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

by Sumner, James P.

  Without a moment’s reprieve, I hear her drop the pistol, swing the rocket launcher around on its shoulder strap, and take aim at my room.

  “No!” I yell, but it was futile.

  She pulls the trigger and fires. The rocket makes its whooshing noise again—only it sounds much louder this time. A second later, my room and the ones either side of it explodes in a shower of brick and fire.

  I look over from my cover as flames billow out in all directions. My eyes are wide with a mixture of emotions, including fear, anger, and sadness. I don’t know what to think, and as my brain fights to kick into survival mode, I just about manage a single word.

  “No…”

  16:32

  I’m kneeling behind the bush, staring blankly at the remains of the motel for what feels like hours. But my brain finally kicks into gear and tells me I’ve only been there a few seconds, and that I need to take out my Berettas and fight.

  So I do.

  I reach behind me, drawing both guns simultaneously, and then stand and walk purposefully toward Dominique, firing round after round at the beautiful bitch that’s just blown up my best friend and my brother-in-law.

  She standing, still holding the rocket launcher, looking on with proud satisfaction at the carnage she’s caused. My bullets distract her and she dives to her right, dropping the launcher and retrieving her pistol before returning fire.

  We both zigzag and run and dive behind whatever we can, trading bullet for bullet. I’m squeezing the triggers in sheer anger. I’m not even aiming at her; really, I just want to fire at her over and over again, to let my pain and hatred flow out of me with every round.

  She clicks on an empty chamber a second before I do. We both stare at each other for a moment, catching our breath, feeding off the adrenaline and feeling the heat from the flames. In the distance, I hear sirens. All kinds of emergency services will be arriving in a few minutes.

  I throw my guns down and run at her. She does the same, and we meet in the middle near her motorcycle. I know against someone like her that leading with an attack is be a bad move, so I anticipate her first punch, which is a right hook to the kidney, and lead with a block with my left arm. Positioned correctly, she punches the bend of my elbow. She doesn’t miss a beat, and immediately counters with a swinging left hook aimed high at my left temple.

  I see it coming a mile away, so I duck and roll under it to my right, before launching my own—a straight right punch—at her face, which connects sweetly on her left cheek. As she rocks backward from the impact, I step through and push my right foot through the kneecap of her back leg. The angle is perfect, so it doesn’t break, but it knocks her farther off-balance and sends her crashing to the ground. I take a step toward her but hesitate, my survival instincts taking over from my emotions, protecting me. I let her get back to her feet. She’s favoring her right leg after the kick to her knee, but she isn’t fazed at all.

  “Screw you, Adrian!” she yells over the noise of the crackling flames. “Just accept it—you’ve got nothing left. I’m doing you a favor taking your life. What have you got to live for?”

  I raise an eyebrow. It’s a classic attempt to knock me off my game psychologically. I was trained a long time ago to stop myself from reacting to any degree of mental attack like that. What I’m surprised at, is how quickly she’s resorted to what we in the business would consider a last resort tactic. Is she really getting that desperate so quickly?

  I smile back at her and slowly shake my head. “Nice try.”

  She charges at me again, leading with a roundhouse kick from the right that’s aimed at my side. I hook my left arm under the leg, catching it and absorbing what little impact made it through. I’m going to drop my right elbow down across her extended leg, as it’ll cause farther damage to her knee. But as I’m about to, she jump up with her left leg and hooks it round, kicking it into my right temple. It takes me by surprise, and I let her go as I drop to my knees. My head’s spinning from the impact and it momentarily disorients me.

  She lands on her front, but bounces back to her feet and pounces on me immediately. She delivers a knee to my jaw, which I just about manage to get my hands in front of, but I do little to parry it. It sends me sprawling backward to the ground. I have no comprehension of my surroundings as I lie spread-eagled on the parking lot, looking up at a sky black with smoke and alive with the glow of the blaze.

  I grunt in pain as she leaps on me, straddling my chest. Her thighs tighten, gripping my sides like a vice and squeezing the air out of me. I buck once with my hips, as hard as I can, but she holds on and rains down blow after blow on my face. I get both my arms up, and my forearms take the brunt of the punishment, but I’m in serious trouble if I stay where I am for long…

  I thrust my hips up again, this time dislodging her slightly. Sensing a way out, I buck one last time and roll to my left. She loses her grip and falls to the side. I continue to roll over and wind up on top of her with her legs either side of me, resting on my hips. She manages to keep me at a distance by pushing down with her legs, forcing my hips back, but I land a couple of good shots to her head and body.

  She winces in pain but fights on; her stunning features contorted with rage and desperation as we each struggle to gain the upper hand. I throw a straight right, aiming for the bridge of her nose. If I connect, it’ll break it and make her eyes water, blurring her vision, and restricting her ability to take a deep breath. But as I throw the punch, she catches my arm with both her hands and holds my wrist, pulling me toward her and wrapping her legs around me. She crosses her feet behind me, trapping my head and right arm completely in the triangle formed by her legs. She squeezes with every ounce of strength she has left and pulls me farther toward her. The pressure on my throat is tremendous, and I’m instantly constricted.

  I can feel myself losing consciousness...

  …I re-focus on her as the world fades back to life.

  I must’ve slipped away then…

  …and again! Shit! I need to get out of this—the bitch is killing me!

  I frantically hammer her left hand side with small hook shots from my free arm, but I can’t get enough momentum behind them for them to do any significant damage.

  My mind races to think of a way out. I look around as much as I can, but there’s nothing nearby I can use.

  It’s getting harder to breathe as she tightens her grip around my neck and shoulder. I’ve given up trying to fight my way out with my free arm. There’s only one thing left to try…

  On my knees, being pulled forward by Dominique, I slowly bring one leg forward, then the other, so I’m in a low squat. I grip one of her wrists with my right hand as much as I can, and grab her waist with my left and squeeze, sliding my hand underneath her body. Then, with one insanely difficult gulp of air, I use every last ounce of energy I have to stand up.

  The strain on my legs and arms is intense, and it momentarily causes her thighs to tighten even more, but I somehow manage to stand up straight. I hold her above me, her toned stomach pressing against my face. She’s no longer pulling me by my right arm—I have a hold of her instead of the other way around. My left hand is underneath her ass, holding her steady for a split second; the scene frozen in a violent, almost sexual position.

  Then I use everything I have left to slam her down on the blacktop. I bend forward and put all my momentum into pushing her through the goddamn parking lot. Her back and head connect first, with a sickening thud. She lets out a grunt of pain as I fall forward, landing on top of her, exhausted. Her body twitches once as my weight crushes her, then she remains still.

  I push myself off and fall back, so I’m sitting down facing her. There’s an expanding pool of blood flowing slowly out from underneath her head as she lies motionless.

  I gasp for air, remembering I’ve just been starved of oxygen and I’ve asked my body to use much more than it had available.

  My surroundings bleed slowly into focus. The heat from the blast, the darkne
ss of the sky, the noise of the sirens…

  Shit!

  I scramble to my feet, coughing as I massage my throat. The police and the fire department will be here any moment, so I have to make myself scarce. I gather up my guns and holster them. I stand staring at my decimated motel room for a moment.

  Josh…

  “Adrian!”

  I frown.

  Josh?

  “Adrian!”

  What the…

  “Josh?” I shout, unsure if the voice is even real.

  I look around and over to the right, close to where the reception building is, I see Josh and Frank standing, looking on.

  I walk over slowly, relieved but confused. “How the hell did you…?”

  “We ran out after the first explosion,” Josh explains, “just before that crazy bitch blew up the motel. I’m guessing you didn’t hear me shouting?”

  I shake my head. “I thought you were both dead…” I say.

  Josh raises an eyebrow. “Were you upset?”

  I shrug, keeping my face deadpan. “I paused for a whole thirty seconds to mourn you before I moved on with my life. I almost shed a tear…”

  A smile creeps over both our faces at the same time, and we laugh out loud. But before I can say anything else, a voice behind me interrupts our short-lived reprieve.

  “Adrian!”

  I turn and see Dominique, staggering toward me like an extra from Dawn of the Dead. How the hell is she still alive?

  “Adrian, I... I have to kill you... You don’t understand!”

  She’s completely helpless, and has no chance of even raising a hand to me. I almost feel sorry for her.

  “Dominique, it’s over,” I say. “Get out of here and don’t look back.”

  “I can’t!” she continues. “You... have to... die!”

  Before she can take another agonizing step toward me, I hear three loud gunshots from behind me. I freeze and close my eyes instinctively, tensing my entire body. Despite the noise all around, the next few seconds pass in silence.

  I open one eye… then the other. I turn and see Frank standing with his legs wide apart and his Taurus 605 held out in front of him with both hands, smoke twirling from the barrel.

  I relax and look at Josh, who’s standing with his mouth open, staring blankly at me. I slowly turn back and see Dominique lying on the floor, blood pumping from three bullet holes in her chest.

  I look back at Frank. Josh is slowly pushing his arms down. He’s in shock at having just pulled the trigger.

  I walk over to them both hurriedly. “We need to leave…now,” I say.

  Frank doesn’t answer, or even take his eyes off Dominique’s body.

  “Frank!”

  He turns to me.

  “We need to move.”

  He nods vacantly and turns to follow Josh, who has set off running past the reception area and over the small wall to the road beyond. We catch up with him and cross the street.

  “We’ll split up here,” I say. “We’re only about fifteen minutes from the city’s center on foot. We’ll all meet up in half an hour outside the Hilton, okay? We’ll lay low in the Winnebago.”

  They both nod.

  “Frank, are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies, unconvincingly.

  I nod again, letting the matter drop, and we all set off in different directions.

  I take one last look behind me as I set off, looking at Dominique’s motionless corpse with the fire burning fierce and bright behind it.

  What a goddamn waste.

  30.

  MEANWHILE…

  18:46

  Wilson Trent was sitting at a table in a small restaurant close to Heinz Field, the home turf of the Pittsburgh Steelers. When the opportunity arose, he liked to indulge himself by going to watch the team he’d supported since he was a child. It was the one thing he took time out to do just for himself. He worked hard running the empire he’d built over the last thirty or so years, and football was his own little reward. He was proud of the fact he was able to see the stadium from the window of his penthouse suite as well.

  He was a creature of habit, and before every game, he came to the same restaurant for something to eat. He was surrounded by his own protection detail. There were two men by the door, one at the counter and two, one at each table, either side of him. The rest of the place was mostly empty. That’s why Trent liked it so much—all the crowds heading to the game went to the bars nearby or for pre-match drinks and food in the stadium itself, meaning he could enjoy his meal in peace before surrounding himself with the noise of the fans.

  The door opened and Bennett walked in, striding purposefully toward Trent. He approached the table and cleared his throat, announcing his arrival. Trent didn’t look up from his food.

  “I hope you have good news for me,” he said.

  Bennett shifted nervously on the spot for a moment before replying. “I did as you asked, Boss,” he said. “I followed the assassin.”

  “And?”

  “She fired a rocket launcher at Adrian’s motel room. She blew up their car, then fired again and blew up half the motel.”

  Trent half-smiled. “You’ve got to admire her approach.”

  Bennett took a deep breath before continuing. “But she didn’t kill him, or either of his friends. She had a pretty brutal fight with him and he drove her head into the goddamn parking lot –split her skull wide open. To her credit, she got up and went after him again, but some guy shot her dead.”

  Trent put down his knife and fork and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He took a small sip of his water before finally looking up at one of his most trusted enforcers.

  “She failed?”

  Bennett nodded.

  “So Adrian fucking Hughes—Hell… whatever he calls himself—he’s still alive?”

  He nodded again.

  “How fucking hard is it to kill someone?’ he yelled, causing everyone in the restaurant to fall silent and turn to look at him.

  He took a deep breath as he felt his anger swirling around inside of him, like he was trying to contain a tornado is a coffee mug. He paused for a moment before standing and grabbing the knife off his plate. He walked over to the nearest occupied table, where a young man and woman were sitting. They both looked terrified and couldn’t take their eyes off him. Trent grabbed the man by the hair and yanked his head back, then thrust the knife into his exposed throat. Once… twice… and a third time before leaving it sticking out as blood spurted in a thick, crimson fountain all over the table and the young woman. She started screaming, and Trent picked up the man’s fork and stepped around the table, grabbing the woman by her hair and driving her face into the table. Once… twice… her nose burst open and blood gushed down her face. Then, holding her head back, Trent jammed the fork into her right eye and pushed her aside, causing her to fall to the floor.

  Nobody screamed. Nobody moved. Everyone froze.

  Trent walked back to Bennett.

  “See how fucking easy it is?” he said, frighteningly calm after his moment of explosive rage. “Why can’t anyone kill Adrian Hell?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Trent looked at each one of his men individually before turning back to Bennett.

  “I’m going to the game,” he announced. “You are going to find that sonofabitch and bring me his head. Or I’ll take each and every one of yours.”

  He left the restaurant, hastily followed by all his men, except Bennett, who he left standing there.

  19:14

  Trent stepped into his private box in Heinz Field, which was behind the goalposts at one end of the ground. He had a slightly raised, unobstructed view of the entire field. He sat down and looked out, relaxing and forgetting all of his troubles. The view alone was well worth the thousands of dollars he paid each season. Floodlights were beaming down on the field below as the players warmed up, ahead of kick-off.

  Inside the booth, a
small wall that came waist-high, then a double-glazed window, which could be slid open if required. He always preferred having the window open, weather permitting, to soak up more of the atmosphere. He leaned forward and looked up at the evening sky, which was all but black and threatened another downpour. He hoped the weather would hold off long enough for the game to finish.

  Surrounding him were the five men who had been with him in the restaurant, all standing in a loose semi-circle behind him. There was a knock on the door, and a caterer came in pushing a trolley with a bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket on it. It was a vintage Krug Brut, which was Trent’s personal favorite, and was around two thousand dollars a bottle.

  “Drink, sir?” asked the caterer.

  Trent nodded silently without taking his eyes off the field. The Steelers were warming up and he was genuinely looking forward to seeing them play for the first time since the new season had started.

  “How do you think the Steelers will fare this season?” asked the caterer.

  Trent frowned and looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust, wondering why someone would feel the need to make small talk with him. The caterer seemed unfazed, oblivious to who Trent was.

  “You ask me,” he continued. “I think they’ve got a good shot at it. Although, I’m not really much of a fan, myself. Never quite understood the appeal of the game. Like, for one thing, why do they call it football? They hardly touch the ball with their feet… And it’s not even a ball, really—it’s not round…”

  Trent held up his hand to stop the caterer talking. His eyes narrowed as he looked him up and down. His long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, the white shirt creased and partly un-tucked. He threw a quick glance to one of his men, who understood the silent command instantly and reached into his jacket, gripping the butt of the gun he had holstered inside. The other men quickly took note and followed suit.

  “Do I know you?” asked Trent. “Because you’re a real talkative guy, and way too comfortable in my presence. So, do we know each other, or do you just dislike breathing?”