Faber’s struggling to his feet, his eyes watering from the impact to his nose. Blood’s dripping steadily down his chin and onto his shirt.
“What the fuck?” he shouts.
Before he can stand up, I punch him again, hard, on the side of his face. It’s not hard enough to knock him out, but there’s enough power behind it to send him sprawling to the floor once more. And, from experience, I know there was enough behind it to leave him with a serious headache.
“Shut your mouth,” I say, bluntly.
I take one of my Berettas out and reach into my pocket to retrieve the silencer. I screw it into place with practiced efficiency and take aim at Faber’s head. He looks first at the barrel of my gun, then at me. His eyes go wide with sheer terror, and his bladder weakens—the stench of urine instantly strong on his clothes.
“Oh my God, really?” I say in disbelief, honestly disgusted by the very sight of him. “You pathetic piece of shit.”
“I... I don’t understand... P-please, take whatever you want!”
“Amazing how cowardly you are now, yet you’re the big, scary man when Tania’s at home…”
I don’t think his eyes could get any wider. Honestly, they look like they’re going to pop right out of his head.
“Wh-what’s this about?” he manages to ask.
“This is about you, you overwhelming waste of sperm, and the fact you’ve been beating on your poor wife for so many years, somebody has felt it necessary to hire a professional assassin—that’s me, by the way—to kill you. So, any last words?”
Fear spreads across his face like the plague across Europe. Pure terror etches on every inch of his bloodstained features. He repeatedly opens his mouth to speak, but every time he does, words seem to fail him. He’s the epitome of a beaten man, and he’s about to reap everything he’s spent the last few years sowing.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, having given him ample opportunity to say something deep and meaningful.
Without any farther warnings, I squeeze the trigger three times, putting one bullet in his balls, one in his stomach, and one between his eyes. In that order.
I’m a killer; there’s no escaping that. I made peace with what I do a long time ago. But I’m not a bad person, and I take no pleasure in doing what I do for a living. I certainly don’t intentionally make people suffer unless I absolutely have to. I look at what I do as being similar to working in a slaughterhouse. It’s a dirty, messy business, but it needs doing and you do it as humanely as possible. But, as an exception, I felt compelled to make sure that in the last few seconds of his life, Jonathon Faber felt pain he couldn’t have imagined. It might not seem like much, but I did it for his wife and I’m sure she’d agree it made all the difference.
I look around the hallway. The blood has stained the walls and the expensive-looking beige carpet. I make sure not to step in any as I walk back down the hall and into the living room, which is the first door on the left. I carefully walk across the room in search of a pen, ensuring I don’t touch anything and leave any forensic evidence. I see one on the side and take it, then reach into my back pocket and pull out a blank check. I write out the check to Tania Faber, for the amount of fifty thousand dollars—what her brother intended paying me for the job. I keep the pen and retrace my steps back into the hallway. I place the check on Jonathon Faber’s dead body. I take one last look around then open the front door, covering my hand with my jacket so I don’t leave any prints. I walk casually across the street, for the sake of appearances to anyone who might be looking, and climb in the Winnebago.
“You good?” asks Josh.
I look at the house, then at him.
“I’m good. Tell our client to tell his sister she should make a fresh start. I’ve left her with a little something to help her on her way.”
I stare out of the window, gazing at nothing in particular as my mind instantly wanders back to the larger task ahead of us. I can feel Josh staring at me silently for a moment, but I ignore him. He worries too much. I’m fine, just a little pre-occupied, which is understandable.
Without another word, he pulls away from the curb and we set off, back on the road and heading for Pittsburgh.
3.
MEANWHILE…
09:46
Wilson Trent looked over the balcony as Tommy Blunt dangled precariously, held by his ankles by Trent’s two enforcers, Duncan and Bennett. Blunt was only a small man, around five-eight, and he weighed just under one-seventy. A stark contrast to the two men holding him. They could’ve been twins. Both were over six feet tall, and both weighed around two-forty—which was solid muscle. They looked like their bodies were chiseled from granite, and they’d loyally served Trent as his personal enforcers for several years.
“Holy shit!” yelled Blunt. “Please God, let me go!”
Blunt lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise block of flats in downtown Pittsburgh, overlooking the Ohio River. It was expensive to live there, but he could easily afford it on what he made. He was in charge of the day-to-day running of one of the larger-scale cocaine distribution operations that Wilson Trent owned in the city. They also made a healthy profit from crystal meth and ecstasy, but cocaine was the primary source of income. Blunt managed the finances and logistics for the entire north-west area, from Brighton Heights all the way down to the North Shore. So when Trent was reviewing the books and saw that, every month for the past six months, he was exactly fifteen thousand dollars down, Blunt was the first person he queried it with.
All the blood was rushing to Blunt’s head, making his temples and his ears throb. Understandably panicked and very afraid, it took him a moment to realize he’d just said completely the wrong thing.
“Okay, no—wait!” Blunt yelled up, quickly backtracking. “Don’t let me go! Pull me up! Please!”
He heard laughter above him, and straining his stomach muscles, he looked up at the two men who had a hold of him to see big smiles on their faces. Clearly they were people who enjoyed their jobs.
Next to them, Trent looked on impassively. “So, Tommy,” he shouted down, his deep voice and East Coast accent bellowing all around. “I think me and you need to talk… You got anything important you wanna say to me?”
“Oh my God, please Mr. Trent, I don’t know anything about any missing money, I swear to you!”
Trent shook his head. “Why’s it I don’t believe you?”
“I swear! I’ve never stolen from you in my life. I make good money for you, Mr. Trent. I’ve always done right by you. You have to believe me!”
Trent didn’t say anything; he regarded him from the balcony, clenching his jaw muscles, and trying to decide if Blunt was telling the truth.
Blunt relaxed, allowing himself to dangle for a moment while he composed himself.
“Fuck,” he said to himself, closing his eyes.
Trent tapped both his enforcers on their shoulders and nodded, signaling them to pull Blunt up—which they did with ease. They heaved him up and over the edge of the balcony, standing him between them facing Trent. Bennett was standing on the right, holding Blunt in place with one large hand wrapped around his neck.
Trent was in front of them, his arms folded across his barrel chest, with a look of impatience on his face. He was wearing a three-thousand dollar, tailored, navy-blue Valentino suit with a white shirt, blood-red silk tie, and shiny, black shoes.
“Tommy,” he began. “Either you’re lying to me, or you’re just plain fucking stupid. Which is it?”
Blunt knew there was no correct answer to that. “I... er...” he stammered, before giving up trying to say the right thing.
“It ain’t a difficult question, Tommy. Have you been stealing from me yourself? Or has someone on your payroll been stealing from the both of us, and you were just too fucking dumb to notice?”
“I swear, it wasn’t me,” said Blunt, who was almost in tears, he was that terrified.
“So, you’re a fucking idiot—is that what you�
�re telling me?” said Trent.
Blunt hung his head in shame. “I guess so, Mr. Trent.”
“I guess so... I fucking guess so...? Tommy, do you have any fucking idea how much goes on in this city that I don’t know about?”
Blunt shakes his head.
“Nothing. Nothing goes on in this city that I don’t know about, Tommy. I’m behind nearly every drug deal, I own nearly every hooker—and the ones that aren’t mine pay me a percentage out of respect. I’ve got cops and politicians who will do whatever I say, and do you know what that means, Tommy?”
He shakes his head again.
“It means that, if someone steals from me or lies to me, not only will I find out, I can do whatever the fuck I want to them afterward.”
Trent paced away and sighed heavily, staring for a moment at the view of the skyline off to his left. The sun hid behind low, gray cloud that threatened a downpour. It wasn’t particularly cold, but there was a breeze coming in over the river that occasionally picked up and caused a slight shiver.
Without any warning, he lunged at Blunt with a speed not befitting a man of his size and build, and grabbed him by the throat with a strong right hand. Duncan and Bennett stepped to the side as Trent pushed him backward until he reached the balcony edge. Then, with very little effort whatsoever, he heaved him over, and watched as Tommy Blunt plunged the fourteen stories down to the ground, screaming all the way. The sound of the dull, wet thud as he hit the parking lot at the back of the apartment block was barely audible.
Trent turned and regarded each of the two men, before addressing Duncan, who was standing on his right.
“Search this asshole’s apartment, top to bottom, see if he was hiding anything.” He turned to Bennett. “You—go pay a visit to his office, look through the books, everything. Find out which greedy little bastard has been skimming from me and bring his fucking head to me in a gift-wrapped box. Understood?”
Both men nodded, without fear but in complete respect.
Trent looked back down over the balcony at the remains of Blunt’s broken body, which had attracted a small crowd of people. He spat over the edge, more as a gesture of disgust than a genuine attempt to hit him.
“Fucker.”
4.
ADRIAN HELL
20:15
After leaving South Dakota, we continued east, making good time to Illinois. The weather had brightened briefly along the way, but the sky has darkened now we’re passing through Chicago. We’ve decided to stay here for the night and get some food and drink. It’s been another long day on the road, and we could do with the break.
Josh fiddled with his SatNav to find us a motel for the night, which is just outside the center of the city. We drop off our things in our rooms and head back out. The first order of business is food. We’re both starving, having not really stopped for anything since leaving Vermillion. We quickly find a nice place that served steak, so we treat ourselves to a nice sirloin before looking for a bar.
We’ve been walking for five minutes and haven’t found any place we like. The night sky’s rumbling with menace and as we’re walking down the sidewalk, I glance up at the clouds. There’s a storm coming, that’s for sure. There’s a place up ahead on the right that looks okay. There are a few motorcycles parked out front, with a couple of bikers wearing their leathers standing outside having a cigarette. As we approach, the low bass from inside becomes clearer and I recognize the song.
“This place will do nicely,” I say, tapping Josh on the arm and gesturing to it.
He looks over and smiles. “Yeah, this’ll do the trick,” he agrees.
We walk in and make our way through the small crowd to the bar, resting on it while we wait for the bartender to serve us. It’s pretty busy and very loud. The whole place has a hazy neon blue glow to it, and the patrons are a mixed blend of bikers like the ones outside and trendy, young people. We both glance around, getting a feel for the place. Aside from the main area, there are two big rooms at the back as well. There’s a large screen in one of them, with a small group of people sitting in front of it, loudly cheering at the football game that’s on. I can’t tell which teams are playing, but given sports don’t particularly interest me, it wouldn’t mean much to me even if I did know. Josh follows my gaze and scoffs when he sees the screen.
“I don’t know why you people insist on calling that football,” he says, nodding toward the game. “You hardly touch it with your feet, and it’s not a ball—it’s not even round!”
“Josh, while I completely understand your one-dimensional, British point of view, I honestly couldn’t give any less of a shit right now if I tried,” I reply, casualty.
He laughs.
“Fair enough,” he shrugs.
The bartender comes our way, so we quickly order two beers and head over to the main area, where we find a couple of empty seats near the pool table. There’s a low light hanging above it and old movie posters on the walls nearby. There’s a large group of men and women congregated around it. Well, I say men and women, but I’d be surprised if any of them are over twenty-one.
“How far ‘til we reach Pennsylvania?” I ask.
“Not sure,” Josh replies, shrugging. “We’ve made good time so far, so in theory we could make it by this time tomorrow. But personally, I’d rather we take our time and get there the day after, mid-morning. That way we have time to find our feet and get a plan together. We’ve waited eight years—another couple of days isn’t gonna make any difference, right?”
I raise my bottle of beer slightly in the air, tipping the neck toward him in silent cheers. “Sounds like a plan,” I agree.
We fall silent, sipping our drinks gratefully and allowing our bodies and minds to switch off and take a well-deserved rest. We’ve known each other long enough that silence is never awkward. I look over at him as he looks around absently, relaxing. It’s good to have the company for a change. Before San Francisco, I saw Josh maybe once every couple of months, if that—and even then, it was usually just for an hour or two. Then I was back out on the road, alone. We’ve not been in the field together for a long time.
“How are you feeling about all this?” I ask him.
“How d’you mean?” he replies.
“Well, you’re usually tucked safely behind all your computers and gadgets—it’s a big change being out in the line of fire with me.”
He smiles, knowing I’m not trying to antagonize him or anything.
“I know. It’s certainly different, but it reminds me of the buzz we’d get back in the day, on the old unit. You never forget it, and while I don’t necessarily miss it—especially seeing as I got shot on my first mission alongside you in God knows how long—it’s nice to change things up every now and again. There’s no place I’d rather be, under the circumstances.”
I notice him subconsciously scratch his leg where he caught a bullet, but I don’t say anything. It might be nothing—he didn’t scratch his chest, after all. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
“Amen to that,” I say, extending my hand across the table. We bump fists and laugh, just as the music changes and Don’t Fear The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult comes on.
“Oh, get in!” he shouts, putting his beer down and breaking out into a small air guitar solo.
I shake my head and smile. If ever there was a man who truly didn’t give a shit what people thought of him, it was Josh.
While he’s completely oblivious, lost in the moment of pretending he’s on stage in front of thousands of people, I hear some of the crowd around the pool table start to chatter and laugh at him. A couple of the guys are being derogatory and some of the girls are laughing along with them. I hear one of the girls say to her friend she thinks he’s cute. He’d love that! Now a guy that’s standing nearby has gone over to her. I’m guessing it’s her boyfriend… he looks pissed. I can’t hear what he’s saying to her, but I can tell from his body language that he’s not happy. He keeps looking over at us as he’s sho
uting at the poor girl.
I really hope he doesn’t do something stupid… I’m trying to have a night off.
The boyfriend turns, tapping another guy on the arm and gesturing him to follow as he walks over to our table, giving me an evil look all the way across the floor.
Great.
I tap Josh under the table with my foot and he looks at me with a raised eyebrow. I subtly nod toward the pool table and he sees what I’ve seen. He rolls his eyes and puts his beer down on the table next to mine.
The two young guys ignore me as they approach the table, standing directly in front of Josh.
“What the fuck are you doing?” asks the boyfriend, who looks behind him to join in the laughter with his friends, who all seem to think this is hilarious.
Josh completely ignores him and looks at me, questioningly. I simply hold my hands up, gesturing it’s nothing to do with me.
“I’m not the only one who needs practice,” I say with a smile.
He takes a deep breath and winks at me, knowing I’ve got a point. I can spot a bar fight a mile away, and I figure he’s maybe a little rusty when it comes to being on the front line. I’ll let him handle it—it’ll do him the world of good.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, you old fag!” continues the boyfriend.
Josh looks at him with fake confusion. “Am I missing something?” he asks, emphasizing his British accent. “Since when is calling someone a cigarette classed as an insult?”
Both guys look at each other, and then back at Josh.
“Are you fucking retarded?” he asks.
Josh looks at me and gestures to the pair of them. “Can you believe this guy?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah, over here, fag is a derogatory term used to insinuate you’re homosexual,” I say, suppressing a smile and offering some clarification to him as part of the act.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 2
