Her expression softens and she looks away.
I continue, hoping I’ve managed to turn this around. “As soon as I realized that you had no idea about the Uranium, I admit I felt kinda bad for beating on you the way I did.”
She looks back at me and pulls a face, but says nothing.
“I don’t need the money and I didn’t want you getting caught up in this any further. Easiest way to leave a situation like this is quickly and with a shitload of cash. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She lets slip a small smile that I think she intended hiding. “My hero,” she says.
“Think of me more like your big brother.”
She smiles again, this time without trying to hide it. “Thank you.”
“I think I should be thanking you,” I reply. “I’m guessing I got back here with your help last night?”
“I was keeping watch on the club. I saw you enter and when I saw everyone come running out screaming, I guessed the mob hadn’t taken your news too well.”
“I didn’t tell them about the deeds. I just said I killed Jackson and he didn’t have them on him.”
“And they bought it?”
“They seemed to. They were certainly mad enough to suggest they did.”
“That was simpler than I thought.”
“Yeah, sometimes the best lies are the most straightforward ones.”
“So, what now?”
“Not sure. I definitely need to shower and change. Are you sticking around then?”
She stands up and looks at me. Her dark green eyes dazzle like emeralds on her face, highlighted by the still damp blonde hair slicked to her head and resting on her shoulders. Also, her towel isn’t anywhere near long enough. I’m annoyed that I keep having the urge to stare at her legs and it’s making me uncomfortable. I keep eye contact with her. I can tell by the look on her face that she’s picking up on my distress and finding it very amusing. But to her credit she doesn’t mention it.
“I can’t just walk away from Dark Rain, they’ll find me,” she says. “I don’t care how much money I have. I’ve seen too much of their operation for them to allow me to leave.”
“Well, I could use your help finding them,” I reply.
“Are you as good as the stories say you are?”
“Stories?” I ask, innocently.
“Come on, you must know what I’m talking about? You’re Adrian Hell!”
I swear to God, she just air-quoted when she said my name!
I say nothing. I know what she meant. I know why there are stories about me. I’ve done a good job of keeping my emotions in check so far since arriving in Heaven’s Valley. But Clara’s referring to the times when I’ve not been able to do that—the results of which have never been pleasant for anyone involved.
I look at her, taking a deep breath and fixing her with a reassuring and earnest stare.
“You have my word,” I say. “I’ll burn the bastards to the ground. Every last one of them.”
She stands quietly for a moment, looking into my eyes and deciding whether or not she believes me. Then she smiles, lighting up her entire face and making her eyes sparkle. “Good,” she says. “Now go have a shower. I know exactly how we can start.”
14:50
I showered and changed my clothes and took some painkillers. I’m standing by the door, waiting for Clara to put her boots on. I feel slightly more human than before. A moment later, she stands.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods, and I open the door, holding it for her. I step out into the hall after her and close it again and we walk side by side down the corridor and out the main entrance to the parking lot.
The sun is bright and it’s hot as hell outside. I squint until my eyes adjust and the painkillers kick in. I follow Clara over to her car, which is a bright red Dodge Viper GTS with a vertical, white double stripe down the middle.
“I’m impressed,” I say, genuinely surprised. “That’s a nice set of wheels.”
“Sure is,” she replies. “It’s a classic—a V10 engine pumping out four hundred and fifty brake horse power. Zero to sixty in four seconds.”
I look her up and down, admiringly. Not in a physical way as such, I’m just impressed that someone who looks as good as she does, and is as physically capable as she is, also happens to own a muscle car. To many men, she’s the perfect woman.
She sees the look on my face.
“What can I say?” she says. “We all have our toys. You have your guns, I have Princess here.”
I raised my eyebrow, questioningly. “Princess?”
“What?” she shrugs, smiling.
I shake my head and duck into the passenger seat. She climbs in gracefully next to me and fires up the engine, revving it and savoring the noise of a tamed beast.
“So, where are we going?” I ask.
She pulls out of the parking lot and turns right, stopping at the set of lights.
“I clearly don’t know as much as I thought about Dark Rain,” she says. “We need to prepare if we intend going up against them by ourselves. I figure we can do some recon, ask around and see what we can find out about their intentions. I know a good place to start.”
I admit I like the way she’s talking as if we’re a team. I’ve never really had a partner. Well, not out in the field anyway. Josh is my go-to guy—always has been, always will be. But Clara’s operating on the same wavelength as me down here on the front line and it feels pretty good not going it alone for once.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say.
We drive mostly in silence and I take in some of the surroundings that whizz by outside. I’ve only seen a small part of Heaven’s Valley so far, and wherever we’re heading seems to be taking us all round the center of the city. We briefly pass through the business district, where I first saw Clara with Ted Jackson a couple of days ago. I see the large fountain where I sat waiting. We take a left turn and shortly afterward hit the freeway, settling into nice, steady eighty miles per hour cruise.
“There’s a courier service with a depot on the other side of town,” she says. “Dark Rain has a guy on the inside who helps them transport weapons and money around when they need it.”
“They seem pretty well organized,” I observe.
“They really are. GlobaTech have given them a lot of money and they’ve invested it well. The Colonel is a smart man and they’re well rooted in the city. They’ve got contacts and safe houses all over the place. It’s strange to think that the people who live here have no idea that their entire city is being used to organize an operation like this.”
“Yeah, it’s not a pleasant thought. When I spoke to Manhattan yesterday, I told him then that he was in way over his head and had no idea who he was dealing with. I’m starting to think I don’t, either.”
“We just need to know exactly what their plan is, and how they’re carrying it out. Then we can figure out how to stop them. Simple.”
I have to smile. “Your optimism is encouraging, I’ll give you that.”
“I feel better now that I’m doing something positive. I felt so bad the other day when I realized what I’d gotten mixed up in. I’ve done some questionable things in the past, don’t get me wrong, but for the most part I have no regrets. But this is off the scale. I mean, Uranium? We could be talking about black market nuclear weapons. It’s insane.”
“I completely agree. What’s worse is we don’t know their endgame. That’s why I’ve been running interference with the mob. Pellaggio’s outfit pretty much owns this city. To be honest, I’m surprised Dark Rain’s been able to do what they have without Pellaggio finding out. But the mob isn’t military, and if they got their hands on either ready-made nuclear weapons or the raw materials needed to manufacture them, that just wouldn’t end well.”
Clara navigates the traffic with ease, taking the left exit just coming up on our left.
“My idea is to scope out the courier’s place, hope to get lucky and see our guy
making a delivery. We can then tail him and see what we find,” she says.
“Or we could just go and talk to him?” I suggest.
“Seriously?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t do subtle, do you?”
“She says in a bright red Dodge Viper…”
“Touché,” she concedes, laughing. “But he won’t say anything. Ketranovich has everyone wound up tight. They’d die for his cause, so there’s no way you’d get anything out of him.”
I look at her. “He’ll talk to me.”
Her jaw tightens and she bites her bottom lip, thinking. She knows better than to doubt me, but I think she’s just worrying about how this whole thing will play out.
We turn a corner and she forgets her concerns as quickly as she thought of them.
“We’re here,” she says, pulling up across the street. She points to a building opposite. “That’s the place.”
It’s a generic two story building with a yard to its left that has six vans parked in it. The sign across the building above the main entrance says: EXPRESS COURIER SERVICES. There’s lots of activity, which is to be expected, I guess.
“What’s this guy’s name?” I ask.
“Marcus Jones,” she replies.
“Right, come on then,” I say, opening the door and climbing out.
“You’re insane,” she mutters as she follows me.
We cross the street and walk in through the main entrance. Inside is a small lobby with a worn, blue carpet underfoot. A couple of seats are on the left, and there’s a large plant on the right looking long overdue for some water.
Manning the front desk is a short, portly man with dark hair and a large moustache—both mottled with flecks of gray. His stomach is disproportionately large compared to the rest of his body, hanging low over his belt. I reckon it’s been close to a decade since he last saw his own feet while standing.
“Can I help you folks?” he asks, in a thick, southern accent.
“I hope so,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m looking for Marcus, if he’s around?”
“Jonesy? He’s out on a job at the moment. Due back soon though. Can I ask why you want to see him? Bit irregular for folks to come in and ask for a specific driver.”
“Oh, we’re old friends. We’re passing through town and wanted to say hello is all.”
“Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” He gestures to the chairs behind us. “You folks take a seat,” he says. “Let me get you a drink while you wait. You know, Jones is a quiet sort-a fella—keeps himself to himself. He’ll be glad to see some old acquaintances, I’m sure.”
I look at Clara and smile. She rolls her eyes at me and walks over to the chairs.
“We’re alright for drinks, thanks,” I say. “But we appreciate being allowed to wait. I promise we won’t take up much of his time.”
He laughs again. “No problem. You’re nice folks, you know that?”
“That’s kind of you to say, thank you,” says Clara behind me.
I smile and sit down next to her.
“You make things look really easy,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “Thanks.”
“It’s really annoying.”
“I know that, too. But you love it.”
We both smile.
Ten minutes pass before we get lucky. The door opens and a man walks in. Clara taps my leg with her foot.
Marcus Jones.
He’s average height with dark, olive skin and a shaved head. He has a few days’ growth on his face, but I wouldn’t call it a beard. He’s wearing a short sleeve navy blue shirt with a yellow logo over the breast pocket that says ECS, with jeans and boots.
As he walks in, he sees the guy behind the desk smiling at him and pointing over to us. Confused, he turns and looks at me, frowning when he doesn’t immediately recognize me. Then he sees Clara and his eyes go wide. I don’t get chance to work out whether it’s fear or surprise, because he bolts for the door.
Without thinking, I rush after him, throwing the door open and stepping out to see him climbing into the cab of his van, parked a short distance away. His tires squeal as he flies out of the yard and turns right, nearly hitting another car as he does.
Clara appears next to me and we both run over to the car.
“Well, that went well,” she says as we get in and she starts the engine. “Did he tell you everything you wanted to know?”
We speed off in pursuit, narrowly avoiding a car coming from behind us.
“Now isn’t the time for sarcasm and I-told-you-so’s,” I say. “Can you please just focus on catching this guy without killing us in the process?”
13.
15:36
I SEE THE van up ahead, speeding down the six-lane freeway and weaving in and out of the traffic erratically. Thankfully, there isn’t much traffic around us.
“Try and get next him,” I say to Clara.
We’re in a far superior car, so getting close Jones isn’t the problem. The problem is staying close to him, because he keeps swerving left and right whenever we try to move alongside him. We don’t want to risk a crash so we have to keep dropping back.
Clara’s focused on the road. I’m trying to figure out how to stop him without killing him. There aren’t too many options when you’re both pushing eighty on the freeway.
“Any idea where he’s likely to go?” I ask.
“Could be anywhere,” she replies. “I doubt he’s going to run straight to their main base of operations knowing we’re following him. There are a couple of other locations Dark Rain use—weapons drops and safe houses, so it could be one of them maybe...”
I frown with mild frustration. “We need to get him before he reaches somewhere we can’t follow.”
I open my window and lean out, reaching behind me for a Beretta.
“What are you hell are you doing?” yells Clara.
“Good question!” I shout back.
If I’m being honest, right now I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. It’s extremely difficult to hit a tire in this situation—not that I want to, because it’ll cause him to lose control and at this speed that could be fatal.
Ah, screw it. I’ll just fire a few rounds in his general direction and see if it distracts him or something.
I squeeze off three rounds. I’ve no idea where the first two went, but the third one hits the back door of the van, causing a high-pitched ping. Jones must’ve heard it or felt it, because he suddenly swerves left, then right, fighting for control.
We drop back while he straightens up.
“Oh, shit…” Clara says, seeing him take a sharp left, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic he cuts across the adjacent lanes and down another street. There’s no way we can follow—we’d never make it across the junction without hitting something.
“Take the next left, we’ll catch up to him,” I say.
She does and we see the van go across the end of the street. We speed up and turn right, getting behind him again in no time. Clara steps on the gas some more and gets us almost level with him on the inside, but he sees the move and edges to the left, closing us down and forcing us to drop back.
“We’re never going to get level with him,” she says, slamming her hand against the wheel in frustration.
“Be patient,” I say. “We’ll get him, don’t worry.”
A heartbeat later, he tries to take another sharp turn, to the right this time. The guy’s a maniac… he’s going too fast—he’ll never get round the corner…
His passenger side back wheel lifts as he skids round the corner. I see him through the windshield fighting to control the van, but he’s got no chance. The momentum carries him, and he tips over, crashing down on his side and skidding across the street. The screeching sound of metal on blacktop is deafening, but it’s quickly replaced by a lower, much louder bang, as he collides with a parked car on the opposite side and stops.
“Jesus…” she says.
“Told you we�
�ll get him,” I say.
We pull up just before the right turn and I step out of the car, looking at the scene before me. A crowd of people has gathered, taking photographs and pointing, but making no effort to see if Jones is alright. Luckily, no one appears to have been injured.
“This is all my fault...” says Clara, appearing next to me.
“How do you figure that?” I ask.
“He only ran when he saw me. If I’d let you go in alone, you might have been able to talk to him and stop him from running.”
“Look, neither of us could’ve known he was going to bolt the moment he saw you. No one’s been injured—except him, and I’m okay with that.”
She forces a smile. “But we’re still at square one,” she says. “We didn’t get anything out of him, and now Dark Rain will know we’re on to them.”
“Hold up,” I say, looking over at the crash.
Marcus Jones is climbing up and out of the passenger door window. He looks relatively unhurt, apart from some cuts and bruises. He jumps down to the road and bends over, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looks around at the people staring. Then he sees our car—which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly hard to miss. His eyes meet mine. We hold each other’s stare for an hour-long split-second, then he sets off running down the street, pushing through the crowd and disappearing.
“Oh, no you don’t, you little bastard!” I yell, setting off after him without a second thought.
I sprint round the corner and barge through the crowd of slack-jawed onlookers. I see Jones just ahead of me. Unfortunately, just as I realize I’m not actually gaining on him as quickly as I would’ve liked, I remember the sore back and busted ribs from last night. I grit my teeth as each rapid, deep gulp of air feels like knives in my chest. I’m usually in pretty good physical condition, so the fact I can barely move is both frustrating and embarrassing.
Remembering my old military training, where every day someone would tell me that pain is a choice, I push it to the back of my mind and carry on.
True Conviction Page 10