’ll head for the office and see who’s there. You got a head count yet?”

“One second, and... yes! Thermal satellite imagery of the area is up and running. You know, I even impress myself sometimes!”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Well, at least you impress
someone
,” I say, laughing.

“Piss off... Right, looking at this, the place actually looks open for business...”

“Really? It’s not even noon! Who goes to a strip club before lunch?”

“I imagine it’s not a very diverse group of people,” he offers, smiling. “This does pose a small problem though.”

“Yeah...witnesses. Not counting the customers, how many targets am I looking at?”

He taps away at the laptop and enhances one section of the feed.

“Well, ignoring everyone in the main area, you’ve got two in the office, four in the changing rooms and one behind the bar. And what I can’t see are any security cameras, so I can’t jam the signal I’m afraid.”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s out the back?”

“As you approach the office, there’s a fire exit on the right hand wall. That leads to a sheltered area, then the parking lot.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

I pick up Josh’s baseball cap from the counter and put it on, pulling it low over my forehead. Without another word, I open the back door and jump down to the sidewalk. The cool wind hits me, and the gray skies still threaten a downpour. I turn the collar of my jacket up, dig my hands in my pockets, and set off across the street.

I casually walk through the doors, entering a short corridor with a ticket booth on the left, for people to pay their entrance fee at night. Posters advertising special events in the club cover the walls. I carry on and, at the end, I descend down a small staircase. At the bottom is an un-manned hole-in-the-wall counter on the right for your coats. I walk past it to another set of doors and go through to the main club and bar area. I stand just inside the doors, looking out at the club. There’s a faint smell of stale sweat—presumably the remnants of the previous nights’ activities. There are a couple of steps down, then the club floor spreads out in front of me and away to both sides.

I haven’t had much experience of strip clubs, but inside it looks exactly like I imagined it would. It’s dark, with a pale red glow coming from lights fitted around the walls, enhanced in places by a bright spotlight in the ceiling. I rub my eyes a little to focus, as it’s so gloomy compared to the light outside—it’s taking a moment for them to adjust. To the left is a semi-circular bar, with one very tired looking waiter behind it.

Several low, square tables are scattered all around, each with a number of cheap-looking armchairs around them. On the right is a stage with a pole in the center. There’s a young woman, dressed in quite possibly the smallest bikini I’ve ever seen, spinning herself around, much to the general indifference of the four or five men who are sitting and watching. They look miserable, all approaching sixty and all nursing a glass of spirits. Another woman, also wearing next-to-nothing is strolling around, trying to attract attention. Our eyes meet briefly as I look around and she immediately heads straight for me.

“Hey there, handsome,” she says as she approaches—her New York accent being made to sound as seductive as possible. “I’m Tammy. Are you looking for some company?”

She flashes me a practiced smile and steps in close, stroking my left arm. She has almost-white blonde hair—I’m guessing it’s from a bottle, as her roots are dark—and light blue eyes accentuated by, in my opinion, far too much dark eyeliner. Her lips are glowing red, and her well-looked-after toned body is sun-bed brown. In addition to her bikini…or lingerie or whatever—I’m not sure what you’d call it—she has black heels on, which make her a good three or four inches taller than she actually is. Even so, she barely comes up to my shoulder, so I figure her for five-two or five-three.

I raise an eyebrow slightly as I look at her. There’s no denying she’s attractive. I very much doubt she’s over twenty-one, which makes her less appealing to me, given I’m forty-three in a few months.

“I’m here to see your boss,” I say. “His name’s Tommy Blunt, I believe.”

I know he isn’t here, because I know Trent killed him a couple of days ago, but it’s interesting to see her reaction. To her credit, she never misses a beat, but I see the momentary flash of alarm in her eyes.

“Mr. Blunt isn’t here today, sugar,” she says. Her hand moves from my arm to my chest. “Maybe…
I
can help you?”

Again with the practiced smile… I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

“What about his right hand man, Jonas Pike? Is he here?”

She takes a step away from me, her entire demeanor suddenly changing—her charms giving way to a defensiveness only seen in the perpetually afraid.

“Okay, who the fuck are you?” she asks, her seductive accent replaced by a very broad Yankee drawl.

“I wouldn’t worry about minor details like that,” I reply. “I just wanna have a word with the man in charge.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that our little exchange has caught the attention of the bartender. I also notice his right hand disappearing briefly underneath the counter. A few moments later, the door Josh mentioned at the far end opens and two guys purposefully walk out, heading straight for me.

The bartender must’ve hit a panic button of some kind…

“Tammy, right?” I say to the woman. “You might wanna take yourself someplace else for a minute.”

She looks over her shoulder at the two brutes approaching, then looks back at me.

“Whatever,” she says with a casual shrug. “It’s your funeral.”

She strides off with an over-emphasized shake of her hips as the two men stop in front of me. Both are dressed the same—a fitted black t-shirt over a steroid-induced muscular torso, with arms covered in bad tattoos. They’re wearing light-blue jeans and black boots, completing the look of a career bouncer.

The one on the left is standing with his arms folded across his chest. He’s about my height, and has a long beard, like a biker. He has a shaved head, with a flame tattoo along the right hand side.

His friend on the right is shorter and more relaxed. I figure he’s the brains; the other guy was the brawn. He isn’t as well built as the first guy, but he’s still by no means small. He’s clean-shaven and looks the younger of the two. He has a baseball cap on, which he’s wearing backward, so I immediately take him as being a massive prick… He’s the one who speaks first.