One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) (4 page)

7.

ADRIAN HELL

18:14

We left a lasting impression on the residents of Chicago last night, and we left town early this morning, heading back to the I-80 before continuing on our expedition to Pittsburgh. We made good time and by late afternoon, we’d hit the I-76 and entered the state of Pennsylvania. Josh, to his credit, has insisted on doing all the driving, but despite his willingness to do so, I still felt pretty bad about not doing my share.

Josh has a habit of being quite protective of his assets—like his Winnebago, his equipment, his contacts, et cetera. They’re his, and he enjoys being the one you go to for all the answers without ever telling you how he gets them. Being out in the world and pulling the trigger—that’s my thing. The magic behind
how
I was able to do what I do… that’s his.

We pass a sign that says ‘Welcome To Pennsylvania’. My stomach knots up. This is it. The big one. After eight years and a couple of thousand miles, I’ve finally returned to the East Coast, ready, willing and very able to avenge my family’s death. But this is still one of the most intimidating things I’ve ever attempted.

Wilson Trent is a kingpin—top of the food chain. Even thinking about taking him on will incur the wrath of more people than you can imagine. Politicians, local authorities, gangsters—everyone’s on his payroll, and a threat to him is a threat to them. They’re well paid and well protected by Trent, and I’m about to walk in and change everything.

“We’re about sixty miles out,” Josh says, breaking my concentration. “What you wanna do, Boss?”

“May as well keep going,” I reply. “Once we’re there, we can find a place to stay, start digging around, and find out what Trent’s weaknesses are and how we can exploit them.”

“I’m all over that. Already started asking around, so we’ll see what comes back.”

“Really? How? You’ve been driving for three days...”

He looks at me and winks. “Magic!” he says with a big smile.

I laugh and let the matter drop. I’m content to let him have his moment of mystery. All that matters is the information, not where it comes from.

We fall silent again, both distracted by everything and nothing until we enter Pittsburgh. The day’s light is fading; as we slowly make our way into the city, we come to life with ideas.

Now, if I was a hitman—which I am—and I’d gone to a city to kill someone—which I have—then the obvious thing to do would be to keep a low profile, base myself on the outskirts, and under no circumstances announce my arrival until my target was staring down the barrel of my Beretta.

That’s the obvious thing to do.

And if someone like Wilson Trent were to get wind of my presence in the city, that’s exactly what he’d expect me to do, and that’s exactly what he’d prepare for.

That’s why I’m intending to do the complete opposite.

We take exit twenty-eight to the expressway along the Allegheny River, all the way into the center of the city. Even though I lived in Philadelphia, back in the day, I still know my way around the state well enough. There’s a Hilton hotel in the Business district, right in the middle of the city. We’re going to stay there, in the spotlight. It’s the last place Trent would think to look for me, once he knows I’m back.

And he’ll know soon enough.

Josh navigates the traffic and pulls up at the back of the hotel, in the far corner of the parking lot. We get out and complete our stretching ritual after another prolonged period on the road, then get our bags from the back, and walk toward the hotel entrance.

“It’s about time you started living a little,” says Josh as we approach the revolving door and head into the lobby. “I mean, you’ve got, what, a billion dollars or something stashed away?”

“Not quite,” I say, smiling. In truth, it’s more like thirty million dollars, but I get his point.

“Whatever,” he continues. “You should start enjoying yourself a bit. This whole wandering around on your own, staying in crappy motels, and living to a budget thing you’ve had going for yourself all these years is getting old, man. And no offence, but so are you.”

“Gee, thanks!”

He steps in front of me, stopping as he turns to face me. “My point is, Adrian, you should start appreciating the finer things in life. There are guys in this business that take private jets everywhere, live the five-star lifestyle everywhere they go. It’s one of the perks of making so much money.”

I nod and shrug. I know he has my best interests at heart, and that means a lot to me. “I know, Josh,” I say. “But it’s this job—this… lifestyle that cost my family their lives. I think it’d be in poor taste to take advantage of it and enjoy it, don’t you?”

He sighs. “Honestly? No. I think if you felt that strongly about it, you wouldn’t still be doing it. I understand completely how you feel, Adrian, you know I do. But I think you hold some things accountable for your guilt that really aren’t to blame. You could’ve been a courier, or a pilot, or a goddamn milkman, and tragedy still could’ve befallen your family. Don’t blame yourself or your job—blame Trent. Cut yourself some slack.”

I regard him silently for a moment, and I see in his eyes that he’s worried he’s just overstepped the mark. Not many people can openly voice their opinion about my life without fear of reprimand, but he can and we both know it. He probably knows that the only reason I feel any kind of anger right now is because I know he’s right and I don’t want to admit it. Over the years, I’ve found a certain level of comfort in the way I live my life, and with the reasoning behind it.

“Finished?” I reply finally, unable to think of anything constructive to say.

He sighs again, gesturing with his arms in frustration. “It would appear so…”

We turn and head over to the front desk without another word. We check in under our real names—something I would never normally condone in my line of work. We book two premium suites on the eighteenth floor for five nights. We walk across the lobby toward the elevator, and a few minutes later, come out on our floor. We find our rooms and agree to meet downstairs again in half an hour. I use the keycard to enter my room and close the door behind me.

Inside, the room is exquisite. It has a four-poster bed with patterned sheets on it that probably cost four figures, easily. The flat screen TV on the wall facing it must be at least fifty inches. A floor-to-ceiling window opposite the door gives a breathtaking view of the city. I look around, fascinated, as I walk over to the bed and drop my bags. I check out the bathroom, which is equally impressive. The shower stall on the left as you walk in could fit three people in it, and it has showerheads on the sides and above; I think they’re for some fancy muscle massage thing I vaguely remember reading about once.

I walk back out and lie on the bed, my arms behind my head. I clench my jaw muscles and I take some deep breaths to calm down.

“Jesus,” I say quietly. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

18:50

I grabbed a quick shower and changed into a fresh pair of black jeans and a thin, matching sweater. I re-attached my back holster and both my Berettas and set off for the lobby, to wait for Josh.

I’m sitting opposite the entrance on the left in a comfortable, light-brown leather chair. Across from me is the front desk, which is an L-shaped counter with four people permanently bustling around behind it. Away to the left, beyond that is a restaurant and bar area, which doesn’t look particularly busy. The decor all around is subtle and expensive. The floor is gray marble tiling, and there are beige marble pillars dotted here and there for effect.

I glance out through the entrance to the city outside. The street’s busy, full of people rushing back and forth. It’s gone dark now and looks cold, though the rain has held off for the time being.

After five minutes, the elevator dings, and Josh comes out, striding purposefully toward me. I feel bad about before, and while I’m not normally one to actively apologize, I figure I should make a bit of an effort.

“Hey,” I say as he approaches. “About before—listen, I—”

“Water under the bridge, Boss,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and cutting me off. He hands me a scrap of paper with an address hastily scribbled on it. “More important things...”

“What’s this?” I ask, looking at it.

“It’s the address of one Billy McCoy. He’s a local scumbag and known coke addict, and he currently resides in the Shadyside district of the city.”

“He sounds like a charmer… And I should care about him because…”

“Because his dealer is a guy named Jonas Pike, who I’ve found out works for the recently deceased Tommy Blunt.”

“You’re making these names up, aren’t you? Make your point, Josh.”

“Tommy Blunt was thrown off the fourteenth floor balcony of his apartment block yesterday. Word is by Trent himself. Apparently he was skimming from the money his operation brought in or something. If we can get McCoy to tell us where he meets Pike for his fix, we can use Pike to learn more about Trent’s business.”

My eyes light up, like a kid on Christmas morning when they see all their presents under the tree.

“Sounds like a good a place as any to start,” I say. “You know how to get there?”

“Yeah, it’s not far. I figure we can set off early in the morning, try to catch—”

“We’re going now, Josh.”

“Oh, right...” He’s taken aback, probably not expecting me to be so eager. “I just thought that maybe you’d wanna... y’know, get a feel for the place again or something?”

“It’s fine. We’re going now.”

I turn and head for the door, hearing Josh follow a few steps behind. A rush of excitement comes over me, eradicating all previous doubts and fears.

The game has begun.

19:13

Shadyside is a mostly residential district close by to the city center. The three-mile journey took a little over twenty minutes in the traffic, and we quickly found Billy McCoy’s street. We park the Winnebago across from his house. There are no streetlights on nearby, and a low, menacing cloud is obscuring the faint half-moon of dusk, so everywhere is in almost complete darkness.

“How you wanna do this?” asks Josh.

I look over at the house. A light is on downstairs.

“Well, somebody’s home,” I say, gesturing to McCoy’s house. “You go around the back and I’ll knock on the front door.”

“Am I not better taking the front? I mean, you’re not exactly well known for your people skills, Boss.”

“You’re right. I’m well known for being a very effective assassin. I don’t need people skills.”

“Fine.”

Josh gets out and crosses the street. I watch him crouch low and run around the side of the house. I wait a minute, and then get out and cross over, making my way casually to the front door.

It’s a modest place in desperate need of some TLC—the wood is rotten in places and the windows are dirty—but other than that it looks like any other house in any other neighborhood.

I knock on the door. I hear movement inside, but no one answers. I knock again.

“Who is it?” shouts a voice. It’s high-pitched and sounds weak and whiney.

“An associate of Jonas’,” I reply, lying through my teeth. “We need to have a talk, Billy.”

“What about?”

“You really want me to start shouting about how we know each other on your street, outside your house?”

There’s silence for a moment.

“Fine, gimme a minute…” he replies.

It falls quiet again. I roll my eyes. I bet you that, right now, that piece of shit is making a run for it out the back door…

I wait patiently for a few minutes longer, and then the locks click and the front door opens. Josh is standing there holding Billy McCoy by the throat in his left hand.

“Hey, Boss,” he says with a smile.

I step inside and shut the door behind me.

Josh jabs McCoy in the ribs with his right hand, causing him to cough and bend over in pain. He’s a thin, sickly-looking little prick. His eyes are deep-set into his pale face. He has thick, dark hair and looks probably late twenties. He’s wearing a thin gray t-shirt and matching jogging pants with nothing on his feet.

“Shall we go and sit down?” I ask rhetorically, before moving past them and into the sitting room. Josh drags him in behind me and throws him on a battered, stained old couch, before moving to stand behind him, pinning him down by the shoulders.

“Billy McCoy,” I say. “I need your help.”

“What the fuck, man?” he says, confused and afraid. His eyes are darting in every direction and his mouth is open. “Who the hell are you?”

I smile. “Probably best you don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answer to,” I say. “Let’s just say I’m new in town and looking for some information. If you can help me out, you might get real lucky and never see me again.”

He glances up behind him at Josh, who’s doing a great job of glaring at him menacingly, playing the strong and mysterious part with ease.

“Don’t mind him,” I continue. “Worry about me.”