Paradise Burns

by J. P. Sumner

  As I took the final right turn, I heard several loud cracks that took me by surprise. My windshield had spider-webbed as bullets peppered the car, obscuring my view of the road.

  ‘Jesus!’ I shouted out.

  I braked hard and swerved left so I stopped side-on with the passenger door facing the road ahead. I ducked down, unable to see who fired at me and from where. I reached behind me and drew one of my babies. I checked the mag as I heard the rapid clunk clunk of two more bullets hitting the body of the Jeep. I had a full clip, but no spares. I’d have to be careful.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I opened the driver’s side door and quickly climbed out. I took a quick peek around the back of the Jeep. There were two guys in black - one in the doorway, the other knelt on the front lawn. I couldn’t tell if there were more in the house. No sign of Clara, either.

  I hoped she was alright.

  How the hell did they know I was coming? I looked around behind me. I checked the houses and the vehicles. Then the roofs. I saw a black figure crouched low next to a chimney. He was almost completely obscured from my view, because of the shape of the roof and position of the chimney, but as I was approaching, he’d have had a clear view.

  They had a scout, the sneaky bastards.

  I was also painfully aware that I was now flanked and trapped in the middle, with no cover to protect me from the rooftop scout behind me. I turned and sat on the road, my back to the Jeep. The scout had to be my primary target.

  I took a deep breath and aimed by gun at the chimney, closing my left eye to help with aiming. This was a difficult shot. Not only was I shooting upwards, which immediately reduces accuracy, but my target was totally hidden. I needed two shots, on target, in quick succession. The first would be as close as I can get without hitting him, to draw him out. The second would need to follow immediately, and be quickly aimed at his head, which he would undoubtedly move out to see where I’m shooting from. A small target, above me, around three hundred feet away. And I have a handgun.

  Luckily, I’m a helluva shot.

  I aimed as close to the top of the roof as I could. I practiced the slight movement I’d need - up and right - to catch his head as it popped round the corner to aim at me. One, two. Bang, bang. Nice and quick.

  I took a deep breath. Then another, and held it. I squeezed the trigger and saw roof tiles go flying. A split second later, I re-adjusted and squeezed the trigger again. At the exact moment the scout leaned out of cover to shoot, his head snapped back, disappearing out of sight leaving a small puff of red mist dispersing in the air.

  I breathed out with relief. It’s not easy to be accurate with a handgun at any distance over a couple of hundred feet, but it’s possible.

  I got back up into a crouch and turned my attention back to the two guys in the house. The guy out front was crouched low behind a large bush. The guy in the doorway had his back to the open door and was out of sight just inside the hallway.

  Where the hell was Clara?

  Bullets intermittently struck the Jeep and the ground around me. I couldn’t stay here like this. I pulled out my other gun from my back holster. I checked the clip and it was full. With a gun in each hand, I rested the barrels against my forehead and closed my eyes.

  I pictured how this would go down. If I go left or right. If I stay low or stand and run. If I dove for cover or ran in shooting. Every possible outcome was played out in my head. I took slow, deep breaths, watching it all happen like a movie. Then I saw it. The one sequence of events that might just work.

  I opened my eyes, took one last deep breath, then made my move.

  I stood quickly and aimed a gun at both the doorway and the bush. I squeezed off a few rounds in rapid succession, then ducked back down. I dived to my left and went around the front of the truck. As the man behind the bush took aim at where I’d fired my first shots, I dropped to one knee in my new position and fired. Two bullets, one from each gun, struck him in his chest, propelling him backward and off to the side. He crumpled onto the ground.

  I dived back behind the Jeep as the guy in the doorway aimed and fired at me. I stayed low and ran around to the right. I dropped to a knee and squeezed a couple of rounds from both guns at the doorway. The guy disappeared inside, which was the risk I wanted to avoid. Ideally, I wanted him to come out so I could pick him off. But now he’s inside, he has the advantage again. I don’t know if he’s alone in there or not.

  I quickly ran over to the guy I took out. I searched him for any ID, but he had none. I found a knife in a pouch on his pant leg which I took. I then put my guns away and took his assault rifle. Dark Rain’s weapon of choice: the AK-47. I checked the mag, which was half empty. He had two spares on him, which I pocketed.

  The front door was still open, but going straight through it was suicide.

  Keeping low, I made my way around the side of the house, ducking under the windows I passed. I came around the back of house, which had patio doors that were open. I crouched still and took a look around. Satisfied there was no-one in the garden, I crept in through the patio doors and into the kitchen, the rifle raised and ready. I heard movement in one of the rooms down the hall.

  The kitchen was clear, so I moved on. I stopped outside a closed door, directly opposite the stairs. I listened closely, hearing more movement inside. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. Without thinking, I stood and kicked through the door, dropping low as I entered. A split second check of the room showed nothing except a dining table with four chairs in the centre and a fireplace built into the far wall. Besides the carpet, the room was practically empty.

  Apart from the guy aiming a gun at me.

  A quick three round burst to his chest dropped him, and I breathed easy once more. I left the room and headed for the stairs, happy there was no-one else downstairs with me. I took a look upstairs and viewed what I could of landing, but saw nothing.

  The hardest part is always going upstairs. If someone’s up there, they have the angles and the cover. If you’re the one going upstairs, you have nothing. You can’t cover every angle, you don’t know where every door is and you’re firing upwards as you’re trying to climb stairs.

  I was crouched next to the stairs, just out of sight of the landing, weighing up my options. Then I heard a gunshot. After a few moments, I heard another, followed by a thud. I don’t know who fired, but the thud was definitely a body hitting the floor.

  My only thought was Clara. I rushed upstairs, which in hindsight was stupid of me and I was very lucky not to be shot. The rifle out in front of me, I quickly moved room to room until I reached the main bedroom at the front of the house. The door was open, and a pool of blood was creeping into view over the carpet.

  I dashed in, gun raised.

  Clara was stood where the bed would’ve been. The gun in her hand still smoking slightly from the bullet she clearly just put in the third and apparently last Dark Rain soldier in the house.

  ‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘Clara, are you alright?’

  She was staring into space, like she was in shock, looking at the dead guy on the floor.

  ‘Clara, are you okay?’

  She looked at me. There was a bloodstain on her top from where her bullet wound had clearly re-opened. When she spoke, she sounded like she was daydreaming.

  She said, ‘I was too late. I’m so sorry.’

  I was too busy focusing on Clara that I didn’t notice the far wall of the room.

  Jonathan Webster was nailed to the wall by his hands and feet. He was naked, and was positioned like a starfish. His body was a mess, covered in deep cuts and blood – both fresh and dried. He had a bullet hole in his forehead that was new.

  She must have killed the guy right after he killed Webster.

  I looked back at Clara, who was staring at the floor.

  I could feel the darkness and the anger building inside me. I was blind with rage. Ketranovich hadn’t just disposed of the scientist, he had tortured and sacrificed him, ne
edlessly, just to leave him knowing we’d find him.

  Again, the piece of shit was two moves ahead of me.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Clara. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  I took her by the hand and led her out of the room.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I was driving her car, which she’d parked a couple of blocks away. She was sat next to me in silence. She’d not said a word since we left the house. I don’t even think she’d blinked since then either. She was staring into space, clearly in shock. I had no words of comfort to offer her. It wasn’t all going to be okay. We were officially at war.

  I was heading back to the hospital. I’d left my bag in Clara’s room and I needed it for my plan to get Pellaggio off my back. I needed to stay productive, and this will distract us from our recent Dark Rain encounter.

  I’d rung Josh before we set off and brought him up to speed. It was times like these he was thankful for his desk job I think.

  Me? Well, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen. If I was honest, it’s not even the worst thing I’ve ever done. But it still wasn’t nice, and I don’t agree with innocent people being hurt. Dark Rain didn’t need to do that to Webster. They did it to send a message. Well, message received.

  They won’t like my response.

  I pulled into the hospital driveway entrance. The roar of the engine in Clara’s Dodge Viper was enhanced outside of the quiet building, so it sounded like a day at the races.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to her. ‘You need to come in and get patched up again.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ she said, vacantly. ‘It’s just a flesh wound.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a flesh wound that’s bleeding all over your top. Now come on.’

  She didn’t bother arguing again. We got out of the car and walked into the hospital, taking the elevator up to the fourth floor. There was no sign of any GlobaTech personnel. They must have cleared out after I’d left. They obviously weren’t too bothered about their Jeep.

  We approached the front desk and a nurse came rushing round and took Clara to her room, shouting for a doctor as they walked off down the corridor.

  I followed them and found my bag in Clara’s room, where I’d left it. I looked inside, checked what I needed was still there, then slung it over my shoulder.

  The nurse had managed to get Clara back into her hospital bed and was busy mopping up the blood from her gunshot wound.

  ‘You gonna be okay?’ I asked her. It was the nurse who responded.

  ‘She’ll be fine. The stitching burst, but it wasn’t a serious wound. The bullet was removed from the shoulder quickly, and there was minimal damage to the muscle tissue. She was lucky, and she’ll recover completely, but your friend needs to rest.’

  ‘She will,’ I said, before turning back to Clara. ‘Won’t you?’

  She nodded, but remained silent.

  I squeezed her hand, then left without saying anything more. I got back into the car and set off for the center of town.

  I felt bad for Clara. She’s been through a lot in the last few days. The people she worked for turned out to be more of a terrorist cell than a local militia. She had no idea what she was mixed up in, and was now running for her life trying to escape them.

  Considering she’s been a soldier for most of her life, I was beginning to think she’s been quite sheltered. Being a good fighter doesn’t make you a good killer. She was a helluva soldier, there was no doubt about it. I’d seen her in action in the bar yesterday when Salikov turned up with her hit squad. But given she was currently in shock, I don’t think she’s had much exposure to the true horrors of conflict.

  Happy she was safe in the hospital, I drove on. It was time to execute my grand plan for getting the mafia off my case once and for all.

  Any good assassin knows how to cover their tracks. You do it right, and most of the time it’s like you were never there. But on the odd occasion when you can’t escape the fact that you were present when a hit took place, the trick is to disguise that fact. What’s the best way to do this, I hear you ask? Simple: make it look like someone else was there instead of you.

  I pulled up outside The Four Seasons, walked in and headed straight for the elevator. I pressed the button for Floor 16. I exited the elevator, retrieved the key card I took the other day from my bag and then opened the door of Ted Jackson’s suite.

  The room was exactly as I’d left it. Jackson was still tied to the chair, and still very much dead. His blood had begun to dry out and was now just a dark, sticky patch on the carpet.

  I walked over to the table in front of Jackson’s body and set my bag down in front of it. I reached in and took out a pair of surgical gloves. I put them on, then took out a tub of cocoa power, a teaspoon and a small brush - like the one you’d use to marinade a chicken.

  Stay with me on this, I’m not pausing for a hot chocolate, I promise.

  I then retrieved the envelope that Jimmy Manhattan handed me with Jackson’s photo in it the other day. I put it on the table and covered it in a light sprinkling of cocoa powder. I then brushed it gently all over. What happens, you see, is the cocoa powder will stick to any fingerprints on the surface. I found a full print near the top of the envelope, from where he’d held it when he first gave it to me in Dimitri’s cafe the other day.

  I got some sticky tape out, tore off a strip and carefully lay it on top of the print, pressing it down firmly. I slowly lifted it up off the envelope, taking Manhattan’s print with it.

  I picked up the gun that Clara had had with her when I killed Jackson, and pressed the tape firmly down on the butt of the gun, near the trigger guard.

  Voila! Jimmy Manhattan now killed Ted Jackson.

  I carefully tipped all the cocoa powder back into the tub and packed away my little CSI kit. I gave the room a once over to make sure there were no other signs that myself or Clara had been there, then I left.

  When I got back down to the hotel’s front desk, I walked over and spoke to the young girl with dark hair who booked me in when I checked in the other day.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ I said, to attract her attention. She greeted me with a warm, friendly smile.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Aday,’ she said. ‘How may I help you today?’

  ‘My colleague, Mr. Jackson, hasn’t been to either of our meetings and I’m concerned for him. I’ve knocked on his door, but there’s no answer. Can you please send someone up to check on him?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I shall arrange a courtesy call right away.’

  She walked over to a phone, dialed a number and began explaining what she needed. I smiled to myself and walked out of the hotel. I climbed into the car and drove off.

  I’ll give it three hours.

  FORTY

  It actually took two and a half hours.

  After leaving the hotel, I drove over to The Pit, Jimmy Manhattan’s nightclub in the Neon district, and parked a reasonable distance away to wait. I figured after he regained consciousness in the portable cabin last night, he’d make his way back to where he can protect himself. I’d bet that inside that club right now, he’d gathered as many local goons as he could. He’ll be sat in his office with the broken mirror, on the phone to Roberto Pellaggio, asking advice and planning their revenge.

  It would’ve taken ten minutes or so from me approaching the front desk at The Four Seasons to someone opening the door to Jackson’s suite to see if he was there. He was a rich and important guest, after all.

  I imagine the guy who I recently found out was on my payroll who works on the front desk at the hotel would’ve volunteered for the job. He will have sounded the alarm straight away, and the hotel manager will have rung the police immediately.

  They would have wanted it to be handled discreetly, as a hotel like that has a reputation to think of. They would insist on the police handling it quickly and quietly, so a forensics team would be there within the hour. Give their experts half an hour or so to begin their examination of the crime scene. The
first thing they’ll go to is the body, then the weapon.

  The trick is to try and make it all look natural. Too much detail in the phony evidence and it becomes obvious it’s a set up. Too little, and they have nothing to go on. With this, it will immediately seem strange that someone would use a gun to kill someone, not wear gloves and leave the weapon at the scene of the crime. But, the fact they’ll find a fingerprint means they’ll have to bring in the owner of it for questioning at the very least, even if they don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest and get a conviction in court.

  So, here I was, two hours and thirty five minutes after leaving the hotel, sat half a block away from The Pit in Clara’s Dodge Viper, waiting.

  Then I heard the sirens.

  A couple of minutes after that, two police squad cars and a van pulled up outside the entrance to the club, all at different angles so they were facing the doors. There were seven officers in total, all armed and moving toward the door.

  A team of four were lined up with their backs to the right hand wall, poised to enter through the main doors. Three officers remained stationed behind their open car doors, weapons trained at the entrance.

  The officer at the back of the line ran to the front and worked the door. Once open, he held it so the other three could file in. He fell in behind them, disappearing into the gloom of the nightclub.

  Less than five minutes passed before the officers emerged back onto the street. Two officers appeared first, walking backward, guns trained on Jimmy Manhattan and three men in suits. They were handcuffed and looked very pissed off. They were arguing and shouting.

  Still, it’s better to be pissed off than pissed on, as the saying goes.

  The two officers bringing up the rear came out, and they loaded Jimmy and his band of merry men into the back of the van. They then piled into their cars and all sped off, sirens wailing.