“Very nice,” I say approvingly.
“And you’re in luck—that’s actually the newer M1 variant, with the five-round mag attachment, as opposed to the old single bolt-action model.”
“Excellent. I’ll take it.”
“A man who knows what he wants—you got yourself a bargain there, my friend.”
“Have you got a thermal imaging scope for it?”
Oscar ducks back into the aisle and re-appears moments later holding a small, long box with another even smaller box balanced on top.
“Thermal scope and fifty cal’ BMG rounds,” he says.
I smile, very satisfied with the hardware. This place is like Disneyland!
“Bag it up,” I say, handing the rifle back to him. “That’s everything I need.”
“You not gonna ask how much?”
“It doesn’t matter about the cost,” I reply with a shrug. “I don’t think you’ll rip me off, given how impressive and established your business is.”
Oscar smiles proudly. “You good for handguns? Can never be too prepared, y’know...”
I reach behind me and draw one of my custom Beretta 92FS pistols with a blood-red devil face engraved on the butt. I hold it out by the barrel, offering it to him.
“I’ve got it covered,” I say with a smile.
He let out a low whistle as he takes it, inspecting it with a professional eye.
“Very nice…” he says nodding. “These are in great condition.” He hands it back and claps his hands once with a smile. “Okay, that’ll be sixty-five hundred for everything.”
I turn to Josh. “Would you be so kind as to pay the man?” I ask him.
Josh turns and walks back out to the reception desk with Oscar behind him, carrying my purchases. I take a deep breath and let it out with a heavy sigh, looking around at the warehouse one last time before following Josh.
Time to go to work.
19.
11:56
We’re parked across the street from King’s nightclub. We left Oscar’s supermarket and headed straight here, but the journey back took a little longer than before because the streets were busier, crammed with shoppers and commuters and family sedans. I’d driven here while Josh worked away on his laptop in the back. I wanted to get a feel for the place before heading for the bus terminal and settling in for the kill. After sitting at seemingly every red light in the damn city, we finally arrived here a few minutes ago.
“Looks closed to me,” I say, looking at the club.
“Must just be strip joints that cater for the desperate midday crowd,” Josh offers without looking up from his computer.
I smile. “You sure you’re okay with going in on clean-up duty after I take care of this King asshole?”
Josh closes the laptop and looks across the street for a moment before turning to me. “Of course,” he says with a smile. “I’m looking forward to it, and I wanna help. Not just sit here and talk you through everything like always.”
I notice a look in his eyes. A twinkle, almost. I’ve not seen it since we’d arrived in Pittsburgh a few days ago. He looks like his old self—not the worrying, vaguely depressed old woman I’ve managed to turn him into over the last week or so. It’s great to see, and it gives me a boost as well. It’s good to be on a normal job, back in the old routine, away from the self-inflicted drama of Wilson Trent. It’s not just therapy for me, it’s something I think we’re both long overdue.
I reach behind me and unfasten my holster, handing it over to Josh. These are my pride and joy… my babies. I used to have the 92A1 variants, but I lost them. These were a gift; replacements from a friend back in San Francisco.
Christ… my time there feels like another life entirely.
The guns sway back and forth gently as I hold them up, presenting them to Josh almost like a badge of honor.
“Be good to them, and they’ll be good to you,” I say.
He reaches over and takes them from me, smiling. “I feel like we’re missing the bright light shining down through the clouds, illuminating the power I now hold in my hands,” he says, laughing. He looks me in the eyes. “I’ve got your back, Boss.”
“I know,” I say. “Come on, you sentimental old woman, let’s go get into position.”
We switch seats and Josh starts the engine, pulling away from the curb and driving us round the block to the staff parking lot at the back of the bus terminal, which overlooks the back of King’s club. I climb out, stretch my arms, back, and crack my neck, before pausing to take a good look around.
The back of the parking lot has a chain-link fence around its perimeter. Across from it is the rear entrance to The Palace, separated by a small alleyway, which runs in between the properties. There are a couple of trees around, but nothing to obscure my view. Behind me is the main office building of the bus terminal, which is three stories high and has access to the roof by way of a fire escape that climbs up the sidewall facing the parking lot. From the rooftop itself, I’ll have an unimpeded view of the club.
I open the side door of the Winnebago and take out the sports bag containing my recent acquisition. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I sling it over my shoulder, feeling the comfortable and familiar weight of the weapon inside. Not counting my little escapade on Alcatraz a week or so ago, it’s been a long time since I’ve used a sniper rifle for an actual hit, and there’s always something oddly satisfying about watching your target drop from a thousand yards away, having never seen the bullet coming.
And I mean satisfying in the purely professional sense of the word… not in a weird, psychopathic kind of way, just so we’re clear!
Josh has fixed the holster in place and is putting his earpiece in as he walks over.
“All set?” he asks, handing me an earpiece of my own.
“Good to go,” I say, taking it from him and putting it in place.
We quickly check our comms are working, and then set to work.
“Wait at the back entrance for my signal,” I say. “Once you’re inside, don’t take all day—sweep quickly and cleanly up to his office, confirm the kill and get outta there. Clear?”
“Crystal, Boss. Don’t worry about me, okay? I got this.”
And I believe him. We’ve been through a lot together over the years. He wasn’t always my own personal nerd—he was, and still is, a very capable soldier. And like he said to me a few days ago, practice doesn’t do anyone any harm every once in a while.
We bump fists and head our separate ways without another word. I take a quick look around and, seeing there isn’t too many people nearby, sprint over to the fire escape. I notice just the one security camera, which is covering the back door to the building. It’s static and easily avoidable, so I’m confident no one will see me. I hadn’t expected much in the way of security to be honest—I mean, who in their right mind would want to break into a bus terminal?
Luckily, the ladder on the fire escape is already down, so I climb up and make my way to the first platform. It doesn’t take very long, and as I step onto it, I look across the parking lot and see Josh scaling the fence at the back of the club. He drops down into a crouch, waits thirty seconds, and then heads over to the back door, keeping low.
I smile to myself and carry on, moving quickly along the platform and up the next flight of steps, then again until I come out on the rooftop. Despite the heavy cloud and the high mist that indicates a pending shower, I have a pretty good view all around me, and I pause for a moment to soak it in. The Allegheny River runs parallel to the building on the north side, with the Crosstown Boulevard off to the east. There’s a closed maintenance door on the roof leading into the building.
I’m all alone up here.
I crouch down at the edge of the roof, looking across to King’s club. I can see Josh in position, waiting patiently, ever aware of his surroundings. I set the sports bag down and unzip it, taking out the Steyr HS rifle and looking at it approvingly for a moment. I take out the thermal scope and carefully a
ttach it into place, making sure I don’t remove the lens cap until the last minute, to avoid any flare-up that might give away my position.
You never know who’s watching…
Next, I load a clip of ammunition with the fifty cal’ rounds and slide it into the horizontal receiver on the barrel, slamming it firmly into place. I push the bi-pod stand down into place and lie down on my front, adjusting myself so I’m comfortable.
I might be here a while…
I lift the rifle into place in front of me, tucking the stock into my shoulder and flipping the lens cap up, so I can look through the scope. I use my left hand to adjust the focus and activate the thermal imaging. The world goes dark, and the heat signatures of everything and everyone around me appear in my line of sight in a blur of reds, blues, and yellows. I look at Josh crouching by the exit.
“I see you,” I whisper into my earpiece.
“Good,” he replies. “Any sign of life?”
I look up at the back wall, where I know King’s office is and scan the area. “Nothing yet. We just need to play the waiting game now.”
“Copy that.”
An important part of this job is patience. Ironic, given my general lack of such things. But when I’m working, it’s different. If need be, I might have to wait hours for King to show...
12:21
“I’ve got movement,” I say to Josh. “Two targets are in the office now; one standing, walking back and forth, the other sitting down.”
“The guy sitting down has got to be King, right?” he replies.
“That would be my guess, yeah, but I’ll take them both out to be safe.”
I take a long, slow breath, steadying my heart rate and composing myself. I line the crosshairs up on the colorful image of King’s head, adjusting slightly for the wind.
“Got him in my sights,” I confirm, tweaking the focus slightly.
I take another deep breath, and everything slows down around me. The individual background noises sound off to me in turn. I can hear the chaotic bustle of the traffic on the Boulevard… the gentle roar of the water from the river... a bird squawking overhead, lost in the clouds… After each one registers in my ears, it disappears from my radar, eventually leaving an un-natural silence. It’s in this moment when I prepare myself, focusing on the task at hand.
The sound of the shot will be loud—especially a fifty caliber round—but it shouldn’t attract too much attention. I’ll be long gone before anyone tracks down the source of it anyway.
“Ready when you are, Boss,” Josh says.
I move the scope subtly back and forth, practicing the shot. King’s head—bang... quick to the right, second target’s chest—bang. Job done. I replay it almost a dozen times. I’m maybe eleven hundred yards away. At this distance, I need only move the barrel of the gun a millimeter or so. The movement is so precise, the slightest error in judgment on my part and I’ll miss my shot by ten feet…
I re-focus on King and line up the shot once again. My finger tightens on the trigger. I slow my breathing down, steady my arms, and push my weight forward, planting my feet into the ground so I have a firm base.
One breath, in and out.
A second, in and out—slower this time.
The third, in... And out as I squeeze gently on the trigger. The gunshot’s louder than I anticipated, and the recoil slams the stock into my shoulder. The bullet traveled the distance in a fraction over a second, punching through the wall and into the head of Johnny King. I see the figure through the scope slump to the floor, motionless; the heat signature slowly fading away. I quickly line up and fire at the second target in the next breath, hitting him in the chest. He too falls to the floor.
I take a deep breath and let it out with relief.
“You’re up,” I say to Josh.
I place the rifle down and get up to a crouch as watch him enter the building. I pack everything away, hastily make my way down the fire escape, and back over to the Winnebago. I put the sports bag in the back and get in behind the wheel. I sit and focus on my breathing, urging the adrenaline rush to subside. I tap my fingers on the wheel impatiently as I wait for Josh to come back out.
Five minutes pass. I’ll admit I’m starting to worry. I’ve not heard any gunshots, but I’m not sure I would from this distance anyway. Finally, a few moments later, he appears in the back doorway. He walks casually toward the back of the parking lot, clears both fences with an ease not befitting his age, and climbs into the passenger seat next to me.
“All good?” I ask.
His face is solemn and his eyes are serious. I was expecting him to look more... I don’t know—alive, or something, after coming out of there.
“I think we just cemented ourselves in the annals of history as being the two most unlucky bastards ever to walk God’s green Earth,” he says.
I sigh.
“Of course we did... what’s happened now? It wasn’t King we killed, was it?”
“Oh yeah, you took out King—great shot, by the way. Manhattan will be well pleased. I swept the building, managed to take down the three other guys in there without firing a shot.”
“Nice.”
He shrugs modestly. “Thanks. I got to King’s office, saw him and another guy dead, and thought, great—a nice, clean hit. I figured I’d have a look at his papers and on his computer, to see if there was anything of interest. May as well, while I was there.”
“Can’t hurt...” I agree, nodding.
“I found a lot of accounts information, which I’m sure Manhattan will be glad of. I downloaded them to a flash drive I happened to have on me. I always carry one, just in case I ever need it.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I had a quick read through his financials,” he says. “Johnny King used his club for many things, most of them illegal. Including, but not limited to, laundering money for various gangsters and corrupt politicians within the state...”
“Right…”
“Want to have a guess which gangster in particular was his biggest client?”
His words hang there for a moment as a painful silence descends.
“Johnny King worked for Wilson Trent…” I say, closing my eyes and massaging the bridge of my nose in frustration.
“He basically ran Allentown for him, which accounted for a sizeable percentage of Trent’s overall income,” Josh confirms. “And we just killed him. Well… you just killed him.” He turns and pats my shoulder. “Nice going…”
I laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. “For fuck’s sake…”
20.
MEANWHILE…
12:41
Wilson Trent had hardly slept the night before. He was too angry to think about resting. All he could focus on was Adrian Hell and how much he wanted to kill him. And what made things worse was that everyone seemed intimidated by the guy… they seemed to have forgotten it was him they should be scared of, and what he’d do to them if they failed to bring him Adrian Hell’s head on a silver platter.
He sat eating his lunch in a small restaurant not far from his personal skyscraper. It was busy, due to the lunchtime crowd, but he was a regular and… well, he was Wilson Trent, so he had a table to himself at the back of the room, with three men guarding him. The waitresses knew to give him a wide berth, only approaching his table to deliver food and take empty plates away.
It was a nice place, well decorated with a slightly over-priced menu. Trent enjoyed the seafood pasta dish they served there and had been a regular customer for a several years.
He’d instructed Duncan and Bennett to put the word out and find a contract killer who was up to the task of taking that sonofabitch Adrian Hell down, and he’d yet to hear back from them.
He had, however, been contacted by the manager of the Hilton hotel, which was only a few blocks away from where he was sitting. He’d informed him that two police officers were there the night before looking for a man who was staying with them, fitting Adrian’s description. The
y’d approached him, and he gave chase when he ran, but he hadn’t seen either the police or Adrian since. This just added salt to the wound for Trent, because he knew perfectly well what had happened to the police officers he paid a small fortune to, having spoken with Adrian himself the other night.
Trent took some solace in the fact that at least the hotel manager was doing his job and reporting into him, but that still did nothing to subdue his anger or reduce his blood pressure to a healthier level. If anything, it actually made matters worse, because he knew exactly where Adrian was now, but still wasn’t able to do anything about it. He needed someone professional to go after him.
Send a snake to catch a snake.
Just then, the door opened and Trent happened to look up as a woman walked in, looked around the place casually before setting off across the room.
She was exceptionally beautiful, and emitted an aura of confidence in her leggy stride. She had long, dark hair, and an olive complexion. As she passed by the tables, every man in the restaurant stopped and stared—even those sat with other women. Her tight jeans were tucked into brown knee-high boots, and the cropped tank top she wore revealed more than it covered. As she approached Trent’s table, one of his bodyguards stepped forward to meet her. He was a tall, broad man wearing a suit and an earpiece.
“Hold up,” he said, holding his hand up to her. “This is a private table.”
She eyed the three men in turn, before directing her gaze at Trent. He looked her up and down.
“Help you, sweetheart?” he said, leaning to the side slightly to look past his bodyguard at the woman.
She smiled a strange kind of half-smile—almost a smirk—that made her look even more attractive. Her tanned skin gave her an Eastern look and the more he stared, the more Trent’s guard dropped. He was smart enough to acknowledge it was a very clever tactic, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fall victim to it.
“If your boys here let me sit with you, I think you’ll be very interested in how I can help you,” she replied.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 13
