Usually, when someone their size confronts you, they expect people to back down or run off. They definitely don’t expect them to spark up a conversation or openly take the piss.
They exchange a bewildered glance, as if asking each other if they can believe I’d have the nerve to speak to them like that.
“You got some mouth on you, asshole. You know that?” says the one on the left.
“I know,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Gets me in all sorts of trouble. What’s your name?”
He doesn’t expect that, either.
“Stan,” he replies hesitantly as he frowns in confusion.
“Stan?” I repeat, before pointing to his friend. “So that must make you Oli, right?”
The waistcoat guy’s cheeks quickly flush red and he starts cracking his knuckles, clearly angry. I thought that only happens in cartoons or something… It’s hilarious!
“No,” he says, in a low, agitated tone.
“Is your surname Dupp?” I continue.
“No, wise-ass.”
They’re both getting angrier by the second and I love it. I honestly can’t wait for one of them to make a move for me.
Please don’t judge me for how I entertain myself.
I turn to the guy on my right, whose name isn’t Oli, apparently.
“So, ‘Big and Dumb’, what do they call you?”
Well, that does it.
Before he has chance to answer, Stan lurches forward and throws a big right hand at my face. Luckily for me, it’s possibly the slowest punch ever thrown by anyone ever and I saw it coming a mile away. In one quick movement, I push myself forward off my stool with my left leg and step through with my right foot forward, kicking Stan’s left leg away from him. Just a little tap—enough to send him off-balance without breaking anything. Because of the weight he put behind the punch, and the fact his left leg’s now moving uncontrollably away from him, his own momentum sends him crashing forward into the bar. As he goes down, I step away and slam my right fist into his left temple. He’s got no clue where he is as he bounces off the bar, and he’s out cold by the time he hits the floor.
Using the momentum from the right hand, I continue to turn my body counter-clockwise, bringing my left elbow up and swinging it behind me, catching ‘Big and Dumb’ on the side of the chin with it as he moves in. It’s not the most accurate or powerful shot I’ve ever thrown, but it does the job of sending him staggering backward because he was completely unprepared for it. As he does, I complete the turn and thrust my right fist into his sternum, just below his rib cage. There’s lots of power behind the punch and it hits him as sweetly as is possible. When you take that kind of shot, your body instinctively doubles over. Because he’s already moving backward from the elbow, both movements counter each other and he just slumps straight down on the spot. He lands in the fetal position making an awful rasping noise as he tries to breathe. He rolls around for a moment before giving up and passing out.
I look first at Stan, then his friend, unconscious at my feet. I step back over to the bar and gulp my Johnnie Walker in one. I reach into my pocket and throw down a twenty before picking up my bag and walking out.
I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Charlie’s, the sun setting on my right, casting an orange glow over the tops of the buildings. I take a couple of deep breaths, telling my body I no longer need any adrenaline and slow my heart rate down.
I look left and right, trying to decide which way will get me to a motel faster. I come to the conclusion that I have absolutely no idea, so I resort to my age-old philosophy: when in doubt, go left.
I take out my phone and dial a number from memory. The voice that answers is one of those annoying voices that always sound happy, regardless of the situation. However, the voice belongs to one of the few people on this planet I trust, so I let them off.
Josh Winters is a former army buddy from back in the day. We met shortly after I’d been recruited to lead a black ops task force that was a joint effort between the U.S. and the British. We quickly bonded and became like brothers, so when I got out and decided to work freelance, he was more than happy to come with me. He’s been working with me for the past eleven years, making contacts, finding me jobs and supplying me with information and anything else I might need. My life is pretty much in his hands.
“Adrian! Great to hear from you, Boss!” he says. “How’s Heaven’s Valley so far?”
I can tell he’s smiling down the phone as he speaks.
“I’ve been in this town half an hour and I’ve already been in a fight,” I reply. “I’ve decided I don’t like it here all that much.”
“You do have a tendency to make a unique first impression, don’t you?” he says with a laugh.
“Screw you, Josh,” I counter, enjoying the banter. “We all set for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, you’re meeting a guy called Jimmy Manhattan. This guy, and the people he represents—they’re old school, Adrian. So I say this with all the love in the world, but try to avoid being too... you, alright?”
I’m almost offended, but I know what he was trying to say. I’ve worked for guys like these many times, and they take respect very seriously. Disrespecting someone near the top of the mob family hierarchy like Jimmy Manhattan would bring a lot of unnecessary trouble down on top of me.
“Fear not, I shall be at my most professional,” I assure him.
“That’s what I’m worried about! Call me afterward if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
I hang up and set off walking down the street, in search of a nice, quiet motel where I can grab a shower and some sleep. I find myself humming Fortunate Son, which I didn’t get to finish listening to in the bar.
Assholes.
3.
August 21st, 2013
08:06
I’M WALKING DOWN a quiet street that’s just off the main strip running through the center of the city. The sun’s glorious even at this time in a morning and it’s getting hotter by the minute. A barren, unforgiving desert surrounds Heaven’s Valley, so intensely hot sun all year round is commonplace.
I’m meeting Manhattan at nine a.m, so I’m going to get there early and scope the place out. It’s a very old habit, drilled into me on the very first day of boot camp—reconnaissance can save your life. Always know where the enemy will come from, and always know how you can get out. Especially in this situation, where I’m meeting someone I didn’t know or trust. I like to plan my exit strategy long before I make my entrance.
The meeting itself is in a nice, small, family-owned coffee shop called Dimitri’s. On the outside, the window frames are a faded brown color and the window itself has the company logo emblazoned across it. Next to that, on the left, is the entrance. There’s enough room outside for three sets of table and chairs, which I imagine are going to be occupied by customers most of the day, given the weather.
I walk inside and I’m surprised at how spacious it is—much bigger than what I expected. The layout of the place is like a grid, with seating set out in three rows of three in front of the serving counter, which covers nearly all the length of the far wall. The rows on the left and right are booths, which seat four people, two facing two. The middle row has round tables with four chairs on each compass point around it.
The café must’ve just opened. There’s an aging guy with short, gray hair setting up the cappuccino machine behind the counter. He turns as I approach and eyes me up and down before turning back to his machine. He’s probably in his early seventies and his tanned skin is like old leather. He’s got these faded, blue-gray tattoos on his forearms, presumably from time served in the military, back in the good old days.
“Morning,” I say, not really expecting a response. “Can I get a coffee, black with two sugars, please?”
“Be right over,” he replies without turning round.
I turn and look out at the empty café, surveying the layout and trying to decide where would be best to sit and wait. I figure the booth near t
he window, on the right hand side is best. I walk over and slide across the seat, twisting slightly to my left, putting my back to the wall and resting one knee on the seat, so I can see the entire place in front of me—the entrance, the counter and the doors behind it, as well as outside through the window. From here, I can see everyone coming and don’t have to worry about anyone coming up behind me. More of my old habits, instilled at an early age. Old habits that have saved my ass more than once. Some people call me paranoid, but the way I look at it is that it’s not paranoia if the bastards are really after you.
A few minutes pass and the old guy brings over my coffee.
“You want breakfast?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks,” I reply.
He nods once and walks back to the counter.
I take a sip of my coffee and look around the place absently. I look out the window and see three men approaching from down the street.
This must be him…
I’m both impressed and concerned that he’s prepared enough to show up early like I did.
The door opens and the three men walk in.
Showtime.
The first guy is probably early fifties, wearing what looks like a very expensive three-piece suit, which is a light brown. He’s a thin, wiry guy, but walks with the utmost confidence and grace. He comes across as a man who never rushes to be somewhere. Or who needs to, for that matter. He’s staring at me, but not in an aggressive way. More… purposefully.
Hello, Jimmy Manhattan…
The two guys behind him are the bodyguards. The hired muscle, there more for intimidation than actual protection, I suspect. Manhattan doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy people around here don’t know.
I look closer at the bodyguards and sigh a little louder than I intended as I meet each of their gazes in turn.
They’re my two friends from the bar last night...
Both look like they’re suffering from a bad hangover. My face betrays nothing, but inside I can’t help but laugh. Only I would manage to get into a fight with the security detail of my next employer.
I don’t make a move to stand, and I certainly don’t extend my hand to greet them. I simply pick up my coffee and take another sip.
“Jimmy Manhattan?” I ask the first man as they approach my booth.
He nods. “And that must make you Adrian Hell?” he replies, sliding into the seat opposite me. His voice is smooth, and his accent is very… East Coast. New York, maybe? He’s a long way from home anyway.
“I see your reputation for being thorough is well deserved,” he says, motioning to the coffee shop in acknowledgement of my early arrival.
“Well, you know what they say: the early bird gets the… professional contract killer. I see you’ve brought friends...”
I look up at them and address each in turn.
“Fred... Ginger…” I hold my hands up apologetically. “No hard feelings about yesterday?”
Stan is angry, as is his friend. They’re glaring at me with evil in their eyes and the hint of a snarl on their lips. But neither speaks, or even moves a muscle. They just glance at Manhattan and remain very still. I look back at him.
“I see you’ve got the dogs well trained,” I say with a smile. “I’m impressed.”
Manhattan lets slip a half-smile, but remains unwavering in his cool, confident demeanor.
“And I see the reputation about your mouth is pretty accurate, too.” He looks over his shoulder at Stan. “Give me and Mr. Hell some privacy, would you?”
Stan and his slightly taller, angrier friend walk off and sit down at the counter, facing me. I hold their gaze for a second with my best un-blinking, deadpan poker face, and then look away. They don’t bother me. The only reason either of them is here is to emphasize Jimmy’s importance and to intimidate whoever he’s meeting. That won’t work with me and everyone here knows it.
“Mr. Hell—can I call you Adrian?” he asks.
He’s professional and respectful—almost friendly. I suspect his manner is a practiced act to disarm the other person, get them feeling too comfortable and relaxed. That’s when he’ll reel you in. Again, it’s never going to work on me, but I appreciate his friendly approach and I reciprocate.
“I’ve been called worse than both, so feel free,” I reply.
I quite like ‘Mr. Hell’ though—I might try to use that in the future, see if it catches on...
“Adrian, I represent Roberto Pellaggio and I’m here at his request to offer you a job befitting of your particular set of skills.”
He produces a brown, letter-sized envelope and slides it across the table to me. I open it and take out a photograph and some papers. It’s a black and white eight-by-ten of a man in a suit walking across the road. He’s talking on his phone and carrying a briefcase.
“This is Ted Jackson,” he continues. “Until very recently, we were working with Mr. Jackson on a business deal to secure some land on the outskirts of the city. Mr. Pellaggio was looking to expand his business portfolio by building a casino there.”
“Go on,” I say, nodding while studying the photo.
“A few days ago, with no warning or explanation, Mr. Jackson backed out of that deal. He kept the deeds to the land, as well as the money Mr. Pellaggio had already invested into it.”
I look up from the photograph to speak. “And you want me to make him disappear?” I ask, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Mr. Pellaggio is a well-respected businessman, with a—how can I put it?—well known and formidable reputation. A slight of this kind toward him cannot be tolerated under any circumstances. We must send a clear message.”
“I understand. Consider it done.”
“There’s something else,” says Manhattan. “While taking care of Mr. Jackson is a must, it’s of vital importance that you retrieve the deeds to that land. Mr. Pellaggio is eager to complete this deal and begin construction of the casino, and that paperwork is the key.”
“Not a problem,” I say with a shrug.
I’m more than happy to take this job. It’s straightforward and easy money—find a businessman, kill him and steal some paperwork. Give the papers to the mafia and get my money… I can be out of here in a couple of days. I’m not a big fan of this close, desert heat, so the sooner I can get back to somewhere slightly milder, the better.
Jimmy stands, prompting Stan and his friend at the counter to do the same.
“I look forward to seeing more of your work, Adrian,” he says, glancing over at his bodyguards. “It comes highly recommended.”
“Thank you,” I say with a grin.
“We’ll speak again when you have completed the job.”
Jimmy nods a silent goodbye, then turns and walks out of the café, followed by his bodyguards. As they walk off, Stan turns to me and flips me the finger. I simply smile and wave back.
God, I wish I’d hit him harder.
08:41
I wait a few minutes after they leave to finish my coffee. I stand, gather the contents of the envelope up, leave a tip on the table, and head back outside. As I open the door I’m hit by a blast of heat, as if I’ve opened an oven that’s been cooking for three hours. I was only in there just over half an hour, but the increase in temperature is staggering.
The sun is pounding down as I walk along the street. I’m wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, minus the leather jacket, with black sunglasses and a baseball cap. I cross over to the other side of the street, as it’s partly shaded, but it does little to cool me down.
I’m on a very busy street in the center of the business district. Maybe it’s because I’m not a local and unaccustomed to the climate or something, but it baffles me how anyone can walk around in a suit when it’s this hot.
I take out my phone and ring Josh. He answers in his usual, sickening, enthusiastic tone.
“How’d it go with Jimmy The Glove?” he enquires as he picks up.
“Is that what people call h
im?” I ask.
“Apparently.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“Probably not,” he chuckles.
“Fair enough. The meeting went fine, despite finding out that Manhattan’s hired goons were the assholes that started a fight with me last night.”
“You’re shitting me?” says Josh, laughing in disbelief.
“I shit you not, my friend.”
“I bet that went down well?”
“It was fine—he seemed to find it quite amusing, to his credit.”
“Only you, Boss… So are you happy with the contract?”
“Yeah, it should be straightforward enough. It’s a property deal gone bad. He wants me to take out the target to send a message, then recover the deeds to some land they were intending to buy from him before he screwed them over. It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of days. Will be glad to get out of this place and go somewhere slightly colder—this heat is unbearable.”
“Surely the ice in your veins cools you down?” he responds in jest. “You need anything from me?”
“Not right now, but I know where you are if I need you. I’ll be in touch.”
Just as I’m about to hang up, I remembered one last thing I want to mention. “What do you think of ‘Mr. Hell’ as my business name?” I ask.
Josh laughs, loudly, for a good two minutes. I hold the phone away from my ear until he’s finished.
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s how Jimmy addressed me when we were exchanging pleasantries. Kinda liked it.”
“Adrian, you know I love you, right?”
I pause. “Yeah...?”
“It makes you sound like a professional wrestler. Who’s gay.”
I remain silent for a few moments, trying to make him feel uneasy. Although I know that probably won’t work. “Josh, you know I love you, right?”
He laughs. “Yeah...?”
“You’re a dick.”
I hang up and walk on, navigating the increasingly busy streets.
I think I’ll do a little recon work for the job, get to know the city a little better. According to the information Jimmy Manhattan gave me, Jackson is attending a meeting this morning, which is due to finish in any time in the next half-hour. I’ll find where he is and tail him on foot when he leaves for as long as I can. I’ll be able to get a look at his car, any colleagues or security he might have—basically just try to get a feel for his behaviors and routines. I’ve also got his itinerary for the next twenty-four hours, courtesy of Manhattan’s research, so all being well I’ll make the approach when he finishes work for the day, to minimize the risk of exposure and attention.
True Conviction Page 2
