Paradise Burns

by J. P. Sumner

  PARADISE BURNS

  J.P.Sumner

  Book One of the

  Adrian Hell Series

  Digital edition first published in Nov. 2013

  by The Electronic Book Company

  www.theelectronicbookcompany.com

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  Copyright 2013 by J. P. Sumner - All Rights Reserved

  CONTENTS:

  Highway To Hell

  Guns For Hire

  Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

  Kicked In The Teeth Again

  Shoot To Thrill

  Sin City

  Live Wire

  Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be

  Thunderstruck

  Back In Black

  Coming Soon

  Back

  Highway To Hell

  INTRO

  I walked down the highway that leads into Heaven’s Valley. My bag was weighing heavily on my shoulder and the sun was shining bright in my eyes. In the distance, on the horizon where the road dips, I can see the steam of the day rising off the tarmac like Grandma’s pie in the oven.

  It was mid-afternoon and hotter than hell. I thought about taking my short, worn, dark brown leather jacket off, but I honestly can’t be bothered to stop and mess around with it. Besides, it’ll only be a few more miles before I reach the city limits and I’ve survived in warmer climates than this.

  They say once you enter Heaven’s Valley, you never leave. The lure of the bright lights in the big city; the hot temperature beaten only by the hotter women. It’s a broken, corrupt place that thrives on the sins of the common man.

  But I bet I leave.

  I don’t like to stay in one place too long. I don’t like familiarity. My work keeps me traveling, and I enjoy the anonymity it requires.

  However, money talks - and when it does, I listen.

  This should be an easy hundred grand for a couple of days’ work. After I’m done here, I might take a vacation. I’ve been toying with the idea of seeing the Far East for a few years. My work hasn’t taken me over there yet, so I might have a month off the grid and see a bit of the world without my job dictating my actions.

  I’ve been traveling for close to ten hours now. I’d taken the Greyhound from Milwaukee up to Minnesota. It wasn’t a bad ride – there was nice scenery along the way which made the journey more bearable.

  From there, I flew into Las Vegas. The flight was delayed by an hour or so, which had pissed me off. Then the plane had been cramped and awful, surrounded by sweaty people from all over the world, putting me in an even worse mood.

  When I finally landed, I took another Greyhound up to Heaven’s Valley. That last leg of the journey had been slow going, with a lot of stopping and starting. Also, there was no air conditioning on the bus, so everyone was hot and sweaty and agitated. I just wasn’t enjoying it at all, so I decided to walk the last ten or so miles.

  The heat was intense as I walked from the state road along the highway, approaching the city limits. The last sign I passed said I was four miles away. I needed a hotel, preferably with air conditioning, a shower and some food.

  But most importantly, I needed a drink. An ice cold beer and a shot of single malt would do me just fine.

  I was almost there.

  I strode on, looking around me at the expanse of sand and rock. Heaven’s Valley was situated in a basin of Nevada desert roughly a hundred and fifty miles north of Las Vegas. On either side, leading to the horizon where it reached the vague outline of mountain peaks, was nothing but desert. It looked like such an unforgiving and barren landscape. I smiled to myself at the irony that a place called Heaven’s Valley could be surrounded by something that so closely resembled many people’s idea of Hell.

  At the base of the mountain range to the left, I could just make out the faint outline of a couple of buildings. Ahead, bordering the city to the north was another range with a reservoir at its base.

  The sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I couldn’t swallow because my mouth felt like I’d eaten a spoonful of sand and washed it down with saltwater. I glanced up at the sky and squinted at the sun beating down on me in all its white-hot glory.

  My name is Adrian Hell.

  Welcome to my life.

  Back

  Guns For Hire

  ONE

  I was sat at the bar in a small, local non-descript place called Charlie’s, leaning forward and resting on my crossed arms. In front of me was a half-empty bottle of Bud. To the side of that was a double Johnnie Walker Black, waiting to be gulped. It was just before eight p.m. and I was tired from my walk into town. I found the first place that looked like it’d have a half-decent jukebox, picked my spot at the bar and ordered a drink.

  My jeans and boots were covered with a thin layer of dust from the road. My white t-shirt was soaked with sweat, which was the reason I’d still not removed my brown leather jacket. My shoulder bag was on the floor, leaning against my bar stool.

  Moments ago, I’d walked across the bar to where the jukebox was, cycled through all the crap I’d never heard of until I found a couple of good songs to listen to. I fed my money into the machine, selected my tracks, sat back down in my seat and quietly resumed sipping my beer.

  The music wasn’t too loud, and bar wasn’t too busy. I closed my eyes and listened to the world around me. The clack of the balls on the pool table over my right shoulder, in the corner that was dark and lit by a neon blue sign advertising a beer I’d never heard of. The idle chatter from the table to my left - three women discussing work and shopping and men. Two guys just to the right of me at the bar, exchanging one-line observations about the current state of the government. The bartender in front of me, wiping down glasses until they squeaking.

  I opened my eyes and stared at the mirrored wall behind the bar. I took another long pull of my beer, then examined my reflection in front of me.

  My ice blue eyes were like searchlights on the dark landscape of my face. I stroked my chin and throat, feeling the coarse, three-day-old stubble grate on my hand like sandpaper.

  Definitely needed a shave.

  I then rubbed my hand over my shaved head, briefly massaging my temples and taking a deep breath as I felt the strain of a full day’s traveling start to catch up with me.

  I smiled to myself. I felt comfortable. This was my kind of bar. Dull lighting, sticky floor, no pleasantries exchanged between strangers. Just me, the music and a glass of whiskey.

  I’d come a long way to be here. Never been here before either. I’ve heard of Heaven’s Valley, and I’m familiar with its reputation, but I’ve never worked here. And certainly wouldn’t come here by choice. A sun-soaked city in the middle of the desert, divided into districts of varying levels of grime and corruption. Gambling, girls and gangsters. Some people’s idea of a good time, but certainly not mine.

  One man’s Heaven is another man’s Hell.

  Unfortunately, in my line of work, the people who liked places like this were usually the kind of people who employed me. See
, despite my somewhat calm exterior and likeable demeanor, I’m actually one of the world’s best contract killers. I’m not being egotistical when I say that, I’m simply stating a fact. Over the last decade or so of my life, for all the ups and downs I’ve had, I’ve always been really good at killing folks. I nearly always do it for money, and I never kill someone who I don’t believe deserves it. I’ve forged a good reputation that allows me to charge ridiculous sums of money to all types of unsavory people who want other people dead.

  A good contract killer, in my opinion, needs certain qualities. Probably the most important, is you have to be okay with taking a life. Sounds stupid to say that, I know. It’s one of those things that’s easy to talk about, but when it comes down to you staring some poor schmuck dead in the eye before you pull the trigger - that’s something else altogether. I’ve been doing it over half my life, and it’s only been in more recent years that I’ve truly become at ease with it.

  I appreciate that makes me sound like a psychopath, but I promise I’m not. Like I said, while I might make you question my mental state and moral compass by charging people for me to do it, I only kill bad people. It makes me feel like I’m getting some justice.

  I also don’t like nice, normal people being made to suffer. Most of the time the people I’m paid to kill do things that negatively affect normal people like you, so personally, I can happily justify killing the bastards.

  The reason my reputation precedes me like it does, is because of a hit I was given a few years back. I won’t give you the full lowdown, because it’s very unpleasant. But to cut a long story short, I was hired to kill the head of a gang who liked young girls and hard drugs - and transported them both around the world for a sickening amount of money. I took my target out with minimum hassle, but when I saw the extent of the operation and the damage it had caused so many people, I kinda lost it. I’m not proud of it (that much), but I... I went to a dark place. That’s probably the best way to describe it. Took out seventeen armed, horrible pieces of shit, burnt a building to the ground and left the bodies in such a deliberate state that it sent a message to anyone who felt like taking up the business that it wasn’t in their best interests. Word spread pretty fast in some pretty bad circles, and I earned the nickname Adrian Hell. I liked it, so I rolled with it. The work came thick and fast after that.

  That’s the second thing any good contract killer needs - the right attitude. If you play the game just right, your name will put fear in the hearts of every man in the room, even if you’re miles away.

  So there I sat, reflecting on what got me where I am today, sipping a beer and listening to “Fortunate Son” by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

  God I love that song.

  Which is why I was so disappointed when it was turned off from behind the bar halfway through.

  I looked up and threw the barman a quizzical what the hell? look. He was staring behind me with wide, regretful eyes. Then he looked at me for a second, before lowering his gaze in silent apology.

  I sighed. Sadly, I figured I had a pretty good idea what was about to happen.

  TWO

  I took another long sip of my beer, then spun around on my seat and leaned back, resting my elbows on the bar behind me. Walking toward me were two jacked-up stereotypes in suits - one wearing the jacket, one not. They were side by side, staring a hole straight through me. They looked really pissed off.

  They both looked pretty similar. The guy on the left was the smaller of the two, but they were both big - they easily had a few inches on me, and I was about a inch over six foot. The smaller guy hadn’t shaved in a few days, and I hadn’t seen him blink his green eyes once. He’d clearly been working on his mean stare, because he was giving it everything he had as he came toward me. His slightly taller friend on my right looked slightly more intimidating physically, but blinked more, which made me think he maybe didn’t care as much about the psychological side of things as his friend did. He was clean shaven though, and looked the more presentable of the two. He was the one in the suit jacket on.

  Behind me, I heard the barman put the glass he was cleaning on the bar and walk away. What noise there was in this place had stopped. You could hear people holding their breath and feel them staring. It’s a good job I don’t get self-conscious.

  The two angry stereotypes stopped three feet in front of me. The one on my left spoke first.

  ‘You put that song on?’ he asked, practically spitting his words out at me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘You not a fan?’

  ‘That song makes my friend here unhappy. Reminds him of someone he knew.’

  I turned to his friend on the right to speak.

  ‘That right?’ I asked, raising my eyebrows with feigned interest. It was the guy on my left who replied.

  ‘Yeah, and we don’t appreciate a stranger walking in here and causing problems like that for us regulars.’

  I didn’t take my eyes of the guy on my right, but I replied to the guy on the left.

  ‘Was just after a quiet, relaxing drink is all,’ I said, before turning back to the guy on my left. ‘I meant no harm by my choice of song.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but harm was caused all the same. Which leaves you in a bad situation.’

  You could argue this is a flaw of mine, but I love winding people up just before a fight. And let’s face it, this is going to end up in a fight. Not much of one, granted, because these two muppets couldn’t beat me if I was asleep. But it will be a fight nonetheless. A bit of trash-talk is a good thing - if you do it right, it makes people so angry that they attack you without thinking. Which greatly increases the chance of them making a mistake. And all it takes is one mistake, and it’s goodnight sweetheart.

  Plus, it amuses me.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I’m sat in a bar, drinking beer and relaxing. Seems like a pretty good situation to me. Granted, it’d be better if I didn’t have to waste my breath on you two monkeys, but I’ve been to worse parties.’

  I think because of my previous, albeit fake, apology, they didn’t expect me to just sit there and start mouthing off at them. Usually, when guys their size confront you, most people back down or run off. They don’t spark up a conversation.

  They exchanged a bewildered glance, as if to ask each other if they could believe I’d have the nerve to speak to them like that.

  ‘You got some mouth on you, asshole. You know that?’ said the one on the left.

  ‘I know,’ I said. Then I asked: ‘What’s your name?’

  He didn’t expect that, either.

  ‘Stan,’ he replied, hesitantly, as he frowned in confusion.

  ‘Stan?’ I repeated, before pointing to his friend. ‘So this must be Oli, right?’

  The guy on the right went genuinely red in his cheeks with anger and started cracking his knuckles. I thought that only happened in cartoons - that’s hilarious!

  ‘No,’ he said, in a low, agitated tone.

  ‘Is your surname Dupp?’ I continued.

  ‘No, wise-ass’.

  They were both getting really angry now, and I was loving it. I honestly can’t wait for one of them to make a move for me. Please don’t judge me for how I entertain myself.

  I turned to the guy on my right, whose name isn’t Oli, apparently.

  ‘So, “Big and Dumb”, what do they call you?’

  Well, that did it.

  Before he could answer, Stan lurched forward and threw a big right hand at my face. Luckily for me, it was possibly the slowest punch ever thrown by anyone - ever. In one quick movement, I pushed myself forward off my stool with my left leg, and in the next step brought my right foot forward and kicked Stan’s left leg away from him. Just a little tap - I didn’t want to break it or anything, just send him off-balance. Because of the weight he put behind the punch, and the fact his left leg was now moving uncontrollably away from him, his own momentum sent him crashing forward into the bar. As he went down, I stepped away from him and slammed my
right fist into his left temple. He was pretty much out cold before he bounced off the bar, and he was definitely out for the count by the time he hit the floor.

  Using my momentum from the right hand, I continued to turn my body, bringing my left elbow up and swinging it behind me, catching “Big and Dumb” on the side of the chin with it as he moved in. It wasn’t the most accurate or powerful shot, but it did the job of sending him staggering backward, as he was completely unprepared for it. As he did, I completed the turn and brought my right fist into his sternum, just below his rib cage. I had a lot of power behind it, and it hit him as sweetly as is possible. When you take that kind of shot, your body instinctively doubles over, but because he was already moving backward from the elbow, both movements countered each other and he just slumped straight down on the spot. He landed in the fetal position and made an awful noise as he tried to breathe. He rolled around for a moment before giving up and passing out.

  I stood up, looked around at Stan and his friend, unconscious at my feet. I stepped back over to the bar, gulped my Johnnie Walker in one, reached into my pocket and threw a twenty on the bar, picked up my bag and walked out.

  As I stood on the sidewalk outside Charlie’s, the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the tops of the buildings. I took a deep breath, and another, allowing my body to stop producing adrenaline and slow my heart rate down.

  I looked left and right, trying to decide which way would get me to a motel faster. Coming to the conclusion that I had no idea, I resorted to my age-old philosophy: when in doubt, go left.

  I took out my phone and dialed a number from memory. The voice that answered was one of those annoying voices that always sounded happy, regardless of the situation. However, the voice belonged to one of the few people on this planet I trust, so I let them off.