“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say. “I have to tell Manhattan that he probably has a rat in his midst and that he can’t have the land, despite Jackson being dead.”
“And I’m sure both bits of news will go down a storm,” says Josh.
“Oh yeah, like a proverbial lead balloon, I’m sure… Next, I need to track down this Dark Rain outfit and find a way of neutralizing them before they can get their hands on any of the Uranium.”
“Have you given much thought about how you’re going to stop an entire army on your own?” he asks, flippantly.
“Short of knocking on their front door and asking them nicely to stop... no, I haven't. I’m open to suggestions though.”
“You never know, that might work. We rarely try the ‘asking politely’ route.”
“There’s a good reason for that…”
“Very true.”
“Right, I need something to eat. Then I suppose I’ll have to go and see Jimmy Manhattan.”
“I’ll keep my eye on the local news channels for any updates,” he chuckles.
“Oh, ye of little faith. I’m sure it will be very civilized and he’ll be understanding and sympathetic toward our situation.”
“Really?”
I pause. “No, not really.”
I hang up and strap my holster to my back before putting both of my custom Berettas in it. I pick up the deeds and hide them under the mattress. I don’t want to keep them on me in case there’s any security at Manhattan’s club, and they decide to search me. I put on my leather jacket and head out the door.
My spider sense is tingling big time. This whole thing is going to get much worse before it gets any better, and I'm going to be far behind enemy lines when it does.
I walk down the street, heading toward the Neon district. It’s pleasantly warm outside and the sky’s clear of any stars. The half-moon is making its steady climb; its greeny-white glow getting brighter as the sun sets.
The streets are busy, although not as bad as they were during the day. There are just as many pedestrians though—dressed for a night out instead of a day at the office. The guys I pass are typically wearing expensive shirts with jeans and shoes. Women of varying ages are wearing dresses that look to me like they were put on sale halfway through production.
I pass by a burger joint I remember seeing earlier. I head inside and take a seat at the back, facing the door. The waitress who comes over after a few minutes is young and friendly. I order coffee and a burger with everything on it and a side of fries. She leaves with my order just as my phone rings. I clip my Bluetooth headset in place and answer.
“Yeah?” I say, knowing the only person who ever rings me is Josh, so there’s no need for pleasantries.
“You on your way to The Pit?” he asks.
“Just stopped for some food.”
“Ah, okay. Well, keep your line open. Here’s a little something to help pass the time.”
He falls silent and a moment later the opening guitar riff from Highway To Hell by AC/DC sounds in my ear.
I sit alone, smiling as I wonder what the hell I’m going to say to Manhattan when I see him.
21:35
I took my time eating and when I’d finished, I headed into the first bar I came across for a drink. I wasn’t ducking Manhattan or anything like that. It’s just been a real strange twenty-four hours, and I needed to shut off for an hour, just to give my head a rest.
A couple of beers later and I’m walking through the Neon district, approaching a long line of people lining up to get inside The Pit. At night, the place looks very different. The sign above the door is flashing blue and white. All around me there are people, lights, cars, and the constant, low hum of the bass line coming from behind all the doors.
I make my way toward the front door, walking past the line of people. A selection of the half-dressed women and the over-dressed guys I saw roaming the streets on the way here. A bouncer with a clipboard is standing guard at the velvet rope by the door. I reach the front of the line and get the doorman’s attention. I haven’t seen this guy before. He’s big, maybe a couple of inches shorter than me, but a great deal wider—and he isn’t fat. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that looks three sizes too small for his chest and arms, which are literally bulging with muscle. He’s got on a pair of black jeans, black boots and wears an earpiece.
I don’t get a chance to say anything to him.
“Back of the line, asshole,” he snarls, barely looking up from his clipboard.
I’ll let his attitude slide... I’m not in the mood for unnecessary confrontations. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of necessary ones soon enough.
“Hey, take it easy, Conan,” I say. “I need to see Jimmy. It’s urgent.”
He eyes me up and down before speaking into his radio. After a few moments, he unhooks the rope and motions me through, much to the dismay and protests from many of the people still in the line.
I walk into the club and down into the main area, which this morning looked so spacious. Now, there are easily a hundred and fifty people crammed in here. I look around quickly before I enter the throng of bodies all laughing, dancing, and drinking. Behind the bar, at the far end, are seven people serving—three guys and four girls.
In the far corner, standing in front of the red curtain is the big guy from this morning with the fire axe tattoo on his head. I figure that’s where I need to go. I instinctively touch my lower back, checking my guns are secure, as I set off through the crowd.
I glide through the masses, slowly making my way through to the other side. Two guys are standing in front of me blocking my path, seemingly trying to hit on the same girl.
“Excuse me,” I shout, to no avail. The music—if you can call it that—is deafening, and I doubt they’ll hear me.
I tap one of them on the shoulder to get his attention. He looks over his shoulder at me and I gesture past him—a polite way to indicate I need to get by. He partly turns toward me clockwise, giving me a look like he’s just scraped me off his shoe. He shoves my shoulder and turns back to his friend and they both laugh. The girl’s also laughing along.
I stroke the stubble on my chin and let out a heavy sigh. It certainly appears that a large percentage of the population woke up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off. And they’re succeeding spectacularly.
I crack my neck. I’m not in the mood for this and I feel I’ve been diplomatic enough already tonight.
I tap his shoulder again. As he turns clockwise back toward me, I can see him getting ready for another shove. I wait for it and catch his right hand with my left as he throws it. This forces him to turn and face me properly. As he does, I place my right hand flat on his chest and use my middle finger to find the little dip at the top of the ribcage, in the center just below the throat. I find it with practiced efficiency and push my finger into him and press down hard. With the right amount of pressure, it’s extremely effective. He drops to one knee almost instantly, crippled with what is a brief but excruciating pain throughout the body.
Seriously, try it. But only on someone you don’t like, because it hurts like you wouldn’t believe!
I push him backward, and he goes fetal on the floor, shocked and short of breath, holding his chest. His friend goes wide-eyed as I turn to him, staring through him with my best ‘dead eye’ look. I can see him think about making a move for all of two seconds, but he soon decides against it and runs off through the crowd. I turn to the girl. She seems to have overcome her initial shock and is now smiling at me. I’m probably twice her age and, at the risk of sounding judgmental, she’s probably half my IQ.
“Hey,” she says. “That was really cool.” She smiles and steps close to me, putting a hand on my chest. “You wanna buy me a drink?”
I gently take hold of her wrist and remove her hand, placing it back by her side.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” I reply, silently hating myself because saying things like that make
me sound older than I feel. “And forgetting for a moment you’re most likely under twenty-one, I’m happily married.”
She pouted, clearly not used to not getting her own way. “Fucking asshole!” she shouts, storming off toward the exit.
I shake my head in disbelief and smile at the couple of people standing nearby who overheard.
An image of my wife, Janine, drifts into my head. She would have found that hilarious. I smile to myself. God, I miss her. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.
I re-focus and walk on through the crowd, eventually coming through the other side and standing face to face with Axe Tattoo Guy. He looks me up and down, and then looks over my shoulder at the hole in the crowd I’ve just caused. He looks back at me and raises an eyebrow.
I shrug.
Maintaining his expressionless gaze, he steps aside and holds the curtain back so I can walk through. Inside, I’m in a dark, narrow corridor. Ahead of me is a fire exit. On the left are two wooden doors, which I assume will lead me to Manhattan’s office. I move to open them but the big guy stops me.
“Hold up,” he says, in a big, deep, steroid-induced voice.
“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Hands against the wall and spread your legs.”
Shit.
This is annoying, but not completely unexpected. I figure there’s no sense in rocking the boat any more so early on in the evening though. I move over to the right wall and do as he said.
“If I see any rubber gloves, you and me won’t be friends anymore,” I say.
“We ain’t friends anyway, asshole,” he replies.
I face the wall, put my hands out in front of me, and spread my legs. He pats me down and inevitably touches the twin Berettas at my back.
He says, “Hand ‘em over, nice and slow.”
I reach behind me and take them out of the holster, one in each hand. I let them hang loose over my index fingers by the trigger guard and hold them out to him. He takes them off me and places them in a bucket on the floor, just inside the entrance on the left, which I didn’t notice when I first walked through the curtain.
“I want them back,” I say to him. “They’re my babies.”
“Whatever.”
He points to the wooden doors on my left and this time I walk through them.
I step into what I rightly assumed is the main office of the club. In front of me is a small bar, with two sofas arranged in an L-shape before it. One’s facing me as I enter; the other is at a ninety-degree angle on my right.
The room stretches away to the left. The wall on the left is transparent—it’s one of those one-way mirrors and it makes up the wall behind the bar. You can see everything from inside here with complete privacy. Against the far wall is a large, oak desk with a computer on it and a phone.
Standing behind the desk, looking through the mirror and surveying his little empire is Jimmy Manhattan. Next to him, sitting in the chair, is an older man in his late sixties who I’ve not seen before. He’s balding, with what remains of his gray hair slicked back. He’s got a gray goatee beard on his long, drawn face. His hands are resting on the desk in front of him, adorned in a variety of gold rings.
Roberto Pellaggio, I presume.
Wonderful…
11.
21:56
THEY BOTH LOOK at me as I enter.
“Adrian,” says Manhattan as he turns toward me, flashing his charming smile. “Nice to see you again. I hope you come here with good news?”
I make my way over to the desk and Manhattan gestures with his hand for me to take a seat, which I do. I can’t see any other way of playing this besides my own. When in doubt, stick with what you know.
I stare at the guy I assume is Pellaggio, who’s yet to say anything.
“So, are you the big boss?” I ask.
He says nothing. He just stares at me, sizing me up.
“Can I offer you a drink?” asks Manhattan.
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“It’s done.”
“Excellent,” he says, nodding his head in satisfaction. “And the deeds?”
“I don’t have them, sorry.”
‘Can I ask why?’
“You can ask…”
“Adrian, the terms of the contract were quite clear. You were to obtain the deeds to the land for us, as well as take out Mr. Jackson.”
“I know, but he didn’t have the deeds with him and refused to tell me where they were. He seemed more scared of what would happen if he told me than if he didn’t, to be honest.”
“This is... unfortunate, to say the least.”
I shrug. “Well, what can you do? I’ll just get my money and be on my way...”
“Oh, there will be no money, Mr. Hell,” says Pellaggio, finally breaking his silence. His voice is like gravel, with a subtle hint of old Italy in his accent.
I lean forward in my chair and rest an elbow on the edge of the table, frowning for effect. “Say that again in my good ear.”
Pellaggio leans forward in his chair, copying me. “I said, you won't be getting paid, kid, because you didn’t get me the fucking deeds!”
“I killed the guy you wanted me to kill. It’s not my fault he didn’t have some documents you wanted.”
Manhattan steps in, wanting to exert some kind of authority because his boss is in the room.
“By taking the contract, you accepted responsibility for getting those papers,” he says. “They were important and you failed. Therefore you don't get paid.”
I look at him, then back at Pellaggio. “There’s something else, too,” I say, changing the subject. “I’m pretty sure I’m being tailed by someone linked to Ted Jackson’s employer. Someone was following me before I took him out.”
Pellaggio and Manhattan remain silent.
“The point I’m trying to make here, fellas, is that someone knew I was in town, and why, only a few hours after you gave me the contract. I hadn’t spoken to anyone.” I let the words hang there for a moment so they can sink in. “Do I need to draw you a diagram or something?”
“Are you suggesting we have a rat in our midst?” says Manhattan.
“Finally, he gets it,” I say.
“You got some nerve, kid,” says Pellaggio. “Coming in here, telling us you’ve failed to do what we paid you to do, then accusing us of not having our house in order.”
“I’m not making any accusations,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m simply stating the facts.”
Silence descends upon us. We’re at a crossroads. I’ve fed him the lie about Jackson not having the papers which they seem to have bought, judging by how pissed they both are. In turn, they’ve explained to me why I won’t be getting paid for the hit, which I honestly couldn’t care less about right now, but for the sake of keeping up appearances, I was feigning annoyance. I’ve also sown the seeds that they have a traitor in their ranks, which I’m hoping will distract them long enough for me to get the hell out of here without anyone noticing. The only thing I have left to worry about is what’s going to happen next.
The door opens behind me and I turn in my chair to see the big Axe Tattoo Guy walk into the room. He stands over by the sofas with his arms folded across his chest, saying nothing but staring at me with a deadly intent. I take a deep breath and sigh heavily.
So that’s what’s going to happen next…
I turn back and look at Manhattan.
“There’s really no need for this to escalate,” I say.
“You will get those deeds, Mr. Hell,” he replies, making no attempt to disguise the threat in his voice. “Or you will disappear and become just another angel in Heaven’s Valley.”
Behind me, I can hear the big guy walking toward me.
“Jimmy,” I say, standing up. “We both know I’m no angel.”
I kick my right leg behind me, flipping the chair backward and into the big guy. I spin around into a fighti
ng stance and see him standing there smiling, holding the chair. He throws it to one side like it’s nothing and stares at me. I’m going to have to do this right if I want to avoid getting hurt.
“So,” I say. “What do they call you?”
“Pick Axe,” he replies.
I frown, genuinely confused. “Why Pick Axe?” I ask.
He simply points to the tattoo on his forehead.
I’m actually impressed at how stupid one man can be. I start laughing, which confuses him.
“You know that’s a tattoo of a fire axe, right?” I say, in a slightly condescending tone.
He just stands in front of me, watching me laugh and getting angrier by the second.
“There’s a massive difference between the two things,” I continue between chuckles. “They look nothing like each other and have two drastically different applications. The guy who did you that tattoo ripped you off.”
He reaches behind him and produces a small, six-inch, T-shaped tool.
I stare first at the item in his hand, then at the increasingly psychotic look on his face.
“See? That’s a pickaxe...”
He growls and launches the pickaxe through the air, aiming directly for my head. Luckily, thanks to years of training, I have outstanding reflexes. I avoid the projectile easily enough, but I admit it’s a little too close for comfort. It whizzes past my ear and I hear its impact into the back wall behind me.
I’m assuming I’m not lucky enough for it to have hit Manhattan or Pellaggio by mistake… I chance a split-second look behind me, just in case, but I see the pair of them staring at me with angry expressions. I turn back around and –’
I grunt as Pick Axe runs into me, lifting me by the throat with both hands, and throwing me to his left into the wall. I barely have time to register what’s happened, so I do the best I can to prepare for the impact. Unfortunately, the wall I slam into isn’t a wall—it’s a one-way mirror. And I don’t slam into it—I go crashing through it.
There’s a loud bang and the pressurized glass shatters everywhere as I go flying through the mirror and into the nightclub, showering everyone around me in shards and alcohol. I land heavily on the floor behind the bar. I can’t see the chaos that I've just caused from behind the counter, but I can hear it because the music has stopped. The sound of screaming is second only to the sound of a hundred-plus people stampeding into each other and toward the main doors.
True Conviction Page 8
