Ketranovich raises his right hand into the air. He’s holding something in it.
“I don’t think so, Adrian Hell,” he says, before turning to Clara. “Get out of here. I will see this through to the end.”
After a split second’s hesitation, she nods and revs her engine again.
I’m looking at his hand.
“That’s right,” he says, seeing my concern. “This is the detonator.”
I lower my guns.
Ah, shit…
The detonator looks like a gun, but without the barrel. It resembles just the butt—a small, silver handle with the trigger inside a small, circular guard. It fits nicely in the palm of his hand. His finger hovers over the trigger, ready to squeeze.
I look back and forth between Ketranovich and Clara. I definitely don’t want to get blown to bits, but there’s no way I’m letting Clara escape either. Not after everything she’s done.
My hands tighten around the Berettas. I know I need to end things quickly. If GlobaTech and the U.S. Army come marching in through the front door, I have no doubt Ketranovich would happily kamikaze himself to take them all out. Such an attack on domestic soil against U.S. troops would require a proportionate response by the government. Their logical target would be Russia, given that’s where Ketranovich is from.
And we all know how a conflict between America and Russia would turn out.
So here I stand. The sun’s beating down on me relentlessly. The light breeze swirls sand and dust around us that occasionally stings my eyes. My mind is working overtime to find an outcome that doesn’t involve a third World War. If Clara manages to get out of here on that bike, I’ll never see her again. If Ketranovich moves his finger two millimeters, bits of me are going to land in Montana.
I sigh, seeing only one option.
As a wise man once said: fuck it.
Time slows down for me as I raise both Berettas, aiming one at Clara’s head and the other at Ketranovich’s right hand. Everything I've been through, everything I've endured, every bullet fired, and every drop of blood spilt... It all comes down to this.
For some reason, Ennio Morricone’s theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly starts playing through my mind.
“Drop the detonator,” I say. “Or I’ll kill your daughter.”
“Drop your guns, or I’ll kill us all, right here, right now,” counters Ketranovich.
Well, that worked.
I check my aim on both guns and take deep breath, keeping my poker face on as much as I can. Either this is the smartest or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. If I get it right, you could argue I’ll have saved the world from war, which is good to have on your résumé… However, if I get it wrong, well... I’ll most likely be dead, so people can think whatever the fuck they want.
I take one last deep breath and hold it. My heart rate is nice and steady. The adrenaline is at bay—for the time being.
I slowly breathe out as I squeeze the trigger in my left hand. The bullet covers the distance between Ketranovich and me in under a second and hits his forearm roughly two inches below his wrist. A thin stream of blood erupts from the impact, and the gunshot almost completely severs his hand. The detonator flies out of his grip and lands a few feet away from him, off to his right.
A split-second after I fire the first bullet, I squeeze the trigger in my right hand. I aim a couple of feet in front of the motorcycle, anticipating Clara’s sharp exit. The bullet strikes just above the front wheel as she steps on the gas, pushing the bike out to the left. She loses control and topples over the handlebars, landing awkwardly on her back and neck. She rolls over a couple of times and comes to stop a few feet away from the bike, face down in the dust making a low, muffled, groaning noise from inside her helmet.
I breathe a very audible sigh of relief and I rush over to Ketranovich—who’s on all fours, screaming. I kick him hard and flush in the ribcage. He rolls over on his back, clutching at his right forearm, which is leaking blood at a steadily increasing rate.
“That’s for making the last week of my life as shitty as it was, you sonofabitch!” I yell at him.
I holster my guns and look over to the detonator. I’ll get it in a minute—he’s not going anywhere and I want to deal with Clara first.
She’s managed to get up to one knee and remove her helmet. She’s shaking her head and holding her neck, trying to get her bearings. It reminds me of the first time we met, in Ted Jackson’s hotel suite. I walk up behind her, and when I’m a couple of feet away, I launch a right roundhouse kick to the side of her head. I turn my right hip over as I swing it, making sure I follow through for maximum effect. Her body lurches to the side, and she’s out cold before she hits the floor.
“And that’s for betraying me, bitch!”
I’m breathing harder and faster as my adrenaline starts to flow, and my anger gradually rises inside me. I want revenge. I want to make them both pay for everything they’ve done and everyone they’ve hurt. My door is opening, and I can feel my self-control leaving me once again, so that nothing remains but my inner Satan.
They’re going to suffer for what they’ve done here…
I hear shuffling behind me and I turn to see Ketranovich on his feet, slowly moving toward me. His eyes are wide and he has a crazed look on his face. He’s screaming half in English, and half in Russian. He has his arms raised, ready to attack. I walk over to meet him head on, ready to fight. He can barely stand. Half his right arm has been blown apart and he’ll likely have a few cracked ribs to go with it.
We’re only a couple of feet apart. I raise my arms to meet his, grabbing his left arm with my left hand and launching a right hook to his kidneys. I catch him clean and he bends over to the side as he lets out a grunt of pain.
As he doubles over, I move in for the kill. My plan is to bring my elbow down on the back of his head at the top of his spine. I can hear him coughing, and he drops to one knee in front of me and spits out some blood. I raise my elbow. I’m going to finish this right n—
My breath catches in my throat and my eyes go wide involuntarily as I feel the impact of a blow against the right side of my stomach. An icy cold washes over me and I stumble backward a few steps, staring at him in shock.
What the hell was that?
I look at Ketranovich, who’s reaching up with his left hand; his eyes manic with rage. I see the knife in his hand. I see the blood on the blade.
Oh, don’t tell me…
I look down and see an expanding, dark red stain on my t-shirt.
Shit.
I never saw it coming. I never expected him to have enough left in his tank to even lift a knife, let alone use one. I stagger back a few more steps and drop to my knees. The shock wears off and the pain erupts throughout my entire body. The icy shiver I feel up and down my spine counters the warmth from the blood pumping freely from the wound. I instinctively clasp at it with my hands, but it’s too late. The damage has been done.
I can feel myself falling forward. The dust on the ground is rushing toward me. I can’t get my breath…
31.
??:??
I’M NOT RELIGIOUS in any way.
You could put my atheism down to losing my family, but in all honesty, even before that, I didn’t buy into it. I just think it would be in poor taste to say I believe in God then go around killing people for a living.
Plus, I’ve simply never needed the comfort that religion seems to give to so many. As a result, I’ve never been very spiritual either. I believe what I can see with my own eyes. Anything else is fiction until proven otherwise.
But I swear, I don’t know what’s happening right now, but I’m floating above the compound. I’m looking down at myself, lying motionless and barely breathing on dark, bloodstained sand. Ketranovich is struggling to his feet, searching for the detonator. Clara’s still lying there, not moving after the kick to the head.
I look around. There’s nothing else. The world outside the compound is a flat, barren d
esert, decorated only by mountains in the distance and the odd rock or bush dotted here and there for effect.
There’s no sign of the cavalry, charging over the hill to the rescue. No sound of trumpets as the soldiers approach, guns raised and ready for war.
What the hell is going on?
Am I dead? Is that what this is?
Have I been rejected by God and Lucifer? Have I been left to roam around in my own personal Purgatory for eternity? Am I being forced to re-live my death over and over, as penance for my lifetime of sin?
I look at my body again. The blood is still pooling around me, but I can see my right leg moving slightly…
Well, if my leg’s moving and the blood is still being pumped out of me, then I can’t be dead, can I?
And if I don’t believe in God or the Devil, how can they possibly exist to kick me out of their respective domains anyway?
This is just a dream, isn’t it?
This is my subconscious giving me a massive kick in the ass, to show me that it’s not over. Not by a long shot.
I’m Adrian fucking Hell, goddammit! You think stabbing me is going to stop me?
I’ll tell you when the fight’s over… I’ll tell you when I’m done… If there’s breath in my body…
Whoa, my body’s rushing up at me really quickly…
32.
11:26
MY EYES SNAP open. My vision struggles to focus, clouding the world around me in a light fog. My mind feels just as hazy. My entire body is screaming at me to not move. But I have to. I lift my head slightly and turn to look the other way. I can just about make out a figure ahead of me, staggering across the courtyard.
Ketranovich.
Everything suddenly comes flooding back...
The detonator!
I bend my arms, preparing to push myself up. I bring my knees slowly up to my chest and in one colossal, excruciating effort, I manage to lift my body from the ground and stand up. I can’t straighten my back—I have to hunch forward to take the pressure off the knife wound in my stomach. But I’m up, that’s the main thing.
I rub my eyes, trying to clear the haze in front of them. I look ahead and see Ketranovich slowly making his way over to the detonator as he drags himself to his feet.
I try to walk, which is harder than I would’ve liked. Everything is unfolding in painfully slow motion.
“Hey!” I yell.
Ketranovich looks behind him, almost losing his balance as he does. His face is a mixture of shock and anger.
“Is that all you got?” I ask, laughing and coughing up a little blood.
He turns away from me, more concerned with getting the detonator than he was with any potential threat I may pose. I have to distract him.
“Hey!” I shout again. “Don’t walk away from me, you fucking coward!”
He stops him in his tracks. He turns to me once more. He’s barely able to stand up straight either, thanks to the damage my kick did to his ribs. He’s holding what remains of his right forearm in his left hand.
I continue toward him, stopping a few feet away. We look the same—hunched over, covered in blood, barely able to stand, hurting more and more with each breath we take.
“I am... no... coward, Adrian Hell,” say Ketranovich, struggling to get each word out. “I am... a hero! I am a great… warrior… fighting for my country since you were just… a child.”
“You’re a maniac,” I reply, grimacing as I face the same problem of trying to speak. “You’d kill hundreds of good men and women in the blink of an eye. And for what? Some self-righteous cause you use as an excuse for the fact you’re pissed because your country screwed you over? You’re just an angry old ex-grunt who wants to stomp his feet and relive the old days of killing without consequence, and you try to justify it by calling it revenge.”
He laughs and coughs through a bloodstained smile.
“You think your opinion matters to me? You’re an insect. A parasite. A product of western capitalism who thinks they’re superior to the rest of the world, just because you sit and you talk and you offer an opinion about other people’s problems. You know nothing of true war. Of real struggle. Of real values. Time and again, people like you use warriors like me for your own battles, then cast us to one side the moment we’re no longer of any use. Well no more! Today, I will send a message to the entire world, showing them that everyone is expendable—not just the men and women who choose to fight for their people!”
“Roman, you’re certifiable, do you know that? This ends now.”
I leap forward, as much as I can under the circumstances, leading with my left elbow. He wasn’t expecting it and catches it square on his right cheek. We both fall to the floor—him flat on his back, dazed, and me on my hands and knees.
I can’t let him get any kind of advantage. I don’t have much energy left. I’ve lost a lot of blood and it’s getting harder to stay conscious than it is to fight with him. I crawl forward so I’m level with him and hammer my right fist down into his face. Once, then twice. His lip splits and blood runs slowly down his chin.
I go to stand, intending to kick him a couple of times, but as I get to my feet, Ketranovich’s left hand grabs my ankle. I can see what’s going to happen, but I’m moving too slow to stop it. He rolls over and slams his right elbow into my left knee. It immediately gives way and my borderline dead weight loses what little support it had left. I crash to the floor, my left leg throbbing in pain.
Oh my God…
I grit my teeth and fight to ignore the pain. I roll over on my back, bringing both legs up to my side. I quickly rub my knee to get the blood flowing again, as well as trying to take some pressure off my knife wound—which doesn’t look or feel all that good.
I look over, preparing to defend the inevitable onslaught from Ketranovich. But nothing comes. He simply struggles to his feet and slowly, stubbornly, sets off once more for the detonator.
I roll on my front and reach behind me for a Beretta. I’m lying on the ground, as straight as I can, with my right arm outstretched. I close one eye and take aim. I can see a dark blur, with a lighter blur either side dancing around. I blink rapidly to clear up my vision. It doesn’t work and I relax my arm a moment, closing my eyes tightly.
If I’m honest, right now, I could just as easily never open them again, but that’s the easy way out… I can’t allow myself to stop. Not yet.
I take a few deep, painful, breaths and take aim again. The dancing blurs slowly merge together and I can see Ketranovich clearly once again. He bends down for a moment, then stands up slowly and turns toward me. He has the detonator in his left hand.
Ah, shit!
This is it. Bottom of the ninth. Do or die. I only have one shot, and if I miss, he’ll hit the switch and it’ll be game over. I don't think or hesitate.
I fire once. The gunshot echoes around the compound.
The second it takes for the bullet to reach Ketranovich feels like a lifetime. I hold my breath and wait.
The bullet hits him in the chest, dead center. He lets out a scream of pain as he flings his arms into the air and staggers backward. The detonator once again flies out of his hand. He takes a couple of steps back and falls to the floor.
Goodnight sweetheart.
I let out a long breath and drop my gun.
It’s over.
11:37
I roll over on my back and close my eyes. I want to take a nice, deep, relaxing breath, but I’m in far too much pain for such luxuries.
God, I feel like I've been stabbed in the stomach or something.
Oh, wait…
I prop myself up on my elbows and look down at the wound.
I huff dismissively. I've had worse…
I roll onto my side and push myself up into a sitting position. I hug my knees to my chest and sit squinting in the afternoon sun, listening to the eerie silence that’s descended on the compound.
What a day...
I check my watch.
Ch
rist, it’s not even lunchtime!
I look over my shoulder and see Ketranovich lying on the ground, not moving. I breathe a sigh of relief.
That’s a good sign at least.
I reach for my gun and painfully try to stand up. I stagger over to his body, one hand clutching my stomach, the other clutching my Beretta. I need to make sure he’s dead. And Dark Rain along with him.
I approach him and tap his leg with my foot. There’s no reaction. I raise my gun and take aim at his head. I look at him for a moment and fire three times. His skull all but disappears, dissolving into a dark red puddle on the sand, which slowly expands around him.
Better safe than sorry.
I look around and quickly find the detonator. I holster my gun and look behind me, over at the main gate. No sign of the cavalry just yet.
Sadly, there’s no sign of Clara either...
I’ve got a bullet with her fucking name on it.
I hold the detonator in my hand, looking it for a moment. It’s hard to believe that such a small device can control such devastating power. I put it in my pocket and take out my phone. I sit back down on the dirt and call Josh.
“Adrian, thank God!” he says as he answers. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I'm good,” I say, wincing in pain. “It’s all over. Ketranovich is dead, and I have the detonator. I just wish I could’ve stopped them shooting down the airstrike.”
“Adrian, don't blame yourself for that, okay? It was a tragedy, but forget about it now—it'll be handled by all those government types. You’ve done enough. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“Me too. I just wanna get out of here, Josh. I need a holiday.”
“I'll book the flights right now, Boss,” he says, laughing. But his tone soon changes. “What happened to Clara?”
I look around again, but I know it won’t change anything. Her bike’s still there, resting on its side from earlier. The hangar door’s still open. I want so badly to go after her and put a bullet right between her eyes. But right now, I need all my energy just to stay conscious.
True Conviction Page 27
