Blowback
James P. Sumner
Copyright (c) Both Barrels Publishing Ltd.
Contents
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FOREWORD FROM THE AUTHOR
BLOWBACK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
THE END
A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
Epilogue #1
Acknowledgments
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Epilogue #2
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First published in Great Britain in 2020.
Copyright © James P. Sumner 2020
The right of James P. Sumner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission of the copyright owner.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, situations and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, place or event is purely coincidental.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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FOREWORD FROM THE AUTHOR
About damn time, right?
BLOWBACK
ADRIAN HELL: Book 8
1
October 16, 2019 – 21:54 JST
Okay, before you say anything, I just want to clarify this wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be in this situation. I certainly don’t want to be in this situation. The situation just kind of found me.
As these things invariably do from time to time, I guess.
The two guys standing in front of me aren’t especially impressive in any way. They’re both shorter than me. Neither are as broad as I am. They’re dressed the same—black tank tops beneath colorful short-sleeve shirts, which hang open above loose-fitting jeans. Too much jewelry around their necks. I see they have some muscle. It’s the sinewy kind that pulses and tenses along the arms, signaling fitness and a modest strength comparable to their frame.
One of them is talking. A lot. I don’t understand him because he’s speaking Japanese.
That’s not an exaggerated metaphor for the fact I can’t tell what he’s saying. He’s actually speaking Japanese. For the last two years or so, I’ve been living in Tokyo. I share an apartment with Ruby.
I know, right?
But it works. We’re both happy, which is great considering everything that happened prior to moving out here. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not… y’know… together . We just live together. Which is totally different. There’s nothing—
You know what? Never mind. This probably isn’t the time to get into all that.
The guy’s still speaking Japanese, and I still don’t understand a word of it. Normally, I would. Like most people nowadays, I have a little piece of tech called a Pilot, which is an earpiece that translates most languages into English in real-time. But I wanted a little peace and quiet and a couple of drinks tonight, so I left it at the apartment when I came out to the bar.
However, given this guy’s body language and the look on his face, I reckon I can catch the gist of what he’s saying. He’s scowling and gesturing sharply with his hands. He also keeps pointing a finger near my face—which, I swear to God, I’m going to break if he doesn’t stop. He’s purposely flexing, rolling his shoulders and twisting his head to crick his neck every few words.
All textbook behavior designed to intimidate.
Yeah… good luck with that.
His friend is scowling at me too, except he’s not saying anything. Instead, he’s holding his nose, trying to stop the bleeding.
Now that was my fault.
Look, here’s what happened. I was sitting on a stool at the bar, right? I had a beer in my hand. It’s called Asahi. It’s all I’ve drank since I moved here. I’m not sure how I survived without it. Beats the hell out of Bud. It was lovely and cold. The glass bottle felt like ice, and the condensation dripped onto the counter with each mouthful.
Anyway…
I heard a commotion behind me. Now, this place is pretty loud. Music—and I use that term in its loosest possible sense—was blasting out, and it was busy without being overcrowded. There’s enough going on that if I could hear the commotion from where I was sitting, it had to have been something pretty intense.
So, I looked over my shoulder and saw a girl. Whether she was old enough to be in a bar, I honestly couldn’t say. Here, the legal drinking age is twenty. If she were too young, it wasn’t by much. Eighteen or nineteen, for sure. She wasn’t a local. Maybe not American but definitely not Japanese. She wore a skirt that barely covered tomorrow’s laundry and a top that showed more than it concealed. Her skin was a dark tan, her hair black with tight curls. She was attractive, if you like that sort of thing.
There were two guys standing in front of her. The same two standing in front of me now. The one doing all the talking and gesturing had his hand on her arm, gripping it tightly just above the elbow. He was trying to drag her toward him. She was screaming and struggling to move away. The other guy looked on, laughing.
I turned away. Took another gulp of my beer. Tried to ignore it. Figured it was nothing to do with me. I was out for a quiet night. Tokyo is an amazing place, breathtaking at times, but it has its dark side too. I’m not saying it’s right, but things like that happen. It’s how the place works, and most people accept it. It’s rarely safe to get involved. Everyone is just looking out for themselves.
But then I looked around again, just in time to see the first guy slap the girl across the face. He used the back of his hand. The crack was loud. The music stopped. Onlookers gasped.
That was when I resigned myself to the fact that I’m not most people . That whatever was going on had suddenly become everything to do with me.
I’ve seen and done a lot of shit in my time. Some of it good, most of it questionable at best. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life doing bad things for profit. I like to think of myself as a nice person, but I’m not naïve enough to think I’m a good one. I’m certainly not a hero.
That said, for as long as I can remember, I’ve never stood for anyone doing wrong by people who don’t deserve it. There’s already so much shit in this world we can’t do anything about—there’s no reason you can give me that justifies purposely making it worse.
So, I got to my feet. Pushed my way through
the crowd of slack-jawed locals holding cell phones. Moved toward the three of them and, without breaking stride, stepped between the girl and the two guys. No hesitation. No doubt. Just did the only thing in that moment that made any sense to me.
I heard her whimpering behind me. I heard the quiver in her breathing. It told me she wasn’t sure if her situation just got better or worse.
The guy on my left was the taller of the two. He stopped laughing almost immediately. He looked surprised, clearly wondering who I was. The guy on my right, who had been grabbing the girl’s arm, had already begun posturing up, seemingly unconcerned with who I was, focusing instead on how I could dare think of interrupting his fun.
I looked them both in the eyes, holding each gaze for a long beat. Then I stared more intently on the guy who had slapped the girl. I smiled at him, nodded a greeting, and said, “Kon’nichiwa , dickbag.”
The taller guy made the first move. He was fast but nowhere near fast enough. He started to throw a punch, but mid-swing, I took a small step to the left and whipped the heel of my palm into his face, finding the gap he had left in the process.
Rookie error. You always keep your guard up, even when you’re attacking.
His punch never connected. Never even came close. I broke the thin cartilage in his nose. He staggered back, stumbling into the booth behind him.
The other guy wasn’t happy about it, understandably, but did nothing except posture some more. I saw the restlessness in his stance. The hesitation. He didn’t want to lose face, but having just seen me handle his friend with very little effort, he wasn’t in a rush to attack me and risk the same thing happening to him.
Which it would have.
He was beaten before the fight could begin.
I glanced back at the girl, told her she was safe, and that she might want to call it a night. She understood me, thankfully. She nodded, turned, and made her way out through the crowd, who all kindly parted to give her space.
And here I am.
See? How is any of this my fault?
The guy with the busted nose takes deep breaths through his mouth, boring a hole into me with his beady little eyes. He won’t make another move. He’s learned his lesson. This other guy’s still thinking about it, but I’m not in the mood to wait around and see if he finds his balls in the next couple of minutes. My drink's getting warm on the bar.
I gesture him away with my hand. Shooing him as a master would his slave. Dismissing him as if he’s nothing. “You’re done. Leave while you can still walk unaided. I see you again, you wake up in the hospital. Clear?”
There’s a moment’s silence. I roll my eyes. Of course, that wasn’t clear—he can’t understand me.
I have another piece of tech, called an Ili. It’s a tiny microphone-slash-speaker… thing that works in the opposite way to the Pilot. It translates whatever I say into another language and broadcasts it in a robotic voice. Most people have Pilots, which negates the need for anything else, but sometimes it’s useful to have the option. Just in case.
But my Ili is sitting on the side in my apartment, next to my Pilot.
Oh, he’s started talking again. Started waving his finger near my face again too.
I can see I’ll have to rely on the universal language.
No, not mathematics. The other one.
I grab a hold of his finger and wrench it back, feeling the delicate bone snap at the second knuckle. He yells out in obvious and justifiable pain. I push the finger back further, forcing him down on one knee.
“Don’t be a baka . Use your brain. Walk away.”
I like that word. Baka . It means idiot . I’ve picked up some of the language while I’ve been here. Mostly just the essentials—how to order beer, how to insult someone… that kind of thing.
He finally shuts up, choosing instead to nod his head rapidly and hold his other hand up in apology.
I smile down at him. “There’s a good baka . Now get your ass outta here.”
I let him get back to his feet. His friend grabs him as they run toward the door, scrambling through the crowd, looking back at me for fear of being followed.
I take a deep breath. It helps calm the flow of adrenaline and subdue the rage.
I look around the bar, ignoring the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces, habitually checking for any additional threats. I see nothing. After a moment, the music starts up again. The crowd turns away. The cell phones are slid back into pockets.
My work here is done.
I make my way back over to my stool. Sit down heavily. Wearily. Take a long, satisfying pull on my beer, emptying the bottle. I shake it at the barman, who nods and brings me another one. He flips the top off the bottle as he places it in front of me. I take a grateful gulp and tip the neck toward him.
“Arigatou , man.”
That means thanks.
I let out a tired sigh.
Tokyo. Got to love it.
2
October 17, 2019 – 09:16 JST
Ruby and I live in the penthouse building of an exclusive apartment block on the outskirts of Chiyoda City, overlooking the Sumida River. It’s one of the wealthiest districts of Tokyo and central to most conveniences. Personally, while money isn’t an issue, I would’ve preferred something a little more low-key, but Ruby was insistent. I learned long ago that unless I have a strong opinion about something, there’s no sense arguing with her.
It’s spacious. Five rooms spread across two floors. The main elevator runs up all thirty-seven floors from street level and opens on one side of our living room. For security, you can only select our floor by inserting a key and entering a six-digit passcode first. There’s a thick, solid oak door on the opposite side of the room that leads to a short hallway and stair access. We never use it—it’s permanently locked with enough bolts and latches to make the security guard at Fort Knox jealous—but it’s there in case of emergencies.
The living room is open plan with minimal furniture. A nice sofa, table, TV, and a white, fluffy rug that Ruby insisted on buying to give the place some character. The walls on either side of the living room are glass, offering stunning, panoramic views of the metropolis below. The kitchen is at the back. A counter runs almost the full width of the cooking area, leaving a gap wide enough to walk around at either side. High stools surround it, positioned so your back is to the living room. Beside it, stairs head up to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Ruby’s is the larger of the two. She asked for it, and I didn’t care, so it’s hers. She has an en-suite, so the main bathroom is predominantly mine.
I’m sitting at the counter, elbows resting on the surface, drinking what passes for coffee in this part of the world and reading an American newspaper on my tablet. The world is borderline normal again in a lot of places. Nice to see some things don’t change, though. In between the politics and financial news is an article about a new celebrity baby named Kiwi-Diane. I shake my head. That’s child abuse. Imagine shouting that name across the schoolyard when the lunch bell rings? Poor kid. Doesn’t stand a chance.
Schultz’s re-election campaign is in full swing. Good for him. The guy deserves a second term. He’s been instrumental in the re-envisioning of Texas. Not easy to re-build an entire state from the ground up. Especially one that size. But he’s having a damn good try. His efforts are going to sew up the election for him. His campaign wrote itself. The number of jobs he’s created, the strengthening of the country’s relationship with Mexico… it’s a no-brainer.
There’s still a small number of the population not happy with him, though. There’s been rioting up and down the country recently, protesting Schultz’s new vision for America. Now I’m all for freedom of expression, don’t get me wrong. I know from experience that the guy isn’t always the easiest person to deal with. But he’s a good man, doing what he genuinely believes is best for the people of his country. What really pisses me off about the people rioting is that they’re doing so because they preferred things when Cunningham was in char
ge.
The guy was a fucking terrorist!
Ah, whatever. I’m not getting worked up about it. I’m six thousand miles away for a reason. I’m done caring what goes on in the White House anymore.
Still, it’s nice being able to say you have the president on speed dial. Not that I call him. We haven’t spoken since… y’know… that day in Arlington. Figured he wouldn’t want a semi-famous retired assassin on his phone logs.
I take a final mouthful of coffee and lower the cup onto the counter. As it nears the surface, my hand starts to shake. Nothing too drastic but a noticeable tremor. I place it down with a bang and repeatedly clench my hand into a fist. Goddamn thing hasn’t been right since I damaged the nerves a couple of years back. It healed as well as could be expected, but I still get a few twinges now and then. GlobaTech’s surgeon said it’s normal and that it shouldn’t interfere with my everyday life.
Yeah… unless you’re a hitman, in which case not being able to hold a weapon steady is a real pain in the ass. I might be mostly retired nowadays, but I like the option, y’know?
I move around the counter and open a drawer on the opposite side. Take out a foil-backed sleeve of prescription painkillers. Push two tablets out.
I stare at them for a moment as they rattle to a standstill on the counter.
Screw it.
I push a third one out.
That should keep me going. It usually does.
I swallow them with a glass of water and pick up a sponge ball resting on the side nearby. I start squeezing it gently. I was given this as an exercise to keep my hand flexible. The doc said to only do it when the shaking starts. It stretches out the tendon, helping it settle. I move over to the sofa and sit down heavily on the soft leather cushion. I sink into it, let my head fall back, and close my eyes as I continue my exercises.
My mind wanders. It does that thing everyone’s mind does when left to its own devices. It starts thinking about one thing, and then runs away in whatever direction it feels like, leading me to think about all sorts of other things I initially had no intention of thinking about.
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