“Nah, it’s alright.”
“Well, quit whining then.”
I smile as he gives me the finger.
“I just hate being stuck in traffic...” he explains, gesturing with his hand out the front windshield at the vehicles ahead of us that are barely moving.
Another car cuts across us with hardly any space to move. Josh is livid, and he starts punching the horn in time to his cursing.
“You! Piece! Of! Shit!” he yells.
I smile to myself, sit back, and close my eyes.
We’re probably still about an hour out, and it’s almost ten-thirty. I imagine we’ll end up camping out in the Winnebago for the night, then go and see Manhattan first thing in the morning.
Everything lights up outside for a split second as lightning explodes across the night sky, followed a few seconds later by a loud rumble of thunder.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Not seen weather this bad in a while.”
“Doesn’t look like it’ll let up any time soon, either,” I add.
We hear a phone ring. We both look at each other and frown.
“Is that you?” I ask.
“Not me,” he replies, shrugging.
“Me neither.”
I look over my shoulder into the back of the van, trying to listen and pinpoint where the ringing is coming from. I follow the sound and realize it’s originating from the phone I took off Trent’s pet cop. I get up and walk over to it, picking it up curiously. I look at the screen.
“Huh…”
“What’s up?” asks Josh, quickly glancing over his shoulder.
I hold the phone up to show him. “It’s Trent,” I say.
His eyes go wide and I feel a nervous excitement wash over me.
“You gonna answer it?” he asks.
I smile and answer it, pressing the speaker button as I sit back down next to Josh.
“Yeah?” I say casually.
“What the fuck took you so long to answer your goddamn phone?” yells Trent. “What’s happening? Did you find him?”
I close my eyes and take a long, slow, calming breath. I’m about to declare war, and once I do, it will only end in either his death, or mine. The point of no return...
I open my eyes again. Every aspect of myself has been removed so only my Inner Satan remains, and he’s about to have a conversation he’s been waiting for, for close to a decade.
“Yeah, they found me,” I reply.
There’s a moment of silence on the line.
“Who is this?” Trent demands.
“It’s the Grim Reaper, asshole,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“You...?”
“Me.”
“Where are the cops?”
“I left one in an alleyway with a broken face, and the other is bound, gagged, and unconscious in the back of my van.”
More silence.
“You’re a dead man,” says Trent.
“You first.”
“You killed my son!”
“You killed my wife and daughter... do you really want to start a game of who owes who?”
“What’s it been? Eight years since you ran like a fucking pussy?”
I take a deep breath, resisting every urge I have to let his words get to me.
“A lot can happen in eight years,” I say.
“I’m gonna find you, and when I do, I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna what? Assume I’m still the inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears amateur who unknowingly shot your boy in the face? Then what? You gonna shout and curse at me some more? Remind me of what you did to my family? You listen to me, you sonofabitch—you ask around, alright? Adrian Hughes died eight years ago. The monster I am now, you created, and I’ve earned somewhat of a reputation in my time... I’m coming for you, you piece of shit, and I’m gonna bury you and anyone who dares get in my way.”
I hang up, wind the window down, and throw the phone across the interstate. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and close the door on my Inner Satan once again, before turning to Josh. He’s staring straight ahead at the road, eyes still wide.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing... I just forget sometimes how much of a scary bastard you can be.”
I sit back and relax.
That was nothing compared to what I have planned for Wilson Trent.
We drive on through the storm for another half hour pretty much in silence. Then another ringing phone sounds out. This time, it is mine. I look at the screen. An unknown number. I look at Josh and shrug before answering.
“Hello?” I say with a sigh.
“Adrian? It’s Jimmy Manhattan.”
I roll my eyes and mouth ‘Manhattan’ silently to Josh, who mirrors my reaction.
“And what can I do for you?” I ask.
“I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to my offer of a contract...”
“As it happens, Jimmy, I have. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I have a window in my schedule to fit you in. We’re driving to Allentown as we speak to come and see you. I was gonna surprise you, but we’ve been stuck on I-76 for hours.”
“Excellent news!” he says, sounding very pleased, although I detect a hint of relief in his voice as well. “I’ll arrange for you to spend the night at The Carrington with me. Head straight there and we’ll discuss the details in the morning over breakfast.”
“Don’t get carried away with yourself and start thinking we’re friends, Jimmy. I’m only coming to see you to talk. I’ve not agreed to anything yet.”
“No, no—of course. Tell the front desk when you arrive that you’re there to see me, and they’ll show you to your rooms.”
“Fine, whatever,” I say, before hanging up.
“So?” asks Josh, looking over.
“We have rooms at The Carrington Hotel being arranged for us, courtesy of Mr. Manhattan. We’re to head straight there, apparently.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oooo, very nice! See? This is how we should be living, Boss—five star all the way!”
I shake my head and laugh. “Whatever lights your candle, Josh.”
I sit back, put my feet up on the dash, and rest my head back against the seat.
What the hell have I let myself in for?
17.
MEANWHILE…
22:31
Wilson Trent stared at the phone in his hand as the line went dead. He hated cell phones. Whenever he was angry, he could always slam the receiver on a normal phone down on the base unit, but with a cell, it was hard to express how angry you were when you simply pressed a button to hang up. He settled instead for launching it across his penthouse office into the far wall. It smashed and scattered on the floor.
His two enforcers were with him. Duncan sat on one of the sofas in front of the desk. Bennett was leaning against the wall over by the door.
“Everything alright, Mr. Trent?” he asked.
Trent regarded him for a moment. He actually quite liked him, and Duncan. They’d been in his service for several years and were both very capable men. They were smart enough not to ask too many questions, and they were the epitome of loyal.
“That was that fucking bastard, Hughes!” he shouted, pointing at the remains of the phone. “Two of our cops found him and he took them out...”
He let his words trail off as his anger superseded his ability to form coherent sentences.
“You want us to go after him?” asked Duncan, standing up, almost to attention.
Trent shook his head. “No, but I want you to ask around, find out who this guy thinks he is.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“He said he’s here to kill me, and that he’s not the person I think he is. So I wanna be ready for when he comes at me.”
“You got nothin’ to worry about, Mr. Trent,” said Bennett, walking over to join his partner. “He’s one guy, and you took out his family already... He’s desperate. What can he possibly do to you?
”
Trent pointed a finger at him. “Complacency is the mother of all fuck-ups,” he said. “Find out who he is and why he’s so goddamn confident.”
He picked up a copy of Adrian’s picture off his desk and threw it at Duncan, who picked it up off the floor and quickly showed it to Bennett. They studied it together for a moment, and then looked up at Trent.
“Leave it with us, Mr. Trent,” said Duncan. “We’ll find the bastard.”
They turned and left, leaving Trent alone in his office. He turned and stood looking out the window at the thunderstorm currently battering down on the city.
His city.
He wasn’t afraid of the threats Hughes had made. Not by a long shot. But he wasn’t stupid, either. There was an old saying: forewarned is forearmed. He wanted to make sure for his own piece of mind that he was fully prepared for him when he attacked. And he firmly believed that he would attack. It would be a futile attempt, of course, but he was clearly a desperate man, like Duncan had said—consumed by some glorified revenge mission. And desperate men can be capable of immense things.
Wilson Trent was a very intelligent man, and had gotten to where he was by making smart decisions and executing his strategies with ruthless efficiency. He’d already put the word out to the cops in the city on his payroll, and in the morning he’d broadcast his message statewide. Every dealer, pimp, muscle, cop and politician in Pennsylvania would have a picture of Adrian fucking Hughes, with notice that Trent wanted him—alive, preferably, but it wasn’t essential—and that there was a substantial reward for whoever found him.
There was a knock on his door, which interrupted his train of thought.
“What?” he shouted, without looking.
The door opened, and Bennett walked in.
“Mr. Trent?” he said.
“Thought you’d gone for the night?” he asked, finally turning round.
“I had, but I figured you’d wanna hear this right away.”
“Hear what?”
“I showed the picture you gave me to the men still in the building. I gave them a description and said to put the word out to their contacts in the city to be on the lookout for Adrian Hughes.”
“What do you want, a medal?” said Trent, impatiently.
Bennett took a breath, holding it for a moment. “Well, one of them said they know a guy who does a bit of work now and then in the killing business. Not a shooter, just a broker for information. Anyway, he rang him there and then and gave the description, and his contact told him he knew exactly who we were looking for and that we should cut our losses and, I quote, not fuck with the guy.”
Trent frowned as he approached something akin to concern for the first time in a long time. It seemed strange to him that a low-level no-mark who gave information to hitmen would know exactly who he was looking for. It was certainly one helluva coincidence.
“How had this guy heard of him?” he asked.
“Mr. Trent, everyone has heard of him. When I heard his name, even I had, though mostly hearsay. He’s a fucking ghost story, Boss.”
Trent slammed his hands on his desk with frustration. “For fuck’s sake, would you grow a pair? Who is he?”
Bennett swallowed hard, almost afraid to say it out loud, for reasons he hadn’t quite figured out himself. “He’s Adrian Hell.”
The words lingered for a moment in the silence, but Trent simply shrugged—the impact lost on him. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s the best there is,” continued Bennett. “He’s legendary. Some people even say you can’t kill him.”
Trent looked borderline disgusted. “Don’t be fucking moronic! I’ll kill him with my own fucking hands if I have to. He’s a nobody—just a rank amateur who ran away from a fight after I tore his world apart. You say he’s the best? Find me a professional killer who disagrees and bring them to me. I’ll pay them whatever they need to take him out, if that’s what it’s gonna take.”
Bennett looked at him for a moment and nodded. “I’ll get right on it, Mr. Trent.”
He left the room without another word. Trent turned back to the window and looked out, his view of the city below clouded by the rain-covered glass. He knew that somewhere out there, Adrian Hughes was planning his death.
He smiled.
“I don’t care who you think you are, you piece of shit,” he said to himself. “I’m gonna find you, and when I do, I’ll make sure your reputation gets buried as deep as you do.”
18.
ADRIAN HELL
OCTOBER 4TH, 2014
01:15
The rain had eased a little during our unexpectedly epic road journey, and we’d arrived in Allentown about an hour ago. We took a swift detour to dispose of the kidnapped cop we had in the back—we left him in the doorway of a shop on a quiet street, without his phone or wallet or badge… That should keep him entertained for a while.
As advised, we headed straight for The Carrington and checked in as guests of Jimmy Manhattan’s. A porter showed us to our rooms, which were as exquisite—if not more so—than our suites at The Hilton back in Pittsburgh. Josh went straight to his room and crashed, tired after the long drive.
I grabbed a shower and changed my clothes, and I’m now lying on the bed flicking through the available channels on the TV.
My room’s a modest size, but the decor and furnishing is flawless. In addition to the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall facing the bed, there’s a nice, dark wooden desk and chair in the corner against the far wall, to the right of the window. A standing lamp is to the left. The door to the bathroom is just inside the room on the left, and the facilities are lavish. The shower was powerful and it felt great after so long on the road to stand under clean, hot water for fifteen minutes.
I’m not in the mood for sleeping—I’ve past the point where I feel tired, and after the run-in with the cops and the phone call with Trent earlier in the evening, my mind’s racing to piece together everything I want to do in order to take him down. It’s the first time I’ve operated without a contract, without a justifiable purpose given to me by a paying customer, as Josh had put it. I’m feeling an uneasy sense of freedom to everything at the moment, and I’m finding it difficult not to run with the situation and lose control. I’m more conscious of it happening now, after the conversation with Josh yesterday. We need to do this right, and I have to treat it like any other job. Research, preparation, and impeccable execution.
The channels on this TV suck… Sports, pay-per-view, music... I finally settle on a local news channel. There are two guys discussing Pittsburgh’s upcoming NFL game, which is taking place on Sunday. Sport’s never particularly interested me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I had a daughter? If I’d had a little boy, I’d probably know all about football, baseball, hockey, and everything else. I briefly imagine what it would’ve been like playing catch with my son… I soon find myself remembering all the time I spent with my baby girl, Maria. She was gorgeous. She had a big, cheeky grin that always made her look like she’d been up to no good. I smile fondly, happy in a way because I still have clear memories of my family.
I close my eyes, remembering the last time I held my beautiful daughter in my arms…
09:02
The knocking on my door wakes me up. I stand, stretch, and turn the TV off before answering it. Josh barges past me into the room, looking very awake and happy.
“Hands off cocks, hands on socks, my friend!” he says as he enters. “How nice is this hotel? And the shower... my God! Adrian, you seriously need to try to the shower.”
I’m still standing at the door, half-asleep, staring into the hallway. “Morning, Josh,” I say, wearily. “Do come in.”
I shut the door and walk back over to the bed, sitting down heavily and falling back.
“You ready?” he asks. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m starving! Plus we’re meant to meet Manhattan over breakfast.”
I lift my head just enough to make eye contact. “Jesus
Christ, Josh, will you calm down? You sound like… a hyperactive child on Christmas morning who’s seen a bicycle-shaped present under the tree.”
He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Wow… that’s a really random and long-winded metaphor. Fine, take your time, whatever. Don’t mind me. I only drove for ten hours yesterday without a break and—”
“Oh my God, alright already!” I say, sitting up and stretching again. “Come on, you whiny bitch.”
He punches the air and cheers. “Now you’re talkin’! I’m gonna have so much bacon, I’m gonna oink.”
I stand and shake my head with half-comical, half-genuine disbelief, unable to suppress a smile. We head for the door. I open it and let Josh out. I’m about to follow him, but I stop myself. I walk quickly back inside and get my guns.
I’m not making that mistake again!
We walk to the elevator as I fasten the holster to my back and adjust my top so it covers the Berettas. We ride it down to the first floor and head past the front desk to the restaurant. A waiter greets us, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo and bow tie.
“Morning Jeeves, has Jimmy Manhattan arrived yet?” I ask as we approach him. “We’re meant to meet him here for breakfast.”
The waiter looks down his nose at us in disgust. “Ah, of course. You must be Mr. Manhattan’s guest.” He says, in an accent so stuck-up and pretentious, he sounds more British than Josh does. “He’s not long since arrived himself. If you would follow me please, sir.”
I don’t like Jeeves.
He turns and sets off into the restaurant, so we both follow him. He leads us to the far right where, in the corner, I see Jimmy Manhattan sitting alone at a table. He stands as he sees us across the room, placing his napkin on the table.
I look at Josh. “Here we go,” I say.
I quickly glance around the restaurant. The tables are decorated with a white cloth, and have expensive-looking silver cutlery laid out on them. The place is probably half-full with the breakfast crowd—a mixture of businessmen, couples, and families. I look at the tables close to Manhattan.
“I count six bodyguards,” I whisper to Josh as we navigate our way between tables.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 11
