I take a Beretta from my back and regard it in my hand for a moment, taking my time, putting on a show for McCoy’s benefit. Then I aim it at him.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I say with a cold smile.
His already pale face turns ghost-white and his eyes flick back and forth between Josh and me. He sighs again and reaches into his pocket, taking out his phone.
As he starts to dial, I say, “And please don’t get any silly ideas about saying something to him to warn him off, as I will absolutely shoot you in the face. We clear?”
He nods enthusiastically and continues dialing. The call is answered after a moment.
“Hey, Jonas, it’s Billy. I need another kilo tonight... I know, but I’m throwin’ a party, man—some girls wanna have a good time... Uh-huh... I know, I’ve got the cash on me... You’re a life-saver, Jonas... See you in an hour.”
He hangs up and throws the phone down next to him on the couch.
“There,” he says. “You happy now?”
“I sure am,” I reply with a humorless smile. “Tell me, does he make deliveries on his own?”
He shrugs. “Usually, yeah.”
“Good.” I look up. “Josh...” On cue, Josh drags McCoy to his feet by his neck. “Your part’s nearly over, Billy,” I explain. “Don’t worry. You just gotta get Jonas through your door when he gets here, then you’re done.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Until then...”
Josh punches him in the stomach, then again on the side of the head, sending McCoy crashing to the floor, out cold.
“You have a plan, I’m guessing?” he asks me.
“Not really. Just gonna see what happens when Pike turns up.”
“Oh, excellent—there’s nothing like being prepared...”
I smile as I re-holster my gun. “...and this is nothing like being prepared!”
8.
20:22
The hour passed quickly enough. McCoy has regained consciousness and has started whining again. Sadly, I can’t knock him out a second time, because I need him to greet Jonas and get him in the house.
For this next part, Josh is the man inside. The plan is that once McCoy has let Pike in, Josh will close the door behind them, and I’ll walk in through the back. Then we’ll have ourselves a nice little chat...
I’ve gone out of the front door and walked around the side of the house. I’m crouched behind some bushes that separate McCoy’s house from his neighbor’s. I take a Beretta out and wait. I’m completely calm, focused and highly motivated. God help anyone who gets in my way. I already have a clear vision of how I intend getting to Trent, and I know that I’m on the right track going through Jonas Pike to get to him. All those years of guilt and worry, and when it all comes down to it, getting Trent is going to be a piece of cake. I can feel it.
A few minutes pass, then a car pulls up outside McCoy’s house; an old, black sedan, with tinted windows and brand new rims, which have no business being on a car that ancient. The passenger door opens and a man steps out. I can’t make out too many features in the dark from this distance, but he’s possibly my height—just over six feet, with a slim build and very bad fashion sense. He has ridiculously baggy jeans on with boots and a huge coat that could’ve fit three people in it. To round off the look of a complete asshole, he has a baseball cap worn with the peak raised very high, to the point where it’s almost falling off the back of his head.
This poses a problem. Not only am I going to have to talk to that idiot, but he’s not alone—there’s clearly someone else in the car, behind the wheel. I take the silencer out of my pocket and screw it into place. I’m going to have to improvise, and be quick about it.
I watch as the man I figure for Jonas Pike makes his way to the front door and knocks on. After a moment, McCoy sticks his head out and looks around. Not seeing me, he gestures Pike into the house and the door closes again.
Showtime.
Staying in a low crouch, I make my way slowly out from behind the bushes and to the street, pausing for a second in the driver’s blind spot. Happy he’s not seen me, I rush up to the driver’s door, quickly yank it open and fire two rounds into the driver—both chest shots, so as to minimize any mess in the car. I close the door again as quietly as possible and stand still to see if I’ve attracted any attention. I wait thirty seconds and, confident no one’s heard anything, make my way back down the side of the house and around to the back door. I quietly open it and step inside to the kitchen, closing it gently behind me.
I walk straight through and into the hallway, facing the front door. Josh comes walking out of the living room to meet me, frowning with concern.
“What’s up?” I ask, sensing his mood.
“We have a... situation,” he says, beckoning me to follow him.
We enter the room, and I see two unconscious bodies on the floor.
“Seems to me the situation has already been handled?” I say with a smile.
“That guy there,” says Josh, pointing to the man who just entered the house. “That’s not Pike.”
Oh, shit…
“What?” I say with heavy sigh.
“As soon as he came in, McCoy was on edge. I made my presence known and soon discovered that Pike’s sitting out front. Which means we’ve gotta get this guy outta here and Pike inside without him realizing and taking off to tell Trent.”
I fall silent, running everything through my mind. Things have all just gone terribly wrong…
“I think we might have another situation...” I say, finally.
Josh raises an eyebrow. “What’ve you done?” he asks, knowing from experience what it tends to mean when I say that.
I sigh again, rubbing my temples and forehead with my hand as I grimace at my rookie mistake. “I shot the driver before I came in the house.”
“Oh, bollocks...”
“I never thought that Pike wouldn’t be the one to come inside…”
“So you’ve just killed our only solid lead into Trent’s organization...” he says.
“Looks that way,” I say with a slight shrug. I nod toward the body on the floor. “Reckon we can get anything out of this guy?”
“Let’s hope so, otherwise we’re up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Nicely put.”
McCoy starts to stir; emitting a low groan as he slowly moves on the floor, consciousness drifting over him once again. Josh walks over and drags him over to the couch, slapping his face to wake him up.
“Hey! Billy!” he shouts.
He waves his arms around lazily, trying to defend himself.
“Leave me alone,” he says, half-heartedly.
“Billy,” I say. “Who’s this guy?” I point to the other body on the floor.
McCoy sighs.
“I dunno, I’ve never seen him before. I was expecting Pike to come to the door like he always does. Strange he’s not here...”
“He is,” I say. “He was driving the car. He’s dead now.”
McCoy’s eyes go wide.
“H-he’s dead?” he asks, like he’s struggling to comprehend the notion.
“Yeah,” I reply with a smile, gesturing with my gun. “Whoops!”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
He’s having something that resembles a panic attack right now—hyperventilating, the whole nine yards. Josh and I look at each other, confused.
“You alright, mate?” asks Josh.
“Trent’s gonna fucking kill me!”
“Why?” I ask. “I’m the one who shot him.”
“You think that matters to him? One of his guys—sorry, two of his guys are dead in my house! He’s gonna slay me, and my family and my friends, just to prove a point! Oh, fuck!”
“Jesus, calm down, will you? That guy’s not dead,” I say, pointing to the guy on the floor. “Not yet, anyway.”
“You clearly haven’t ever dealt with Wilson Trent!” says McCoy, exasperated.
I don�
��t say anything. I stare at him, clenching my jaw muscles to suppress my anger. He looks at me. He looks into my eyes. He goes quiet, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa and fidgeting with his hands. I stay silent a moment longer, to let him squirm a little.
“Oh, me and Trent go way back,” I say, eventually. “And I can promise you, he should be more worried about me than you should be about him.”
I hear another low groaning sound as the new arrival slowly stirs.
“Josh, take Billy here into the other room and keep him occupied, would you?” I ask. He does, and I walk over to the guy and drag him to his feet, sitting him on the couch. “I’m gonna have a little talk with our guest.”
The man slowly opens his eyes. It takes him a few moments to gather his senses and figure out where he is. In his peripheral vision, he can probably make out walls and a floor and minimal furniture. But he doesn’t pay too much attention to them, choosing instead to focus on the barrel of my gun, which I’m aiming right between his eyes.
“Hi,” I say, watching as he gradually focuses on me.
He frowns, more confused than afraid at this point, I’m guessing. But that’ll soon change. He goes to say something, but I raise my hand to cut him off.
“Before you speak, let me fill you in on what you’ve missed,” I say. “First, Jonas Pike is in the car outside with two bullet holes in his chest. Your customer, Billy McCoy, is in the other room being tortured by a colleague of mine, and I have a gun to your head and absolutely no issue with pulling the trigger. With some effort on your part, you’ll be able to walk away from this, but you have to answer my questions honestly. You understand?”
His frown disappears, and his eyes go wide, confusion giving way to fear. He nods vigorously in acknowledgement, but remains silent.
“Excellent. First question, Jonas Pike works for a drug operation that’s owned by Wilson Trent. Is that correct?”
He hesitates momentarily, then nods.
“You can talk, you know?”
“O-okay,” he says, breaking his silence. “Yeah, Pike worked for Tommy Blunt.”
“And Tommy’s the one who ran the operation for Trent, right?”
“Yeah…”
“I believe Mr. Blunt is no longer with us?”
“He died yesterday, so the story goes,” says the guy, somewhat dismissively.
Now I can see him properly in the light, I study him for a moment. He’s an average guy—short, styled hair hidden under that ridiculous cap, brown eyes, some stubble on his chin, over-sized but ultimately generic clothes... There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him. He’s probably a mid-level guy—not big enough to be hired muscle and not intelligent enough to be the brains. He most likely handles the distribution side of things. That makes the most sense, as he came here with Pike. A people person. Yet there’s something about him—a calmness behind the fear that’s beginning to seep through, despite his situation. He’s definitely well informed. I feel a glimmer of hope that there’s still a chance we can salvage something useful from this otherwise totally fucked up situation.
“I heard it was Trent that killed him. That right?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. But Blunt had it coming. Word on the street was he was stealin’ from Mr. Trent—that was never gonna stand.”
“Interesting. Okay, next question: where are you and Pike based? Where’s your operation run from?”
He shifts uncomfortably again in his seat, not wanting to divulge such things to me.
“What’s it to you?” he says after a moment. “What do you want?”
“Like I was saying to our friend, Billy—me and Trent go way back. I just want to understand how he works nowadays. See if anything’s changed since the last time ours paths crossed.”
“Look, man, I don’t know anything, alright? I just deliver the goods to fucked up addicts like Billy. I don’t ask questions. I don’t get trusted with the money. I’m just a middle man. You after answers? You’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but given Pike—your boss, and Blunt—his boss, are both dead, that leaves you. If you can’t help me, you need to tell me where your operation runs out of, and I’ll go there and see what I can find out for myself.”
“I tell you that, I’m dead.”
“You don’t tell me that, you’re dead,” I reply, gesturing to my Beretta. “Quite a dilemma...”
He sighs. His gaze darts around the room, presumably looking for a way out. But he knows there isn’t one. My gun’s too close to his head. I can see him working out his best move, but logic would dictate he only has one. If he doesn’t talk, I’ll shoot him.
“Alright, fine—we work out the back of a strip joint in Hazelwood, called Shakes.”
“Let me guess—you supply to the customers and deliver out of the back, then launder the money through the club’s legitimate business accounts?”
He looks at me, taken aback; his eyes widen and he goes to speak, but stops himself.
“Relax,” I say. “This is hardly the first illegal operation I’ve come across.”
He frowns. “Seriously man, who are you? What do you want with Trent?”
“Eight years ago, I killed his son by accident. Then a few days later, he killed my wife and daughter—very much on purpose. As I say, we go way back, and I’m here to bury the sonofabitch.”
“Fuck me... You’re Adrian Hughes, aren’t you?”
It’s more of a statement than a question.
“I used to be,” I reply after a moment, happy my reputation still precedes me.
“Jesus, you’re a fucking dead man walking,” he says with a laugh that’s half-nerves and half-relief. “As soon as Trent finds out you’re in town, he’ll come after you with everything he has. Everyone knows that story, and he’s never been the same since you disappeared.”
“Trent will find out I’m here when I want him to. And by that time, it’ll be too late to come after me. What’s the address of this Shakes place?”
His eyes narrow. “What you gonna do? You won’t find Trent there.”
“I know. The address...”
“It’s on Murray Avenue, toward the end facing the cemetery. Look, man, I get that you got issues with Trent, but leave me outta this, please.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“So, if I let you walk outta here, you solemnly swear not to call Trent the moment you’re out the front door and tell him I’m back?”
“Cross my heart.”
I nod, thinking it over. The obvious assumption is that he’s going to call Trent as soon as the front door closes behind him… But have I got everything I need from this guy?
“Who’s runnin’ things from the club now that Tommy Blunt’s dead?” I ask.
“It was Jonas,” he replies with a shrug. “After tonight, I’ve no idea.”
“Who’s gonna be there tonight?”
“Probably just the bouncers and the girls, plus the bar staff.”
I nod again to show my understanding.
“Thanks,” I say. I squeeze the trigger once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead.
I turn and walk back into the kitchen. Josh is over by the counter on the left hand side, leaning against it looking bored. Billy’s sitting at the table, resting on his elbows and intermittently twitching in his seat and looking in random directions—like he keeps seeing a fly in front of him and he’s trying to see where it’s gone.
Without saying a word, and before he even had chance to look up, I take aim and fire, shooting Billy in the side of the head. The spray of crimson hits the back door and window above the sink, and his body falls off the chair, crumpling to the floor.
“We’re leaving,” I say to Josh.
I turn and head for the front door leaving Josh standing, wide-eyed and speechless, looking at Billy’s dead body.
9.
MEANWHILE…
OCTOBER 2ND, 2014
10:08
It was a coo
l, gray day as Jimmy Manhattan walked down North Thirteenth Street in Allentown. He had a new, charcoal gray three-piece suit on under a long overcoat, with new, shiny black shoes. Since arriving in the city the previous day, he’d immediately checked himself into a suite at The Carrington—a very expensive hotel near the center of the city. From there, he’d contacted Paulie Tarantina, advising him that he was in the city and asking him to gather as many people still loyal to him as he could find, and arrange a meeting at a local bar. It was a modest establishment previously owned by Roberto Pellaggio, and Manhattan was on good terms with the current manager.
He walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his collar turned up against the wind. While it wasn’t too cold, he was feeling the effects a little more after sustaining his injuries and the subsequent stint in hospital.
He felt the Walther PPK against his arm. He had it in a holster under his suit jacket. He was no stranger to violence, and was comfortable using a gun if he needed to. In the past, he had simply relied on his reputation to avoid any confrontations, but now things were different, and he realized that, at least for the time being, he would be wise to protect himself.
He took a left on Liberty Street and walked along until he came to Walkers Sports Bar. Out of habit, he glanced around before opening the door and walking inside.
It took a moment for his aging eyes to adjust to the poorly lit interior. It was quiet, as places like that tended to be at that time in the morning. The bar ran along the right hand side, with one guy standing behind it cleaning the glasses. He looked up, nodded once at Manhattan, and then resumed his duties.
Manhattan walked through the bar area toward a huge TV screen mounted on the far wall. The whole area was full of tables and chairs, for when big sporting events were being shown there. Approaching it, he saw stairs off to the left, leading to another large, open plan bar area above. He went up and saw another bar facing him, although there was no one behind this one. To the right were some tables and a door leading to the restrooms. On the left, at the back of the room, was a group of men—maybe fifteen or so, all of varying heights and widths and ages. There was low, idle chatter among them, which stopped as Manhattan appeared.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 5