Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4)

by Sumner, James P.

  “So, where are we really going?” I ask.

  He says nothing.

  “Okay, how about telling me who you work for?”

  Still, he remains silent.

  “Well, the rest of this flight isn’t going to drag at all…”

  I close my eyes and let my head relax. I doubt he’ll move from covering me. The pilot can’t do anything—he’s going to fly where told. I suspect any communication with people on the ground is out of the question as well. But, we’re on a plane in a pressurized cabin, so there’s no way he’s firing his gun at me, which means I can simply dismiss him as a threat until we land. The total lack of respect and credibility I’m affording him, as my apparent captor, will likely start to eat away at him before much longer. Then he’ll get all emotional and make a mistake. Then I’ll pull his arm off and beat his brains out with the wet end.

  But until then, I might as well get some sleep.

  APRIL 11TH, 2017

  00:16 CDT

  I wake up, sitting in the same position as when I dozed off. I glance out the window and gather my senses, gently rubbing my eyes and coming round. My body clock says I’ve been out nearly three hours.

  Across the aisle from me, slumped in the chair with his wrists and ankles bound together, is the co-pilot. He seems to be alive, but I’m guessing he’s taken at least one other blow to the head since I last saw him, because I doubt he’d still be out after all this time from that initial blow to the head.

  The cockpit door is closed again. I’m guessing our mystery guest is in there, probably pointing his gun at the pilot. I look down, and see my bag’s missing, which has my phone in it.

  Great.

  I stand up and stretch, bending down to look out the window properly. I don’t recognize anything that I can see, but we’re not over the ocean anymore. Down there is also closer to up here than the last time I looked, so I’m assuming we’re making our descent.

  I sit back down just as the cockpit door opens, and the mystery man with the gun walks through.

  “Get your beauty sleep?” he asks sardonically.

  “I’m beautiful enough,” I reply. “I was just bored of talking to you.”

  He smiles humorlessly, reaching behind him and producing his handgun again. He holds it loosely at his side.

  “We’ll be landing soon. When we do, you’ll exit the plane and kneel down on the ground, crossing your ankles behind you and placing your hands behind your head, interlocking your fingers. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you. Is that clear?”

  Hmmm… professional instructions—I get the impression he’s used to dealing with hostages... He seems very comfortable and confident giving out commands. I reckon he’s American military of some kind. I suspect he’s special ops, as this kind of thing is a bit too risqué for a standard grunt. He’s not the leader, but he’s high-ranking, and probably well respected by his peers. Very experienced. Not intimidated.

  I’m starting to get the feeling I should be worried.

  I nod silently, shifting in my seat to get comfortable. There’s bound to be a team waiting for me when we land. If we are looking at an off-the-books operation to apprehend me, the team will consist of four or five guys, who will take me to an undisclosed location to either meet with someone more important, or simply to torture and kill me.

  The guy sits in the chair opposite me, regarding me impassively; his gun resting on his leg. Next to us, the co-pilot stirs, groaning quietly from what I guess is a pretty bad headache.

  “So, you not gonna give me any clues as to who you are and what you want with me?” I ask, testing my luck.

  “When we land,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “My job’s to get you there, not tell you why.”

  “Get me where, exactly?”

  He smiles but says nothing. The pilot’s voice interrupts our little exchange, sounding over the speaker system.

  “We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” he announces. “Stay seated until we’re on the ground please.”

  He sounds terrified—I hope he’s not too shaken up that he crashes…

  He’s not, thankfully. A few minutes later, we land unscathed and taxi to a stop. I look out the window, seeing we’re on what appears to be an abandoned runway of some kind. It’s dark, but there are floodlights placed sparingly around the perimeter, bathing the area in a faint glow.

  Like lightning, my captor is out of his seat, turning slightly and firing his gun, putting a bullet in the co-pilot’s head. His body lurches away from us, hitting the side of the cabin, and falling to the floor, leaving a crimson stain in its wake.

  He then dashes into the cockpit, and I hear another bullet—the pilot clearly meeting the same end. Before I can move, he’s back in the cabin and aiming his gun at me.

  “Move to the door,” he says. “Nice and slow.”

  I do as he says, not having any real alternatives. He’s keeping his distance from me, anticipating an attempt from me to disarm and disable him.

  “Now open it,” he instructs.

  I spin the handle in the center of the door, unlocking the metal levers from the top and bottom, and push it open. It makes a hissing noise as the cabin depressurizes, the door swinging out and down automatically as steps unfold from it and rest on the ground.

  I feel the barrel of his gun push against my lower back.

  “Move,” he says.

  I sigh heavily, clenching my fist momentarily in anger, and tensing my jaw muscles in frustration as I realize how helpless I am right now. But I descend the stairs nevertheless.

  As I step onto the blacktop, I look around, trying to find some clue as to where I am, squinting into the distance. There’s a small building just ahead of me with an array of antennas on the roof. It looks abandoned—the wood and brick damaged and discolored; what looks like a result of years of neglect.

  To my left, the runway stretches off to the line of trees surrounding the small airfield. To my right, a little way off, is a chain-link fence with a gate on wheels, standing open.

  The moon is high and clear, contributing to the faint glow around us. I think about my options, but there aren’t any that spring to mind that don’t result in my being killed.

  “On your knees,” says the man with the gun. “Ankles crossed, hands on your head.”

  I obey, working on the assumption I’m going to, at the least, be asked some questions by somebody before any violence breaks out. I’ll use that to buy myself some time, so I can think of a way out of this.

  After a few moments of kneeling there, four people appear from inside the abandoned building ahead of me. They walk purposefully, side by side, across the tarmac toward me, stopping a few feet in front of me and fanning out. They’re all dressed in the same, unmarked camo as my captor. They’re not wearing masks or anything, so I can see their faces quite clearly. There are three men and a woman, all holding weapons ready and loose, staring at me impassively. The guy from the plane steps around from behind me and joins his team, standing on the far right of the line.

  The man on the far left of the group steps forward. He’s a monster—easily six-five, maybe six-six. He’s built like a tank, with clean good looks and a military buzz cut.

  “Adrian Hell?” he asks, somewhat rhetorically.

  “Used to be,” I reply.

  He levels his weapon at me—a FAMAS-G2, if I’m not mistaken. Nice gun—shame it’s French.

  “Welcome to Colombia.”

  16.

  00:32 COT

  “On your feet,” says the big guy, who I assume is in charge.

  I stand, still trying to figure out why anyone would kidnap me, and take me to Colombia, of all places.

  “Now, where’s the laptop?” he asks.

  “What laptop?” I reply, trying to keep my poker face in place.

  “The one you stole approximately fourteen hours ago. It’s government property, and you’re going to hand it over immediately.”

  “So, you work for the government?”r />
  He doesn’t say anything. I can’t get over how big this guy is…

  “You guys have me confused with someone else, clearly. The laptop I stole belonged to a known terrorist. I’m actually trying to help the government that you may or may not work for. But it’s okay, you didn’t know. I’ll just get my things and be on my way… I don’t suppose one of you can fly this plane, can you?”

  The other four in the line all gesture with their weapons in unison, looks of impatience etched on their faces.

  “I won’t ask you again,” says the big guy. “Give me the laptop.”

  I relax, looking into his eyes and seeing the first flicker of doubt. He’s in charge of the unit, and presumably very experienced. He’ll be able to tell I’m not lying, which will be making him question his orders, with a bit of luck.

  “Like I said, I stole a laptop off a terrorist, not a government employee. I did so on behalf of a private military contractor as part of an ongoing operation. And you people obviously wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?”

  I smile, daring them to give me more information.

  “What operation?” he asks.

  Bingo. I’ll give them just enough to reel them in.

  “I’ve been targeted by a terrorist group who want to recruit me,” I begin. “As you say, I’m Adrian Hell, whether I’m retired or not. I refused, and they came after me. Some friends of mine happened to be investigating these assholes anyway, so I agreed to help them out. I managed to get in the same room as one of them and steal his laptop, which I’ve since handed over to my PMC friends. But that’s got nothing to do with the government, so I’m at a loss as to why you’d be sent after me…”

  The big guy’s eyes narrow, and I see him working everything out in his head. I have no doubt the orders he received were based on the assumption I’m still in possession of the laptop I took from Hussein. This tells me that the guy Hussein was meeting in Manhattan is definitely a big deal, because this operation to hijack my plane must’ve been put together on pretty short notice—within a matter of hours. Now, they have me and I’m giving him information that directly contradicts what his superiors must’ve told him.

  It also confirms my suspicions about the suited Americans and the mystery four-star general at the meeting. Whatever relationship they have with Hussein, they seem eager to keep it a secret. Which means the laptop is just a cover to justify killing me in the middle of nowhere…

  I need to persuade these people I’m not the mission here.

  “Who sent you after me?” I ask.

  The big guy remains silent.

  “Come on, get on the comms and ask the question. You know you want to.”

  His jaw muscles clench, and he takes a deep breath, eventually turning to the rest of the group.

  “Watch him,” he says, before walking a few paces away from us, pressing his hand to his chest, activating his comms unit. I can just about hear what he’s saying.

  “Sir, we have the target. There’s no package—I repeat, no package. Please advise, over.” He nods, listening to the reply. “He says he stole a laptop from a known terrorist on behalf of a PMC he was working with. He doesn’t have it on his person anymore… I understand, sir, but can you please clarify the threat here? If what he says is true, we should make contact with the PMC and follow up from there… Say again, sir…” He sighs heavily, glancing over at me. “Understood, sir.” He walks back over, standing reluctantly in front of me. “My orders are to kill you,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But I want to know who you’re working for.”

  I shrug. “Why?”

  “Because there’s an ongoing mission that I think could benefit from that information.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy from the plane touch his ear, as if receiving a communication. Nobody else in the group acknowledges their comms. But I dismiss it as quickly as I noticed it.

  “What’s the mission?” I ask.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Worth a try,” I say with a shrug. “I know you have your orders, but I’m not the enemy here, you have my word.”

  “And what is the word of a two-bit hitman worth, exactly?”

  “Two-bit?” I scoff, genuinely offended. “Try world’s greatest, you ignorant prick. And I’m many things, but I’m not a liar. I’m trying to help. I don’t trust you enough to give you everything I know, but I can tell you I have seen solid intel that suggests a pending terrorist attack that nobody else currently knows is coming.”

  Everyone in the group exchanges glances, but the big guy keeps his eyes fixed on me.

  “I’m trying to help,” I say again. “And I’m offering my help to you now. I’m not the enemy, and given what I know, I suspect your orders are bogus—unjustified and given by someone who doesn’t want the world to know they’re implicated in a terrorist attack.”

  “And you can prove this?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He levels his gun at me for a second, and then lowers it again, wrestling with his conscience. I watch the internal debate in his eyes. The soldier in him has his orders, and knows he shouldn’t question them. But the smart, experienced leader in him wants all the information to satisfy the ounce of doubt plaguing his mind.

  He kind of reminds me of me.

  I look at him, and feel a glimmer of hope that I might have managed to buy myself some time, and talk my way out of a firing squad death.

  The guy from the plane, standing on the far right, quickly spins round, aiming his gun at the big guy. Without hesitation, he fires. The bullet hits their leader in the forehead, and he falls to the floor, turning away from us and landing heavily; blood pooling around him from the wound.

  The team looks at him with a mixture of shock and excitement.

  “I’ve been given the authority to execute Alpha Protocol,” he announces. “The parameters of the mission have changed, based on the opinion that Jericho is no longer fit to lead this team. I’ve been placed in command, and you now report to me. Any questions?”

  He’s met with silence, which he seems to take as a sign they’re all on the same page. He then turns back to me.

  “If you don’t have the laptop, you’ll give me all information relating to Yalafi Hussein and the people you’re working with, or I will shoot you.”

  And there it is… unequivocal proof I’m screwed and need an exit strategy right now.

  “I never said the terrorist was called Yalafi Hussein…” I said, hesitantly. “Who are you guys?”

  The guy from the plane looks away, cursing himself before turning back to me. “Kill him!” he yells.

  My primeval, long-buried survival instincts immediately kick in, and I dive to the left, picking up the big guy’s FAMAS and running around the plane for cover.

  What did they say his name was? Jericho?

  I hold the rifle in my left hand, aiming it behind me as I run, firing blind to buy myself some time. I need to get on the plane and get my bag…

  I carry on running away from the group, putting as much distance as I can between us. I’m aiming for the trees, thinking I can lose them in there and then double back to the plane for my things.

  I chance a look behind me, but the team isn’t in pursuit. I see two of them, one either side of the plane, planting explosives along the fuselage. The other two are aiming at me but holding fire. Behind them, where I was just standing, I see the body of their former unit leader—the man known as Jericho.

  I actually quite liked him, based on our brief interaction. It’s a shame he’s dead.

  But I need to focus. If that plane goes up, I’m as good as dead myself, and that wouldn’t do at all. I skid to a halt, turning around and dropping into a crouch, and bring the rifle up, taking aim. Tucking it into my shoulder, I look down the sight. I must be a good few hundred yards away by now. I set it to three-round burst and squeeze the trigger twice. The first burst catches the man on the left of the plane in the leg, and he limps off around the othe
r side for cover. The second burst scatters the two arming the explosives, who both do the same.

  Knowing they’ll be re-grouping behind cover, I run back over to the plane, crouching down behind the front wheel and glancing up at the first explosive charge.

  Shit.

  They’ve armed it, and the timer says two minutes and counting… they clearly didn’t intend on hanging around, so I shouldn’t either.

  I peer round the wheel for a quick glance, to get their positions, but when I look, they’re gone. I look around and watch the four of them disappear behind the abandoned building across the opposite end of the runway.

  Not wishing to waste another second, I stand and run onto the plane, quickly finding my shoulder bag in the cockpit. I put it over both arms and head back outside. The explosive charge on this side of the fuselage, next to the steps, has got thirty-four seconds left.

  I need to get out of here!

  I set off, but as I draw level with Jericho’s body, I hear something. Only faint, but it’s definitely a murmur… I look down at him.

  Jesus Christ, he’s alive!

  After a split second of deliberation, I decide I can’t leave him lying next to a plane about to explode, knowing he’s alive. I bend down and roll him on his back. The bullet hit his forehead, but must have gone clean through the front part of his skull. I’m not a doctor, but I imagine the consequences of such an injury are severe, even if the guy’s still breathing… The wound looks nasty, and blood’s pouring down his face.

  I grab his left hand and pull in an effort to drag him clear of the blast.

  “Jesus, what do you eat? Bricks?” I say out loud through gritted teeth as I struggle to move his weight.

  I continue to drag him across the runway, building up speed and momentum as I go. There’s maybe ten seconds left before the charge on the plane goes off. I’m a good few hundred yards away, but I need to keep going as far as I can.