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

by Sumner, James P.

  “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. Ju
st 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.

  29.

  ADRIAN HELL

  16:16

  We’re all in my motel room. Josh is sitting at the table by the window and working away on his laptop, planning his digital bank robbery. Frank’s sitting on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I’m pacing back and forth, impatiently. I’m so close to this all being over, I hate all the waiting around. But I know we need to do this right.

  “What time will the game kick off tonight?” I ask.

  “About eight,” Frank replies, without looking up.

  “Okay,” I nod. “We’ll need to make sure we’re in place about seven.”

  “You’ve got a plan?” Josh asks, his head still buried in his laptop. “That’s not like you…”

  “Desperate times, desperate measures,” I say with a half-smile.

  I know we’ve only got one real chance of the plan working. Trent will be expecting us to make a move sooner rather than later, so he’ll have increased security without a doubt. Josh needs time to make sure the online heist goes off as planned, so I have to rely on Frank’s help to get ready for the game later this evening.

  “Where are we up to?” I ask Josh. “Are you good to go?”

  “Now I know where all Trent’s money is, I have to program my virus to infiltrate all the different accounts simultaneously, then transfer the money into the single account I’ve set up in the name of a dummy corporation. What I’m then gonna do is use a different algorithm to re-transfer the money in small amounts, no more than a dollar, to random bank accounts across the country. The algorithm will continue to run, moving each individual small amount every half hour into a new account, making it practically impossible to trace the money once it’s left Trent’s accounts.”

  Frank finally looks up. “Jesus Christ, you can do that?” he asks, taken aback by how extravagant the plan sounds.

  Josh nods. “It’s not easy, but I can,” he says. “I’ve been putting together the code since we arrived on the East Coast. Only thing missing was Trent’s financials. Now we have them, the final piece is in place.”

  “Can the origin of the code be traced?” he asks.

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised that Frank seems to understand at least half of what Josh is saying. I’m completely lost, and I’m happy to sit thinking about how it’ll all play out once we get to the Steelers game.

  “I’m using every encryption I have to bounce and mask my signal. It’s not unbreakable, but it’ll take a lot of people a long time, and that’s all that matters. Once Trent’s dealt with, the algorithm can stop, and we can simply put the money where we want it and ride off into the sunset very rich men.”

  “How much money does he have, exactly?” I ask.

  “Close to quarter of a billion dollars, all in all.”

  “Christ…” mutters Frank.

  I let out a low whistle. That’s some serious change… I’m not doing this for the money—I’ve got plenty of my own. But someone like Trent shouldn’t be allowed that amount of money or the level of power it grants.

  “Nothing can replace what I’ve… we’ve lost,” I say, looking at Frank. “But you have to admit, that’s a helluva compensation payout.”

  He nods absently, lost in his own thoughts.

  “You want anything to drink?” I ask them both. “I’m just gonna go to the vending machine in reception and get a bottle of water.”

  “Pepsi, please,” says Josh.

  “I’m good, thanks,” Frank replies.

  I open the door and step outside. The sky’s gray, filled with low cloud. It’s stayed dry for most of the day. It’s starting to darken, and the temperature’s dropped a little as the light starts to fade.

  I look around quickly. The parking lot’s empty, apart from Frank’s sedan, which is in the middle, directly facing the row of three rooms we’ve rented.

  I shut the door behind me, but immediately stop, alert.

  What was that?

  I just heard a low, hollow whooshing noise. It sounds far away and is worryingly familiar. It’s the same noise I heard over a week ago, in San Francisco. It’s the unmistakable sound of someone firing a rocket launcher… I quickly look around for the source. A small, bright light appears from directly opposite the motel complex, seemingly from the rooftop of a nearby building. Everything slows down as I see it rushing toward me, far too late to be able to do anything. I stand watching with dumbfounded horror.

  “Guys! Hit the deck!” I shout as loud as I can, hoping they hear me from outside.

  The rocket hits Frank’s car, which disappears in a thunderous explosion and a brilliant flash of light that sears my eyes as the force of the blast hits me, sending me crashing backward and through the door, taking it off its hinges.

  I’m lying flat on my back, on top of the door on the floor of my motel room. Every time I blink, I see flashes of white—my eyes sore from the blast. My ears are ringing too and I’m disoriented as I prop myself up on my elbows.

  “Is everyone alright?” I ask, hop
ing for a response.

  I sit up and look around the room. Frank’s lying face down on the floor on the other side of the bed. Josh is still sitting at the table, his hands frozen over the keyboard of his laptop, his eyes transfixed on the now open doorway, and his jaw hanging loose.

  “What the…?” he starts. “Adrian!”

  “I’m alright, I’m alright,” I say, holding a hand up and waving it slowly. “Did anyone see who or what hit us?”

  “No, we heard you shout, then everything went boom.”

  “Frank, you okay?” I shout over.

  He grunts, which I take as a sign he’s fine, albeit a little shocked and disgruntled that his car’s just been decimated.

  I stand slowly, blinking and rubbing my eyes in an effort to clear my vision. I look out of the doorway at the parking lot. The sedan is a flaming wreck, with car parts littering the area. I step outside, feeling the heat from the explosion on my skin. I can’t see anything, or anyone, but as the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear a motorcycle approaching from the left. Behind me, I hear Josh shout something to Frank, but the words are drowned out as a black Ducati turns into the parking lot and comes to a stop just inside the entrance. A leather-clad figure climbs off it, dressed completely in black. They have a rocket launcher, loaded, over their shoulder and a gun belt around their waist with a pistol attached. They walk toward me, undoing the chinstrap on their helmet. As they lift it off, long dark hair falls out and rests on their shoulders.

  “Hey, big boy,” says Dominique Tevani, as she drops the helmet on the ground and draws her pistol in one swift motion. “You miss me?”

  “Oh…” I say, trying to hide my surprise and displeasure. “It’s you. I kinda hoped me and you had developed an understanding after we last met?”

  She smiles that killer smile, but without any of the playfulness I saw before.

  “That was a momentary lapse of reason,” she says. “Nothing more.”

  She fires off a few rounds in succession, causing me to run to the right, staying low and diving for cover behind a group of bushes that runs periodically around the border of the parking lot.