True Conviction

by James P. Sumner

  5.

  14:57

  JOSH TRACKED DOWN where in the city Jimmy Manhattan spends his time, so I grabbed a bite to eat before heading over there. I’ve changed into a black t-shirt and thrown on my trusty, brown leather jacket. Tucked in the waistband of my jeans at the back is one of my prized possessions—a custom Beretta 92A1 handgun. It holds fifteen, nine-by-nineteen millimeter Parabellum rounds in its magazine. The 92-series is the preferred firearm of the United States Armed Forces. I’ve always preferred this particular variation to the 96-series, which fires the ten-by-twenty-two millimeter, .40 caliber Smith and Wesson rounds. The reason being, the Parabellums have a higher rate of velocity than their Smith and Wesson counterparts, and as a result have a higher penetration depth, meaning they ultimately do more damage.

  It might sound terribly impressive that I’m an information junkie and know all the stats, but when it comes down to it, I just want to make the biggest bang.

  The barrel is metallic silver, as are the outer edges of the butt. On either side of the grip is an ebony plate with a downward-pointing pentagram engraved in silver. I’ve always liked the moniker of Adrian Hell that I inadvertently acquired several years ago, and I try to play on it as much as I can. Image and reputation is everything in this business and having an expensive, customized handgun with the Sigil of Baphomet on it really helps both. I actually have two and usually when I’m on a job, I wear them both in a custom-made holster at the small of my back. The barrels touch and the butts point out forming a T-shape which I can easily hide beneath whatever top I’m wearing. I’m only taking one with me to meet Manhattan as a precaution. I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it, as the saying goes.

  Manhattan works out of one of Pellaggio’s nightclubs, called The Pit. It’s on the fringe of the city center, surrounded by other popular nighttime destinations. From what Josh has told me, it’s your typical hotspot for neon lights, hot girls, and guys looking to either deal drugs or get laid.

  I’m not exactly worried about any security he might have there with him. A nightclub won't be open for business in the middle of the day, so any staff that’s there will be minimal and probably cleaners. Plus, I’ve already met two of his bodyguards and we all know they won’t be of any use to him.

  But I’m not going looking for a fight—I just want some answers. From what I’ve put together about this whole thing so far, there’s definitely more to it than what Manhattan told me. I intend to ask him, quite politely, if he’s trying to set me up in some way for some reason, or if he’s just plain stupid.

  There’s a polite way of asking that, right?

  I’m walking around the three square blocks of the city that make up the Neon district. The streets have a variety of bars and clubs running down each side, separated every now and then by a hotel or fast food restaurant. I can well imagine what this place looks like at night.

  The Pit is at the end of second block, with the main entrance diagonal on the street corner, facing north-west toward the crossroads. The building itself covers a quarter of the streets running both south and east of the block. Above the small alcove of the entrance is a neon sign that advertises the name of the club. I have no idea what color it lights up at night. I reckon maybe blue and white.

  I push the doors gently to see if they open, but they don’t budge. On the right hand wall of the alcove is a large security keypad with a speaker and a buzzer just below it. I press it and wait. After a few moments, the speaker on the keypad crackles into life and a voice comes through.

  “What?” the voice asks.

  Hardly an advertisement for world-class customer service, is it?

  “I need to speak to Jimmy Manhattan,” I say.

  “Never heard of him,” replies the voice, who hangs up without another word.

  Well, that’s rude. It’s also a lie and I don’t like being lied to. It makes my trigger finger twitch. I press the buzzer again.

  “What?” says the same voice as before, except this time with slightly less patience.

  “At the risk of sounding disrespectful, we both know Jimmy’s in there. So how about you open the door so I can talk to him? That way, I don’t have to force my way inside, find you, then kick your teeth so far down your throat you’ll need to stick a toothbrush up your ass to get at your pearly whites.” It falls silent for a moment then the buzzer clicks off again. I wait for another minute then I hear several locks being undone behind the doors.

  The right hand door opens. I expect whoever opened it is standing just behind it, ready to grab me as I walk through, so as I step inside I shuffle sideways to the left, so I’m facing right. The guy standing there makes no attempt to attack me—he simply fixes me with an intense, indignant gaze as he shuts the door and walks back into the club.

  He’s a lot bigger than I am, in both height and width. He’s wearing a gym vest and jeans, and has arms like my legs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not small by any means, but physically speaking this guy dwarfs me in every way. I subconsciously move my hand discreetly behind me, touching the barrel of my gun for reassurance.

  Just in case.

  He gestures imperceptibly with his head for me to follow him, so I set off after him into the club.

  Inside, it’s a nice, big place. The house lights are on, illuminating the main area of the club. It’s a large, open-plan area with the occasional table and chairs positioned around the perimeter. There are different levels and podiums throughout, presumably for dancing on. The bar runs almost the full width of the far wall, surrounded by mirrors and neon blue. Behind the bar are rows of glass shelves that house more liquor than I knew existed.

  To the right of the bar is a red curtain, which presumably leads into the back like a VIP area of some kind. The big guy is heading there now. Before I can catch up, Jimmy Manhattan appears from behind the curtain, smiling pleasantly. He’s wearing a different, but I’m sure equally expensive, suit from the one he wore to our meeting this morning. He looks a little more stressed than before as well, but he hides it expertly behind his powerfully calm persona.

  “Adrian, what a nice surprise,” he says, in his trademark friendly, smooth tone of voice. “What brings you here? Is there a problem with the job?”

  “That’s depends on your definition of problem,” I reply with a casual shrug. “The job isn’t panning out the way you, so confidently, said it would.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for starters, Ted Jackson has some serious security. He’s got an armored limousine and what looks like a highly trained assassin as his personal bodyguard. So, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re implying here, Adrian,” he says, his voice darkening slightly. “But I don’t care for your tone.”

  “I could care less what you think of my tone, and I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a fact. This guy you hired me to kill is clearly not your everyday, run-of-the-mill, working stiff who just so happened to piss off your boss.”

  In the corner of my eye, I see the big guy move to Manhattan’s side, crossing his arms and staring at me. In the proper light, I can get a better look at him. Aside from being built like three sides of a house, he’s a good four inches taller than I am as well. He’s got muscles in places most people don’t have places, as well as a tattoo of a fire axe on his left temple. I can feel his gaze burning hole through me. While I’m completely unfazed by him being there, I can’t deny he’s an impressive sight. Much better than Stan and Oli from last night.

  “Adrian,” Manhattan says, taking a step in front of his hired muscle, as if the gesture of doing so will defuse any potential confrontation. “I can assure you we gave you all the information we had on Ted Jackson. We used one of our best men to tail him.”

  “Well, after a couple of hours of digging around myself, I’ve managed to find out that our friend Ted works for a military contractor called GlobaTech Industries. I’m guessing you’ve heard of them? Your ‘best ma
n’ failed to mention the target was so well connected.” I pause for a moment so he can process the new information.

  He remains calm, hiding any shock or frustration well behind his cold, dark eyes. “I have indeed heard of them,” he says. “And if what you say is true –”

  “If that’s true,” I say, interrupting him. “Then you’re asking me to take out a guy who’s more protected than the President, which will cost you a hell of a lot more than a hundred grand. You also need to start thinking about why he decided not to sell you that land. These people conduct business deals that dwarf your entire operation ten times over on a daily basis, so their behavior here strikes me as uncharacteristic at the very least. If I carry out the hit on Jackson and take the deeds for you, it won’t be the last either of us hear of it.”

  He can see I have a valid point. He told me that Pellaggio is a businessman above all else, which means he’s going to do what’s best for his business. Having a global private security firm with military contracts pissed at you probably doesn’t make the list of good corporate strategies. Manhattan is silent for a moment longer before responding, choosing his words with years of care and diplomacy.

  “For now, I would like you to proceed as you normally would and carry out the contract on Ted Jackson. If you need additional funding to do so, simply name your price. I would like to thank you for bringing these developments to our attention. Rest assured I will speak to Mr. Pellaggio about how he wishes to go ahead. I appreciate your input, but you simply need to do the job we hired you to do and leave the rest to us.”

  My phone suddenly rings, sounding louder than normal in the empty, quiet space. I smile apologetically and quickly check the caller ID.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to take this,” I say, answering the phone. “What have you got for me, Josh?”

  “I’ve had a hit on the searches for our mystery woman,” he replies. “I still don’t have a name, but there’s another file photo—this one more recent.”

  “How recent?” I ask.

  “Six months ago. It was taken during a routine surveillance operation right there in Heaven’s Valley.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  “The photo shows her standing with another man who you can’t see clearly. But the photo itself isn’t the important part. It’s where I found the photo that we should worry about.”

  “Why? Where did you find it?”

  “It was on a secure military database on one of the servers housed in the Pentagon. I was very lucky to come across it.”

  “You hacked the Pentagon?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Focus on what's important, Adrian,” he says, dismissively. “The picture was in a folder that relates to an ongoing investigation into something called Dark Rain. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  I think for a moment. “Not to me, no. Keep digging though, Josh. That’s great work.”

  “Will keep you updated,” he says before hanging up.

  “Is everything alright?” asks Manhattan as I put my phone back in my pocket.

  I’m not sure how much information I should give him at this stage. I always try to keep my cards close to my chest, but under the circumstances, I don’t have much more information than they do. But I still have too many questions to mess around being discreet. I decide to tell him what I’ve found out.

  “Depends on your point of view,” I say. “I’m starting to think you’ve stumbled across something bigger than just the land you wanted to buy.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, sounding for the first time like he wasn’t in complete control of something, which he clearly doesn’t like.

  “Jackson’s unknown bodyguard appears to have been under surveillance by the U.S. government in the last six months.”

  “So what does that have to do with Mr. Pellaggio?”

  “It means Jackson's being protected by another party that isn’t his employer. I don’t know why, but this is further evidence that this whole thing is bigger than just Jackson screwing you over. I would suggest approaching this with more caution than simply sending me in to kill him.”

  It doesn’t take long for Manhattan to see I’m making sense. He glances over his shoulder to his hired muscle and mutters something to him I can’t quite hear. The big guy nods once intently, then walks off and disappears behind the red curtain in the corner.

  He turns his attention back to me.

  “Adrian, it would seem we have underestimated Ted Jackson and his resources. It also appears we have underestimated you. I want to thank you for your vigilance and commitment to this situation, and to your job. In light of this development, I would like to extend your contract with us beyond simply disposing of Ted Jackson. I want you to work with us to see this situation through to its conclusion.”

  I’m a freelance contract killer. I don’t work exclusively with anyone, not even on a temporary basis. I know some people that do and they prefer it that way—it does provide a steady income and a certain amount of security. It’s also good if you’re just starting out, as it helps establish a reputation for yourself. But it won’t benefit me in any way whatsoever, and I have no desire to associate myself with the mafia any longer than necessary.

  “I’m flattered, but I have no interest in doing any more of your dirty work than I already am. I’ll kill Ted Jackson for you and retrieve whatever money or paperwork or whatever he has on his person at the time. But once that’s done, I’m gone.”

  Manhattan nods in a way that suggests he heard what I'd said, but doesn’t accept it. “Fine. I’ll get a couple of guys on this and leave you to take out Jackson. We’ll be in touch.”

  With that, he turns and walks away, disappearing behind the red curtain and leaving me alone in the empty nightclub.

  “I’ll see myself out then?” I say to nobody but myself.

  As I open the front door and step back out to the street, I squint while my eyes adjust from dark nightclub to bright sunshine. I look up and down the street absently, but a motorcycle parked across from me, facing the club's entrance, draws my gaze. It looks like the driver is staring in my direction, but it’s hard to tell when the visor is down on their helmet. The motorcycle is lightning blue with a white trim… a really sweet-looking ride. The driver’s wearing black leathers from head to toe. I hold their gaze for a moment. They rev their engine loudly and speed off out of sight.

  How odd…

  6.

  16:16

  AFTER MEETING WITH Jimmy Manhattan, I’d headed back to my motel room to change my clothes before heading out for a nice walk around the city to clear my head and assess the current, and increasingly complex, situation. I’m convinced there’s more at stake than just Pellaggio’s potential earnings. After more deliberation than I usually afford my jobs, I think the best thing I can do is kill Ted Jackson and leave town as soon as possible. I have to kill him, because I don’t want word to get around that I’ve gone back on one of my contracts. That would be bad for business. But I also know what I’m like and how easily I’ll get myself involved further in whatever’s going down, because I hate not knowing what’s happening… I know Jackson is working out of his hotel room for the rest of the afternoon, as it’s on the itinerary that Manhattan gave me yesterday, so I’ve decided to bring my plans forward and take him out right away.

  I’m walking down Main Street, heading to the Four Seasons. It’s a lavish, impressive building and covers almost the entire block. Josh, being the hero that he is, has rung ahead posing as my personal assistant—which you could argue doesn’t require much pretending, but don’t tell him I said that. Anyway, he’d told them I need a room on short notice and that I’m meeting one of their guests, a Mr. Jackson, for an evening meal to discuss some business. He explained I’m running late, and to speed things along it’d be a big help if I could have Mr. Jackson’s room number, so I can ring him from my room and let him know when I arrive. That was no problem for the very helpful member of staff who wanted to make a g
ood impression on two of their richest guests.

  I walk through the large, revolving doors and into the lobby of the hotel. It’s enormous. The floor is polished marble tile with various patterns on it. On the left is the front desk, where three people are busily talking into their respective telephones. There’s a woman on the right with cropped blonde hair who looks in her mid-forties. In the middle is a slightly younger guy with glasses on, and next to him on the left is a young-looking girl with long dark hair and too much make-up. To the right is a large dining area, which I’m guessing is their own, very fancy, in-house restaurant. There’s a waiter wearing a tuxedo standing by a podium that has the reservations book and menu on it. In front of me is a row of three elevators, and either side of them is a large staircase disappearing up, out of sight.

  I walk over to the front desk and wait for one of the clerks to finish their conversation. The young girl with dark hair who hangs up first. She looks at me and smiles.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she says. “Welcome to the Four Seasons. How may I help you today?”

  “Good afternoon,” I reply, in my best businessman voice, with my best boardroom smile. “I have a reservation with you. The name is Marvin Aday.”

  You didn’t honestly think I’d use my real name, did you?

  Josh tends to create my personas for such occasions, keeping it entertaining for us both by using legends of the rock industry as inspiration for the names.

  “Thank you, Mr. Aday. Just give me a moment to bring up your room information.”

  She taps away on her keyboard and programs the keycard for my room. I look around with a practiced nonchalance as I wait. I’ve changed into a smart casual outfit consisting of a shirt and tie with jeans and shoes. I have a briefcase with me and to the casual observer, I’m just another businessman.

  “Here you are, Mr. Aday,” says the girl as she hands me my room key. “You’re on the fifteenth floor, room fifteen twenty-three.”