“No idea,” I say. “She disappeared while I was fighting Ketranovich. I don't know if she's still on site or not, and if I’m completely honest, right now, I don't really care. If she's alive, I'll find her and kill her. But… not now.”
“That's the smartest thing you've said all week,” says Josh, laughing once more. “Get outta there, Adrian.”
I look over at Clara's motorcycle again and smile. “Way ahead of you, my friend.”
I hang up and walk over to the bike. Taking one last look around, to make sure Clara isn't lying in wait and planning to shoot me or anything, I use what strength I have left to lift the motorcycle up and climb on. I start it up, taking a final look at Ketranovich’s body, then speed off across the courtyard, through the main gate and out to the desert track.
I blast down the dirt road, past the warning sign about the compound, heading for the main highway. After a couple of miles, I spot the first helicopter in the air. Quickly followed by two more. Ahead of me, I see a convoy of vehicles speeding toward me, leaving a thin trail of dust behind them in the distance.
The helicopters approach and hover above me as I turn off the track and hit the highway. I immediately slow down, eventually stopping. I sit with the engine idling, one foot on the ground, my arms folded across my chest. My right hand is resting on top of my stab wound. The convoy reaches me a minute later and slows to a stop.
As the truck in front pulls over, the passenger door opens; Robert Clark jumps out and walks over. He’s wearing a dark gray suit with the jacket open, flapping in the wind.
“I took your advice and stayed out of your way,” he says, shouting above the noise of the choppers overhead. “Definitely one of the better decisions I’ve made in the last few days. You’re a very resourceful individual, do you know that?”
He’s smiling. I still don’t completely trust the guy, but I’ll concede that I’m starting to like him.
“I just don’t like people who go out of their way to do bad things,” I shout back.
I gesture to the troops behind him with a small nod as he stops next to me.
“Impressive,” I say.
“They're not all mine,” he shrugs, humbly. “Most of the men here are Army. But I've got a hundred and fifty of my best guys watching our backs.”
“You're late for the party. I've already had all the fun.”
“We mobilized as fast as we could. It was a short-notice joint operation, and not the easiest thing to arrange, unfortunately.”
He gestures to my stomach. “You alright?” he asks. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. I got stabbed a little bit, but I'll be fine. It's all over, Bob.”
“So I heard. Your British friend is one hell of an asset, Adrian. You're lucky I don't try to poach him from you.”
He laughs at his comment, which was probably half-serious. I simply smile.
“You can't afford him,” I say.
He smiles back. “Fair enough. Can you give us any information about Dark Rain's operation?”
I shrug. “Not much to tell, really. Despite what Clara told us, it was mostly smoke and mirrors, combined with some very clever bullshit. But their hardware was top-notch... Well done funding all that, by the way.”
Clark holds his hands up in resignation, acknowledging my sarcasm.
“Hey, you're preaching to the choir about that,” he says. “I'm still trying to clear up the shit-storm that Jackson left me.”
We fall silent for a moment. I look at Clark as he scans the horizons all around, looking across the vast expanse of unforgiving desert, as I had done on occasion this past week.
He looks back at me. “So, where you heading?” he asks.
I shrug. “I have no idea,” I say, quite honestly. “Away from here.”
He nods to my stomach wound. “Please tell me you're going to a hospital first?”
“Why, Bob, I never knew you cared.”
He smiles. “I don't, I just want you to move so I can get these guys into that compound and clean up the mess you've made.”
We both laugh.
“Take care, Adrian. We're going to gut that place and gather everything we can on Dark Rain.”
He turns to walk away, but looks back. “I'll let you know if we turn anything up about Clara, okay?” he says.
I smile, but say nothing. He walks off back to his truck.
I sit there for a moment and think about everything Dark Rain has done. Everything they put me through. All the times I’d come close to death. I even thought of all the members of Dark Rain that Ketranovich had used, lied to, and killed in the name of his pathetic little cause. Then I think of all the innocent people who were caught in the crossfire. The pilots of those F-22s that I couldn’t save...
I realize that every single shred of data on Dark Rain is inside that old military base. They don’t exist anywhere else in the world, except on the outskirts of Heaven’s Valley.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the detonator, looking at it in my hand for a moment. There’s nothing to think about. I know what I need to do. I know what’s right.
“Bob,” I shout after him.
He stops at the side of the truck, one hand on the door and looks over. I hold the detonator in my hand high in the air for him to see.
“I can't let you go in there. I'm sorry.”
“What do you mean?” he shouts back, the panic clear in his voice. “What are you doing?”
“After everything they’ve done, I’m not interested in their assets or their secrets. I want them erased from history. It’s the very least Ketranovich deserves—his legacy to disappear in smoke.”
Realizing what I’m going to do, he sets off running toward me, his right arm outstretched in a futile attempt to reach for something he’s nowhere near.
“Adrian, no!”
But he isn’t going to stop me. No one is. I think of Clara, hoping she’s still in the compound somewhere. I think of Natalia, who I know is still in there. Finally, I picture Ketranovich, lying dead on the floor, beaten.
With that image in my mind, I squeeze the trigger.
33.
September 17th, 2013
16:06
I’M SITTING ON a worn, brown leather stool, resting on the bar of a small little place in Colorado Springs. I’m wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, with my brown boots. My shoulder bag is by my feet, resting against the bar stool. In front of me is an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser and next to that, a shot of whiskey.
The bar isn’t exactly busy. There are a few small groups of two or three people dotted around the place. The bar has the obligatory pool table in the corner, with three low lights hanging above it. There’s a jukebox attached to the back wall, next to a door that leads to the back where the restrooms are.
I take a long drink of my beer. It’s been over three weeks since I left Heaven’s Valley. I was in a hospital for three days, courtesy of GlobaTech. My knife wound didn’t cause any permanent damage. The blood I’d lost had caused the most trouble, and it didn’t take long to recover from that. GlobaTech spared no expense on my medical treatment, which was nice of them. Robert Clark was pretty pissed at me for pressing the button and destroying Dark Rain’s military base though.
Well, destroyed doesn’t sufficiently describe what happened to that compound. Every square inch was completely obliterated, and there’s now a crater there a quarter of a mile wide and about the same deep. I’d spoken to Josh when I got out of hospital and he said he saw the explosion via the satellite feed he’d linked into. He said it was one of the most spectacular things he’d ever seen.
I still have no idea whether Clara was in there when it blew up. I know the bodies of Ketranovich and the two Salikovs were. Three out of four isn’t bad, I guess.
I'd reduced Dark Rain to nothing but dust and myth. Pellaggio was dead and buried. The government was protecting the Uranium mine and, despite recent events, I can now count one of the biggest private military contractors in t
he country as an ally.
Aside from the uncertainty about Clara, I’d say I’ve come out of that whole situation in a pretty good position.
Once I’d left the hospital, I'd taken the first Greyhound bus out of Heaven’s Valley. I’d told Josh to leave me be for a week or two. I needed the rest and the peace and quiet. I’d made my way down through Phoenix before heading over to Colorado Springs, where I’d been for the last four days. It’s a nice place. Been here almost a week and no one’s tried to kill me yet, which is a marked improvement on Heaven’s Valley.
I walk over to the jukebox and feed some quarters into it. I cycle through the playlists and choose some songs that catch my eye. My phone rings as I’m selecting the last song. It’s Josh.
“Hey,” I say. “You alright?”
“I’m doing fine, Boss,” he replies. “You all rested up?”
“I’m getting there. I’m just enjoying the downtime, to be honest. How’s things with you?”
“Not too bad. I've spoken with Clark on and off since you left town. Figured it couldn’t hurt to keep in touch and maybe whore ourselves out to them every now and then?”
I walk back t o my stool and sit down, smiling. “No, I guess not.”
“Other than that, I’ve got a few jobs which you can look at when you’re ready to get back to it.”
“Maybe in a few days. Listen, has there been any...” I stop mid-sentence. “Never mind.”
“Any sign of Clara?” he offers.
I sigh. “Yeah... Anything at all?”
“Nothing. But she’ll forever be on our own little Most Wanted list.”
“You better believe it.”
The music starts playing in the background—the first of my song choices. I figured we’d start off with something mellow.
“Is that Carry On, Wayward Son by Kansas I can hear in the background?” asks Josh.
“Certainly is, my friend,” I reply, smiling.
‘Then I shall leave you to enjoy what I imagine is a bottle of Bud and a shot of whiskey in peace.’
I laugh. “There’s a lot to be said for predictability.”
“Take care, Boss.”
He hangs up, leaving me to my bar stool, my drink and my music. I take another pull of my beer and signal to the barman to open me another.
Carry on my wayward son… They’ll be peace when you are done…
Lay your weary head to rest… Don’t you cry no more…
I forget myself for a moment, enjoying the song, the beer, and the welcome return to anonymity.
I figure I’ll have another couple of drinks, head to a motel for some sleep and move on in the morning. I’m thinking of heading back to my hometown of Omaha for a day or two. It’s only half a day’s traveling from here, and it’ll be nice to see the old stomping ground again.
Another minute goes by and the song finishes, fading into my second choice. I went for something a little heavier with this one.
The opening riff of Cowboys From Hell by Pantera sounds out across the bar. One of my all-time favorites, this one. It’s real whiskey drinking music. I grab my shot and swill it around the glass for a moment before necking it.
As the barman places a fresh bottle of Bud in front of me, a man appears at my side and signals to him. He’s a tall, broad guy, with an unkempt beard and long hair. He’s wearing a red, checked shirt and jeans.
“Hey, which asshole put this crap on the jukebox?” he says to the barman.
The barman looks very uneasy, and his eyes betray him by flicking over to me. The guy turns and looks at me. I don’t bother looking at him.
“This is a nice, peaceful bar, asshole,” he says to me. “We don’t appreciate devil music blasting out disturbing folks.”
Devil music?
Okay, I’ll bite…
I turn on my stool to face him. “We?” I ask, with genuine curiosity.
He nods to the corner of the bar. I look over to his table, where I see two more guys, of similar build and wearing similar clothes, just getting out of their seats, watching us intently.
I sigh. It’s a loud, long, heavy sigh.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it on the bar. The barman looks at me apologetically, but I wave my hand dismissively. It’s not his fault this guy’s an asshole.
“That's for the drinks,” I say to him as I stand up. “I might owe you some more in a minute for the damage.”
I casually square up to the guy in the red, checked shirt, tilting my head slightly as I look at him.
“Man, you’re abusing the right to be ugly, do you know that?” I say to him.
He looks confused - probably too stupid to realize he’s being insulted.
“Seriously, it’s like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down,” I continue.
The barman hides a small smile as he steps away.
The guy in the red, checked shirt holds his ground, still more confused than angry, it seems. His two friends from the table join him.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ve had my fun. You and your boyfriends ready?”
“Ready for what?” he replies. “Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?”
I smile, moving my head slightly to crack my neck.
What a good question.
Who am I?
I take a deep breath, stepping back into a loose fighting stance.
I smile.
My name is Adrian Hell.
Welcome to my life.
THE END
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed this book, why not let me know?
Please take a moment to visit the online store you downloaded it from and leave a review. Thirty seconds of your time makes the world of difference to independent authors like me, and I’m genuinely grateful for your opinions.
Alternatively, you can visit my website, www.jamespsumner.com and contact me directly with your feedback.
Thank you in advance!
James P. Sumner
Sign up to the author’s mailing list and receive a FREE copy of Hunter’s Games today!
Visit www.jamespsumner.com/offer for more information.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James P. Sumner is an independent author who lives in Bury, Lancashire, in the U.K. He’s married with a son, and he currently works full-time as an account manager, while writing in every spare second he has. A life-long lover of thrillers, his dream has always been to write fiction and, thanks to the magic of self-publishing, he’s been able to share his stories with the world. His books have been downloaded over 10,000 times since publishing his first title back in February 2014, and that number is growing each day.
OTHER TITLES BY THE SAME AUTHOR
(Links below are for Amazon.com)
THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES
True Conviction
Hunter’s Games
One Last Bullet
DON’T MISS THE NEXT ADRIAN HELL THRILLER
HUNTER’S GAMES
AVAILABLE
NOW!
Read on for a sample chapter of this next action-packed installment!
HUNTER’S GAMES
1.
September 22nd, 2014
16:47
I STEP OFF the Greyhound bus and take a deep breath. It’s a refreshing sixty-eight degrees and the light breeze is cool against my face. I look around the crowded, temporary Transit Center in downtown San Francisco. It’s a little chaotic, but bearable. The original Transbay Bus Terminal closed back in 2010, and their new Transit Center isn’t due for completion for another couple of years. In the meantime, this temporary terminal acts as the hub for all bus travel both in and out of the city.
It’s been a long ride, so I read up on it to pass the time…
I’ve been on the Greyhound for just shy of nine hours, coming from Oregon and heading straight down the West Coast on Route 101. I rest my trusty shoulder bag by my feet and stretch, feeling parts of my back crack as it celebrates
no longer being cramped up on a bus. I sling my bag over my shoulder once more and fight my way through the masses of commuters, heading right down Beale Street.
It feels good to walk again. My legs are stiff from the journey down here, so I’m relishing the chance to get some exercise. It’s a nice, bright September afternoon. I look around as I walk, soaking up the surroundings. San Francisco is a nice enough place. People are friendly, the streets are clean—even the air smells fresh compared to some places I’ve been.
I’m in town on business. And yes, by ‘business’, I mean, ‘to kill someone’. For the past twelve years or so, I’ve worked as a freelance contract killer. I can safely say, with no ego whatsoever, that I’m one of—if not the best assassin operating in the United States. Maybe even the world, who knows. For a variety of reasons, my reputation borders on legendary in certain, shall we say, unsavory circles. To everyone else, I simply don’t exist, which is exactly the way I like it.
A local gangster called Nathan Tam has hired me to take out a government official by the name of Richard Blake, who’s apparently bought a sizeable amount of cocaine from Tam and proceeded to mouth off to anyone and everyone about it. Given the company he keeps, Mr. Tam has subsequently attracted some unwanted attention from law enforcement, and wants his client silenced so he can go back to running his business unhindered.
From my point of view, someone who buys and uses drugs shouldn’t be in any kind of position of responsibility anyway, so I’m more than happy to do everyone a favor and kill the bastard.
After walking for close to twenty minutes, I come across a nice bar advertising an afternoon special of a meal and a drink for seven dollars. A quick glance at the menu on the wall outside tells me they have steak and they have beer. They’re pretty much my only two criteria when choosing a place to eat, so I walk inside and find a table at the back.
True Conviction Page 28
