True Conviction (29 page)

I realize that every single shred of data on Dark Rain is inside that old military base. They don’t exist anywhere else in the world, except on the outskirts of Heaven’s Valley.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the detonator, looking at it in my hand for a moment. There’s nothing to think about. I know what I need to do. I know what’s right.

“Bob,” I shout after him.

He stops at the side of the truck, one hand on the door and looks over. I hold the detonator in my hand high in the air for him to see.

“I can't let you go in there. I'm sorry.”

“What do you mean?” he shouts back, the panic clear in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“After everything they’ve done, I’m not interested in their assets or their secrets. I want them erased from history. It’s the very least Ketranovich deserves—his legacy to disappear in smoke.”

Realizing what I’m going to do, he sets off running toward me, his right arm outstretched in a futile attempt to reach for something he’s nowhere near.

“Adrian, no!”

But he isn’t going to stop me. No one is. I think of Clara, hoping she’s still in the compound somewhere. I think of Natalia, who I
know
is still in there. Finally, I picture Ketranovich, lying dead on the floor, beaten.

With that image in my mind, I squeeze the trigger.

September 17
th
, 2013

I’M SITTING ON a worn, brown leather stool, resting on the bar of a small little place in Colorado Springs. I’m wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, with my brown boots. My shoulder bag is by my feet, resting against the bar stool. In front of me is an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser and next to that, a shot of whiskey.

The bar isn’t exactly busy. There are a few small groups of two or three people dotted around the place. The bar has the obligatory pool table in the corner, with three low lights hanging above it. There’s a jukebox attached to the back wall, next to a door that leads to the back where the restrooms are.

I take a long drink of my beer. It’s been over three weeks since I left Heaven’s Valley. I was in a hospital for three days, courtesy of GlobaTech. My knife wound didn’t cause any permanent damage. The blood I’d lost had caused the most trouble, and it didn’t take long to recover from that. GlobaTech spared no expense on my medical treatment, which was nice of them. Robert Clark was pretty pissed at me for pressing the button and destroying Dark Rain’s military base though.

Well, destroyed doesn’t sufficiently describe what happened to that compound. Every square inch was completely obliterated, and there’s now a crater there a quarter of a mile wide and about the same deep. I’d spoken to Josh when I got out of hospital and he said he saw the explosion via the satellite feed he’d linked into. He said it was one of the most spectacular things he’d ever seen.

I still have no idea whether Clara was in there when it blew up. I know the bodies of Ketranovich and the two Salikovs were. Three out of four isn’t bad, I guess.

I'd reduced Dark Rain to nothing but dust and myth. Pellaggio was dead and buried. The government was protecting the Uranium mine and, despite recent events, I can now count one of the biggest private military contractors in the country as an ally.

Aside from the uncertainty about Clara, I’d say I’ve come out of that whole situation in a pretty good position.

Once I’d left the hospital, I'd taken the first Greyhound bus out of Heaven’s Valley. I’d told Josh to leave me be for a week or two. I needed the rest and the peace and quiet. I’d made my way down through Phoenix before heading over to Colorado Springs, where I’d been for the last four days. It’s a nice place. Been here almost a week and no one’s tried to kill me yet, which is a marked improvement on Heaven’s Valley.

I walk over to the jukebox and feed some quarters into it. I cycle through the playlists and choose some songs that catch my eye. My phone rings as I’m selecting the last song. It’s Josh.

“Hey,” I say. “You alright?”

“I’m doing fine, Boss,” he replies. “You all rested up?”

“I’m getting there. I’m just enjoying the downtime, to be honest. How’s things with you?”

“Not too bad. I've spoken with Clark on and off since you left town. Figured it couldn’t hurt to keep in touch and maybe whore ourselves out to them every now and then?”

I walk back t o my stool and sit down, smiling. “No, I guess not.”

“Other than that, I’ve got a few jobs which you can look at when you’re ready to get back to it.”

“Maybe in a few days. Listen, has there been any...” I stop mid-sentence. “Never mind.”

“Any sign of Clara?” he offers.

I sigh. “Yeah... Anything at all?”

“Nothing. But she’ll forever be on our own little Most Wanted list.”

“You better believe it.”

The music starts playing in the background—the first of my song choices. I figured we’d start off with something mellow.

“Is that
Carry On, Wayward Son
by Kansas I can hear in the background?” asks Josh.

“Certainly is, my friend,” I reply, smiling.

‘Then I shall leave you to enjoy what I imagine is a bottle of Bud and a shot of whiskey in peace.’

I laugh. “There’s a lot to be said for predictability.”

“Take care, Boss.”

He hangs up, leaving me to my bar stool, my drink and my music. I take another pull of my beer and signal to the barman to open me another.

Carry on my wayward son… They’ll be peace when you are done…

Lay your weary head to rest… Don’t you cry no more…

I forget myself for a moment, enjoying the song, the beer, and the welcome return to anonymity.

I figure I’ll have another couple of drinks, head to a motel for some sleep and move on in the morning. I’m thinking of heading back to my hometown of Omaha for a day or two. It’s only half a day’s traveling from here, and it’ll be nice to see the old stomping ground again.

Another minute goes by and the song finishes, fading into my second choice. I went for something a little heavier with this one.

The opening riff of
Cowboys From Hell
by Pantera sounds out across the bar. One of my all-time favorites, this one. It’s real whiskey drinking music. I grab my shot and swill it around the glass for a moment before necking it.

As the barman places a fresh bottle of Bud in front of me, a man appears at my side and signals to him. He’s a tall, broad guy, with an unkempt beard and long hair. He’s wearing a red, checked shirt and jeans.

“Hey, which asshole put this crap on the jukebox?” he says to the barman.

The barman looks very uneasy, and his eyes betray him by flicking over to me. The guy turns and looks at me. I don’t bother looking at him.

“This is a nice, peaceful bar,
asshole
,” he says to me. “We don’t appreciate devil music blasting out disturbing folks.”

Devil music?

Okay, I’ll bite…

I turn on my stool to face him. “We?” I ask, with genuine curiosity.

He nods to the corner of the bar. I look over to his table, where I see two more guys, of similar build and wearing similar clothes, just getting out of their seats, watching us intently.

I sigh. It’s a loud, long, heavy sigh.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it on the bar. The barman looks at me apologetically, but I wave my hand dismissively. It’s not
his
fault this guy’s an asshole.

“That's for the drinks,” I say to him as I stand up. “I might owe you some more in a minute for the damage.”

I casually square up to the guy in the red, checked shirt, tilting my head slightly as I look at him.

“Man, you’re abusing the right to be ugly, do you know that?” I say to him.

He looks confused - probably too stupid to realize he’s being insulted.

“Seriously, it’s like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down,” I continue.

The barman hides a small smile as he steps away.

The guy in the red, checked shirt holds his ground, still more confused than angry, it seems. His two friends from the table join him.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ve had my fun. You and your boyfriends ready?”

“Ready for what?” he replies. “Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?”

I smile, moving my head slightly to crack my neck.

What a good question.

Who am I?

I take a deep breath, stepping back into a loose fighting stance.

I smile.

My name is Adrian Hell.

Welcome to my life.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James P. Sumner is an independent author who lives in Bury, Lancashire, in the U.K. He’s married with a son, and he currently works full-time as an account manager, while writing in every spare second he has. A life-long lover of thrillers, his dream has always been to write fiction and, thanks to the magic of self-publishing, he’s been able to share his stories with the world. His books have been downloaded over 10,000 times since publishing his first title back in February 2014, and that number is growing each day.

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THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES

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Hunter’s Games

One Last Bullet

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