One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (18 page)

“There,” he says. “That’s all his financial records for the last six months.”

Josh grabs him by the neck and forces him out of the chair before sitting down and reviewing the information on the screen.

“Adrian, this is the bloody jackpot!” he says. “We’ve got it all here—bank details, recent transactions… you name it.”

I allow myself a small, silent celebration. This is our first significant step forward since arriving here, and I can finally see some light at the end of the tunnel. We still have a long way to go, but this is a big win for us.

“Brilliant,” I say. “Now we can hit him in his
wallet
, we need to find a way to hit him in his
face
.”

“Well, I might just have the answer to that as well,” says Josh, engrossed at the screen. “There’s a transaction here on one of Trent’s personal accounts for what looks like a Pittsburgh Steelers season ticket.”

“The Steelers are playing this evening…” offers Frank, who has reappeared in the doorway.

We all look at Bernstein, who’s holding his silence in the corner as Josh works at his desk.

“Joe,” I ask. “You hear any mention of this when you were with him today?”

I see his hesitation.

“Joe…”

“He did mention a game this morning, yes,” he sighs. “And I know he has a private box at the stadium…”

Josh and I exchange a glance, and I smile as our next move becomes obvious.

“Fancy going to a football game?” I ask him.

“That still ain’t football, Bossman, but I could sure use the R and R,” he says with a smile full of excitement and menace.

He quickly downloads all the account details to a USB drive and puts it in his pocket. “We’re done here,” he announces as he stands.

“Frank, is there anything else you want to know?” I ask, turning to him.

“Not from him,” he replies, nodding at Bernstein.

“Alright then.”

I raise my gun again and pull the trigger. The bullet hits Bernstein on the neck, causing blood to spray across the back wall with a squelch. He clutches at the wound as he slumps to the floor. He starts to shake as blood pumps over his hand and down his suit, forming a dark, crimson pool on the floor around him.

“Jesus Christ!” yells Frank behind me. “Are you insane?”

I look at him impassively. “You honestly think he wouldn’t have called Trent the moment we left here?” I ask.

“Well, maybe… but you didn’t have to shoot him!”

Josh walks around the desk and heads for the door. He stops next to Frank and pats him on the shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Frankie,” he says with a humorless smile. “Adrian’s never finished an interrogation without putting a bullet in someone.”

Frank looks at me, but all I can do is shrug. Sadly, Josh has a point.

I look down at Bernstein, who’s stopped breathing. I put another bullet between his eyes, to make sure, and then leave the office.

We all walk back to the car in silence. Frank gets in behind the wheel and sets off. “So, what’s next?” he asks after a moment.

“It looks like we’re finally ready to launch our attack,” says Josh. “That right, Adrian?”

My jaw muscles tense as I nod slowly. “Fuckin’ A.”

27.

MEANWHILE…

14:01

It had been an increasingly stressful day for Wilson Trent, and since Bennett had arrived back at his office, it had only gotten worse. After asking around, he’d found out that the woman he’d hired to kill Adrian Hell had lied to him, and that piece of shit had left the hospital earlier that morning with nothing more than a flesh wound. And that was after assaulting two police officers. They weren’t even on his payroll—he assumed Adrian was feeling extra paranoid, which was a good sign… it proved he was getting to him.

He wasn’t interested in the reasons behind why she’d lied; he was only interested in making sure Adrian Hell was dead. And Dominique Tevani was still the best option he had.

She just needed a little persuasion.

It hadn’t taken much time or effort for Bennett to dig into her life and find her weakness. And now that had been exploited, he simply needed to remind her that he wasn’t someone you should betray.

He picked up his cell phone and called her.

“Hey, big boy,” she said as she answered. “You got more work for me?”

“Cut the crap, Dominique,” replied Trent, who was in no mood for playing games. “You care to explain why the fuck Adrian Hell walked out of a hospital earlier today with a bullet hole in his shoulder?”

She fell silent on the phone for a moment.

“I don’t believe you’re that bad of a shot,” he continued. “So I wanna know why and I wanna know when you intend finishing the job I paid you exceptionally well to carry out.”

“Look, Willy, like I told you before, you should’ve said it was Adrian Hell you were sending me after in the first place.”

“What difference would it have made?”

“I’d have told you to go fuck yourself,” she said. “Aside from the fact he is who he is, professional killers work to a code. And one of the rules of that code is that you never take a job to kill one of our own.”

“Don’t give me that code of honor crap,” said Trent, losing his patience. “I very much doubt more than a couple of you psychopaths ever adhere to that so-called
rule—
the money’s too good. Now, you either finish the job, or you’ll find yourself just below Adrian fucking Hell on my shit-list!”

She laughed down the line.

“Listen,
Willy
, you don’t frighten me. You can have your money back, I don’t care—I’m not going after Adrian.”

Trent took a deep breath, struggling not to lose his patience. “I figured you might say that, so I took the liberty of finding something to encourage you…”

He nodded to Bennett, who left the room, returning a moment later dragging a young girl by the arm. She was fourteen years old and dressed in jogging pants and a hooded sweater. Her eyes were red from crying and her long, dark hair was messy from the struggle she’d put up when Bennett took her from her home a few hours ago. He marched her up to Trent’s desk and held her still.

Miley Tevani stared at Trent, her anger and hatred matched only by her fear.

“I’ve got someone here who’d like to say hello,” he continued, before placing the phone on speaker and holding it in front of the girl’s face.

“H-hello?” she said, nervously.

“Miley? Sweetie, is that you?” said Dominique, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Mom? Oh my God, Mom! Help!” she screamed.

“Baby! Oh, God! Baby, it’s okay—Mommy’s gonna come get you, okay? Just be brave, sweetie!”

Trent took the phone off speaker and nodded to Bennett, who escorted her back out of the office. When he spoke to Dominique, he was smiling from ear to ear.

“I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out for you, you stubborn bitch—bring me Adrian Hell’s head, or I’ll send you your daughter’s in the fucking mail!”

“I swear I’m gonna blow your goddamn brains out!” she replied, unable to suppress her anger. “If you hurt a hair on her head, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” he interrupted, casually. “You’re gonna go and kill Adrian Hell, then you can pick your daughter up. She won’t be harmed as long as you do what you were paid to do. Making threats to me won’t get you anywhere, sweetheart. Now, I don’t wanna have to remind you again. Go and do your fucking job!”

He ended the call and threw his cell phone across the room with frustration. It shattered against the far wall just as Bennett re-entered, narrowly missing his head. He ducked instinctively before closing the door.

“Everything okay, Mr. Trent?” he asked.

Trent sighed heavily. “Why do people insist on pushing me?” he asked.

Bennett remained silent.

“Is the girl secure?” asked Trent.

Bennett nodded. “A couple of the guys are watching her down the hall. She’s tied up and not going anywhere.”

“Good. I want you to go and keep an eye on Dominique. Make sure she does her job this time, will you? And if she doesn’t, kill her.”

He nodded again, but hesitated before leaving, as if wanting to speak, but unsure if he should. Trent noticed.

“What?”

“If I have to kill her, what do we do about her kid?” he asked.

Trent held his gaze without a word, and then simply turned his back on him, staring out the window of his office at the gray skies outside.

Bennett sighed and took his leave, having been given the answer to his question without any words needed.

Trent didn’t think of himself as a monster, despite having done some truly monstrous things in his life. He classed himself as a businessman, nothing more. And he would do whatever it took to ensure the success of his business. If Dominique betrayed him again, he’d have her executed in a heartbeat. As for her child… well, Trent hated loose ends, but he could always find a use for her. In a few years, he could put her to work in one of his clubs maybe. But, he thought, then he’d have to look after her until she was ready, which would be time-consuming and a hindrance.

No… he’d just kill her. He would bury her with her fucking mother.

28.

MEANWHILE…

14:14

Jimmy Manhattan was sitting at a table in Walkers Sports Bar, cradling a double whiskey in his hand. Next to him, Paulie Tarantina was sending a text message to some of the guys on their payroll, issuing instructions to their respective businesses.

Manhattan looked around. The bar was mostly empty, save for the three men that Tarantina insisted follow them everywhere, the bartender, who was cleaning some glasses behind the bar, and one patron, who sat in the corner facing the door, drinking a beer and reading the newspaper.

He looked at the stairs leading up to the room above. It seemed so long ago that he climbed them, fresh out of hospital and put in motion his plan to take over the city. In truth, only four days had passed. But in that time, he had indeed taken over nearly all illegal activity in Allentown. It was an impressive feat, and it made a bold statement to anyone who would challenge him.

Except Wilson Trent.

He cursed himself for neglecting to consider the bigger picture when making his plans. He looked at things one city at a time. But what he should’ve done was consider the entire state before making his move. Still, you can’t help bad luck. He just needed to make sure he was ready for what was coming.

He thought back to his conversation with Adrian Hell earlier that morning. He smiled at Adrian’s weakness. He’d called him to tell him about Wilson Trent, warning him about his discovery like a friend or colleague would. He allowed himself a moment of pride, as his plan to play Adrian was working better than he’d expected. He had his own issues with Trent, and his involvement would likely cause enough of a distraction that he’d be able to capitalize and take over once Trent had been killed. He knew enough about Adrian Hell to know that you’re unlikely to survive if you’re in his crosshairs. But wasn’t just Trent who’d be distracted by this. When the time was right, he’d take out Adrian himself.

He smiled to himself as he took another sip of his drink and remembered, somewhat fondly, slicing his face with a scalpel. He remembered him saving his life in San Francisco. And now, he’d called up with a warning of a potential attack from one of the biggest crime lords in the United States.

But Manhattan was way ahead of him. As soon as he found out about Trent, he’d prepared himself for some form of retaliation. But for his plan to work, he needed to keep his cards close to his chest. Even from those closest to him. If things went as he expected they would, he’d need people’s reactions to be as believable as possible, to keep up appearances.

“What now, Mr. Manhattan?” asked Tarantina, placing his phone on the table and picking up his glass of water.

“We’re in no position to go up against Trent,” Manhattan replied. “Diplomacy is our only move. I have a feeling our new ally is looking for ways to get to Trent as well, so we just need to bide our time and wait for our moment.”

Tarantina nodded as he sipped his drink.

“I had no idea Trent was this powerful,” he said after a moment.

“Me neither,” conceded Manhattan. “Of course, I’d
heard
of him, but back when I was running the West Coast with Pellaggio, Trent was nothing compared to what he is now. He was a real slow burner—he took his time and played the game and now he owns everything. You’ve got to admire that, if nothing else.”

“Do you think we can do everything we want to with him in the picture?”

Manhattan took another sip of his whiskey and shrugged. “Honestly? I think we could, but there’s no way he’d sit back and make it easy for us. That would lead to a turf war, and it costs a lot of money if you want to win one of those.”

“So what did this Adrian Hell say to you?”

“He said to prepare for war, because Trent’s after our blood since we ordered the hit on Johnny King.”

“Can we not make it look like Adrian acted independently? Shift the blame away from us? From what you said, those two clearly have history, so Trent might buy it. Then we can bypass the confrontation and seize more power in the aftermath.”

Manhattan smiled. “I’ve always said you were smart enough to run your own business, Paulie. I’ve not forgotten what he’s done to me in the past, and I will make sure he pays for it all. There’s obviously something between him and Trent, and I’m keen to find out what that is. Maybe an opportunity to exploit whatever history those two have will present itself soon, and I’ll be ready if that happens. But until then, we play this smart and patient, and focus on what we
do
know, which is that Wilson Trent will be looking to us for payback. We need to make sure we handle him correctly. We have the back-up plan of blaming Adrian, should it make sense to do so, but I think we need to focus on working
with
Trent, not against him.”

Tarantina nodded slowly, as if taking notes from a teacher, and then silence fell between them. Ten more minutes passed without a word, both men enjoying a rare moment of relaxation.

The door swung open, and four men walked in. One walked in first with the other three behind him in a loose semi-circle. The man in front was tall and well built, wearing a tight black t-shirt under an open jacket. The men behind him were all dressed in suits, with no ties. They were a little shorter, but of similar stature.

They all scanned the bar before their eyes settled on Manhattan and Tarantina.

“Boss…” said Tarantina, looking up and seeing them.

Manhattan looked up, too, and silently signaled to the two bodyguards standing near them and the one over by the bar to do their jobs. They all quickly moved to intercept the new arrivals.

Both groups of men squared off to each other, threatening with evil looks and puffed chests, as only hired muscle could do. Manhattan watched for a moment before speaking.

“Can I help you gentleman?” he asked.

The man at the front looked past the bodyguards, directly at Manhattan. He wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. If anything, he was a little bemused.

“You Jimmy Manhattan?” he replied.

“Who wants to know?” said Tarantina, standing and joining the group of men. He stood directly in front of the man who spoke. He was a lot shorter, but what Tarantina lacked in height, he more than made up for in violence. When it came down to it, if he was let off his leash, Tarantina was an animal.

Manhattan suppressed a smile. “Easy, Paulie,” he said. “I’m sure we can avoid any unnecessary conflict here.” He turned to the new arrivals. “I am Jimmy Manhattan, yes. And you are…?”

“My name’s Duncan. I’m here because Mr. Trent has requested I take you to see him.”

Manhattan nodded slowly.
Just like Adrian had said…
he thought.

“Can I politely decline his invitation?”

“If he was inviting you, you’d have the option, sure,” he replied with a shrug. “But this ain’t an invitation—it’s an order. So get to it, Pops.”

Manhattan allowed a smile at the last comment. “You do realize I’m about the same age as your employer? I think
Pops
is a little below the belt, don’t you?”

In the blink of an eye, Duncan swung his right hand, catching Tarantina on the side of the face. He staggered backward, completely unprepared for the attack, and overbalanced, crashing into the three bodyguards. Duncan sidestepped to his left, out of the way, while his three men all drew their pistols and opened fire, riddling Manhattan’s men with bullets. Tarantina caught one in his shoulder, but managed to stay standing, moving slowly over to Manhattan’s side.

It was over as quickly as it had begun, and an eerie silence descended on the bar. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the air. The bartender had ducked down behind the counter, and the lone customer sitting near the door had fled the bar when the shooting started.

Duncan stood in front of his three men, arms folded across his chest, facing Manhattan, who had remained seated throughout. He had expected some sort of display of dominance—an extreme message sent early and quickly. He knew how to handle the situation. He’d played the game many times before.

He stood, slowly, placing his empty glass on the table.

“You’ve made your point,” he said, somewhat nonchalantly. “Let’s go and see Mr. Trent, shall we?”

“Word of advice,” said Duncan. “Drop your gentleman act. You ain’t made that much of a name for yourself yet. You should be very afraid right now.”

Manhattan smiled. “Not at all,” he replied. “Mr. Trent and I are very similar—we’re both businessmen at the end of the day, and I’m sure he’ll understand it’s in his best interest to do what’s good for business. I have no issue with him, and there’s no reason he should have an issue with me.”

“That’s for you and Trent to talk about. I’m just the delivery man. Now move your ass.” He grabbed Manhattan by the arm and ushered him to the front of the little posse as they made their way out of the bar. He looked over his left shoulder to one of his men, nodding toward Tarantina. “Bring that piece of shit too,” he said.

A few minutes later, and they were both bundled into the back of two separate black four-by-fours with dark tinted windows. Duncan in the back with Manhattan in one of them, and two of the men took Tarantina in the other.

As they set off on the journey back to Pittsburgh, Manhattan relaxed against the black leather seat and smiled to himself.

So far, so predictable
, he thought.

“What’re you smilin’ at?” asked Duncan.

Manhattan didn’t reply. He just stared through the window at the passing traffic, playing the chess game over and over in his head, planning his next few moves.