“Seven,” he replies. “You missed the guy on his own near the fire exit.”
I look off to the right, about halfway down from where we are, and there’s a man sitting alone, reading a paper and drinking coffee, occasionally glancing up at Manhattan.
“Well spotted,” I say with a nod.
We reach the table, and Manhattan smiles, extending his hand.
“Adrian!” he says. “So glad you could make it.”
“I don’t shake hands, Jimmy—no offence.”
His smile never falters. “Of course. Please,” he says, gesturing to two empty seats at his table, “join me for breakfast.”
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” the waiter asks Manhattan as Josh and I take our seats.
“No, that’s fine, thank you,” he says, waving him away and sitting down. He looks at me and gestures to a jug on the table. “Coffee?”
I nod and he pours me a cup. He looks at Josh, who waves in refusal.
“So, what’s the job?” I ask him.
He laughs. “Straight to business... I forgot how professional you can be, when you put your mind to it.”
“Just don’t want to hang around when I’m surrounded by all your bodyguards,” I counter, with a humorless smile.
There’s a moment’s silence as Manhattan regards us both with something vaguely resembling admiration.
“Okay,” he begins. “Two weeks ago, you left me in a hospital bed, having just saved my life. From there, you killed Danny Pellaggio and traveled across the country to Pittsburgh. I, however, spent a week recovering before flying here, to Allentown, where I’m doing...” he pauses and gestures around him at the opulent expanse of the hotel, “...rather well for myself.”
“If you’re doing so well for yourself, why are we here?” asks Josh.
Manhattan looks at him and smiles. “And you must be the infamous British brains behind the legendary American mouth...” he replies before looking back to me. “Tell me, Adrian, is it fate that brought us both to the same state? Or something else?”
“We’re not here to discuss me,” I say, calmly. “You got a job for me or not?”
“My apologies,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Of course. As your friend pointed out, there has been a particular bump on the otherwise smooth road of transition. A gentleman by the name of Johnny King refused my offer of partnership, and has since responded—we suspect—by stealing from one of my newly acquired businesses and killing two of my men. I’d like him removed from the picture.”
“So, this is a straightforward mob hit? Not some convoluted catastrophe like the last time you tried to hire me?” I ask.
Manhattan smiles, but refrains from commenting.
“Why don’t you get one of your own men to do it?” I continue. “Why me?”
“I want to make a bold statement,” he replies. “I want to send a message to anyone else who might one day think of testing my authority that if they do, they will be violently eradicated without prejudice. There’s no denying your reputation. And I have no problem admitting my reasons for hiring you specifically are purely for some good PR.”
Josh scoffs. “So you make it look like Adrian Hell is on your side, and everyone backs off, afraid?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
I stroke my stubble and think about it. I don’t work exclusively for anyone. Never have and never will. I know some people who do, and it works well for them, but it’s usually something you go for when you’re starting out. I don’t need any help building a reputation, and I certainly wouldn’t want to limit my earning options.
But… Manhattan’s plan does make sense, at least from his point of view. Appearances can be deceiving, and all he’s going to do is make it look like we’re best friends, and that alone will be enough to secure his position of power for a long time. No reason why I can’t benefit in much the same way. It won’t do any harm, especially when I’m going after Trent. If I can make it look like I’ve got the backing of his only legitimate competition, it might throw him off his game—force to him to look at more than just me. With him distracted, he’ll be much easier to get to.
“A hundred grand, up front,” I say after a moment. “Wire transfer to a numbered account that Josh will give you.”
Manhattan seems surprised, but recovers instantly. “A fair price. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I want to use one of your contacts to source my hardware. And, I want a favor.”
His eyes narrow slightly with skepticism. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing… yet,” I say. “But when I need you, I’ll make the call, and you’ll be there, regardless. After that, we’ll be square and can start all over again.”
Manhattan’s silent as he thinks about my proposal. I see in his eyes that he’s looking at every angle, weighing up every pro and every con—much like I would do.
“Okay,” he says, finally, breaking into a smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Josh looks at me, silently asking if I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I nod imperceptibly to reassure him. He then looks at Manhattan and hands him a business card with my details on it.
“Here’s the account information,” he says. “Let me have confirmation of payment within the hour.”
His tone is formal, almost off-hand, and I can tell he doesn’t approve of the deal. But I also know he understands the reasoning behind it. Manhattan, who knows me well enough to know not to screw me over, is essentially the new kingpin of Allentown, and now he owes me one. I’m in the process of attacking the kingpin of the rest of Pennsylvania, so that favor will definitely come in handy. And if all I have to do is take out a low-life wannabe nightclub owner, who’s told Manhattan to go fuck himself, then so be it—hardly breaking a sweat for an invaluable return.
I stand, prompting Josh and Manhattan to do the same.
“Okay, we’re done here,” I say to Manhattan. “You can contact Josh with the details of where I can find this King guy, and who I can speak to about some hardware for the job. Once I know the money’s in the account, I’ll make my preparations and carry out the hit. All goes well, I’ll be out of your city in twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he replies with a nod.
Without another word, we walk off back to the elevator, meeting the eyes of every one of the bodyguards who stare at us on the way out.
“That went well,” says Josh as we walk back across the foyer and past the front desk.
“You don’t approve, do you?” I reply—more of a statement than a question.
He shrugs. “I know you know what you’re doing, and I understand why we’re doing it. I just don’t trust Manhattan.”
“You should always trust your spider sense,” I say. “But we both know Manhattan’s too smart to try to screw us over. He benefits from this more than we do.”
“Oh, I know.”
We step inside the elevator, and I press the button for our floor.
“So, what’s really on your mind?” I ask as the doors close.
“Just pissed off I didn’t get to eat any breakfast,” he replies.
10:12
After meeting with Manhattan, we both went back to my hotel room and waited for the confirmation of the wire transfer. It came through after half an hour, and ten minutes after that, Josh got the text with the address of Manhattan’s contact in the city where we can go to get some hardware. The guy he uses works out of a warehouse in an old industrial complex about five miles out from the city center. We also got the details of where our target is.
We gathered our things and headed out in the Winnebago. I’m driving while Josh works his magic on his machines to find out everything we need to take the guy out.
The clouds are dark gray and the light rain looks destined to get heavier as the day progresses—according to the local radio station we’re listening to, anyway. Even if they’re right, I think it’ll struggle to beat the storm we drove in from Pittsburgh last night.
I have to admit, as I navigate my way through the traffic, it’s nice to take a small reprieve from my pursuit of Trent and do a normal job for a change. It’s just what I need to help me relax. The driving helps, too, as it allows my mind to shut down and focus on the road. They say a change is as good as a rest, but I’ve always worked best with routine. My own order in the otherwise chaotic existence of a broken world. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t crave the structure and anonymity of the life I lead. Ironically, if you look down at everyone living their lives, I imagine I’d be the more noticeable one, swimming against the current.
“This Johnny King sounds like a right prick,” says Josh, interrupting my wandering thoughts as I take a left turn and change lanes. “Get this: the nightclub he owns has a VIP room that’s invite only from King himself. It’s reportedly frequented by local politicians and celebrities. He’s criticized by local media for—and I’m quoting one magazine here—buying his own notoriety and acting more important than he could ever hope to be... Then in the next breath, he’s praised for sizeable charity donations and fundraising in the city to raise awareness for disadvantaged children.”
“Sounds to me like the newspapers are being as fickle as always,” I observe. “Even though we know he’s a piece of shit wannabe mobster, you can’t fault all the charity stuff I guess.”
“Despite it being an obvious smokescreen to distract from the fact he’s a criminal?”
I shrug. “Those kids won’t care where the money comes from…”
“Yeah, fair point... Anyway, he runs all his little enterprises from his office at the club Manhattan mentioned, The Palace, so that’s as good a place as any to take him out.”
“Works for me. What’s the building like? Is there a back way in? How many men on site?”
“Well, looking at the map, the club’s on a main street with buildings opposite and on either side. However... at the back of the building, there’s a small parking lot and some greenery boxed in by a fence. The other side of the fence is like a mirror image, but leads to the back of a bus terminal. The main building of which is three stories and has roof access.”
I glance over my shoulder at him as I pull up at a red light. “Is there a clear view of King’s office from the rooftop?” I ask, hopefully.
“I’ve got the structural blueprints of his club, and his office doesn’t have any windows. But, it is against the back wall.”
I smile as my brain races around, piecing together the hit. Images link to one another like a jigsaw and the whole thing plays out over, and over again—every possible outcome.
“Sniper rifle,” I say as the lights change, and I set off again. “Perfect!”
“I can go in for clean-up after you take King out?” Josh offers, with a hint of excitement in his voice.
I think about it. I can’t imagine there being much resistance there during the day, and it’s not like he can’t handle himself.
“Sure,” I nod. “You can even take my babies if you want, for luck.”
“I get to use the Berettas?” he asks with excitement and disbelief.
I smile as I quickly glance back at him again. I swear to God, his eyes are so wide they might actually just drop out of his head.
“Yeah, why not!”
“Ah, Boss, you’re the best!”
We both laugh, the familiar comfort of our small unit working as normal—light-hearted preparation for a violent undertaking.
I turn another corner and notice the quality of the buildings quickly declining. Everywhere looks run down and abandoned.
“I guess we’re here,” I say.
Another half mile down the road, there’s a large compound on the right. A chain-link fence surrounds it, but it has no gate—just a gap where one should be. I drive straight in and pull up in the middle of the large compound. I kill the engine and check my guns are at my back. Not that I don’t trust Manhattan or anything, but, y’know… I don’t trust Manhattan!
“You ready?” I ask Josh.
He shuts his laptop and stands up, throwing on his hooded sweater.
“All set,” he replies.
We step outside and look around. There are three huge warehouses in front of us, opposite the entrance, plus two on our left and one off to our right. Each one is the width of two houses side by side, I’d say. From the looks of things, some of them are empty. The ground around us is dark and wet, stained from the storm the night before. There are large puddles of rainwater in potholes all around.
I can’t see any signs of life, but there’s a medium-sized van parked out front of the warehouse on the right. I tap Josh on the arm and point to it, and we set off walking across the yard. As we approach, I see a small door embedded in the larger entrance, which resembles a small aircraft hangar. The door opens inward and man steps out and leans against the frame, watching us.
“What’s the name of this guy again?” I whisper to Josh as we approach.
“Oscar Brown,” he replies.
I nod and look straight at the doorman, who’s set off walking to meet us. I hold my arms out to the side, as a gesture of peace.
“We’re here to see Oscar,” I shout over. “Jimmy Manhattan sent us.”
“What you want with Mr. Brown?” the guy replies. His voice was low and gruff, like someone who smoked forty a day.
“I’m shopping,” I say, smiling.
We all stop a few feet from one another, and about twenty feet from the door. The guy looks us both up and down. He’s not much shorter than I am, but with a barrel chest and a round gut. He’s powerful, but his muscle is obscured by years of, what I’m guessing is, heavy drinking.
“Are you a cop?” he asks, indignantly.
“Are you a retard?” I reply instinctively, immediately cursing myself for engaging my mouth before my brain. It’s like an impulse—any sign of a threat and my Tourette’s kicks in.
He starts to move his right hand behind his back, and I react by preparing to punch him in the throat, but a voice from over by the door distracts us all.
“You must be Adrian?” it says.
The guy in front of me visibly relaxes, and I look over his shoulder past him at the figure that’s appeared by the door. He’s a short man, overweight with thinning, greasy hair, and a smile like a used car salesman. He’s grinning and leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest.
“Jimmy told me you were coming,” he continues. “Forgive my friend—he’s just doing his job. I’m Oscar—welcome to my supermarket!”
I look at the building, which doesn’t look like much from the outside.
“No problem,” I shout back as we set off walking toward the warehouse door. I muscle into the doorman’s shoulder on the way past, sending him slightly off-balance.
“Be cool, Adrian,” whispers Josh next to me. I wave my hand dismissively in silent response.
Oscar ushers us both through the doorway and into a kind of reception area, following us inside and shutting the door behind him.
“Jimmy tells me you’re in the market for some hardware...” he says, more a statement than a question.
I nod. “I am. Not sure I’m in the right place though,” I reply, looking around. The room we’re in consists of a desk facing the door and a battered couch against the right hand wall. And that’s it. The office area runs the full width of the warehouse, but it can’t be more than seven feet deep... The actual building is massive on the outside, but inside is tiny in comparison. I look at Josh, who, judging by the frown on his face, shares my confusion.
“No offence, mate,” he says to Oscar. “But for a supermarket, you’ve not got much in the way of, y’know... anything.”
Oscar smiles, probably anticipating the reaction. I’m guessing it’s not the first time he’s come across it. He produces a small remote control from his pocket and presses a button.
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” he says.
There’s a rumbling somewhere in the ba
ckground as mechanisms burst into life. We turn and see the entire back wall split down the middle and slide apart like giant doors. As they part, they slowly reveal more and more of what they conceal.
I have no issue admitting that my jaw has physically dropped open.
“Fuck me...” I say quietly.
“Happy Christmas...” adds Josh.
Oscar pushes past us and walks through to the warehouse proper. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.
We both follow him through the doors, which have now opened fully to reveal the remaining, hidden area of the building. From the floor, almost all the way to the ceiling are fourteen long metal shelving units, laid out in rows. They are huge! And they’re full of weapons… everything from handguns to hand grenades, from rocket launchers to claymores. You name it; Oscar apparently has it.
We walk slowly, looking all around with an odd sense of wonder.
“What d’you think?” asks Oscar, who’s stopped halfway down one of the aisles.
“Impressive,” I reply, sincerely.
“Thanks. I have a smaller complex over in Pittsburgh, but this is my main storage facility. Now, as I’m sure you can appreciate, gentleman, I like to conduct business quickly.” He gestures around him with both hands. “What do you need?”
I look quickly at Josh, silently asking if he’s happy with how we intend carrying out the job. He nods back. I turn to Oscar.
“I need a high-powered sniper rifle, good for a thousand yards,” I explain. “Fifty caliber, as I need to punch through a brick wall in one shot.”
Oscar thinks for a moment, and walks back past us and then down the next aisle to our left. He re-appears a moment later holding a sniper rifle. It has a long, thin barrel with a disproportionately large square muzzle and a fold-down bi-pod stand attached to the underside of it. He smiles at me as he holds it out for me to take.
“The Steyr HS,” he declares. “It’ll fire the fifty cal’ Browning Machine Gun rounds happily enough. Good for sixteen hundred yards.”
I take it, feeling the weight, and inspecting the weapon. It’s pretty light—can’t be more than thirty pounds.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 12
