True Conviction (8 page)

“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…

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 fighting 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.

“Oh, you sonofabitch!” I mutter through gritted teeth.

I roll over on my front and look around me, trying to shake away the grogginess. One of the young barmaids is crouching down just in front of me with a piece of glass about two inches long sticking out of her forearm. Blood’s leaking down her hand and she’s shaking uncontrollably.

I roll on my left side so I can see the hole I just made in the wall. Pick Axe hasn’t followed me through, so I’m assuming he’s left the office via the doors like any normal person. If that’s the case, he’ll be coming out from behind the red curtain any moment.

I try to stand, but that’s not happening right now. There’s a noticeable pain shooting up and down my back and I’m sure I can feel blood running down my face…

The bar staff have all disappeared now, joining the stampede for the door. One of the guys has helped the injured girl, which I’m glad of. I hate to see any collateral damage if it can be avoided. This isn’t their fight, after all. Why should they suffer because of it?

Okay, let’s try standing up again…

I manage to get to one knee but struggle to go any further, so I put my hand on the bar and push myself up the rest of the way. I get to my feet and look over at the red curtain. It opens up and Pick Axe appears.

I let out a heavy breath.

I’m dizzy and my head’s banging so hard it feels like Van Halen’s inside my skull playing the intro to
Hot For Teacher
on my brain, so it might just be the concussion talking when I say I’m sure this guy’s grown since I last saw him…

He walks purposefully over to me with his arms outstretched, ready to grab me and inflict more damage. My survival instincts take over and give me a nice adrenaline shot. I jump over the counter and move across the mostly-deserted nightclub floor, trying to put a little distance between us so I can figure out what to do. Everything’s still a bit blurry, but I’m aware enough to know that I’m in serious trouble if this guy gets hold of me.

I look around and see the odd person still lying on the floor between the door and me. The place had emptied quickly—I’m guessing they’ve been crushed in the panic a few moments ago. I actually feel pretty bad, but I don’t have time to worry about them now. It feels like I have at least two broken ribs, but it might just be severe bruising. My back’s gonna be a black and purple mess for a few days either way. The blood is still gushing slowly down my face, obscuring my vision, which isn’t helping matters either. I wipe it clean with my jacket sleeve and blink to re-focus my eyes as much as I could.

I need to get to my guns…

I look around quickly for anything that could help me, but there’s nothing. Any useful debris is over by the bar and Pick Axe is in the way, walking slowly toward me. The only chance I have is using the open space to my advantage. I might’ve taken a beating, but judging by this guy’s size, I’d still bet money I’m faster than he is. I just need to keep moving, tire him out, and look for an advantage.

The thing about fights, I mean
real
fights, is that they’re nothing like what you see on TV. There’s no fancy choreography, no drawn-out, back and forth battle and the sad truth is the good guy doesn’t always win. In reality, they’re quick, scrappy, and brutal, and the winner is quite simply the guy who doesn’t fight fair—at least in my experience. You might not like it, but that’s the dirty truth. People who fight by the rules never live to tell you about it. You just read about them in the obituaries…

Pick Axe charges me again, snarling like an animal with murder in his dark eyes. That’s a shitload of momentum bounding toward me… Only one thing springs to mind and I have to time is perfectly.

I let him get a bit nearer, maybe ten feet away… I take a couple of short, quick steps and slide away to the left on my knees. Timing it just right, I throw a straight right punch directly at his balls. We collide as I cut across his path and the blow connects beautifully. I can feel pelvic bone under my fist.

I don’t care how big you are,
that
will always drop you.

Pick Axe is no different. He keels over instantly and sinks to his knees. He skids across the floor and comes to a halt about seven feet away, bent over in agony.

I try to stand up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea washes over me and I fall forward.

Ah, dammit… I can probably add concussion to my list of recently sustained injuries.

I push myself up with my arms, bringing my knees up to support me. My vision is still blurry. I glance over at Pick Axe, who looks like he’s having the same trouble as me. He’s made it to one and he’s shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

I finally stagger to my feet and make my way over to him. I need to finish this now. I’m in no condition to let this drag out any longer. I look at him professionally as I approach. He’s on all fours with his back to me. There’s no sense in me grabbing his neck from behind and trying to choke him. My arms won’t have enough strength in them to do the job—it’ll be like bear hugging a tree.

Instead, I settle for something less delicate and more effective. I gather as much momentum as I can and jump at him, diving toward him like a spear, and bringing my right elbow up. I slam it down into the base of his skull with every ounce of strength I have left in me. I hear the crack as the impact shatters the top of his spinal cord, killing him instantly. He falls forward, sprawling lifelessly across the floor. I land on top of him and roll off to the side, lying on my back and breathing heavily, which stings like hell because of my ribs. I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to count how many different parts of my body are currently hurting.

It takes me a minute, but I slowly manage to get to my feet and I make my way back over to the red curtain. I pull it to one side and reach down, retrieving my guns from the bucket. Thankfully, they were both still there. I put one in its holster and cock the other, holding it as steady as I can in my right hand, breathing in the comfort it gives me.

I walk slowly back into the office. Pellaggio’s still sitting behind the desk. Manhattan moves around to the front as I walk in, putting himself between Pellaggio, as a gesture of protection, and me.