Hunter's Games
Date: 2014-04-24 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thrillers; Pulp; Literature & Fiction; Terrorism; Action & Adventure; Crime; Thriller; Vigilante Justice; Mystery; Thrillers & Suspense; Assassinations; Spies & Politics; Thriller & Suspense
Description: Who is the predator, and who is the prey? Adrian Hell, the legendary assassin, has been commissioned to take out a government official who’s found himself on the wrong side of the wrong people. The job goes as planned, but before Adrian can leave the scene, he’s taken into custody by the FBI. Enter Grace Chambers, a no-nonsense FBI agent who asks Adrian for his help in bringing down a terrorist calling himself The Shark, who's responsible for several recent attacks. He reluctantly agrees, but things aren't what they seem, and as the truth behind Adrian's involvement is revealed, so too is the
Publisher: Createspace

HUNTER’S GAMES

BOOK 2 IN THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES

by

JAMES P. SUMNER

HUNTER’S GAMES

Copyright © James P. Sumner 2014. All rights reserved. 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. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Visit the author’s website:

http://www.jamespsumner.com

Cover design by:

Jimmy Gibbs

Editing by:

Rae Z. Ryans

3rd Edition

Published March 2015

The first short story in the Adrian Hell: Origins series is available now! Visit www.jamespsumner.com/ahow to get your copy, and see how Adrian got started!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Hunter’s Games (An Adrian Hell Thriller, Book 2)

About the Author

More Books by the Author

A Sneak Preview of One Last Bullet (An Adrian Hell Thriller, Book 3)

HUNTER’S GAMES

1.

September 22nd, 2014

16:47

I STEP OFF the Greyhound bus and take a deep breath. It’s a refreshing sixty-eight degrees and the light breeze is cool against my face. I look around the crowded, temporary Transit Center in downtown San Francisco. It’s a little chaotic, but bearable. The original Transbay Bus Terminal closed back in 2010, and their new Transit Center isn’t due for completion for another couple of years. In the meantime, this temporary terminal acts as the hub for all bus travel both in and out of the city.

It’s been a long ride, so I read up on it to pass the time…

I’ve been on the Greyhound for just shy of nine hours, coming from Oregon and heading straight down the West Coast on Route 101. I rest my trusty shoulder bag by my feet and stretch, feeling parts of my back crack as it celebrates no longer being cramped up on a bus. I sling my bag over my shoulder once more and fight my way through the masses of commuters, heading right down Beale Street.

It feels good to walk again. My legs are stiff from the journey down here, so I’m relishing the chance to get some exercise. It’s a nice, bright September afternoon. I look around as I walk, soaking up the surroundings. San Francisco is a nice enough place. People are friendly, the streets are clean—even the air smells fresh compared to some places I’ve been.

I’m in town on business. And yes, by ‘business’, I mean, ‘to kill someone’. For the past twelve years or so, I’ve worked as a freelance contract killer. I can safely say, with no ego whatsoever, that I’m one of—if not the best assassin operating in the United States. Maybe even the world, who knows. For a variety of reasons, my reputation borders on legendary in certain, shall we say, unsavory circles. To everyone else, I simply don’t exist, which is exactly the way I like it.

A local gangster called Nathan Tam has hired me to take out a government official by the name of Richard Blake, who’s apparently bought a sizeable amount of cocaine from Tam and proceeded to mouth off to anyone and everyone about it. Given the company he keeps, Mr. Tam has subsequently attracted some unwanted attention from law enforcement, and wants his client silenced so he can go back to running his business unhindered.

From my point of view, someone who buys and uses drugs shouldn’t be in any kind of position of responsibility anyway, so I’m more than happy to do everyone a favor and kill the bastard.

After walking for close to twenty minutes, I come across a nice bar advertising an afternoon special of a meal and a drink for seven dollars. A quick glance at the menu on the wall outside tells me they have steak and they have beer. They’re pretty much my only two criteria when choosing a place to eat, so I walk inside and find a table at the back.

I sit facing the room with my back against the wall. It’s one of many old habits instilled in me at an early age. It allows me to see if anyone is approaching me that I might otherwise want to avoid. The place looks a lot smaller from the outside. Inside, there are plenty of tables and chairs—many of which have people occupying them. The décor’s simple and clean, with plain colors and small indoor plants strategically placed throughout. There’s no theme to the place. It’s just somewhere nice to go and eat.

A TV is mounted on the wall in the corner—a news reporter is somewhere in the city, talking into their microphone. It’s muted, but the caption across the bottom of the screen says something about an explosion, and the reporter’s standing in the street with crime scene tape behind them. It looks like some kind of restaurant, but whatever has happened has destroyed most of the exterior.

I only have to wait a few moments before a waitress come over and offers me a menu. I tell her there’s no need and order a medium steak, beer, and onion rings on the side.

While I’m waiting, I take out my phone and call Josh.

Josh Winters is my handler and all-round superhero office boy. He finds me work and gathers information so I can carry out the contracts to my usual high standard. The guy’s like my brother, and joking aside, he’s far more than an office boy—I’d be nothing without him, and I have no problem admitting that. We’ve been through a helluva lot together in our time. I just call him my office boy because it gets on his nerves, which keeps me entertained.

He picks up after the second ring.

“Hey, Boss,” he says, in his familiar, happy, British accent. “You made it to 'Frisco safe and sound then?”

“Yeah, got here about half an hour ago,” I reply. “Just getting something to eat now.”

“Let me guess, steak and a beer?”

“You know me so well.”

“Yeah, I also know you’ve probably found a meal deal that includes both, and you’ve sprung for a serving of onion rings on the side.”

“Whatever,” I say, laughing.

“So are you all set for this job?” he asks. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Well, you could argue that I never truly know what I’m doing...”

“You said it, Boss.”

We both laugh again.

He means no harm, but I know he has very little faith in me to remember the finer points of any plan we make. In my defense, plans very rarely work and more often than not, you have to improvise anyway. Consequently, I see no point in worrying too much about the plan itself. If you focus on it, you risk losing sight of the immediate situation around you, which can get you killed.

“I’ve got everything covered,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

“Adrian, I always worry!” he replies.

“Oh, ye of little faith! So, just to make sure you know the details, remind me—what does this Blake guy actually do again?”

Josh sighs, and I can picture him shaking his head at me.

“Tricky Dicky’s the Senior Administrator in the Department of Public Works. That’s like sanitation and restoration and such things,” he explains.

“That sounds… really boring. What do you make of our employer?”

“Tam? He’s as you’d expect, really. He considers himself a businessman who’s simply looking after his interests. He’s got a lot of attention since Blake’s been running his mouth. He prefers discretion in his line of work, as you can appreciate.”

“Blake doesn’t sound like the type to blab about his personal habits. Sounds more like a working stiff in a dead-end nine to five job to me.”

“Well, it’s always the quiet ones.”

“So they say…”

“So, I’ve gone ahead and made you an appointment to see Blake tomorrow morning at eleven a.m. You’re going in as a reporter for a local magazine who’s writing an article on the upcoming plans the city has for recycling.”

“That sounds phenomenally dull, Josh.”

“Sure does. Better take him out quickly before you die of boredom.”

“Y’know, you don’t have to sound like you’re enjoying this so much.”

“You have to admit, it’s a little funny…”

“It’s not—it’s possibly the dullest contract I’ve ever taken. Remind me again why I’m doing this?”

“Because Nathan Tam is paying you a hundred and fifty grand.”

“Oh yeah… that’ll do it.”

“Oh, and you’ve remembered the ‘no guns’ rule for this one?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Going into a municipal building with a gun is pretty much impossible these days, even for me. But I’ve got it all worked out, don’t worry.”

“Great stuff. Will leave you to eat your steak and drink your beer then.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you a call tomorrow when it’s all said and done.”

I hang up just as the waitress returns with my food. I cut into the steak and take a bite—which is succulent and cooked to perfection—and sink back into my chair, relaxing and mentally preparing for the task ahead.

21:56

After I finished my steak and beer, I went off in search of a place to stay for the night. Usually, Josh would arrange something prior to me arriving, but I said to him I’d like to have a look around the city, so I’d sort it myself.

As always, my idea of tourism only got me as far as the nearest bar... I found a place that served Bud and had a baseball game on the TV, so I sat down for an hour or so, relaxed, and had a drink. Or two…

For a brief moment, I decided to get my ass in gear and find somewhere to stay, so I left some money on the table, went outside, and jumped on the first cable car that passed by. I traveled through another part of the city, up a steep hill and eventually got off near the Chinatown district.

The first building I saw was another bar…

And here I am. I’m just finishing my sixth beer. This place I’m in is nice—the décor’s warm and relaxing. Not my usual scene, but it’s quiet and I’m actually enjoying soaking up the culture around here. The waitress comes over to collect my empty bottles and I pay my tab with her, leaving her a ten percent tip.

I really should find somewhere to stay tonight. I need to be in top form for the job tomorrow, and getting drunk and not sleeping well isn’t the way forward. I take out my phone. I’ll call Josh and ask him to find me somewhere…

Actually, wait... No—he’ll shout at me for getting drunk without him.

No, I’ll sort it.

I finish my drink, pick up my bag and leave the bar, stepping outside and taking in a deep breath of the cool, night air. It’s dark but the streetlights are doing their job. I head left, which I’m hoping will lead me toward the main street in the district, where I’m more likely to find somewhere to stay.

I walk on for five minutes or so and start to notice the buildings seem to be getting smaller and more run down. Every other store seems to be a Chinese supermarket or a pawn shop…

Hmmm, maybe should’ve gone right out of the bar…

I approach a particular pawn shop and consider going inside to ask directions. There are two guys standing outside, whispering to each other conspicuously. I walk past and look through the window. There’s an old Chinese guy behind a counter, reading a newspaper. He’s wearing a vest that I imagine at one time in the distant past used to be white.

No, I can’t see him being all that helpful. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere soon.

I walk on, but one of the two guys at the door steps in front of me. He’s tall and thin, wearing a jacket three sizes too big for him. I see part of a tattoo crawling up the side of his neck that I guess covers part of his chest too. His baseball cap is on backward.

“Yo… help you?” he asks.

Assholes are assholes, wherever you may be…

“I’m good, thanks,” I say.

I’m not in the mood for a confrontation. I know, I know—that’s not like me at all. But I’m a little tired and a bit drunk and just want to find a bed for the night.

“You sure?” asks his friend, stepping out and standing just behind my left shoulder.

I glance back at him. He’s dressed in similarly over-sized clothes, but without a hat. He has a tattoo on the side of his shaved head that looks like a flame.

“Pretty sure,” I reply, nodding.

“You look lost, man…”

I shrug. “Is being lost the same as not knowing where you’re going?”

The two guys exchange slightly confused looks.

“Whatever, man,” continues the first guy. “What you got in that bag of yours?”

I sigh.

Well, we all know where this is going…

Fine, have it your way.

“What bag?” I reply.

“The one on your shoulder,” says the second guy.

I look back at him, taking a small side step to my right so the two of them are in front of me.

“What shoulder?” I say to him.

They look at each other again and puff their chests out. They frown and glare at me angrily, preparing for violence.

“Yo, are you stupid, old man?” asks the first guy.

I frown.

Me? Old?

“Since when is forty-two old, dickwad?” I ask, slightly offended.

The second guy taps his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s fuck him up, bro. I’m getting tired of this bullshit.”

“Fellas,” I say. “Trust me. You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that, old man?”

I drop my bag on the floor. As expected, they both momentarily glance at it. Which means, for a split second, they’re not looking at me.

Idiots…

I whip my right leg forward, kicking the guy on my left hard in the gut. As he doubles over, I spin around counter-clockwise, coming round and slamming my left elbow into his temple, aiming it perfectly and dropping him to the floor.

I come to a stop facing the first guy, who’s frozen to the spot with shock. With my left, I throw a stiff jab, hitting him flush on the nose. It doesn’t break, but it hurts him and makes his eyes water. As he clutches his face, I launch the same right kick to his gut as well. He sinks to his knees from the impact, wincing in pain and unsure where to put his hands. I step forward, slamming my right knee into his nose. This time, it breaks. He falls to the side, out cold.

I take a few deep breaths to compose myself and retrieve my bag. As I stand up, the door to the shop opens and the old Chinese guy comes out. He’s short, maybe five feet tall, if that. He’s bald on top with long gray hair on the sides. In addition to his vest, he has brown trousers on that are too short, finishing just above his ankles.

He looks at the two guys on the floor, then at me. He seems pissed.

“What the fuck you doing?” he yells. I can barely understand him.

I shrug. “They tried to rob me,” I say.

“You any idea who they work for?” he rants.

I shake my head.

“Oh, you fucking dead man!”

He turns and walks back into his shop, slamming the door behind him and leaving me standing on the street, a little unsure as to what just happened. I glance through the window and see him talking animatedly on the phone to someone.

Well, that was weird.

I set off walking to the end of the street. I look left and right, seeing the sign for a hotel a little further along, on the right.

Finally…

2.

September 23rd, 2014

10:39

I’M SITTING ON the edge of the fountain in the center of Fulton Street, facing the Civic Center Plaza. It’s mid-morning, and the hustle and bustle of the rush hour crush is dying down. It’s another bright day, complimented by another cool breeze. I’ve been sitting here about quarter of an hour, composing myself before my meeting with Blake.

I look around, taking in the sights that the city has to offer. I’ve never actually been to San Francisco, so it’s nice to be a tourist as well as an assassin. To my left is the Public Library, on my right, the Asian Art Museum. Both are large, picturesque buildings that flank the street on both sides.

Directly ahead of me, across the Plaza, is City Hall—which is where I’m heading for my meeting. It’s a huge, lavish building made of brilliant white brick, which must be a pain to keep as clean as it is. It sports a decorative dome on the roof, which is a gray silver color with golden decorations all the way around and up to the top. Because it’s such a sunny day, the light is reflecting off the building making it all the more impressive to look at.

I set off walking, crossing over Polk Street, and stroll through the Plaza. Trees adorn either side, forming a walkway of sorts toward the front doors of City Hall. I've dressed for the part. I’m wearing beige trousers and a plain light-blue shirt, with brown shoes and a matching brown, leather laptop bag. To finish off the look of a career journalist, I’ve opted for an unfastened navy blue jacket.

Yes, I hate myself right now…

This is the part of the job I openly despise—the acting. Having to dress up and pretend I’m someone I’m not to work my way into a position where I can take out my target… It takes away from the job. I like things simple and straightforward. I’m not a deceptive person by nature, and I find this whole thing very comfortable. I’d much prefer to just walk up to people and shoot them in the face.

I tell you, if I was in charge...

I make my way up the steps and through the center of the three doors on the front of the building. The lobby is enormous. It’s a large, circular space with a distinctive dark marble floor and light marble pillars, which are there seemingly for effect rather than necessity. Around the edges are various doorways, leading off to all the different departments housed within these walls. There’s a huge, carpeted staircase leading to the first floor at the far end.

Just inside the main doors, a rope barrier directs me toward a security checkpoint off to the right. There’s a guard sitting behind a desk and another standing just in front of a metal detector. It’s a gateway scanner, like the kind you see in airports.

I watch the guards processing the people in front of me. They approach the desk and give their name. The first guard checks his list and, assuming they’re on it, sends them to the scanner. The second guard waves them through the machine. Presumably he’ll check them if the scanner beeps. Once through, a third guard issues them with a security badge, which is to be displayed at all times while on the premises.

There was no way into the building without going past these guards and through the scanner.

As I approach the front of the queue, I tick everything off in my head that I need to do, making sure I have things in my bag and that my story and credentials are fresh in my mind for when I’m inevitably asked to present them.

It’s like I’m an actor learning my words. Have I mentioned how much I hate this?

I reach the front of the line and step forward when I’m called over. I smile at the first guard.

“Good morning,” I say, in my most upbeat voice.

I actually asked Josh’s advice on how to sound happy. Is that bad?

“Brian Johnson, from Life and Times magazine,” I continue. “I've got an appointment to see Richard Blake at eleven.”

The guard scans down his list and I see him nod to himself as he finds my name on there.

“Mr. Johnson,” he confirms. “Thank you. Step forward to the metal detector please.”

He gestures with his right hand and I walk over.

The second security guard is standing on the other side of the scanner, pleasantly smiling at me. He’s a tall, slightly overweight man with a thick moustache. His hair is going gray at the sides and his body language tells me he’s probably been doing this job a long time. He moves like someone who has accepted their own monotony years before.

“Step through the scanner please, sir,” he says, waving me through.

I place my bag on the table at the side and step confidently through. It’s not like I have anything to hide, is it?

The machine beeps.

Uh-oh…

I’m just kidding—I expected it to happen. Don’t worry, I’m in complete control!

“Just step to the side please, sir,” he apologizes.

I do and he takes out one of those electronic wands from his back pocket and gives me the once over with it. It beeps when he moves it over my jacket pocket. He looks at me and smiles again, in that "this happens all the time, don’t worry" kind of way.

“Can you empty your pockets please?” he asks.

“Oh, of course—my apologies,” I say, showing I’m happy to comply.

I empty the contents out on the desk. My phone, billfold, and some loose change from my trousers. I reach inside my jacket and pull out a small, black, metallic case. The guard looks at me, then at the case, as I place it carefully on the desk.

“Can you open that up, too, please, sir?” he asks, in a tone now slightly more formal than before.

“No problem,” I say, as I unfasten it and lift the lid.

I turn it toward him, displaying the contents. There’s a sponge padding lining the inside of it, protecting a hypodermic needle, and two small vials of yellowish liquid.

The guard looks at me, and I can see the growing concern on his face.

“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” I say, laughing and shaking my head as if something’s just occurred to me. “I have Type-1 diabetes. This is my insulin shot. I have to take it everywhere with me.”

The guard is visibly relieved, and smiles.

“That’s fine, sir, I apologize for the formalities. You can never be too careful.”

“Oh, I know,” I say, making small talk as I pack away my things. “Especially nowadays. It’s reassuring that people like you do these types of checks.”

He stands to his full height and sucks in his gut a bit, puffing out his chest and brimming with pride at the fine service he’s providing.

“Just doing my job,” he says. “Go and see my colleague to get your pass.”

“I will, thank you,” I say, walking over to the smaller desk on the other side. The third security guard hands me a temporary security pass attached to a lanyard, which I place around my neck.

“Could you tell me the way to Mr. Blake’s office, please?” I ask him.

“It’s just up the stairs and to the right. Follow the signs for Public Works and you’ll find his office down the corridor,” he replies.

“Many thanks.”

Following the directions he’s given me, I head over to the staircase, looking around me as I walk. It’s an impressive building inside, and the artwork hanging on the walls looks very expensive, and makes the place look more like an art gallery.

I climb the steps and head right along the corridor, following the signs for the Public Works department. I come out at the other end in a waiting room, of sorts. It’s a small, open plan area, with corridors stretching off to the left and right. A couple of nice looking chairs sit on either side as well, against the walls.

A young woman is sitting behind a desk, just to the left of a large door. She looks up at me and smiles as I approach. Her designer glasses highlight her friendly, brown eyes, and her dark blonde hair is tied in a ponytail. From what I can see, she’s wearing a navy blue dress suit and white blouse.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m here to see Richard Blake,” I say.

She looks quickly down at her desk, presumably checking a schedule, before looking back up at me.

“Mr. Johnson?”

I nod and smile. “That’s me.”

“Please go right in, he’s expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I say, walking past the desk.

I knock once on the door as a courtesy and enter Richard Blake’s office, closing the door behind me.

I quickly look around. A large window faces me and offers a beautiful, panoramic view of the city outside. The roads and buildings spill out below us in every direction, all the way to the horizon.

There’s a desk in front of me, with a leather chair behind it. To the right of the chair is a flat screen computer monitor standing on a base unit, with a keyboard and mouse set out in front. To the left is a stack of four trays, each one overflowing with paper, and a telephone. In front of it are two plain black leather chairs.

Against the right hand wall are two filing cabinets, each standing around five feet high and each with four large drawers in them. The left hand wall is clear, apart from the piece of artwork hanging in the center of it. It’s a black and white photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, which I admit is a nice picture.

There’s a slightly worn, brown leather sofa against the wall next to me as I enter. In front of it is a small coffee table with a couple of magazines scattered across it.

Richard Blake is sitting behind his desk, but he stands up to greet me as I enter. He’s clean-shaven with a slightly weathered complexion. With his thin frame and deep-set eyes, he gives off a certain vibe, but I can’t put my finger on it right now.

He flashes me a wannabe-politician’s smile and extends his hand as he walks around his desk toward me. He’s wearing in an expensive charcoal gray suit and black shoes.

“Richard Blake. You must be Brian?” he says, his voice sounding older than he looks, even though he’s probably the same age as me. But the look suits him, as do the streaks of gray in his thick, dark brown hair.

I shake his hand and smile back, playing my part beautifully. “That’s right—Brian Johnson, nice to meet you,” I say. “I really appreciate you giving me some time today.”

He gestures to one of the seats in front of his desk before sitting back down in his chair.

“It’s my pleasure,” he begins. “We’re working on some exciting new projects to tidy up this city over the next twelve months. Any opportunity to talk about them and get people involved is beneficial to us. We’ve had some really positive reactions to our “Bin and Win” recycling initiative—which was my personal idea, by the way.”

Oh my God… I can feel myself glazing over already. This guy’s duller than a knitting convention. I’ve just figured out what that vibe is that he gives off… He’s a fully-fledged nerd. Y’know, the kind of guy who had his lunch money stolen every day in high school.

Jesus… Josh was right—this guy’s going to bore the shit out of me, I can feel it. I’m going to have to get this job over and done with quickly; otherwise, I’ll end up killing myself first.

I smile at him as we sit down and I reach into my bag. I take out a notepad and pen and rest them on his desk. Then I pull out my diabetes kit. He looks at it and frowns at me with polite confusion, most likely wondering what it is.

“I’m sorry,” I explain. “I’m diabetic and forgot to take my shot on the way here. I just need to get my insulin before we begin, if that’s alright?”

Blake smiles.

“Of course,” he says, waiving his hand like it’s no big deal. “We’re in no hurry, take your time.”

Now, obviously I’m not actually diabetic. The two vials contain a lethal dose of highly concentrated Indian Cobra venom, which is a rare and deadly poison. One bite from the snake will induce full-body paralysis and cardiac arrest in under two hours. There’s the equivalent of, roughly, fifteen bites in one of these vials, so the effects will occur in seconds, rather than hours.

I stand and move over to the window as I load the hypodermic needle with the venom. I smile apologetically and act like I can’t see properly, using the light from the window to see what I’m doing. When the needle’s full, I start to un-tuck my shirt, as if to inject myself in the stomach like any normal diabetic would. As expected, Blake respectfully turns away.

Straight away, I rush behind him and place my left hand over his mouth, holding his head firmly against the back of his chair. In an accurate, practiced motion, I inject the poison into the side of his neck with my right, pressing the plunger slowly down and watching the liquid within gradually disappear. I drop the needle and clasp both hands over his nose and mouth, keeping him silent while the venom works its vicious magic.

He struggles feebly as the venom attacks his muscles and respiratory system, making it harder for him to breathe. It takes just over thirty seconds for him to stop struggling, and another twenty to stop breathing altogether. I hold on for another ten seconds, just to be sure. Finally, I let go of Blake’s head and guide him forward, resting him gently on his desk so as not to make too much noise. I retrieve the needle and put it back in my bag. Quickly, I pack everything else away and give the room a quick once over, making sure there’s no trace of me ever having been here. I haven’t touched anything in the room, so there are no fingerprints to worry about. As a precaution, using my jacket sleeve, I wipe his right hand where I’d shaken it.

Finally, covering my hand in my sleeve again, I pick up the handset of his desk phone and lift it off the hook, resting it on his desk next to him.

Picking up my bag, I walk over to the door and leave Blake’s office. The receptionist looks at me, puzzled, as I come out and close the door.

“Oh, he’s had to take an important call,” I say to her. “He said he’d be a while.”

She looks at her own desk phone, seeing that his line is busy.

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry your meeting’s been cut short,” she says, smiling at me again. “Would you like to re-schedule?”

“No, it’s fine,” I reply, smiling. “I’ll have my office ring up another time.”

She hesitates a moment.

“Maybe… I could help?” she offers. “I work closely with Mr. Blake on a number of things. You could interview me, if you’d like? I break for lunch at twelve. Maybe we could get a coffee?” She smiles at me and takes her glasses off.

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure she’s flirting with me.

I mean, did she just ask me for a drink?

Oh, man… I am terrible at this sort of thing. I don’t want to hurt her feelings or anything.

“Ah… that’s, erm, really kind of you to offer, Miss…?” I say.

“Jenny,” she says. “Call me Jenny.”

I smile nervously. “That’s kind of you to offer, Jenny,” I continue. “But… my… editor only commissioned me to interview Mr. Blake, you see. I’m not sure they’ll be too happy if I come back having interviewed somebody else…”

She looks a little dejected and I feel bad.

“I’m sure you’d be really helpful,” I continue, feeling obliged to make her feel better. “I just can’t use you for this particular interview, that’s all.”

She nods and stands, looking away momentarily to untie her hair, letting it flow down to her shoulders. She whips round to look at me again, like a shampoo commercial.

Are you kidding me?

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a business meeting,” she says. “Maybe we could just… grab a coffee?”

I take a small step back and smile. “I’ve got… erm… deadlines to hit,” I say, struggling for words and feeling more awkward by the second. “Maybe some other time?”

Jenny smiles through a deep breath, accepting her advances haven’t worked. She composes herself, putting her glasses back on and returning to her seat.

“I’ll let Mr. Blake know you’ll be in touch,” she says, resuming her professional manner. “Have a nice day, Mr. Johnson.”

“You too,” I say.

I’ve never been more desperate to leave somewhere in my life!

I’m just glad Josh wasn’t here to witness that. It’s the only time I lose my cool—talking to women. I feel like I’m cheating just talking to someone who seems to like me. I know that might sound crazy, but it’s just me—I’m not ready to do that kind of thing. I’ll always love my wife, and my daughter… I’ve not forgiven myself for what happened to them, so I can’t allow myself to carry on living my life without them. Not yet.

I hastily walk back down the corridor the way I’d come in—past the expensive works of art, down the carpeted grand staircase and across the entrance hall. I walk over to the desk with the third security guard behind it and hand back my lanyard. I nod a polite goodbye to the other two guards, who return the gesture, and walk through the front doors and back out into the sunshine.

It’s bright and I have to squint while my eyes adjust. I stroll down the steps and set off back across the Plaza.

Well, that’s a job well done. No resistance at all from the target, which is always nice. Ignoring the embarrassing run-in with his not-unattractive secretary, it all went smooth and according to plan.

There’s a first time for everything, I guess.

I take out my phone and call Josh.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say as he answers. “The target’s been taken care of.”

“Excellent,” he replies. “I’ll let our employer know. In record time, too. Was he that boring?”

I laugh. “You have no idea.”

“So, no issues at all?”

I think back to the secretary. Should I tell him? Would he ever let me live it down if I did?

Yeah, you’re right.

“No, everything went smoothly,” I say, smiling to myself.

I’m halfway across the Plaza, approaching the crossing at Polk Street, when I hear shouting behind me. I turn around and see FBI agents appearing from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, swarming toward me.

What the…?

They converge in front of me, falling into a trained formation and completely surrounding me. There are nine agents in total, all armed with either a Remington 870 shotgun or a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. One agent appears in the middle of them, approaching me and holding his badge out in front of me.

“Freeze! FBI!” he yells.

3.

11:22

“DON’T MOVE!” SHOUTS another.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m completely stunned and probably look like idiot. I’m standing still, staring at an FBI SWAT team with my mouth open and my eyes wide, holding a phone to my ear.

“Adrian? Adrian? What’s going on?” asks Josh, waking me from my trance.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I say, distantly. “But I think I’m about to get arrested by the FBI. I might have to call you back.”

I hang up as the agent at the front with the badge steps forward.

“Adrian? I’m Special Agent Green. I’ve been instructed to detain you and bring you in for questioning.”

I regain my composure, and my brain kicks into gear, processing every possible reason that could’ve led to this moment, as well as every likely outcome. I stare at Agent Green in front of me, trying to ignore all the others who have their guns trained on me.

“You not gonna read me my rights?” I ask.

“You’re not under arrest,” he replies, with a slight shrug. “We just want to talk to you.”

I look around and gesture to all the agents he’s brought with him. “Then why the show of strength? You could’ve just asked if you wanted to talk to me.”

“Fair enough,” he says, nodding. “Adrian, can you please come with me so we can ask you some questions?”

He walks toward me, putting his hand on my arm as if to lead me away.

I don’t move. I look down at his hand, and then back up at him.

“I might. But then again, I might not. You said yourself I’m not under arrest, so you can’t make me.”

He smiles and tries again to lead me away, but I hold my ground. When that doesn’t work, he looks at me with something akin to an apology in his eyes. Like he really doesn’t want to have to do it, but he’s going to anyway.

“Adrian, don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“I’m not. On the contrary—I’ll make this as easy as I can for you. Move your hand, or I’ll give you a reason to arrest me.”

The circle of agents in front of me is getting twitchy and Agent Green is getting increasingly nervous. He’s quickly losing control of the situation and losing face in front of his SWAT team. I don’t think he wasn’t expecting any resistance, under the circumstances. I mean, who in their right mind would argue with an armed FBI SWAT team sent to detain them…

They clearly have some idea of who I am; otherwise, they wouldn’t have come so well prepared.

“I can arrest you any time I want,” he says. “I’m trying to be nice about this, as a gesture.”

“Just out of interest, on what grounds would you place me under arrest?” I ask. I know they’ve got nothing on me. I’m too good.

“Pre-meditated murder, for one.”

“Bullshit. You can’t prove something I’ve not done.”

The agent laughs. “Just do yourself a favor and come along quietly, or else,” he says, turning and walking away, expecting me to follow.

Oh dear.

Those two words to me are like a red rag to a bull.

Or else.

I process them for a moment. I wish people would stop trying to push me. Nothing good ever comes from doing it. I can feel the adrenalin building up inside me. My heart rate’s slowly increasing, along with my anger. I look around me once more. There’s no way they’re going to shoot an unarmed man in public. Even if they are trying to arrest me, the most they’ll risk is a non-lethal takedown, and I can live with that.

“Or else what?” I ask, finally.

Agent Green stops and looks back at me. His eyes narrow and he takes a step back before spinning round to face me, stopping a few feet away. He raises his right hand. I have no idea why. Maybe he intends shaking a disapproving finger at me. Or maybe he’s going to grab me again, I don't know. But I’ve no intention of waiting to find out. I’m past caring.

I grab his right arm at the wrist with my left hand and twist it away from me. I catch him off-guard, and he almost overbalances. He instinctively moves his body to try to ease some of the pressure on his wrist, which I anticipated. As he does, I thrust the straightened outside edge of my open right hand into his throat, sending him crashing to the ground.

I drop my bag and step back into a loose fighting stance, slowly turning and eyeing up each agent in the circle in turn. I feel enraged... trapped... and my instinct is to react the only way I know how to… Violently.

I know it’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I know they came here with nothing on me that they can use to justify an arrest. Although, something is definitely amiss here. I mean, how did they find me in the first place? And why would the FBI want to talk to me? It has to be some kind of misunderstanding. But now, all that’s irrelevant. Because now, they do have something to arrest me for—assaulting an FBI agent. I can imagine what Josh would say to me if he were here. In his sarcastic, British voice, he’d say, ‘Nice one, Adrian, you muppet!’ I don’t fully understand the reference, but I know that muppet means idiot…and he’d have been absolutely right.

They swarm toward me, forcing me to the ground, holding me in position as they place handcuffs on me. I don’t offer any more resistance. I’ve proved my point. You can’t get away with threatening me.

Two of them drag me to my feet while the others follow in a wide arc, guns trained on me from all angles. Agent Green has managed to get back up and is dusting himself down and massaging his throat. He catches up with us and escorts me to a fleet of cars parked a short distance away.

“That was a grave mistake,” he says to me. “Now you are under arrest.”

He reads me my rights as they usher me into the back of one of the cars. They slam the door behind me, and everyone retreats to their own vehicles.

We drive off and I look out the window at all the onlookers who are staring and pointing.

That went south really fast…

What the hell just happened?

14:31

I’m sitting on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, with my hands flat on the table in front of me. I look around the small, gray, generic room, noting every detail. Not that there are many.

Behind me and to my right are plain brick walls that probably haven’t had a fresh coat of gray paint since the seventies. At the top of the right wall is an analogue clock. On the right hand side of the wall in front of me is the door, made of old, thick wood with frosted glass in the top half. You can see the outline of things outside, but nothing clearer.

A one-way mirror completely takes up the wall to my left, stretching from waist height to ceiling, and running practically the full width of the room.

My wrists are cuffed, and chained to the table in front of me through a small metal hook. The table itself is bolted to the floor, though the chair I’m sitting in isn’t.

In the top left hand corner, just above the mirror, is a CCTV camera, which can easily see the entire layout of the room. I imagine there’s sound recording on it as well.

I glance up at the clock. A couple of hours ago, I’d arrived at the FBI Field Office a couple of hours ago and Agent Green hustled me straight into this room, secured me to the table, and left me alone. I’ve been here ever since—no sign of anyone.

Standard operating procedure when you need information from someone is to leave them on their own for a while. People tend to get nervous and paranoid, which over time leads to them feeling guilty. So when you finally go and talk to them, they’ve worked themselves up into such a state that they’ll tell you everything.

But this isn’t my first visit to an interrogation room, either as a prisoner or as the one asking the questions. I relax back into my chair and close my eyes, knowing that in these situations, patience is always the best way forward. Nothing I can do to improve matters, so I’ll wait and let things play out for now. I’m here for a reason—even if I don’t know what that reason is.

And that’s the thing getting to me. I know I’m good enough that they can’t possibly have any real evidence against me for a crime. I’m one of the best contract killers in the world. When I carry out my hits, I’m like a ghost. To the criminal underworld, I’m a legend. But in the eyes of any law enforcement agencies, I’m just a myth—a story told to new recruits to scare them. They have nothing on me, I’m sure of it. Which begs the question: how did they know where to find me?

I look at the one-way mirror and wonder who’s behind it looking back at me. There’s always somebody behind these things. I study my reflection. I need a shave—that’s for sure. My ice-blue eyes stare back at me, looking as tired as I feel.

It’s my own fault for having a few beers last night…

Despite the lack of sleep and the mild hangover, I’m actually in pretty great shape, both physically and mentally. The last year has been both productive and profitable. Overall, I’m feeling better than I have done in a long time.

I briefly look at the scar underneath my left eye that runs down my cheek. My mind flashes back to that portable cabin in the Nevada desert twelve months ago. Ironically, I was sitting in a chair in restraints then as well…

Nothing good ever comes from me being tied up...

I sigh and begin drumming my fingers on the desk to break the silence. I hate not knowing what’s going on.

After another few minutes, the door opens, and two men walk in. The one who enters first is the younger of the two. He’s a black guy, probably late twenties. He has short, dark hair and is clean-shaven, wearing a suit and tie with the jacket open. He walks over to the table, placing his cup of coffee and a document folder carefully on the surface before sitting in the seat opposite me. He’s fresh-faced and very serious—I’m guessing he’s quite new to the job and keen to impress.

His colleague remains standing near the door as he closes it behind him. He’s a little older and looks slightly more cynical than the first guy. Like me, he needs a shave, bordering on the scruffy side of fashionable with his beard. He doesn’t have a suit jacket on, and he's rolled his shirtsleeves up. He leans against the wall with his arms folded, staring at me.

A doomed-to-fail attempt at intimidation.

I’ve always found it amusing when people underestimate me and assume I’m just like everyone else.

I look at the young and enthusiastic man in front of me, who’s trying his best not to look terrified as he briefly reads the file he brought in with him. After a few moments he closes it, looking at his watch and then at me.

“Interview started at fourteen thirty-nine hours. Special Agents Wallis and Johnson present. For the record, Adrian… Hell, can you confirm that you've been informed of your legal rights and that you understood them?”

I nod once, but say nothing.

Silence is nearly always the best strategy when you’re under arrest. Pick any one of the million metaphors that exist to prove it. If you say nothing, it puts you in control. The authorities can’t do anything if you don’t talk, and more often than not, they’ll crack before you do. Let them form their own opinions. Speak only when necessary.

I know what you’re thinking—I’m going to find this really hard. And you’re right. I’m resisting the urge to have some fun with Bert and Ernie over here. But I have to play this smart. I still don’t know why I’m here, which means as things stand, they know more than I do.

“For the benefit of the audio recording, Adrian Hell nodded,” he says. He looks over his shoulder at his colleague, who nods back at him. He turns to me again.

“So let’s begin. Adrian, my name is Special Agent Tom Wallis. I’d like to start by establishing why you’re in the city of San Francisco.”

I look at him, then at his colleague, who must be Special Agent Johnson. I clench my jaw as I run through everything in my head. I obviously have a cover story in place—it would be downright amateurish of me not to have everything planned and every angle covered before I carry out a hit. But I need to be sure of every detail before I speak, for my own piece of mind. Something’s not right. Must be something here I’ve missed, because they arrested me the moment I stepped outside City Hall…

I’m still confident they don’t have any real evidence against me. I’ve spent too many years learning how to be too good to leave any. But that doesn’t explain how they knew where to find me or what they want.

“Staying silent isn’t as beneficial as you might think, Adrian,” says Wallis after a few moments. “Tell us why you’re in San Francisco.”

I stay quiet a moment longer before answering.

“I’m here on business,” I say.

“What kind of business?”

“My own.”

“What were you doing at City Hall?” asks Johnson, as he walks over and rests his hands on the table next to his colleague.

“Sight-seeing.”

“There are better things to see around here than City Hall,” says Wallis.

“Just wanted to see everything that this place had to offer, that’s all,” I reply with a shrug, looking at each one of them in turn. “Why do you care anyway?”

“We care about the safety of the people who live here,” says Johnson, with a hint of disdain.

“How very noble of you. You want a medal or something?”

“Are you not curious how we know who you are?”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“We know exactly who you are,” says Wallis, tapping his left index finger on the file that he brought in with him. “Let me show you.”

I shrug again. They don’t know a goddamn thing, but I’ll let them have their fun.

Agent Wallis opens the file and starts reading:

“Adrian Hell—born Adrian Hughes, February 14th, 1972 in Omaha, Nebraska. Joined the Army in 1990 and was part of Desert Shield. Your military record is a little hazy from ‘93 to ‘02, but you’re rumored to have worked in some capacity with the CIA. No details on record of any operations you may or may not have carried out during that time.

“In 2002, after being given an honorable discharge from active military service, you moved to Pennsylvania to marry your partner of five years, Janine, with your three-year old daughter, Maria, in tow.”

Huh… I’m actually surprised they have so much on me. They’re clearly well prepared. But they’ve made the mistake of showing me their hand straight away.

“Why stop there?” I ask. “You were on such a roll... Please, continue.”

Agent Wallis says nothing. I look at him, then at Agent Johnson. They exchange frustrated glances but remain silent.

“What?” I ask.

More silence.

“You can’t continue, can you?” I say, smiling. “That’s all you have. You’ve got nothing on me since 2002, and everything you do have is on the military’s databases anyway and easily accessible if you know who to ask. Am I right?”

Wallis looks down at the table in defeat, closing the file as he realizes his bluff has backfired.

“Which means you have absolutely nothing to justify holding me here,” I continue.”Which brings us back to square one, gentlemen… What do you want with me?”

“We want to know why you’re in the city,” says Johnson after a minute of silence.

“And I’ve already told you, so what else do you want to know?”

Johnson leans forward, his expression changing from attempted intimidation to genuine anger. “Well, this morning, a man died in City Hall of a suspected heart attack. Roughly around the time you were in the building.”

“That’s a tragic coincidence,” I say, solemnly.

“Our Forensics team is running blood tests at the moment. I wonder what they’ll find...?”

“How should I know? Maybe that he needed to cut out fatty foods or something?”

“Look, asshole, we might not have anything in a file, but we know who you are and what you do, alright? Everybody does. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA, Homeland Security—everybody. I don’t care if we can’t prove it. We all know it. You’re a goddamn psychopath and you should get the chair!”

Wallis stands up and pushes Johnson away from the table. I wink at him, to wind him up further. You know me—I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to piss someone off for my own amusement.

But what he said concerns me… I doubt everyone knows who I am and what I do, given I’m sitting in an FBI Field Office; there’s possibly some truth to it. I think back to my dealings with the Secretary of Defense last year in Nevada. I wonder if word has gotten round?

I dismiss it for now.

After a moment or two of whispering, seemingly happy he’s defused the situation, Wallis returns to the table. He clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward, coming across as a lot more experienced and comfortable than he probably is. I’m impressed. He looks briefly at the one-way mirror and sighs before speaking.

“Adrian, like it or not, my colleague is right,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “You are on several Agencies’ watch lists after your involvement in the Nevada incident last year.”

Shit. I knew it.

“It’s kind of an unspoken agreement that we all know what you do but keep it to ourselves because we all know we can’t prove it. You want the truth? You’re so good at what you do, it scares us. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because we at the FBI need your help.”

I wasn’t expecting so much honesty, and it confuses me. What could they want my help with? Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the door. Another agent enters, followed by a man in a suit with shoulder-length blonde hair and a briefcase.

“Sorry to interrupt, but this gentleman says he’s Adrian’s lawyer, and he’s demanded access to his client before any further questioning takes place,” says the agent.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Johnson as he steps out of the room, shaking his head. The other agent follows.

Wallis stands and turns to my lawyer. “I’m Special Agent Wallis,” he says. “Adrian has been formally arrested for assaulting an FBI agent.”

My lawyer looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug in response.

“But to be honest,” continues Wallis. “While that explains why he’s handcuffed, that’s not why we originally wanted to bring him in. I was just about to explain that we need his help. Consequently, I don’t think legal counsel is necessary at this time.”

“That’s a valid opinion,” says my lawyer. “And we can discuss that in more detail once I’ve spoken with my client in confidence.”

“I can assure you there is no need to –”

“Did you or did you not place my client under arrest?” my lawyer says, interrupting him.

“Well, yes,” he replies.

“And I assume you followed procedure and read my client his rights?”

“We did.”

“In doing so, you advised my client of his right to legal representation, and on his behalf I am exercising that right immediately. Please clear the room and turn off any recording equipment so I can talk with Mr. Hell confidentially.”

Wallis sighs, realizing there’s no point in arguing. He leaves the room and a moment later, the little red light on the CCTV camera goes out, signaling it’s no longer recording.

My lawyer sits opposite me and places his briefcase on the table. I regard him for a moment. He looks younger than me, but I know for a fact he’s a few years older. I’ve not seen him in a few months, and under the circumstances, I’m very glad he's shown up. I smile at him.

“Hey, Josh.”

4.

14:56

“WHY IN GOD’S name did you assault an FBI agent?” asks Josh, sitting down opposite me. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“It's good to see you too,” I say, smiling. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was in the area,” he replies, dismissively. “What happened, Adrian?”

“I was walking out of City Hall on the phone to you when they swarmed at me from out of nowhere. They knew exactly who I was and where I’d be, I'm sure of that much.”

“And again, what possessed you to beat up an FBI agent?”

I look down and sigh, feeling like a guilty child being given the ‘we’re not angry, just disappointed’ speech by their parents.

“I hit the agent trying to bring me in for questioning because he said for me to come along quietly, or else.”

“He used those exact words?”

“Yup.”

Josh is quiet for a moment. “Fair enough,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “All things being considered, the guy’s lucky you didn’t kill him…”

We both fall silent for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

“It’s good to see you, Boss,” he says.

“Likewise,” I say. “How did you know to come here?”

“You know I don’t like giving away trade secrets, Boss. Don’t ask me that.”

“Josh...”

I stare at him until he can't hold my gaze any longer. He looks down at the table, lost in some inner turmoil, like a magician asked to reveal how he does a particular trick.

“Just because I’m handcuffed, it doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass,” I continue.

“Alright, fine,” he says with a reluctant sigh. “Typically, I'm never more than a couple of hours away from you when you’re on a job. I have a little Winnebago which I’ve kitted out as my own little mobile command center. Ever since Philly, I’ve tried to stay close when you’re working... y'know, just in case you need any back up or anything.”

I stare at the wall just behind Josh, my mind flashing back to Philadelphia, eight years ago. Finding my wife and daughter murdered in our family home. The result of a drug kingpin called Wilson Trent taking revenge on me for unknowingly killing his son.

I re-focus my gaze on Josh and smile. This guy is the closest thing I have to family. He’s always had my back, and he’s the only person other than me, that I trust with my life. But right now, I can only think about one thing.

“You have a Winnebago?” I ask, failing suppress a laugh.

“Ah, screw you—I like it, and it beats having to stay in all the crappy motels you sleep in.”

We laugh together again, for a brief moment, before addressing the current predicament I’m in.

“So what’s the score here?” he asks.

“No idea,” I say, quite honestly. “They have my background up until I moved to Philly—they know my real name and apparently, along with every other acronym, know what I do for a living. I think the Secretary of Defense may have started talking after last year.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of him… prick!”

“Exactly. But apparently, the FBI wants my help with something.”

“Okay, well let’s just see what they have to say. The way I see it, if we can do them a favor, it'll buy us a free pass this time and we can get out of here and lie low for a couple of weeks.”

That’s why we work so well together—I’m the impulsive, violent, loud-mouthed, borderline-sociopathic member of the team; Josh is the calm, patient, sensible one. Together, we’re unstoppable.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree.

Josh stands and walks over to the door. He opens it, sticks his head out, and says something I can’t quite hear. A moment later, Special Agents Wallis and Johnson come back into the room.

Josh closes the door behind them and stands behind me. Agent Johnson sits down opposite me, with Agent Wallis standing behind him. I look up and notice the red light is back on the CCTV camera.

“Are you going to formally charge my client?” asks Josh, back in character as the tough, British lawyer.

Agent Johnson glances behind him then looks at me.

“Despite the circumstances surrounding his arrest, we don't intend to press charges following Mr. Hell’s assault of an FBI agent at this time.”

“Good, then you can take the restraints off him.”

Wallis steps forward and produces a key from his pocket. He unlocks the handcuffs, allowing me to pull my hands free. I massage each wrist in turn, getting the blood flowing back to them.

“Thanks,” I say. “So, you were about to ask me for help?”

“Reluctantly, yes, we were,” replies Johnson.

“So, go ahead.”

“Are you aware of the recent terrorist attacks that have taken place in this city in the last seventy-two hours?”

“Attacks?” I say. “I’ve not heard of anything, no. I only arrived in town yesterday afternoon, and I’m not one to follow the news.”

Agent Wallis steps toward the table with another folder in his hand. This one he opens and turns around for me to read through.

“Yesterday morning, a bomb went off in a restaurant in Chinatown,” he explains. “There were over fifty casualties, with a further twelve fatalities.”

“Oh, wait—I think I saw this on the news. There was a TV with it on in the place I ate yesterday when I arrived here. Looked pretty bad…”

I skim through the folder. It contains lots of photographs, both black and white and color, taken at the scene. It looks like total carnage—worse than the TV had said. Bodies and body parts littered the remains of the annihilated restaurant, and the street outside. There’s a report attached which seems to detail witness statements and forensic information, but I don’t bother reading it.

“Jesus,” I say quietly.

I close the folder and pass it over my shoulder to Josh, who takes it and starts flicking through.

“Two days ago,” continues Wallis. “There was a seemingly random sniper attack outside the Trans-America Pyramid, with two people being shot dead from roughly seven hundred yards away.”

“Seemingly random?” asks Josh.

“I’ll get to that,” he says. “Both victims were shot through their right eye. Whoever pulled the trigger was exceptionally talented.”

I wouldn’t say they were exceptional… Seven hundred yards is a good distance, sure, but it’s not earth shattering. Any half-decent sniper with six months of military training could hit a target at that distance. Admittedly, getting them in the right eye is a little more impressive, but it’s still no cause for concern.

“So, you think there’s a link between the two attacks?” I ask.

Before either of them have chance to answer, the door opens and a woman walks in. She’s an average height, maybe five-six, and is wearing a gray trouser suit and black heels. When she speaks, her voice is a perfect blend of icy authority and warm comfort.

“I’ll take it from here,” she announces.

Agents Wallis and Johnson excuse themselves and leave the room. She sits down opposite me and regards me silently for a moment before speaking. Her jacket’s open and I can see her gun strapped to a shoulder holster over her white blouse.

“I’m Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers,” she says, staring at me with steel-gray eyes that look out of place on her otherwise welcoming and friendly face. “I’m well aware of who you are and what you do for a living.” She glances up at Josh. “Both of you.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. She’s very well informed, that’s for sure. Apparently, more so than her colleagues are, if she knows who Josh is.

“You’re here because we need your help with an ongoing investigation. I believe the other agents gave you the details of what we have so far?”

I nod. “I’ve seen the photos and heard the details,” I say. “I still don’t know what any of it has to do with me. How could I possibly help?”

“These attacks weren’t random. They were meticulously planned with one purpose in mind.”

“Which is?”

“To send a message to you, Adrian Hell.”

I stay silent, but my mind is racing. Josh stands and starts pacing around behind me. I look up at him and see the same look of concern on his face. My face betrays nothing, but this has left me speechless and confused. I’m wracking my brain trying to think of anyone who could hold this much of a grudge against me, and have the means to execute a plan of this magnitude.

After a few seconds, I realize my approach was futile—that list is extensive to say the very least. I re-focused my attention on Agent Chambers.

“What makes you think they’re trying to send a message to me?” I ask.

“Each crime scene has a clue—a message—that leads to you, apparently. We haven’t had time to piece everything together since we received the phone call,” replies Chambers. “We were too busy trying to find you.”

“What phone call?” asks Josh.

“We received an anonymous phone call yesterday morning, which is how we knew where to find you, Adrian.”

“Can we hear it?” I ask.

“I don’t see why not,” she says, before looking at the mirrored wall.

She makes a circular motion in the air with her right index finger, and a crackling sound comes on over a speaker system in the room, followed by the phone call.

The caller’s using a device to mask the sound of their voice, so they sound very low and digitally distorted to a point.

“This is a message for Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers of the FBI. The attacks on this city over the last two days were my doing. I wanted to get your attention. I trust I’ve succeeded? We both want the same thing, Agent Chambers. We both want Adrian Hell. I know the FBI, along with every other government agency in this country, knows who he is. I want him to suffer, and I want him to die by my hand. These attacks are for him. I’ve left a message for him at each scene—a little game for us to play. We shall see if he’s smart enough to figure out who I am. And I have many more of these messages that I’m prepared to send. If you want the attacks to stop, you will detain him for me. I’ll know when you have. Then you will stay out of my way. If you want to catch him, he’ll be coming out of your City Hall tomorrow morning. I’ll be in touch.”

The line clicks dead. I look at Chambers, who’s staring at me, watching me with a professional curiosity as I listen to the recording. Her eyes ask a million questions of me all at once.

I don’t know what to think. My first impression is they sound like a complete psychopath. Maybe even a serial killer. And what do they want with me? I’m not being funny, but it could any one of literally hundreds of people who would gladly see me dead, so running through my job history won’t do me any good.

I stand up and pace around the room for a moment, trying to focus my mind. There has to be something… some detail that I’m missing that will help me.

“Any ideas?” I ask Josh.

He shakes his head. “It could be anyone—pretty much the entire world hates you.”

“Only the people who know me,” I shrug, before turning to Agent Chambers. “You said there were clues at the crime scenes that lead to me?”

“You heard the same recording we did,” she says. “We’re working on the evidence we have at the moment. This is why we wanted you here. Aside from keeping you out of the line of fire, we were hoping you’d help us find out who this person is, so we can stop him.”

“Show me the evidence,” says Josh, sitting down in the chair I’ve been keeping warm for the past couple of hours.

Chambers opens the folder that Agent Wallis had brought in and flicks to the back, spinning it round to face him. Josh starts scanning through the reports and photographs.

It’s really quite amazing watching him work. Normally, I just call him and ask him something, and then he'll call me back a few minutes later to tell me the answer. I have no idea how he manages to do even half the shit I ask of him. The guy’s a genius. But actually seeing him go to work on something is incredible to watch. He looks at each page, each photo, nodding to himself periodically when he finds something I imagine everyone else has missed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Chambers looking at me looking at Josh. I don’t think she finds me attractive or anything like that, thank God—you saw what I was like with the secretary this morning… I just think she’s trying to figure out the dynamic between the pair of us.

“I travel a lot with work,” I say to her, unprompted. “Josh typically handles the logistics and administrative side of my day-to-day life.”

“Whatever,” says Josh, without looking up from the reports. “If I could wipe your arse down the phone, you’d make me do that as well.”

I smile at Chambers, who shakes her head in disbelief.

“It’s hard to believe you are what the rumor mill says you are,” she says to me. “If there was a shred of evidence in existence to prosecute you with, then every agency in the US would be fighting to arrest you. And here I am, sat with the pair of you and you’re both coming across as nothing more than a clueless comedy double act.”

She’s half-laughing as she speaks, so I’m sure how much of that is derogatory and how much is a polite observation. But it makes Josh stop reading his report.

“Clueless?” he says to her, clearly offended. His British accent always makes him sound that little bit more confrontational than he probably means to be during an argument. “You think we’re clueless? Tell me, how many people have you got working on this?” He gestures to the report.

“We’ve got a task force set up consisting of four of our best agents, who are currently analyzing the data,” she says, somewhat proudly.

“Well, let me save you the trouble,” he replies, standing up. “The shootings are the most obvious message. Both victims, like Adrian, are white men in their early forties. The first victim is Alan Holding; the second is Aaron Henderson. The obvious link to Adrian? Both he and the victims have the initials A.H. But I’m sure you’ve already figured that out?”

Chambers frowns, but remains silent. I’m not sure whether she’s dubious of Josh’s analysis, or quietly pissed off that he’s figured that out in less than three minutes. It’s hilarious! I lean against the back wall and cross my arms, enjoying the show.

“But that’s not all. The less obvious link, looking at both their financial statements, is that they both donated a modest sum every month to a charity called Guardian Angels. The link to Adrian being, angels are found in Heaven. As in, Heaven’s Valley.”

Even I’m speechless at that level of deductive reasoning!

“The bomb at the restaurant earlier today is a bit trickier,” he continues. “And working with Adrian is the only way you’d pick up on the link. You reported a poker chip from The Dunes casino found at the scene. That’s the message.”

Josh turns to me.

“Adrian, The Dunes casino was in Las Vegas up until '93, when it was demolished to make way for another larger, more impressive, structure.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. Clearly seeing the blank look on my face, he smiles sympathetically.

“It was knocked down so they could build The Bellagio,” he explains.

I stand up straight and stroke my chin. How does that relate to me personally? I think about the other clues. They were cryptic and obscure, but once you understood them, the meaning was obvious. So I need to think of the most obvious reference to something relating to me…

Bellagio… Bellagio…

Then it hits me.

“Well, that sounds an awful lot like Pellaggio, doesn’t it?” I say.

“Bingo,” says Josh, turning back to Agent Chambers, who’s still watching us with fascination. “Whoever this is, the beef they have with Adrian has something to do with what happened in Heaven’s Valley, Nevada, twelve months ago.”

Saying it out loud makes it hit home a lot harder. There’s only one person I can think of with the ability to carry out this level of vendetta against me, and who knows the full extent of my involvement in what happened in Heaven’s Valley. Only one person unaccounted for in the aftermath. One of only two names on my own personal hit list.

Clara Fox.

“You boys ever thought of a job as FBI agents?” asks Agent Chambers, seemingly impressed. “If what you say is right, then we can start to put together a profile of our terrorist and hopefully track them down before they take any more innocent lives.”

“It might not be as easy as that,” I say. “If it’s who I think it is, they’re a stone-cold killer. Highly trained in the art of espionage and deception and being invisible. You won’t get to them unless they want you to.”

“And what have you done to him to make him this mad, dare I ask?”

“Her. Not him.”

“You think this is a woman?” she asks in disbelief.

Josh looks at me with something akin to fear in his eyes, knowing what I’m thinking probably before I do.

“Adrian, if this is Clara, you need to tread carefully. Think about where we are, alright?”

I nod.

“Agent Chambers, am I under arrest?”

“At this moment in time, no, you’re not,” she says.

“Then I need to leave, right now.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You're still in our custody for questioning, and we have twenty-four hours before we legally have to charge you with something and place you under arrest. You can't just leave. You heard the phone call. They’re coming for you, Adrian. I can’t just let you back out on the streets alone—I’d be putting you at risk. Not to mention any collateral damage that could potentially cause harm to the people of this city. Whoever’s behind this has already shown they have no regard for the consequences of their actions.”

“Why, Grace, I never knew you cared so much...”

I smile, but she remains stoic in her opposition of my request.

“I will not put any more people at risk until we know more about who we’re dealing with and what their plans are.”

There’s a knock at the door and Agent Johnson enters. He looks flustered and out of breath.

“Ma’am, they’re on the phone right now, asking for you,” he says.

“Who is?” she asks.

He looks at me momentarily.

“The terrorist, ma’am.”

Chambers looks at me and I smile.

“What are we waiting for?” I ask. “Let’s go and say Hi.”

5.

15:26

CHAMBERS WALKS OUT of the room in a hurry, leaving Johnson in the doorway.

“Follow me,” he says.

He disappears, so Josh and I head out of the door and down the corridor after him. Halfway down on the right, it branches out into an open plan area full of desks and phones and FBI agents busying themselves with their work. We carry on as the corridor doglegs to the left. We come out into another office space, slightly smaller than the one we just past. On the left hand side of the room are a couple of desks with chairs either side. On each desk are laptops and telephones. The furniture looks like an IKEA clearance sale. It’s all standard with a beech wood finish. The carpet is a navy blue and the fluorescent lights on the tiled ceiling overhead are buzzing away happily. The FBI agents in here stop and stare at us as we walk in.

Have you ever seen those old western movies, where the hero walks into a bar and the music stops and everyone turns to look at them? The hustle and bustle, the chatter, and the piano all goes quiet to the point where you can hear a mouse fart. And they all take a simultaneous breath in…

It’s like that.

Josh looks at me and smiles. I simply shake my head and continue across the floor, toward a conference room in the far right corner that I can see Chambers entering.

Inside, there’s a large table in the middle with several chairs along both sides. Agent Wallis is standing over by a large television screen on the back wall with a phone to his ear and his hand over the mouthpiece. In the center of the table is a black speakerphone system used for teleconferences. Chambers is standing near it on the opposite side of the table to the door, leaning over it and resting on both hands.

She looks at me as I walk in. Johnson stays at the door, turning to face the other agents and giving them instructions. I guess they’ll be recording and tracing the call.

She points to the chairs then puts her finger to her lips. Josh and I sit down and observe. She looks over at Agent Wallis, who gives her the thumbs-up.

“This is Agent Chambers,” she says out loud. “Who am I speaking to?”

After a few moments of silence, the same low, distorted voice I heard a few minutes ago comes on the line.

“Have you done as I asked?” the voice says.

“If you mean, have we managed to apprehend Adrian Hell, then yes, I have. I guess I should thank you for the tip-off?”

“Put him on the phone.”

“I can’t do that until you give me something. I want to work with you to resolve this, not against you. Can you tell me your name?”

There’s silence again. Everyone in the room exchanges tense and worried looks.

“Call me… The Shark. Now put him on the phone. I know he’s listening.”

Agent Chambers looks at me and shrugs, gesturing with her hand, giving me the go-ahead to talk. I look at Josh for any last words of wisdom before I open my mouth and cause mayhem. He holds his hands up in resignation.

I officially have total freedom to talk to a terrorist, who’s already attacked the city twice, all in the name of playing a game with me. I have to handle this delicately.

“Hey, Nutsack, it’s Adrian,” I say. “What kind of a name is ‘The Shark’ anyway? You sound like a really shit comic book character. The kind of expendable doodle that doesn’t make it past the first issue because they’re killed off in spectacularly fashion by our well-drawn hero. Which, in this instance, I guess would be me.”

Have you not been paying attention? I don’t do delicate.

There’s more silence on the line, which I rightly or wrongly take as I sign to continue antagonizing them.

“Oh, have I offended you? I’m sorry, Jaws, I didn’t realize you were such a sensitive soul.”

On the other side of the table, Agent Chambers rests her head in her hands. In the corner, Agent Wallis is trying to hold back a smile.

“I’d heard you had a mouth on you,” replies The Shark, finally. “You should really learn some manners, Adrian.”

“Tell you what, you stop randomly killing people and I’ll address you as… Mr. Shark. How’s that?”

“My killings aren’t random, Adrian. I’m sure you and your friend have figured that out by now.”

“Yeah, we got your messages. Not very subtle. The shootings were particularly amateurish, if I was honest. But nevertheless, we’re here. So what do you want?”

“I want you, Adrian. I want your head on a spike, for the world to see.”

“Mom, is that you?”

Josh laughs out loud involuntarily before clasping his hand over his mouth to suppress any further outburst.

“You think this is a game, Adrian?” says the voice, clearly losing its patience.

“Oh, sorry—was I supposed to be taking you seriously?” I ask. “I figured you’re just a nut-job with a grudge that’s been dying to find an excuse to squeeze off a few rounds and get their fifteen minutes of fame, and I’ve seen no evidence to the contrary.”

“You took everything from me, you sonofabitch! I will have my vengeance.”

“So tell me who you are, and I’ll come and apologize to you, all nice and civilized.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Adrian. In the meantime, I have another message for you. And I want to give you this one in person.”

“Great—we’re at the FBI Field Office, just come on over and we can talk about it.”

“I think not. You have one hour to come and get the message, or there will be penalties. You want to treat this like a game? Fine, let’s play a game, Adrian.”

“Great, so, where do you want me?”

“In the car park of the California Academy of Sciences, there is a school bus. On that bus are forty-three schoolchildren and three teachers. Underneath the bus is a brick of C4. Do the math, Adrian. Be there in sixty minutes, or there’ll be a large hole filled with small body parts.”

The line clicks dead and there’s a split-second where everyone in the room holds their breath and looks at each other, the panic clear on their faces. But we soon get over it and Chambers strides purposefully out of the room, barking orders at everyone outside. All around there’s organized chaos, the likes of which I’ve never seen.

The room quickly empties and everyone dashes to their respective desks, shouting to each other as they go. Chambers walks into the center of the open plan office as she takes her firearm out of her holster to check the magazine is full; the standard FBI issue Glock 22 pistol, with a clip that holds seventeen .40 caliber Smith and Wesson rounds. Everyone quickly huddles around Chambers’ desk as she outlines the plan. Josh and I stay at the back, just outside the conference room, out of the way. I figure it’s best to let them get on with it.

I turn to Josh. “I don’t suppose...” I start, but he cuts me off.

“…I went to your hotel and retrieved your bag and guns?” he offers. “Yes, they’re in my Winnebago.”

I smile. “You’re so pretty,” I say.

“Ah, shucks—you sure know how to make a gal blush!” he replies.

We chuckle to ourselves, but a voice bellows across the room, interrupting us.

“If you two have finished blowing each other, maybe you could join us and try to look like you give a shit about what’s going on here?”

It’s Agent Johnson, trying to exert some authority over the two people most likely to rebel against such things. We look at each other, and Josh gestures for me to go on ahead. We approach the group of agents, who have fallen silent following Johnson’s outburst. I can’t tell whether they’re simply embarrassed on his behalf, or they’re genuinely interested to see how I’ll react, given my reputation, which everyone is now clearly aware of. I ignore Johnson completely, making a point of turning my back to him as I look directly at Agent Chambers.

“What are your plans?” I ask.

She seems reluctant to answer, knowing that telling me probably violates too many rules to list.

“Hey, regardless of what you say, I’m free to go whenever I want,” I say when she doesn't reply. “I’m here because I want to help. This guy’s after me, and I’m going to sort my own shit out, alright? But believe it or not, I don’t want anyone to get caught in the crossfire that doesn’t deserve to, so if there’s anything I can do to help you guys out, tell me.”

“Well, regardless of what you think, Adrian,” she begins. “You’re in an FBI Field Office. Which means the FBI are in charge, not you. I know you’ll help out, because I’m telling you to. But if you think you’re walking in there and doing everything the way you want, you can forget it. Around here, we focus on saving lives, not settling scores.”

I like her.

She’s by the book for sure, but she has a little twinkle in her eyes when she speaks that makes me think she’ll come through for you when it counts, rulebook or no rulebook.

Still, it’s ultimately my fight and consequently, I consider myself responsible for those kids. And unlike all the desk jockeys that are standing around watching me, I’m not restricted by procedures and regulations, which means I’m able to do what’s necessary, not what’s appropriate.

“How far away is this place from where we are?” I ask.

“In traffic, about twenty minutes,” she says. “It’s near Golden Gate Park. Our Hostage Rescue Team won’t make it in time, so we’re liaising with the San Francisco PD and mobilizing our SWAT team as we speak.” She checks her watch. “They'll be on site in fifteen minutes,” she adds.

I look at one of the clocks on the wall.

“We’ve got just over three-quarters of an hour until his deadline, so we better get moving, eh?”

“You two aren’t going anywhere on your own.”

“You’ll only slow us down, and I’m better equipped to handle this than you are.”

“How do you figure that?” asks Johnson.

“I think we’re all done flirting around the subject of who I am and what I do. Under the circumstances, I suspect you’ll overlook all the things you know you can’t prove and let me help you any way I can. If this Shark guy is anywhere nearby, he’ll be shooting at me pretty much on sight. Which means his focus won’t be on you guys, so you’ll then be in a better position to save those kids. Whereas if you try to confront him directly, you’ll have to stand there beating yourselves off waiting for all kinds of authority to give you the green light to even think about pulling a trigger. I have the luxury of doing what I want if I need to. You guys don’t.”

I turn to Josh. “Come on, we’re going.”

We both head for the main corridor but Chambers runs over and blocks our path. She stands in front of us, arms folded, thinking about the best move.

She sighs reluctantly. “If you screw up, it’s my ass that gets fried, so watch your step, okay?”

I smile. “I will do what I can to make sure your ass remains intact,” I say.

She almost succeeds in holding back the smile, but it slips out a little. She looks over at the huddle of agents.

“Wallis. Johnson. You’re with the Two Stooges here.” She smiles at us both. “Play nice boys. We’ll be right behind you.”

We walk out of the office, back down the corridor, down the elevator, through the entrance hall, and outside to the small plaza in front of the building. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is shining brightly, reflecting all around off the windows of the surrounding buildings. Josh checks his watch.

“We’ve got just about forty minutes,” he says. “We best get a move on.”

Special Agents Wallis and Johnson appear behind us.

“You’re riding with us,” says Johnson. Wallis moves past us, taking his car keys out of his pocket.

“Dream on,” I say. “We’ll go in Josh’s car and meet you there.”

“Agent Chambers said—”

“Agent Chambers isn’t here,” I say, interrupting. “Why don’t you boys live a little?”

“Come on,” shouts Wallis from over by his car, which he's parked close by to the entrance. “We’re wasting time.”

“Fine,” Johnson says to us, with resignation. “But don’t be skipping town or anything.”

He walks off toward the car. Josh looks at me.

“What a dick.”

“Aren’t they all?” I reply. “So where’s your ride?”

I scan the street, seeing nothing but government-issue sedans, with the occasional civilian vehicle thrown in for good measure, parked along the sidewalk. Then my eyes rest on a dull, dirty, cream-colored Winnebago with a huge aerial sticking up from the roof and a windscreen that’s so filthy, I’d be surprised if you could see anything through it.

I look at Josh, who’s standing smiling like a proud father.

“Really?” I ask.

“What?” he says.

“The money we make and you have that piece of shit?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

“I wouldn’t want to knock it at all—it might fall apart.”

We walk over and get in. Josh starts it up, on the third attempt, and we set off toward Golden Gate Park.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“Is my stuff in the back?”

“Yup.”

Inside the vehicle is open plan, meaning you can get out of your seat in the front and walk into the back area. There’s a worktop fitted against the left hand side with a ridiculous amount of tech on it. There’s a bar stool just in front of it. Adjacent to that on the right, separated in the middle by the door, is another worktop, also brimming over with equipment, printouts, and maps and God knows what else. Against the back window is a battered sofa with my bag on it.

Bingo.

I open it up and retrieve my babies. My custom twin Beretta 92A1 pistols. Each one is metallic silver with an ebony plate fitted either side of the butt. On it, embossed in silver, is an upside-down pentagram. Helpful in keeping the ‘Adrian Hell’ persona alive and well. I take out my back holster and fit it around my waist, sliding the Berettas into place. I make my way back to the front cab and sit beside Josh.

I check the clock on the dashboard. We’ve got just under twenty-five minutes left before The Shark’s deadline expires.

“You got a plan for when we get there?” asks Josh.

“Not really,” I say. “Figured I’ll try to stop the kids from getting blown up. That’s about as far as I got.”

“A good a place as any to start.”

I look out the window as Josh threads through the traffic as fast as he can. Wallis and Johnson are just ahead of us. The same SWAT team that apprehended me earlier will be on site by the time we get there. I imagine Agent Chambers is en route behind us as well.

I sit back and close my eyes, trying to push everything else aside in my mind, so I can focus on what I’m walking into.

Who the hell is The Shark? And what have I done to piss them off so much?

6.

16:21

JOSH IS A pretty good driver and seems to know exactly where he’s going despite, as far as I’m aware, having never been to San Francisco before. He’s very reliable and frighteningly resourceful, which is why he’s been by my side in some capacity for over half my life.

We turned right on Fell Street after leaving the Field Office and followed it until we merged on JFK Drive. We’ve been lucky so far that we’ve not hit any major traffic. We follow the road round and turn onto Kazar Drive. I look out the window and watch the skyline of the city flash past me. Under any other circumstances, I’d probably enjoy seeing more of the place, but right now, there’s no time for sight-seeing.

“It’s good to see you, Josh,” I say, looking over at him as he drives.

And it really is. I’ve seen him twice in the last twelve months. I speak to him probably fifteen times a day, but when you’re out and about in the world on your own, the solitude does get you down from time to time. I’ve always enjoyed the lifestyle of moving around from place to place, remaining anonymous and seeing the world. But every once in a while, it’s nice to have some company.

He smiles as he focuses on navigating the slow but steadily moving traffic.

“You too, man,” he says. “Shame it’s under these circumstances though. Can you please just have a normal contract for once?”

“Hey, you’re the one who finds me these jobs, remember?”

“Don’t start blaming the logistics—things only ever seem to turn to shit when you arrive in town. I’m just saying…”

“It’s not my fault bad people tend not to wanna roll over and die willingly with no fuss!”

We both laugh. That’s another reason we work so well together. We understand that, regardless of how enormous the task at hand is, it’s always best to approach it instinctively. Don’t think about it—do it. It’s too easy to over-think things, which inevitably leads to indecisiveness and hesitation. And those things can cost you your life. To an outsider, it might look like I don’t care, or that I’m not taking things seriously. But in reality, I’m simply keeping detached so I can rely on my instincts.

Believe me; I’m taking the current predicament very seriously indeed.

“I don’t think this is Clara,” says Josh. “The voice is too masculine, even through the distortion. And from what we know of her, this isn’t her style. She wouldn’t have the patience or subtly to pull something like this off.”

“No, I know. I think that was wishful thinking on my part,” I say, regretfully. “But it’s definitely someone who knows the truth about what happened in Heaven’s Valley.”

“I think most people know what happened though. You almost created a second Grand Canyon in the middle of the desert...”

“Very true. But if you’re right about the Pellaggio reference, this has gotta be someone who knows I was responsible for wiping out his organization, which was a separate thing entirely. Even the news reports at the time said it was likely a gang-related hit carried about by a large group of people.”

“GlobaTech?” he offers.

“They certainly have the resources. But what’s their angle? We’re on pretty good terms with them last I checked.”

“Maybe they’re pissed that you blew that military compound into a billion pieces?”

“I think they would have conveyed their displeasure before now. This sounds too… I dunno, too personal.”

We fall silent again and I re-focus on the immediate issue. I’m not sure what to expect when we get to this Academy, and I must admit I’m feeling a little out of my depth. I try to picture how it would go down. I imagine the bus will be parked up in an inconspicuous way. Will The Shark be there? My instinct says he won’t be, but he’ll be watching from a safe distance. From speaking with him earlier, he seems to have a good idea of where the FBI are up to with the investigation, which immediately says to me that he can either see them himself, or he has an inside man. Neither possibility bares thinking about.

Assuming he won’t be on site, how is he keeping the kids on the bus? They must know they’re in danger, surely? I figure it won’t be much fun for him if he can’t see people afraid.

I have no idea how to actually stop this asshole, either. I still haven’t worked out why he’s doing all this just to get to me.

I hate not knowing everything...

“Trying to figure it all out?” asks Josh, breaking my train of thought as well as the silence.

“Just trying to prepare for what we’re walking into here, yeah.”

“I don’t think anything can help with that. This is painfully new territory for the both of us.”

I look ahead and can see Wallis and Johnson a few cars in front of us. I wonder how far behind us Agent Chambers is…

Grace Chambers.

I like her. She definitely doesn’t take any crap from anyone, and is undeniably in charge. But she has a kindness about her at the same time.

We turn right on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. I check the clock again. We’ve got just under ten minutes before the deadline is up, but we’re almost there now. After another quarter-mile, we turn right on Music Concourse Drive and follow the road as it doglegs to the right, bringing us to the main entrance of the California Academy of Sciences. The building is one of the largest natural history museums in the world and looks impressive as we approach.

I sigh heavily as I look around. Why am I even here? Things like this are the FBI’s show for God’s sake, what use am I going to be? I've just pretty much admitted to a room full of agents that I’m the assassin they all think I am… what’s to stop them arresting me the moment all this is over?

Assuming I don’t get blown up or shot first.

Shit.

“We’re here,” says Josh, pulling up on the side of the road opposite the main entrance. The scene is complete and total chaos, and despite my efforts on the way here, I now realize nothing could’ve prepared me for what I’m about to walk into.

The local SWAT team must’ve been here for at least fifteen minutes or so, given how organized they are. There’s a yellow school bus parked at an impromptu angle in the middle of the road, on the crossing right outside the main doors to the Academy. The area around the bus is cordoned off in roughly a hundred meter radius. All around, police, SWAT guys, reporters and onlookers are standing and staring at it with a mixture of shock and uncertainty and regret. A chopper’s hovering overhead. I can’t see any markings, but it’s more likely to be the police than the media.

As we get out of the Winnebago and walk toward the scene, I’m able to catch a glimpse inside the bus. It’s full of schoolchildren, just like The Shark told us. They look terrified. I can see them crying and screaming, although I can’t hear them from where we’re standing.

So they are fully aware of the danger...

Agents Wallis and Johnson have parked across the road and are talking to someone who looks in charge at the scene. Johnson looks over and sees us approaching. He taps Wallis on his arm and they both walk over to us.

“Well, I’m here,” I say to them as we meet them. “Not sure what I’m meant to do though.”

“Neither are we,” says Johnson. “I’ve spoken to the SWAT team leader and they’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Apart from the bus full of terrified school kids?” observes Josh.

“He means there’s been no sign of any suspects and no communications,” says Wallis, professionally. He checks his watch. “We’ve got seven minutes until The Shark’s deadline is up. I think we need to wait for him to contact us. He’ll be watching, I’m sure.”

I completely agree. Turning a slow circle, I scan the crowds of people and the surrounding area. I can’t see anyone who looks like they could be him, but I didn’t expect to. If it were me, I’d be looking on for sure—but from a long way away.

The cordon stretches all the way to the main entrance, so the building itself and the immediate area is clear. Just over the road from where we’re standing, the SWAT team are milling around, seemingly unsure of what to do, but doing their best to look like they’re in charge anyway. They won’t be sure what move to make, as no one knows what the endgame is, only that I need to be here.

Well, I’m here… come on, you sonofabitch, show yourself.

I’m sure the SWAT team would’ve done a full assessment of the situation when they arrived, but for my own piece of mind, I lie down on my stomach and look over at the bus. It's been parked with the back facing the Academy's entrance at a slight angle. I scan underneath it as best I can from where I am. I can just about make out a red flashing light.

So he wasn’t bluffing about the bomb either.

Shit.

I stand back up and find Johnson looking at me funny.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, with more than a hint of disdain in his voice.

“I was seeing if I could see the bomb he told us about,” I reply, like I’m talking to an idiot.

“And what, are you some kind of expert on car bombs?”

I flash back in my mind momentarily to Heaven’s Valley, standing outside the hospital as Clara’s car blew up, sending me hurtling backward.

“I’ve had some experience with them, yeah,” I say, after a moment. “You have a problem with me trying to help?”

We square up to each other, our faces only inches apart. It’s not even funny how quickly I could kill this prick with my bare hands, but I restrain myself. If only for the fact we have bigger problems to deal with at the moment. But I’m not backing down from him.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he begins. “But—”

“I’m the man you think you are,” I say, cutting him off. “Now take a minute to remember we’re meant to be on the same side, then take three steps back before you find yourself waking up with a crowd of people looking down at you.”

“I thought I told you boys to play nice?” says a voice from behind us.

I turn to see Senior Special Agent Chambers walking toward us. Even though she’s harassed and in a hurry, she has a casual demeanor about her, which seems to stop you from getting stressed when she’s nearby.

“Ma’am,” says Johnson. “We’re just discussing how best to approach the situation.” He turns to look at me. “Aren’t we?”

He emphasizes the words, in that way people do when they’re trying to drop hints to get someone to say what they want them to.

Rookie error.

I look at Agent Chambers and smile.

“Actually, Grace,” I say. “I was just checking to see if there’s a genuine bomb threat here, and Agent Johnson decided to take his life into his hands and start mouthing off at me. When you arrived, I was simply explaining how quickly and painfully the conversation could end for him.”

Petty? Yes, I’m afraid it probably is. But the guy’s an asshole, and I’m not doing him any favors. Besides, my comments make her smile a little bit, which is what I was aiming for and is nice to see. She has a great smile…

Ultimately, she dismisses the comment and returns to the matter at hand.

“We’ve got three minutes until The Shark’s deadline is up. We’ve heard nothing as yet. Adrian, have you any ideas about what this has to do with you?”

“Not a clue,” I say, honestly. “Given that his previous clues seem to reference me or my history in some way, I’ve been looking for something along the same lines here, but I’ve got nothing. Josh?”

Josh shrugs, which isn’t like him at all. “I have no idea what this guy’s angle is,” he says, the words visibly hurting him. “We have no clue as to who he is, what he’s got against Adrian—aside from the fact he’s clearly met him once, which is enough for anyone to want to kill him, frankly—and worst of all, we don’t know what the point of all this is.”

He gestures to the scene around us.

Agent Chambers’ phone starts ringing. She takes it out of her pocket and looks at the Caller ID on the screen. Looking confused, she answers. “Chambers.”

I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but given how wide her eyes are, I’m guessing it’s our guy.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, then holds the phone out to me. “It’s him. He wants to talk to you.”

I take the phone from her and put it to my ear, but say nothing. I listen. I’m convinced he’s nearby. Even though he’s distorting his voice, there could still be some background noise that might offer a clue as to where he is in relation to where I am. But I get nothing.

“What?” I ask, finally.

“I’m glad you could make it, Adrian,” says The Shark. “Are you ready for my next message?”

“Just get on with it, you arrogant bastard.”

“Now, now, Adrian. There’s no need for name-calling. Put me on speaker so all your friends can hear.”

I do, and we gather round close to the phone in a tight circle, listening intently. Josh is on my left, with Johnson next to him. Wallis is on my right, with Chambers next to him.

“Here’s my message, Adrian,” he says. “I can do things even you can only dream of. You once did what many thought was impossible. And in doing so, you took everything from me. Now, there are no clues this time. No hidden meanings. Just a demonstration of what real power can do.”

He hangs up, leaving us all looking at the phone and listening to a dead tone.

“What the hell does that mean?” asks Johnson, confused.

Before I can answer, the whole world suddenly goes to shit…

7.

16:34

WE ALL INSTINCTIVELY hit the ground as the deafening roar of an explosion sounds out nearby. I can just about make out the screams of people around us over the ringing in my ears. I wait maybe ten seconds before standing and looking at the school bus, expecting to find a flaming wreck and the bodies of forty-three dead kids. But I’m relieved to see it still intact. Agent Chambers appears next to me. We exchange a confused glance.

I’m obviously happy the kids are still alive, but what the hell blew up?

Disoriented from the blast, I quickly scan the area and soon find out. The SWAT van’s completely destroyed, along with the entire team who were either inside it or standing close by.

Jesus Christ...

I hear what sounds like two gunshots, but they’re faint amid all this noise and chaos. I look around trying to see where they came from, but it’s futile. There’s too much smoke and too many people running around and screaming. My gaze rests momentarily on some scattered body parts on the road—probably what remained of the SWAT team…

I see Agent Johnson running over to a small crowd of people nearby, waving at them wildly and imploring them to get back. Agent Wallis takes his time standing up, and looks a little concussed. He would’ve been standing closer to the blast than the rest of us, so he probably caught more of it.

I know what that feels like…

“What the hell’s happening?” shouts Chambers. “Where is this guy?”

I shrug. “I have no idea!” I shout back.

A second explosion sounds out, further away than the first. We all half-duck again before realizing it isn’t nearby.

But it must be…

I look up, trying to see the tops of the buildings in the mid-distance in the vain hope of seeing a small figure looking down at us or something, but instead I see the chopper that's been hovering above us spinning out of control and plummeting quickly toward us in flames.

Straight for the bus.

“Oh, shit!” I yell.

Without thinking, and before anyone else can react, I race over to the school bus and yank the doors open, no longer caring about the initial bomb threat. The way I see it, if he was going to detonate the bomb under the bus, he would’ve done it already.

I climb on board and look at the sea of shocked and scared children. I have no idea what to do, and for a valuable second, I freeze completely as I gaze down the bus and see nothing but small faces, mouths hanging open in unimaginable horror.

Then my brain resumes normal service.

“Everyone, I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say. I want you all to make your way to the front of the bus as quickly as you can and jump off, okay? Single file, right now. Once you’re off, you have to run as fast as you can and get as far away from this bus as possible.”

I clap my hands together to speed them along.

“Come on,” I said. “Now!”

They don’t need telling twice. A stampede of small feet run to the front of the bus and jump down to the parking lot. I look for the teachers in the crowd.

“Hit the ground running and get them as far away from here as you can,” I yell. “You’ve got less than ten seconds!”

I stand watching as the last of the kids escape the bus. The last one jumps off and starts running, but loses their balance and falls forward on their face. It’s a little girl, probably about seven years old. She has pigtails in her hair…

I look at her lying on the floor, crying and screaming, and I think of my own daughter, Maria. She was roughly the same age when she was taken from me. Everything stops and I feel my heart breaking all over again.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose another little girl...

I jump off and rush to her, scooping her up in my arms and run as fast as I can. A couple of seconds later and I hear the flaming chopper hit the bus. The impact is deafening, and the explosion it causes knocks me off my feet. I’d managed to get maybe thirty feet from the bus, but the blast hits me like a freight train and I’m thrown forward. Instinctively, I throw the little girl out in front of me—I’ll crush her if I land on top of her. It’ll hurt her, but it’s better than the alternative and I’m sure she’ll forgive me.

I hit the ground hard, landing face down. My head smacks against the concrete. As my skull bounces up again, I catch sight of the little girl landing some feet in front of me, seemingly safe from the blast.

Everything goes quiet. People’s screams are reduced to a small echo, drowned out by the loud, constant ringing in my ears. My body feels hot and my eyes are stinging. Disoriented, I roll over on my back and look down my body.

Holy shit, I’m on fire!

I quickly roll over and over, mindlessly slapping at the flames to put them out. People are surrounding me that I don’t recognize. They cover me in a blanket and after a minute help me to my feet.

My eyes are sore and my vision’s blurring…

I wipe my hand across my face. It feels wet and I look down to see it covered in blood.

The world around me keeps fading to black and back again in slow motion. I look around and see blurry outlines of people running toward a body on the floor a few feet away, then toward me…

I’m lying on the ground again. I open my eyes. I must’ve blacked out. I struggle to push myself up on all fours, but Johnson and Chambers appear next to me and help me. They lift my arms around their necks and help me walk away. They’re saying something, but I can’t make out what.

I stumble and they guide me to the ground. I’m on a grass verge off the right, away from the carnage and chaos behind me. I wipe my eyes again and look over to the entrance of the Academy. On my left is a burning wreck that was once a SWAT van. Across the front of the building, whoever isn’t dead or injured are running and screaming trying to get away, but ultimately falling over each other. Just to the right of that is what’s left of the school bus, and the remains of a chopper sticking out of it on fire.

Sweet Jesus… this is insane!

I look up next to me and see Chambers talking hurriedly into her phone. Johnson’s kneeling beside me with his hand on my shoulder. I can’t see where Wallis has gone. He’s probably helping anyone who’s injured or something.

Johnson is saying something to me and nodding, but I have no idea what—his voice sounds hollow, drowned out by a loud ringing. Looking at his face, I think he seems positive…

My head starts to spin, and I lie back, preparing for the world to turn black once again. In my mind, all I can see is an image of The Shark looking on, laughing. I can’t believe he would endanger the lives of so many innocent people—innocent children—just to get to me.

This has to stop. It’s just too much. I’ve always said my anger is kept behind a closed door. Every now and then, someone will try to push that door open, and they never like what awaits them on the other side. This guy just kicked my door off its hinges… He has no idea what’s coming for him—what I’m prepared to do to put a stop to this. The scary thing is, as I close my eyes and feel the world slipping away from me once more, neither do I.

21:02

“He’s awake,” says the voice, sounding miles away. “Go and tell Agent Chambers.”

I open my eyes, blinking a few times to clear the fog. I look to my right and see Agent Wallis standing next to me. He isn’t smiling, but he seems glad I’m not dead, which is something I suppose.

I look around. I’m in a hospital room, lying in bed hooked up to a heart monitor. The door on the right is open. I look briefly out the window on the left; it’s dark outside. I turn back to Agent Wallis.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“You’re in San Francisco General Hospital,” he replies. “You’ve been here just over four hours.”

My head’s killing me. I try to turn on my side, but all the wires stuck to my chest restrict my movement. I look at the machine, which is beeping steadily. That’s good—I’m definitely not dead… first bit of good news I’ve had all day.

“Christ. What the hell happened back there?” I ask, remembering the scene outside the Academy. “Is everyone alright?”

“The kids are safe, thanks to you. I don’t know if you’re a hero or just plain stupid, but you were on that bus before any of us even registered that the chopper had exploded. That was some good work, Adrian… Thank you.”

“I’m just glad they’re alright. What about the SWAT guys?”

Wallis purses his lips together and shakes his head solemnly. “All dead,” he says. “I’ve no idea how the sonofabitch managed to rig a bomb to a fucking SWAT truck...”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man.”

“None of us saw it coming. We were too focused on the school bus.”

His voice trails off. I look at him. He’s maybe six months into being a fully trained agent, but nothing you do at Quantico can prepare you for a day like he's just had. He’s probably still in shock.

“How are we all doing?” I ask, feeling compelled to offer some level of comfort to him.

He starts to answer, but Agent Chambers walks in, followed by Agent Johnson, and he stops himself. They both look like they’ve been dragged ass-backward through a trash heap, but they’re in one piece at least.

“Can you give us a minute?” she asks Wallis.

He nods and heads out of the door. Johnson follows him, but stops and turns back to look at me.

“Everything else aside,” he says. “That was a real gutsy move back there, Adrian.”

He walks out without waiting for a reply and closes the door behind him.

I look at Agent Chambers. Grace. She stands next to me, where Wallis had just been. She smiles a weary smile.

“You alright?” I ask.

“I’ve had better days, but I’ll live.”

“I’m just glad we all survived. You might not believe me, but I do genuinely feel for those SWAT guys. I know this is my fault.”

“This isn’t your fault,” she says, putting her hand on mine and squeezing gently. I try to return the gesture, but don’t quite have the strength. “This is The Shark’s fault. And whether I like it or not, we were lucky you were there.”

“Ah, team effort,” I say, smiling. “Hey, where’s Josh? I don’t remember seeing him in the chaos back there.”

Chambers says nothing, but looks down and squeezes my hand again.

“What is it?” I ask, with growing concern.

“Your friend was hit,” she says. “He’s in the ICU now and he’s listed as critical. I’m sorry, Adrian.”

I feel sick to my stomach. Like I’m on a rollercoaster and I’ve just been flipped upside down at a hundred miles an hour. The room starts spinning almost as fast as my mind is. How the hell could Josh have been shot?

I replay the scene in my head as best I can. Parts of it are still blurry to me, thanks to what I can only assume is a fairly significant concussion.

The first blast was over to our left. That was the SWAT van. The second blast was high above, which was the chopper. That crashed down on the school bus, causing a third blast—that was the one that just about got me. So how did Josh get shot?

I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to make sense of everything.

The gunshots…

There were two gunshots. They were barely audible at the time, but there was no mistaking them. I remember hearing them in the few moments between the first two explosions. I dismissed them as random at the time, but I was wrong. The timing of them was too specific. Two bullets.

The Shark intended to take Josh out.

I don’t have the energy to get angry. I’ll save that for later. I’ll save that for when my hands are around The Shark’s throat.

I look at Chambers. “I need to see him,” I say.

“You need to rest,” she replies.

“I wasn’t asking...”

I sit up, pulling all the leads off me and causing the machine to sound the constant beep of a flatline. I swing my legs over the side of the bed just as the door bursts open and three nurses run in shouting.

“Sir, you must stay in bed!” barks one of them.

I wave them away and stand up slowly, adding weight to my legs gradually to make sure I can actually get out of bed under my own strength.

“Sir, please,” continues the nurse. “You need to rest.”

I look at her. She seems like a nice person. Short brown hair and brown eyes. Probably mid-forties. A career nurse, for sure.

“Where is he?” I ask, calmly.

She looks confused and glances at Agent Chambers for some kind of verification. I see the look on her face as she realizes who I mean.

“Your friend is in critical condition,” she says.

“I know. What happened to him?” I ask.

“He was shot in the center of his chest and at the top of his left thigh. We’ve done our best to remove the bullets, but the damage was extensive. The loss of blood was significant and one of his lungs has collapsed. Luckily, the bullets managed to miss any major arteries, so we were able to stop the bleeding, but he’s still suffered a massive trauma. We’re keeping him in a medically-induced coma until he stabilizes.”

I nod, taking in the information while at the same time barely hearing a word. That’s Josh she’s talking about. My friend. My partner. My brother. And he’s lying in a hospital bed because of me.

“I still need to see him,” I say, standing and staggering over to the door. “Where is he?”

The nurse sighs, giving up the argument. “He’s down the hall to your left, through the double doors and it’s the first room on the right. Let me get you a wheelchair.”

I wave my hand dismissively, refusing the offer, then set off to find him. I realize I’m wearing a hospital gown and underwear and nothing else. But I don’t care. I have to see Josh. Even if he’s in a coma, he’ll hear me.

I need to tell him I’ve just figured out who The Shark really is.

8.

21:18

I’M STANDING AT Josh’s bedside, looking down at him, as he lies there motionless, connected to a heart rate monitor with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. I notice his machine’s beeping a lot slower than mine was.

The bed sheet is down by his waist. His chest has a bandage across his left pectoral, with a red circle in the center of it over the bullet wound. On his left hand, a clip on his index finger also links to the monitor at the far side of the bed.

I stare at him, feeling an emptiness inside that I haven’t felt since losing my family all those years ago. It feels like a black hole in my stomach, gradually sucking in and crushing every ounce of humanity that I have remaining.

Josh is all I have left. My life doesn’t exactly allow for many friends. My family has already been taken from me and all I know is him, the open road, and me. Josh keeps me grounded; keeps me sane. He rescued me from a very dark place and helped me channel my anger into something positive. Granted, to call killing people for a living a positive thing is arguably dark, but it’s a job with a big market and lots of money to be made. Over the years, I’ve probably accumulated close to thirty million dollars. When the time comes to walk away from this life and retire, we'll be set. But right now I’d trade every cent to get him back.

“I’m sorry,” I say to him quietly. “This is my fault. For every job I take, I make two enemies. I should’ve done a better job keeping you away from this. I’m supposed to be the one in the line of fire, not you. You’re the one who sits behind the desk and tells me what to do. Why did you even come here, you dumb sonofabitch? Eh? We both have phones—why didn’t you stay away from all this like normal? Now you’re lying here attached to some fucking machine, and it’s all because of me!”

Josh is in a coma and there are no signs of life from him at all, other than the slow, constant beeping of his heartbeat on the machine next to him.

But I know he can hear me.

“I’ve figured out who The Shark is,” I continue. “You’d be so proud of me. I know who he is and why he’s pissed at me. And I’m gonna find him and I’m going to torture him and I’m going to watch him die screaming in pain.”

Still nothing. But he can hear me—I’m sure of it. He’s far too talented to let something simple like a coma stop him from utilizing all of his senses. He can hear me, and if he could reply he’d tell me to watch my back. He’d tell me to remember the FBI are in charge, and that if I wasn’t careful I’d expose myself and risk spending the rest of my life in prison. Or the last three minutes of my life strapped to a chair. He’d say it in his bouncy, happy, optimistic tone of voice that makes me sick and makes me feel at peace, all at the same time.

And I’d look him in the eye, man-to-man, brother-to-brother, and without saying a word, he’d know I was going to ignore him and go right ahead and tear this world apart to have my vengeance anyway. And he’d help me without question.

I take a deep breath, which hurts more than it should, and place my hand on his right shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say. “For everything. And when all this is over, and you’ve stopped being a big girl and woken up and got over your little cuts and bruises, we’re gonna go out and buy you a brand new Winnebago, with all the trimmings.”

I wait for the inevitable retort, but it never comes. He just continues to lie there, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

I pat his shoulder and turn to leave the room. Agent Chambers is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“You been there long?” I ask.

“Long enough,” she replies, turning back into the hallway and waiting for me to follow. “You alright?”

I stagger out of the room and we walk slowly down the corridor side by side.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You need to rest up and let us handle this.”

“Well, seeing as you’ve done such a sterling job so far...”

She looks at me with an expression that’s half resentment and half sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately. “That was uncalled for.”

“Damn right it was, asshole,” she replies.

“I deserve that.”

We fall silent for a moment, the sound of her heels echoing down the corridor as we approach the nurse’s station by the elevators on our floor.

She takes an extra step and turns, stopping in front of me. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head slightly, asking a million unspoken questions. I look her up and down, somewhat obviously. Even with bruises and cuts on her face and neck and hands, she looks amazing. Her fitted trouser suit clings to the body I figure she spends every spare hour working on in the gym.

I shake my head and look away, slightly embarrassed. I haven’t looked at a woman like that in years... Must be the concussion.

“What?” I ask.

“You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on then? You were quick enough to tell your friend, and he can’t do anything to help you. I can.”

“Actually, you can’t. From what I’ve seen, you’re a damn good agent, Grace. But thanks to the Oath of Office you took when you joined the FBI, if I told you anything about this you’d be obligated to arrest me immediately.”

“I can imagine,” she says with a raised eyebrow and a disapproving tone.

“I’m not under arrest, and aside from apparently being a person of interest to everyone, we both know I’m not going to be any time soon. It’s probably best to leave it at that. You have my word I’m going to sort this. I’ll help you with your investigation as much as I can, but please just step back and let me finish this. He won’t stop until he’s got me, so I’m going to give him what he wants.”

“You’re going to turn yourself over to him?”

“I’m going to use myself as bait, yeah. If I can see him with my own eyes, I can stop him.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“Don’t ask me things you don’t wanna know the answer to,” I say with a smile.

“Then don’t do things that make me want to arrest you,” she replies with the same look on her face.

Grace Chambers. I like her. One of the good guys.

I gesture to my gown. “Let me slip into something less revealing, then we’ll talk, okay?”

“I’ll wait for you here,” she says, gesturing to the front desk. “I assume you’ll be doing the stupid thing of checking yourself out of here?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yeah.”

“Figures,” she says, shaking her head.

She walks off, taking out her cell and dialing a number.

I walk back to my room and sit down on the edge of the bed, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.

I might be a full-time killer and part-time idiot, but I’m not stupid. I need help, and with Josh out of the picture, the list of people willing and able to give me a hand is narrowed down to one.

The FBI.

If I don’t ask for their help, I’ll be flying blind with no clue how to stop The Shark from carrying out more of his attacks. If I do ask for their help, I’m going to implicate myself in more crimes than I care to count, which would quickly lead to my incarceration and still wouldn’t stop The Shark.

Either way, I’m screwed.

21:43

I finish getting dressed, pulling my jacket on as I walk out of the room. I head down the corridor to the waiting area and see Chambers sitting patiently on the end of a row of chairs, among the patients. In addition to the three nurses working behind the desk, there are six patients scattered around the waiting area.

I imagine she’s grateful to get a few minutes to rest—it’s been a hectic day.

As she sees me she stands, and we both walk over to the front desk.

“So you’re definitely checking yourself out?” she asks. “Despite the advice of everyone who works here?”

I smile humorlessly.

“I’m no use to anyone lying in bed in here,” I say, turning to one of the nurses and taking a clipboard from her with some forms attached. “I need to be…”

I trail off as I look across the waiting area toward the lifts at the far end of the floor. The doors have just dinged open and four men have just stepped out and are walking toward us. Three of them are wearing black suits with blood-red shirts and black ties. They’re all oriental guys with jet-black hair in different styles. They’re walking purposefully behind the fourth man. He’s short and wearing a dirty white vest and brown pants that aren’t long enough, finishing just above his ankle. He’s bald on top, with his long, scraggly gray hair starting at the sides and falling down to his shoulders.

It’s the old guy from the pawnshop last night… and these guys with him look…

They open their jackets, revealing guns in shoulder holsters that they immediately draw.

Yeah, they look like trouble!

“Grace, get down!” I shout, grabbing her shoulders and pushing her to the floor.

She doesn’t get chance to respond before gunfire sounds out around the waiting area. People scream and start running and alarm sounds. I duck down in front of the desk, instinctively reaching behind me for my Berettas.

Nothing.

Shit, where are they?

I look over at Chambers, who’s confused but quickly coming to her senses. She reaches for her gun and her badge, preparing to stand.

I grab her wrist and hold her down. She looks at me and I shake my head.

“Grace, that badge isn’t going to do shit besides get you killed. Give me your gun.”

She shakes her head at me as bullets continue to splinter the desk around us.

“No chance, Adrian! If you fire my weapon, it’s a federal crime.”

“Only if I take it from you first,” I counter. “If you hand it to me willingly, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not!”

I sigh and peek over the desk. The three men are fanning out across the waiting area, taking it in turns to reload. The old guy is standing with a wicked smile on his face, pointing in my direction.

I have to get them away from here—there are too many innocent people and there’s already been too much loss of life on my account. I won’t accept any more.

I look back at Chambers.

“Fine, if you’re not going to give it to me, will you at least start shooting these bastards?”

She readies herself, straightening her right arm and tightening her grip on her weapon, then clasping her right hand and the butt of the gun with her left hand. She looks at me quickly.

“Are they friends of yours?” she asks, sarcastically.

I shrug. “I’m not sure… only met the old guy once.”

“You sure know how to make a lasting impression, I’ll give you that.”

She stands and fires, hitting one of the three guys in suits in the chest, dropping him instantly. She ducks back down next to me.

“Come on,” I say to her.

I grab her hand and set off running back toward my room, away from the reception area. I glance over my shoulder and see the remaining two guys in suits coming after us, followed by the old guy.

Good—at least they’re not concerned about the innocent civilians in there…

As we near the room, she pushes me away, standing her ground, and turns to face them.

“I’m a federal agent!” she shouts, leveling her gun at them. “Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air, right now!”

They don’t even break step, they just keep coming, firing intermittently at us. Luckily, they’re terrible shots, but that’s not the point.

Without thinking, I step in front of Chambers and hold my hands out to the sides, hoping to God that they don’t shoot me before explaining themselves.

The corridor behind us is a dead end. We’re standing level with the door to my room, which is slightly ajar. I shuffle to my right and fall in line with Chambers, who’s still aiming her gun at the three guys. They stop a few feet in front of us. We’re at a standoff.

The old guy steps to the front and points his finger at me.

“I told you, you fucking dead man!” he yells.

“What have I ever done to you?” I ask.

“You beat up two of my guys,” he says. “You disrespect the Red Dragon!”

Chambers looks at me. She seems concerned. “You did what?” she whispers.

“It’s nothing,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Two assholes tried to mug me last night and I put them down, that’s all.”

“You broke my guy’s nose!” yells the old man. “You put them both in hospital! You disrespect the Red Dragon. You die!”

“Will you quit going on about that? What the fuck’s the Red Dragon?” I ask, getting frustrated.

“It’s the gang that runs Chinatown,” says Chambers with a heavy sigh.

“Oh…” I turn to look at her.

“They’re extremely violent,” she continues, “and the local PD kind of have an understanding with them that they keep their own house in order and stop any disputes spilling onto the streets, and they leave them be.”

“I see…” I say, nodding.

“And it would appear you’ve just started a war with them single-handedly.”

I smile. “Whoops…”

Chambers doesn’t look happy.

“I didn’t even do anything,” I say, protesting. “They started it, completely unprovoked.”

“That doesn’t matter so much to them,” she explains, angrily. “It’s about respect.”

The old man steps closer to us and looks at me.

“FBI bitch is right,” he says smiling as he turns to her. “Now drop your weapon. If you lucky, we might just shoot you,” he says.

“Hey, Mr. Miyagi—watch how you’re speaking to her, alright?” I say.

The two guys with guns behind him are looking restless, like they really want to start shooting at someone. I need to take them out.

The old guy keeps smiling but doesn’t respond. He looks back at Chambers.

“Put… your gun… down…” he says again.

He’s within arm’s length of me and his men are maybe three feet behind him. He’s short and looks like he doesn’t weigh all that much. I’m far from a hundred percent, but I reckon I’ve got enough in me to take these guys out before it’s too late. Bottom line, if they’re Triad, they’re likely to take the both of us hostage—torture me and do God knows what to Chambers… neither of which I care to think about.

“Do as he says,” I say to her. “Trust me.”

“Adrian, I’m a federal agent…” she begins, but I shake my head.

“It doesn’t matter, do as he says. It’ll be fine.”

She sighs and gives me a frustrated look before crouching down and placing her gun on the floor. Just as I’d expected, all three of them watch her do it. With legs like hers, they’d have to be blind not to watch her.

Her gun makes contact with the floor.

I step forward, quickly grabbing the old man by his throat and launching him, with all my strength into the guy on the left behind him. I was right—he is pretty light, and he crashes into his man, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

Without hesitating, I quickly close in on the remaining guy, grabbing his right wrist with my left hand and pointing it to the floor, controlling his weapon. I swing my right hand round and connect with the side of his head. I’m nowhere near full strength and he takes the blow and replies with one of his own, slicing his left hand across my face, causing me to lose my balance. I let go of his hand and I see out of the corner of my eye that he’s raising his gun toward me. I bring my left forearm across, knocking his aim off to my left. I jab him with my right, hitting him hard in the face.

He takes a step back, slightly dazed. I move in and, without breaking stride, slam my right foot into his left kneecap, pushing through, and breaking his leg in half. He goes down screaming, dropping his gun.

“Adrian!”

I look round to see Chambers fighting off the old man. She takes a decent punch and gives him the same back...

She can handle herself; I’ll give her that.

The remaining gunman is getting to his feet, so I walk over to him and slam his head into the wall as he stands. It leaves a dent in, what I’m guessing is, thin plaster. He collapses to the floor and I retrieve his gun, turning and aiming it at the old guy.

“Hey!” I shout.

He turns and freezes. Chambers steps to the side, picking her gun up and aiming it at him.

“Okay, listen up,” I say.

He ignores me, more concerned with Chambers. I don’t know whether that’s because she’s an attractive woman or because she’s an FBI agent with a gun on him.

“Hey, don’t look at her—look at me,” I say.

He turns to me, glancing at the gun in my hand.

“Now pay attention. I meant no disrespect to your organization, alright? I was simply defending myself against those two pricks that came at me. I have no idea who you are, and you really don’t want to know who I am. So let’s just chalk this up to experience and move on.”

The old guy looks at Chambers, then at me.

He shakes his head.

“You… fucking… dead man!” he says, slowly and deliberately. And a little condescendingly, I think.

I sigh. “Fine, let’s try this a different way,” I say, gesturing to his men. “Look at these two pricks, all broken and beaten on the floor… now, go and run back to your boss and tell them this is what happens when people come after me. Consider it a warning.”

He looks at me blankly, like he can’t comprehend why anyone would think it’s okay to talk to him like that.

“Go on,” I continue. “Off you fuck.”

I step aside and motion him past me. Reluctantly, he walks off. I watch him go through the waiting room and over to the elevators. He presses the button and steps inside without looking back.

I turn to Chambers. “You okay?” I ask.

She holsters her gun. “You’re an idiot,” she says, walking past me to greet the security guards who are approaching. She produces her badge and starts explaining what’s just happened.

And here’s me thinking I handled that rather well…

So I have a Triad gang who run Chinatown called the Red Dragon gunning for me now… well, they can get in line. My priority is The Shark. And if I’m going to get the FBI on my side, I need to be honest with them.

I look at Chambers, taking control of the situation with ease.

I sigh.

This is going to need a beer.

9.

22:23

IT DIDN’T TAKE long for Chambers to explain what had happened. Content to leave it in the hands of hospital security and local PD, we made our way downstairs and out of the hospital.

We’re standing outside the main entrance. The temperature’s dropped and there’s a chilly breeze. She’d spoken to Wallis and Johnson, and they were on their way to pick us up. I’d promised her the truth and I made her promise me I could have a beer while I tell it to her.

A few minutes pass with a somewhat awkward silence before the car pulls up in front of us. We climb in the back and Johnson, who’s driving, sets off again. We travel in silence for about five minutes before coming to a stop outside a bar. We get out, and I stand looking at the place. It looks very run down, with a faded green theme to it. The three agents walk in like they’re going home, so I’m guessing they come here a lot.

I follow them inside and stand in the doorway, looking across the bar. The interior keeps with the green from outside and has an old-fashioned Irish theme to it. It’s more long than it is wide, with the bar talking up most of the right hand side. It’s reasonably busy, but not packed. There are no empty tables, and each one is occupied by a group no larger than three. A few singles are propping up the bar on worn stools. There are neon blue signs dotted around the walls.

A few of the patrons glance over with a look of vague recognition at my companions. I eye each of them for a moment.

All cops.

They’ve brought me to a goddamn cop bar…

Well, this makes me feel much more comfortable about spilling my guts to these people!

We order our drinks at the bar. The barman’s slightly overweight and losing his hair on top. I’m guessing he’s been here half his life—probably owns the place and knows all the local cops and G-men.

We take our drinks and sit in a booth at the back of the room. Wallis is next to me, against the wall. Johnson’s opposite him with Chambers adjacent, facing me.

I’m nursing my two fingers of single malt. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what I can and can’t say. I need to give them enough that they’ll agree to work with me, but not too much that they’ll place me under arrest on the spot.

What would Josh do?

I smile to myself. I think he’d be pleased that he’s had such a positive impact on me. Not that I’ll ever admit that to him.

“So,” begins Chambers, talking to the table as a whole. “Where are we?”

There’s silence for a minute. I look at Wallis and Johnson, who look like they’re trying to decide what information’s worth sharing.

“We’re still getting details through from the forensic teams working the scene,” says Wallis, finally. “We know the bomb under the school bus was a decoy.”

“Clearly he wanted something authentic to get us there,” chimes in Johnson.

“Exactly. They’ve found traces of C4 on the SWAT truck. It was remotely detonated, probably using a cellular signal. God knows how he got close enough to plant it. Nothing yet from the chopper. It was a local media station covering the scene.”

“He had the whole thing planned meticulously...” says Chambers. “He knew which vehicles to rig, and clearly had line of sight, as he knew exactly when to detonate.”

“What about the bullets?” I ask.

It goes quiet again, with both agents exchanging glances.

“Nothing’s come back yet from the ballistic tests we’re running on the bullets they removed from your friend,” says Johnson regretfully. “Once we know what the bullets are, we can work backward and find the rifle, then hopefully where it came from and who bought it.”

I sip my whiskey, feeling the comforting tangy burn slide down my throat.

“Well,” I say. “There’s no way he was within eight hundred meters of the Academy, which rules out anything smaller than a .300 caliber bullet. Which, in turn, narrows down the list of possible rifles. He’d also have needed to be close enough to get a decent view of what was going on, so I’d put him within twelve hundred meters, which narrows things down even further. I heard the gunshots, and there was enough of a delay between them that they had to have come from a bolt-action rifle, which means he was probably using a Remington XM2010. It fires .300 caliber Winchester Magnum rounds. The weapon basically replaced the old M24, and is currently the weapon of choice for the U.S. Army. It wouldn’t be too hard to get your hands on one, if you knew where to look.”

Everyone exchanges wide-eyed glances with each other before looking back at me.

“What?” I shrug. “I know things…”

“You clearly know quite a bit,” remarks Chambers, still unimpressed. “You’ve admitted you know who’s behind all this, so spill. Help us, Adrian.”

I sigh.

What am I meant to say?

I sit in silence for a few moments, weighing up the best approach. Judging what their reaction would be to every level of detail I choose to divulge.

I’m going to have to go for full disclosure. I reckon I’ve done too much to help them already that they’ll at least postpone any pursuit of an arrest. If I don’t tell them everything, I can’t see any way of them giving me the freedom or the help I need to go after The Shark. They have to know everything.

“This whole thing stems from Heaven’s Valley, twelve months ago,” I say, finally.

“You figured that from when you and Josh worked out the clues from the first two attacks,” replies Chambers.

I take a deep breath. “Tell me what you know about what happened in Nevada.”

“It was a military operation,” she says, shrugging. “So all us lowly government employees officially know is what was on the news at the time: an extremist group called Dark Rain were operating out of an old military base in the Nevada desert. The compound was ultimately blown up, taking their operation with it.”

“Okay. What about unofficially?”

“Unofficially, your name was all over whatever happened there. No one really knows why you were there, but everyone suspects what your involvement entailed. Hence why you’re on everyone’s watch list.”

“You have to understand that I’m telling you what I know because I genuinely want this whole thing to end, and I don’t want any more innocent people getting hurt. Think of me what you will, but I’m not a bad guy and I’m not a monster.”

“You wanna know what I think?” asks Chambers. “I think you have a good heart, but have made some seriously bad career choices.”

“Like the old saying: the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I say with a tired smile. “But by telling you what I know and why it’s happening, I’ll be giving you details of situations that may cause you to re-think my involvement in all this, and I don’t want that. I have to help and I have to be the one to stop him.”

Wallis eventually breaks the silence.

“Look, I might be way out of line here, but if it wasn’t for you, we’d have forty-three dead kids on top of everything else. Regardless of the fact this guy is doing this specifically to get at you, you’re as much in the line of fire as we are. And you’ve suffered casualties like the rest of us. All due respect,” he turns briefly to Chambers before looking back at me, “I don’t care what you may or may not have done in the past. Right now, I only care about what you’ve done here, and as far as I’m concerned, you’ve proven yourself an asset.”

He turns to Johnson and Chambers in turn.

“Am I right?”

They both shrug and nod; I notice Johnson seems more reluctant to agree than Chambers does.

“I appreciate that, Wallis. Thanks. And I’ll be sure to remind you of this moment when all this is over and you try to arrest me.”

He smiles, but says nothing, which makes me think that prediction might not be too far wrong.

“Okay,” I begin with a heavy sigh. “The Shark’s real name is Danny Pellaggio, and he’s doing this because twelve months ago I killed his entire family.”

Silence.

Wow… you could hear a pin drop at our table right now and I’m very aware I’m sitting with three FBI agents in a bar full of cops. I’ve just admitted to killing someone. Well, lots of people, actually. You could argue this isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve got no choice.

“I promise I’ll come along quietly if you want to stop this here and now,” I add, trying to ease the tension.

Wallis and Johnson say nothing, but look at Chambers for guidance on how they should react.

“Start from the beginning,” says Chambers, finally. She seems to be going through an internal struggle, trying to ignore the confession and focus on solving the more pressing issues. “Leave nothing out.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m quiet and slightly vague, given you’ve brought me to a bar full of police,” I say, not trying to hide my sarcasm and overall displeasure at the current situation. Chambers nods, understandingly.

“Heaven’s Valley didn’t start out being about Dark Rain. I went there because a mob boss named Roberto Pellaggio had hired me to...” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “...remove a former business associate from a property deal. It turns out, this former associate was going to sell him some land as an under-the-table transaction, but didn’t realize that some people he worked with at GlobaTech Industries also had plans to sell the land to Dark Rain.”

“Jesus,” says Johnson. “Aren’t GlobaTech one of the biggest defense contractors in the country?”

“They certainly are,” I reply. “Luckily I now count them as friends. Anyway, I removed the associate from the picture, but I couldn’t hand the deeds for the land over to Pellaggio. He was pissed at me and we had a... disagreement, but it was left with me advising him to leave me alone.”

“Which I’m assuming he didn’t do?” asks Wallis.

“I’ll get to that part. Anyway, it turns out GlobaTech as a whole wasn’t aware of this deal with Dark Rain, and they soon had an internal reshuffle and the deal was dead in the water. However, the reason I opted not to give the deeds to Pellaggio was that the land was actually a Uranium mine… which obviously opened up a whole new can of worms.”

“What a minute,” interrupts Chambers, confused and shocked. “Uranium? In the United States?”

“Yup. Long story short, the land and the mine are now property of the U.S. government, following a brief conversation with the Secretary of Defense.”

“Jesus Christ!” says Johnson, a little too loudly.

“Oh, it gets better,” I say, somewhat wearily as I realize I’ve just technically committed treason by telling them this. “Both Dark Rain and Pellaggio’s mafia outfit then started taking it in turns to try to kill me. I got blown up by a car bomb that I thought Pellaggio's men had planted. It turns out he’d not even started trying to take me out—it was Dark Rain. But given how pissed off I was, I went to his house and... explained my unhappiness in short, loud, lethal movements to Pellaggio and the small army he had as protection.”

“Wait, I remember that,” says Wallis. “The Mansion Massacre, right? They said that was a professional mob killing. That was you?”

I nod.

“Bullshit,” says Johnson. “One man couldn’t do that. There must’ve been twenty guys in there that night.”

“Twenty-one, actually. What can I tell you? Like the old saying goes: you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry...”

“So what does this have to do with The Shark?” asks Chambers.

“I saw a news report on TV about it a few hours afterward, and it said there was one survivor—Danny Pellaggio, Roberto’s youngest son. He’d been shot in the leg and chest and was listed as critical. I thought about going back to finish things, but decided against it.”

“Everything The Shark does is a message to you...” says Wallis, putting the pieces together for himself.

“That’s right,” I confirm. “The Shark is Danny Pellaggio. He shot Josh exactly the same way I'd shot him a year ago, to send another message to me about who he is.”

“This is valuable information, Adrian,” says Chambers. “I appreciate you being honest with us.”

“I just want this to end. Like I said, just because you don’t approve of my chosen career, it doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy. I don’t want people suffering any more than you do. Especially when it’s because somebody is playing a game with me.”

“So what would you suggest our next move should be?”

“First of all, I want someone watching Josh. Around the clock. Just because Shark Boy survived, it doesn’t mean he intends for Josh to do the same.”

“I’ll do what I can for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, standing up.

“Where are you going?” asks Johnson.

I point at the jukebox at the far end of the bar. “I need some music,” I reply, walking off and leaving them all exchanging bewildered glances.

I wander over to the back of the bar, past three tables full with the SFPD’s finest. I reach into my pocket for some change and feed some quarters into the machine, cycling through the song list to find something to suit the mood.

It doesn’t take me long. This is a good jukebox.

I walk back over to the table and sit down just as the haunting sounds of the guitar at the beginning of Hell’s Bells by AC/DC is kicking in.

“You good?” asks Chambers, sarcastically.

“I am now,” I reply, smiling.

“Right,” she says, addressing the group. “The way I see it, we need to work on everything we can, as quickly as possible. Bottom line is, we don’t know where to find Danny Pellaggio or what his endgame is. So until we hear from him—which I assume will be soon—Wallis, I want you to work on tracing the gun used. I think Adrian’s logic is sound, and I’m confident the ballistics will confirm his theory. So start checking everything we can to find where he got the weapon from. Distributors, the military, whatever you can.”

“Will do,” he says.

“Johnson, I want you to work with forensics and put together a real picture of how today happened. Look at how he was able to orchestrate such an elaborate attack—the materials used, trajectory of the bullets to pinpoint a location… anything. It might give us some clue about what he’s got planned next.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“And you,” she says, turning to me. “You don’t work for me, and you’re likely to disregard any type of order I think about giving you—”

“You know me so well,” I say, smiling and winking at her, which she ignores.

“But I don’t want you doing anything stupid in the meantime, so you’re with me. You don’t go anywhere without me or my say-so. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Then drink up, gentleman. We’ve got work to do.”

She stands and walks through the bar and out of the front doors without looking back. I watch her leave. She looks fantastic.

Johnson gets to his feet, stretching a little and then waiting. Wallis goes to stand, but I remain in my chair.

“You coming?” he asks.

“Not ‘til this song’s finished,” I reply.

They look at each other and shrug before sitting back down in their seats.

10.

September 24th, 2014

09:31

THE LAST TWELVE hours or so have passed by surprisingly fast. We’d all left the bar last night and headed by to the FBI field office. From there, people took it in turns sleeping and running around getting stressed. It didn’t take long for me to feel out of place and useless, so I resigned myself to trying to get some sleep and sorting everything out in my head.

Chambers insisted I stay by her side as much as possible, but for the most part, I stayed in the conference room while she moved around the office. She must be running on fumes by now, but she hasn’t skipped a beat.

Johnson and Wallis had worked hard through the night and turned up some good information. I’m sitting opposite Chambers now, reviewing what they've managed to turn up so far.

Johnson had been working with the crime scene investigators and the forensic reports to piece together details of the scene. One of their tech guys has generated a 3D computer model of the area using reports and video surveillance footage of the surrounding area at the time.

The computer model is on the big screen at the far end of the room, and Chambers is working the keyboard and mouse, navigating it. I’m the first to admit that high-end technology is beyond my mental capabilities. The whole thing looks like a scene out of Tron. And I don’t mean that recent disaster of a movie either. I mean the classic from 1982 that starred Jeff Bridges.

Given the trajectory of the bullets as they hit Josh, and the distance we were working on based on my estimations about the bullet and the weapon, they’ve managed to pinpoint roughly where Pellaggio was standing as the nightmare unfolded.

If Josh were here, he’d be having a geekgasm all over the place…

“See here,” she says, pointing to an area on the topographical layout that’s north and east of the Academy. “He must have been on the roof of one of these buildings on Balboa Street to have line of sight to what was happening, and to make the shot.”

I look at the screen and imagine myself in Pellaggio’s shoes, carrying out the hit. It’s easily nine hundred meters away, if not further. Taking into account the wind and position of the sun, not to mention trajectory, the fact he hit Josh exactly where he wanted to, twice, is worryingly impressive. Which is a major cause for concern…

“It’s a helluva shot,” I say.

She goes to say something but hesitates and decides against it. I give her a minute to change her mind, but she doesn’t.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sighs, as if in defeat. “Could you have made that shot?” she asks.

She sounds almost timid—nothing like the woman I’d come to know over the last thirty-six hours. Since leaving the hospital, I wouldn’t say she’s been frosty with me, but she’s certainly kept conversation to a minimum. Looking at her, now she’s calmed down, I can see it’s left her with questions.

I think about it for a moment. I might as well be honest…

“Yes. Quite easily,” I reply.

“I don’t get you,” she says, pushing the keyboard away from her and clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. “You’re the strangest person I think I’ve ever met.”

“Not the worst thing a woman’s ever said to me,” I say, laughing.

“Everyone kind of knows who you are and what you do, but you openly admitted it to us surrounded by police. You’re obviously a lot more intelligent than you act, and you have a curiously adorable arrogance about you. Yet you seem so concerned with doing the right thing all the time, it's like you forget you commit murder on a regular basis.”

“I wanna say it’s because I’m mysterious, or because I’m trying to keep this enigma about myself to attract women, or something equally smart and cool. But that would be bullshit, and I won’t ever bullshit you, Grace. I don’t try to fit into a particular category. I don’t live to anyone else’s standards. I have my own opinion on what’s morally right and wrong, and I’m paid very well to kill people who I believe have done bad things in this world. That’s all.”

“I don’t get how you can make what you do sound almost noble,” she says, smiling reluctantly.

“Years of practice,” I reply, returning the smile

“I’m trying so hard to fight every natural urge I have right now to arrest you, you know that, right?”

“I do, and don’t think it’s not appreciated.”

She regards me a moment longer, then retrieves the keyboard and continues navigating her way around the computer model of the events from yesterday.

We study the screen in silence for a few minutes. A knock on the door disturbs us. We both look up to see Agent Wallis standing there, holding a file and looking pleased with himself.

“Wallis, what’ve you got?” asks Chambers, gesturing for him to sit down.

“I’ve got the ballistics back from the bullets that we removed from Josh,” he says, taking a seat at the head of the table between us.

I sit up in my chair. My jaw muscles tense when he mentions Josh by name.

“And?” I say, eagerly.

“You were right,” he says, placing the file in front of him on the table and opening it. “The bullets were indeed fired from a Remington XM2010 sniper rifle.”

“Any idea where he got the hardware from?” asked Chambers.

‘I did some digging around through old and existing cases, and managed to narrow down the search for who might have sold it to Pellaggio to two individuals. Both are known arms dealers operating within the city. One of them is small time, so I ruled him out on the basis that we’ve got no evidence to suggest he’ll have the ability to supply this kind of weaponry. Which leaves us with this guy…”

He turns the page in his file and spins it round to face Chambers, who takes a quick glance and immediately has an ‘I knew it’ look on her face. She turns the file so it faces me.

In front of me is an eight-by-ten black and white mug shot. It’s of a man who looks about my age, with long, spiked hair and piercing, evil eyes. He’s clean-shaven, with a network of scars running across his face.

“Joseph Turner,” says Chambers. “Known locally as Jo-Jo. He’s the only real player in black market weaponry in the city, having murdered or partnered up with anyone who could be classed as a rival.”

“We’ve never been able to make anything against him stick,” adds Wallis. “But the guy’s a real piece of work. It has to be him that sold the rifle to Pellaggio.”

I take another look at Joseph Turner. As far as I’m concerned, he put the gun in Pellaggio’s hands, so he may as well have pulled the trigger himself...

My jaw muscles tense again and a wave of anger washes over me. I push the file away and look up at Chambers.

“Where do I find him?” I ask.

“Easy,” she says. “You can’t just walk in the front door and confront someone like him. We need to play this smart. We need to build evidence and get a warrant and some major back-up before we go after him.”

“And how long’s that going to take?” I ask. “End of the day, this piece of shit is our only lead to finding Pellaggio. The longer you take to get permission to go after the guy, the less chance we have of stopping Pellaggio before it’s too late.”

“Welcome to our world,” she says, abruptly. “But that’s what happens in real life, Adrian. You don’t get to just walk up to someone and shoot them because it’s easier.”

“I would’ve interrogated him first…”

“There’s something else you need to know about him,” says Wallis, tentatively interrupting.

We both look at him expectantly.

“He’s the biggest arms dealer in the city, and as such has ties to local criminal organizations… including the Triads.”

He lets the words hang there for a moment before continuing.

“Adrian, what happened at the hospital… that’s just the tip of the iceberg if the Red Dragon has you in their crosshairs, but if they get word that you’re going after Turner… they’ll protect their business relationship with him any way they can… It could lead to a street war. They’ll put a price on your head—you’ll have nowhere to run.”

“I wouldn’t be running,” I say. “But I see your point. Enough people have been hurt because of someone’s vendetta against me. I won’t allow it to happen again.”

“So let us do this by the book,” says Chambers. “It’s the only way to go about this without causing chaos.”

Thinking, I sit there quietly, looking at every angle and every option. Pellaggio’s the priority here, there’s no question about that. But to get to him, I have to get to this Joseph Turner and I can’t do that without further pissing off a Triad gang who already want me dead for no valid reason.

Unless…

I stand and leave the room, forgetting for a moment I’m in an FBI building. The answer just presented itself to me and my instincts have taken over, immediately rushing toward it.

“Adrian, I’m ordering you not to leave this building!” yells Agent Chambers behind me.

She and Wallis come running after me, stepping in front of me as I reach the main corridor of the building.

“Adrian, will you stop, please?” says Chambers, this time asking instead of telling.

I sigh, feeling bad for pushing them away, but knowing I have no choice if I want to end this.

“Grace, all due respect, but I don’t work for you. Plus, given I’m still not under arrest, there’s pretty much nothing you can actually tell me to do that I have to listen to.”

She sighs. “I know,” she says. “But, please, just wait and let’s do this properly. I don’t disagree that Turner is the best lead we have right now, but you’re going about this all wrong.”

“Am I?” I ask. “I intend going over there and knocking on his front door and saying that I’m in town and in the market for a couple of weapons for a job. I’m going to negotiate a face-to-face meeting with him and explain what guns I need, then offer him a small percentage as a goodwill gesture for supplying me with the hardware. I’ll be inside his operation, I’ll know how many men he has and how protected he is. I’ll be able to gather intel and give you something to justify making an arrest, and if I’m lucky and ask really nicely, he might give me something to go on with Pellaggio.”

Chambers and Wallis exchange a surprised and embarrassed look. He shrugs and she looks bewildered for a moment before looking back at me. Her eyes soften and she glances down before speaking.

“That’s... actually a pretty good plan,” she concedes. “I’m sorry.”

I smile. Ordinarily, right about now I’d launch into a tirade of sarcasm and I-told-you-so’s, but there’s no need. Not with Grace.

“You said yourself: I’m not as dumb as I look,” I say, winking at her.

It’s her turn to smile. “I guess you’re not. But it is stupid thinking you can do all this alone and with no preparation.”

I take a deep breath as an image of Josh flashes into my mind, of him lying in a coma, vulnerable…

“Look, we’re not trying to replace your friend, alright?” says Wallis, as if reading my mind. “But we can help each other here. There’s no doubt you’re the best person for this type of undercover operation. But this is our show. Let us help you prepare for this and we’ll watch your back the whole time.”

“I don’t need your help,” I say, defensively.

“I know,” says Chambers. “But that doesn’t mean it’ll do any harm if you accept it anyway.”

She’s right. They both are. I know it, and they know I know it. It’s more of a pride thing, which sounds silly, given the circumstances. But I feel like I’m betraying Josh if I let someone else do his job. But they make sense—going into something like this could get nasty. And while that doesn’t bother me, and I’m sure I can handle it, it’s simply easier if they were outside ready to back me up.

“Fine,” I say, eventually. “Do what you need to do to make this happen, and I’ll do it your way.”

“Really?” asks Chambers, not even trying to hide the surprise in her voice.

“Well, when I say ‘I’ll do it your way’, I mean I’ll stick to your plan as long as I think it’ll work. If it all goes to shit, as these things tend to do, then I’ll revert to doing things my way.”

Wallis looks nervous.

Chambers says, “That’s fair enough. It’s your life on the line in there. Given how little we have to go on, and how much worse things could get, do what you need to do, alright? Just...” She pauses, as if trying to find the right words. “Just try not to create more trouble than we already have.”

I smile and nod. “Deal.”

They turn to walk back to the conference room but I stop them.

“Oh, there’s one more thing I need for my plan to work,” I say.

“What’s that?” asks Chambers.

“I need to know how I can get a message to the Red Dragon.”

They exchange nervous looks.

“Do I want to know why?” she asks.

“Probably not,” I reply, smiling. “But you have my word it’s a great plan that will definitely work… maybe.”

10:26

After a few minutes of failing to reason with me, we headed back to the conference room. Agent Johnson joined us and Chambers has spent the last quarter of an hour filling him in on what’s happened and what I intend doing.

We’re sitting as we were before, with Johnson now next to Chambers on her right.

“You’re insane,” he says to me. “Are you in a rush to die or something?”

I smile and shake my head. “I’m just looking at the big picture,” I explain. “I’ve got The Shark terrorizing the city to get to me, and I’ve managed to get the Triads to mark me for death because of a misunderstanding in the street. As luck would have it, both problems have something in common—Joseph Turner. He’s supplied weapons to both of them recently, so I need to get to him to track down The Shark. My job here is going to be made very difficult by this Red Dragon outfit, so I need to figure out a way to get them off my back. I’m not going to carry on and let them come at me. I need to make a pre-emptive effort to take them out.”

“And you think this is the way to do that?” he asks, referring to my plan.

“I think it’s got as good a chance as any of working, yeah.”

He shakes his head and falls silent.

“Are you sure about this?” asks Chambers. “We can’t protect you from the Red Dragon if this goes south.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “And it’ll work. Trust me.”

There’s a knock on the glass door and another agent enters and hands a piece of paper to Chambers. They leave again without a word and she passes the paper to me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“That is the phone number of Jak Soo Yung—the head of the Red Dragon. We’ve hit up every contact, undercover agent, and asset we have to get you that.”

I’m genuinely surprised. Not just at the fact they seem willing to go along with my admittedly stupid plan, but that they were able to get results so quickly.

“Wow, thank you…” I say.

“From what we know of their organization—which admittedly isn’t much—your old friend from the hospital is what they call their Vanguard. He’s in charge of the day-to-day running of the less reputable business ventures and reports directly into Jak Soo Yung.”

“We’ve got a file on them,” says Wallis. “But we haven’t really got a formal investigation underway. The Organized Crime Unit might have, but they operate nationwide. This is a localized problem and there’s an uneasy peace on the streets that we don’t get involved with. We let the SFPD manage that.”

“Like we’ve already said, if this plan of yours doesn’t work, you run the risk of starting a war that will spill onto the streets,” adds Chambers.

I nod. “Understood. Can you get me a copy of the file you have on the Red Dragon? On a USB flash drive or something?”

“I guess…” says Chambers, hesitantly.

“Good. How far away is Turner’s place?” I ask.

“He owns an apartment block about fifteen minutes from here,” says Johnson. “He lives on the top floor and runs his business from there.”

“Okay,” I say.

I reach across the table and move the black teleconferencing system closer to me. I dial the number and wait. The three agents look very nervous.

The call connects on the sixth ring, but no one speaks.

“Hello?” I say. “Who’s this?”

“Who you ring?” asks an abrupt voice.

“I’m looking for Jak Soo Yung.”

“And you are?”

“I’m the guy who took out three of his men in the hospital last night and sent some old guy back to him with a message to leave me alone.”

More silence, but I can hear some movement on the line, like the cell phone’s being handed to someone else. The crackling and commotion stops and someone else speaks.

“Who this?”

“I’m looking for Jak Soo Yung.”

“You found him… who this?”

His voice sounds young, but he speaks slowly and deliberately, like a man who answers to no one.

“You get my message from last night?” I ask him.

“Oh… so you dead man? Hello dead man.”

“Yeah, whatever… listen, I’ve changed my mind—I don’t want any trouble, alright? I’ve just got one last thing I need to do, then I’ll leave town and you’ll never see me again. Can we chalk this one up to experience and call it quits while I finish my business?”

There’s a lengthy pause.

“Price on your head...” says Yung. “One million, U.S. dollar.”

Chambers gasps and the other two look like they really feel for me being in this position.

“Is that it?” I ask. “I’m almost insulted… tell you what, how about I do you a favor and we call it quits.”

“No quits.”

“Fair enough, how about I do you a favor anyway? To show you I’m not a bad guy.”

“Go on.”

“I’m in town on business. Got some debts to settle with a man by the name of Joseph Turner. I’m led to believe you’ve had dealings with him?”

More silence on the line, so I continue.

“He’s responsible for hurting someone close to me, and I’m aiming to take him down. I’ve already confronted him and I’ve discovered he’s actually undercover FBI… very quick to spill the beans about what business he does with you.”

“Bullshit,” says Yung.

“How do you think I got this number?” I ask.

No reply.

“I intend to kill him,” I say again. “Originally, I wanted to let you know as a courtesy, because of the business relationship between you. But when I found out he’s ratting on you and everyone else to the Feds, I thought I’d give you a head’s up. Figured maybe we can work something out.”

“You dead man. If what you say true, then Turner dead man too. No agreement.”

“Well, I tell you what—I’m going to be at Turner’s apartment block in forty-five minutes. I’ll gather up all the information he’s got on you, ready to hand over to the Feds, then I’ll give you a call back and we’ll see if we can reach an agreement then, yeah?”

“Who you think you are?” he asks. I can hear the anger in his voice, but he’s doing a good job of keeping calm.

“I’m Adrian Hell,” I say. “Look me up, asshole.”

I hang up and look at Chambers. “Okay, so who’s driving?”

11.

11:00

THE FOUR OF us are parked across the street from Turner’s apartment building. Wallis is behind the wheel, with Chambers riding shotgun. I’m behind her and Johnson is next to me in the back.

The building itself is on the corner of the block and looks pretty similar to what I'd expected. It’s ten stories of old, weathered, rust-colored brick. From where we are, we’ve got a clear view of the south and east sides.

The south side is basking in the morning sun, all the way to the roof. The sunlight’s reflecting off the glass in some windows and only serving to highlight the wooden curtains that are in the others. The entrance is on the east side, covered in shade. Outside, there’s a line of aluminum garbage cans, most of which are brimming over with trash. Just inside the doorway, I can see one guy standing, leaning against the wall.

Must be the doorman…

I lean forward to get a view of the top of the building through the car window. I need to talk my way up to the tenth floor, and engage Turner long enough that he might reveal something of some use about his previous customers.

“You sure about this?” asks Chambers.

“As sure as I can be,” I say.

“And you think Jak Soo Yung will take the bait and show up?”

“Definitely. He’ll have been skeptical about everything I was saying, but he’d have checked my name out after I’d hung up. He’ll believe me after that.”

“But what are you hoping to accomplish?” asks Wallis.

“With some luck and good timing on my part, I’ll be talking to Turner when the Red Dragon Triad arrives. They’ll come in force and, with a gentle push in the right direction from me, my plan is to get Turner and Yung to kill each other.”

“Jesus, we’re gonna lose our fucking badges for this,” mutters Johnson before leaning forward to look at Chambers. “And you’re alright with this?”

“No,” she says. “But time isn’t on our side and at least this way we’re not allowing Adrian to kill anyone himself. If an arms dealer and a Triad gang want to shoot it out between themselves where no innocent civilians can get hurt, I’m not going to complain.”

She turns in her seat to face me. “Wear this,” she says.

She produces an earpiece and a battery unit with a small microphone attached to it. I take it from her and toss it onto Johnson’s lap next to me.

“No fucking way am I wearing a wire,” I say. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“That’s the deal,” says Chambers, shaking her head in protest. “If you’re going in there, you’re going in wired. If Turner does give you anything, I want it on tape, ready to present as evidence to the District Attorney.”

I massage my temples in frustration. “I’m guessing you’ve never tried to buy black market weapons before?” I ask her, rhetorically.

“Have you?” asks Johnson, smirking.

“I exercise my right to remain silent,” I reply to him, before looking back at her. “First thing they’ll do is pat me down to check for weapons. Next, they’ll wand me to check for any electronic equipment. If this guy’s the big player you make him out to be, then show him some more respect. If I put this on, I’ll have a bullet in my head before I can take three paces inside that building, plain and simple.”

She sighs and turns around, unhappy.

“What’s the name of the other weapons dealer you dismissed for this?” I ask.

“His name’s Mickey Cartwright,” says Chambers, without turning round again. “He’s small time. Has a few counts of possession to his name, and he's suspected of supplying small arms to local dealers. Nothing major. Why?”

“Because I’m going to use him as an excuse for being here.”

“How will we know if you need back-up?” she asks.

“Twelve years I’ve been doing this, and I’ve done alright without any so far,” I say. “But if you mean, how will you know if it’s going well or not, then just assume that if you don’t hear gunfire and you don’t see bodies falling from the sky, then I’m doing alright.”

There’s an uneasy silence in the car for a moment.

“Oh, by the way, where are my guns?” I ask.

“They’re in the lock-up back at the office,” replies Wallis.

“I want them back at some point… Right, now drive past and circle round the block. Pull up across the street round the corner by the south side of the building.”

I unfasten my belt and get out of the car, quickly looking around before walking down the street and turning left. I walk casually along until I draw level with the entrance. I stand outside, trying to look like I’m trying to be inconspicuous but failing. The act works and it only takes a minute or so for the door to open and the guy to appear. He’s an average-looking man, young—maybe late twenties, with long, styled, jet-black hair.

“You lost?” he says. His voice is high-pitched and sounds… slimy.

“I’m looking for Jo-Jo,” I say. “I heard this was his place. You know him?”

“Never heard of him,” he replies. “Who the fuck’s askin’?”

“If you’ve never heard of him, why does it matter who I am?”

He breathes in, trying to bring himself to his full height and width to look more intimidating. Then he brushes the left side of his open jacket aside to reveal a holstered gun.

“You tryin’a be smart with me, asshole?”

The urge to flatten the guy right now is overwhelming, but I stop myself. I’ve got a mission here and it’s way too early to write it off just yet.

I put my hands up, open palms facing him, to signify passiveness.

“Hey, buddy, I’m not looking for any trouble, alright? Mickey C sent me here and said to ask for Jo-Jo. Said he’d be able to hook me up.”

He visibly relaxes a little. “Mickey sent you, did he? What you lookin’ for, man?”

“I’m after some hardware. A couple of serious pieces. I’ve got plenty of cash. I heard Jo-Jo is the man to see.”

“Alright, wait here.”

He presses a buzzer and when the door opens, he disappears inside.

I breathe out and relax. So far, so good. I glance around idly, like I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m sure there’ll be at least one surveillance camera on me, so I have to act the part. I look behind me absently, glimpsing the front end of the sedan with the three FBI musketeers in it around the corner.

With him having to buzz himself in, I figure that means there’s maybe one guy on the other side of the door. More likely, there’ll be two. Probably armed as well.

I look up, all the way to the sky. If I do manage to get up there to talk with Turner, and if it does go wrong, that’s a whole lot of building to try to get out of…

I sigh, steeling myself and clearing my mind. I know the rules: don’t think about it, just do it.

The door clicks and the doorman pushes it open and holds it for me.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing me in with his hand.

I step past him through the door and into a small lobby. At the end, side by side, are two elevators—both out of order.

Figures.

On the left wall is a large cabinet of lockers, presumably used as mailboxes. On the right, immediately as I walk in, is a table with a chair at each end—both occupied by badly dressed and grossly overweight men. Further along the wall is a flight of stairs.

The walls are a sickly, pale yellow color, and are cracked almost everywhere. The fluorescent lights buzz loudly overhead, although there are more broken than not. The floor’s covered in linoleum that was probably laid down in the seventies and never replaced. It’s peeling around the edges, and has large air bubbles all over it. It’s dirty and discolored.

There’s a faint stench of excrement as well, which stings my nostrils.

“Nice place,” I say, not hiding my sarcasm or general disdain.

The two overweight guys at the table stand up. They’re slightly shorter than me, but easily a hundred and fifty pounds heavier. And it isn’t muscle. They could be twins. Both have those bucket hats on that people wear for fishing, with sunglasses and badly designed facial hair. In their podgy hands are large pistols—I don’t want to stare, but I’m pretty sure they’re Desert Eagles, fifty caliber.

Christ, those things are like fucking cannons...

The doorman comes up behind me and I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being drawn and the safety being clicked off. I turn slowly to face him. The Desert Eagle twins both have their guns trained on me and the doorman’s aiming his right between my eyes.

“Now,” he says. “Let’s try again. Who the fuck are you?”

11:05

I need to stay calm and relax. My instinct right now is to fight. I could have all three of them on the floor, in pieces, in a heartbeat. But I need to look like I’m playing it cool. I can’t think about this like I normally would. I’m not Adrian Hell right now, I’m just a guy trying to buy a gun, and this is probably normal. This is an intel-gathering operation and I need them to think I’m something less than what I am.

They need to believe they’re in control.

“Whoa! Guys, come on—there’s no need for any hostility. I just wanna do some business…” I say, raising my arms again and trying my best to look slightly afraid.

“And what business might that be?” asks the doorman.

“I already told you. Mickey Cartwright sent me here and said that Jo-Jo would be able to help me out, because he couldn’t get me what I was after.”

“You a cop?” asks one of the large twins.

“Am I a cop? Fuck you, alright? Fuck... you...! I don’t need this shit. No, I’m not a fucking cop! I got a job to do in this city and I need some hardware to help me do it. I got plenty of cash to spend, and I want the best. Word is, this is the place to get it. If you boys are doing so well that you don’t need my business, I’ll take it elsewhere.”

Silence falls and I fight to keep my breathing normal and subdue the rush of adrenaline my body’s trying to release. At least I’ve got nothing to worry about; obviously I’m not a cop…

My mind flashes to Agent Chambers, handing me the earpiece and microphone.

She would’ve got me killed.

The doorman turns to the large twin who spoke.

“Search him,” he says.

He tucks his gun into the back of his jeans and waddles over to me.

“Arms out to the sides, asshole,” he says, partially out of breath.

“My pleasure,” I say.

He pats me down, finding nothing. “He’s clean,” he says after a minute.

“Okay,” says the doorman, turning to the other large guy. “Give him the wand.”

“Give me the what?” I shout, acting dumb and sounding offended. “Hey, I don’t need these guns that much. Nobody’s sticking anything inside me!”

“Relax, you idiot,” the doorman says. “We’re just gonna scan you to make sure you’re not wearing a wire.”

“Oh. Well in that case, wand me to your heart’s content.” I laugh, somewhat nervously, but get no reaction.

So far, it's going pretty much as I’d expected it to. I hate myself for having to act the part, but I’m getting closer to Pellaggio by doing it. That’s all that matters.

The other large twin puts his gun away and pulls out a small, black stick, which I know is the wand. It detects the radio frequencies emitted by any electronic device it moves over, and beeps when it finds one.

This is the part where it gets tricky. Albeit reluctantly, Chambers did give me a copy of the FBI file on the Red Dragon on a USB drive. It’s only small, and it’s currently in the heel of my right boot, which I hollowed out, so it slides back to reveal a hidden compartment. It’s useful for smuggling things like USB drives. I must admit, I’ve never had much call to use it, but Josh was insistent.

Thankfully, people rarely think to check as low down as the shoes, because typically, they’re only looking for weapons. As a result, they only search your arms, legs and body.

He quickly waves it around my body, revealing nothing.

Phew…

‘We’re good,’ he says.

The doorman nods and puts his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“James,” I say, lying.

“Okay, James—follow me.”

He sets off up the stairs, beckoning me to follow. I walk after him, briefly looking back over my shoulder at the large twins.

“You boys not coming?” I ask with a smile.

One of them gives me the middle finger and they both sit back down on their chairs, which creak loudly under the weight.

“Huh, figured as much,” I say, just loud enough for them to hear me.

We walk up two flights of stairs in silence. The decor on each floor mirrors that of the lobby. I suspect any residents of this particular tower block aren’t overly concerned about the state of the wallpaper in the hallways...

“You know, this would be a lot more customer-friendly if you got the elevators fixed,” I observe, casually.

“We ain’t trying for no Investors In People awards, dickhead,” comes the response.

We carry on in silence until we come up on the fourth floor landing. A group of five men is loitering around outside the nearest door to the stairwell. They look like low-level heroin addicts—skinny, with their faces thin and drawn; their eyes set deep in their sockets. They stop talking and all turn to look at me, giving me a disapproving once over, but say nothing. They nod an unspoken greeting to the doorman before turning back to their own conversation.

Onward we climb, up floor after floor, until we finally reach the landing on the tenth.

The top floor looks different. It’s cleaner, for a start. There’s been more effort made with the décor—a nice carpet replaces the forty-year-old linoleum. White paint replaces the cracked, dirty, pale yellow found on the floors below us. There’s even a large plant by the wall next to the elevators.

Joseph Turner must want to make it abundantly clear to anyone who comes here that he’s in charge and they’re in his house.

We turn right and walk down the long corridor. There are fewer apartments on this floor, which I suspect means that they’re bigger inside. We walk past two doors, one on either side. Both are open. On the left, I can see a room full of muscle—at least four guys, built like bodybuilders, and armed with shotguns. There’s a woman in there too, counting money at a table. No one looks up as we walk past.

That’s not a good sign. There are a lot of people here, which means Turner has lots of protection. It’s a large-scale operation, no doubt about it.

I glance in the door on the right. From what I can see, it’s a living room of some kind. A couple of worn sofas are visible. There are three more guys in there, sitting in a cloud of smoke floating above them. I recognize the smell—a very strong and high quality marijuana. Sitting among the guys are a couple of young women—neither looks any older than twenty-one. Both are skinny and under-nourished. Addicts, I’m guessing. Both are completely naked.

Jesus. Their fathers must be so proud…

We come to the end of the corridor. The doorman knocks on the last door on the left, which has a guy either side of it armed with a shotgun. They both nod a curt greeting to him as he approaches. There’s a sound from behind the door of multiple locks unfastening and bolts sliding back, then it opens slowly, about two inches. I can just about see one eye and half a nose in the gap.

“Got a customer here to see Jo-Jo,” announces the doorman.

The door slams shut again, and a moment later, it opens fully. The doorman steps to one side and gestures me through with his gun.

“Go on,” he says.

I step past him and walk inside the apartment. The guy who opened the door stands, leaning against the wall on my left. He shuts the door behind me, and pushes me on my shoulder to signal I should go in.

The apartment is a large open-plan expanse, with four doors leading off into other rooms. I quickly glance around the room and I soon spot Joseph Turner. He’s sitting in a large armchair but quickly stands as I walk in. He has six guys in here with him, all packing Desert Eagles.

I know that because they all have them drawn and in their hands…

He must have got a bulk discount on the damn things or something!

There are also three women, looking similar to the ones I just saw down the hall, but with more clothes on. Only just, though.

The main living area has a kitchenette in the far left corner as I look. It’s small and basic, but good enough quality. Next to that in the right corner is a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. It’s easily sixty inches. It looks like a goddamn cinema.

There’s an over-sized, L-shaped sofa in the middle of the room, occupied by the three women and two of the guys. In front of me and to the right is a large, floor to ceiling window and a dining table with six chairs around it. Three of the guys are sitting around the table, which I note has a laptop open on it. The remaining guy is standing over by the TV near Turner.

Everyone turns to look at me as I enter.

Turner steps toward me. He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, brown shorts and sandals. He also has on a beaded, wooden necklace and black sunglasses resting on top of his head. He has a couple of days’ worth of rough stubble on his face. He looks like a surfer missing his board. Not quite what you’d expect from one of the premier arms dealers on the West Coast. When he speaks, his voice is deep and gravelly, like he’s smoked forty a day for the last twenty years.

“Who are you, and what can I do for you?” he asks, looking me up and down wearily.

“My name’s James,” I say, trying to sound uncomfortable and quiet.

“James...?”

“Hetfield.”

He looks at me funny. “Your name is James Hetfield?”

I nod, trying to look like I don’t see what the big deal was.

He laughs loudly and points at me, looking around until his six hired goons, plus the one behind me, start laughing too.

“Do you know that’s a pretty famous name around these parts?” he says, as his laughter subsides.

I shrug and shake my head. “No kiddin’?” I say, acting clueless, but knowing damn well who James Hetfield is.

He has a strange smile that would be un-nerving to the average person, and an aura about him that exudes confidence and charisma. But he also has a look in his eye that screams of evil. I know I have to tread carefully.

“Listen,” I say. “I was told you could help me out. I’m looking for some hardware, and your name is top of the list of suppliers around these parts. Am I in the right place?”

“That depends,” he says, casually strolling over to counter in the kitchenette. “What do you want?”

“I need a handgun. Something light, but sturdy. I was thinking maybe a Glock?”

“Okay,” he nods. “Easy enough to supply.”

“I also need a sniper rifle for a .300 caliber round. I’m looking at a thousand meters, easy. Was thinking maybe a Remington?”

“A Remington?” he says, stroking his stubble with his hand as if deep in thought. “Interesting choice… Mind if I ask what you want it for?”

Bingo.

“My guy is gonna be covering me from a good distance. I need to make sure he has a reliable weapon, given he’s guarding my life.”

Turner nods. “A wise choice. You seem to know your stuff, Mr... Hetfield. You’re in luck, too. I had someone just the other day come in and order the same rifle, so I got my hands on a crate of them.”

“Really? Well, that is a stroke of luck.”

I know I’ve got to play it just right, but I leap on the opportunity to try to get something more out of him.

“Hang on a minute,” I say, giving my best look of sudden concern. “What did this other guy look like?”

Turner cocks his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as they flick to one of his bodyguards, then back to me.

“Why?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Well, I’m just thinking—I’ve spent weeks researching this job in extensive detail, and that rifle is perfect for it. If someone else is in town asking after the same gun, maybe they’ve got designs on the same job I do. It’s a competitive business that I’m in, shall we say. I wouldn’t mind checking the guy out, if it’s all the same to you.”

His face softens and his expression mellows again.

“I can understand that. You gotta protect your investments, am I right?”

“Absolutely.”

“But while I feel your pain, Jimmy, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to decline in helping you out with that. I run a reputable business, and the privacy of my clients is paramount. The confidentiality I guarantee with the service I provide is the reason I’m as successful as I am.”

He gestures to the room, as if it’s a prime example of his accomplishments.

“I understand,” I say, not wanting to push my luck. “So, how do you want to work this? I can get the money to you by the end of today. You got a bank account I can arrange a transfer to?”

He laughs again. “Jimmy, I sell weapons for a living—I deal in cash, and I don’t exactly declare things to the IRS, know what I’m saying?”

“Oh, of course—sorry! I can have the cash with you in a few hours. How much are we looking at?”

Turner walks over to me. The bodyguard who’s standing next to him also takes a few steps toward me, but hangs back. I glance around quickly and subtly at the rest of the room. The three women on the sofa aren’t a threat, so I can rule them out. The three guys at the table, the two on the sofa and the one backing up Turner are the main concern. Plus there’s the guy behind me by the door…

Certainly not the best situation I’ve ever been in. However, as sad as it makes my life sound, it’s not the worst either.

Turner’s standing a couple of feet in front of me. I regard him with as neutral a gaze as I can, trying to stay in character.

“Well,” he begins. “For the Glock, I’ll do you a good price, because I like your name.”

He laughs again. I hate people who continuously amuse themselves like that. “You can have it for five hundred,” he continues.

I nod, with a slightly surprised look on my face. “That’s a fair price. I appreciate that, Jo-Jo—thank you.”

He shrugs humbly. “I’m a businessman,” he says. “I know how to conduct my business deals, y’know. Now, the Remington... that’ll cost ya. Seventy-five hundred.”

Being in the line of work that I am, I happen to know that a good price for a sniper rifle of that caliber is around the six thousand mark. What he’s trying to charge me is extortionate!

“That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?” I ask, taking more of a risk than I probably should do.

Turner flexes his shoulders, and I feel all the bodyguards around me tense up.

“Hey, you came to me, remember? You don’t like the price list? Fuck off.”

I sense the guy behind me take a step closer.

Shit.

I’m pretty sure the whole thing’s just gone horribly wrong…

I put my hands up defensively.

“I’m sorry, man. I meant nothing by it. Can’t blame a guy for trying to negotiate a little, right? Seventy-five hundred is fine.”

“No… y’know what? The price just went up. You want the Remington? It’ll cost you an even ten large.”

I sigh. My spider sense is tingling big time. This conversation is only going to end one way, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to cower away and back off and apologize and grovel. I don’t care if I am pretending.

Besides, I need to stall in the hope the next part of my plan works. But before that, I need to get over to that laptop, which isn’t going to happen with seven guys and Turner in the way…

Time for plan B, I think. When in doubt: antagonize and capitalize. Wind them up so they make a mistake, then take advantage.

I look Turner dead in the eye. My persona slowly shifts back to normal. I feel my body relax, my breathing slow and my mind kick in and begin to work on an exit strategy.

The faint sound of gunfire way below us distracts me.

Didn’t even get chance to say anything…

Turner hears it too, as the mood changes and he looks over at the group of three men on my right by the table.

“You three,” he says. “Go and find out what the fuck’s going on.”

The three of them stand and pile out the door. The guy standing by it remains in the room, as do the two on the sofa, who now stand and stare at me.

Turner draws his gun—which is also a Desert Eagle—and aims it at my head.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands.

I hold my hands out to the sides. “I told you who I am. Who the fuck are you?” I reply. “Is this some kind of set up? Are you a fucking cop?”

He scoffs and seems to take genuine offence. “No, I’m fucking not. Are you?”

“No! I just want to buy a goddamn gun—is that too much to ask?”

The door bursts open behind me. I turn and see one of the three guys rushing back in, out of breath.

“Boss, we got a big fucking problem!”

12.

11:17

TURNER DOESN’T MOVE, keeping his gun trained on me. He looks at his man.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he asks.

“We got Triad storming the place, spreading out across every floor! They’re shooting everyone they see!”

“Fuck!” He looks back at me. “Well, haven’t you picked the worst fucking time to buy a gun?” he says.

“What’s going on here, Jo-Jo? If there’s trouble, I’d like my guns right now,” I say.

“You just wait here, and don’t fucking move.” He turns to the guys left in the room. ‘You three—you’re with me. I want to know what these ignorant Triad fucks are thinking, attacking me in my house!”

He storms out of the room, followed by the men. I’m left standing on my own, with only three half-naked women who are high, and a doorman who appears unarmed for company.

Perfect.

I look at the laptop, then at the man behind me by the door.

“Hey, I might just take off,” I say. “I think maybe this is a bad time…”

The guy produces a gun from his back and aims it at me.

Oh look, a Desert Eagle…

“The Boss told you to stay put, so you’re not going anywhere,” he says.

I take a step toward him, trying to tempt him closer to me. Seeing me move, he walks toward me and steps a couple of feet in front of me, placing the barrel of his gun against my forehead.

“I said, don’t fucking move,” he says.

I quickly look him up and down. He’s average height and build, no obvious physical limitations. Confident with the gun, but probably not used to thinking for himself, given his job is guarding a door.

I lean my upper body back as I quickly swipe my right hand across to the left, knocking his gun away from me. Unprepared for the attack, he stands frozen and wide-eyed, making my job a whole lot easier. I go to grab his throat, but jab my hand into his larynx instead of gripping it. He drops the gun and holds his throat with both hands as he coughs violently. With my right leg, I kick him hard in the balls. He sinks to his knees, moving one hand to cradle the injured area, but still coughing. I swing my right elbow across, catching him on the side of his head with the thick bone at the top of my forearm. He crashes to the floor unconscious.

Without a second’s hesitation, I move over to the table and take my shoe off, retrieving the USB drive from the heel. I plug it into Turner’s laptop and open up the file directory. I need to copy the Red Dragon’s FBI file onto his computer, so it looks like he’s had it the whole time, feeding the lie I told Jak Soo Yung about Turner being an informant.

I copy the information across and begin searching through his files. I need to find some records of his transactions. He must keep them, so he can track his finances. I click through folder after folder, but come up with nothing.

Dammit…

What would Josh do?

Who am I kidding? I have no idea what Josh would do right now—he’s so much smarter than I am.

Okay, think… would Turner keep those kinds of files on this physical laptop?

Probably not. It’s not very secure.

So where else would he keep them?

You can store things remotely or wirelessly or whatever, right?

I click on the ‘My Computer’ icon on his desktop.

There’s an external server listed here…

I click that.

A file directory opens with folders named by date…

This might be it!

I start clicking into folders going back a week. Turner said Pellaggio came by the other day…

I open a folder dated four days ago.

There’s one document in there, so I click on that.

It looks like a shopping list. I quickly scan through it.

Yes!

There’s the Remington—this must be it.

There’s an address on here too—they must’ve delivered it.

Wait a minute… is this entire list what Pellaggio ordered? It must be…

Holy shit—there’s a lot of hardware on here…

I hear movement out in the hall. I quickly copy the file onto the USB drive. It only takes a few seconds. I unplug the drive and put it back in my heel, then close the various windows down on the laptop.

I put my shoe back on and walk over to the unconscious doorman. I take his gun and check the magazine’s full.

Not sure how I’m going to get out of here…

Turner appears in the doorway, looking very pissed off. He’s not holding a gun anymore. He only has one of his men with him. They walk inside, quickly staring at the guy on the floor and back at me, holding the gun. I smile at him, but before anyone can say anything, the doorway fills as five men pile in behind Turner.

They’re Chinese, and three of them are wearing the same black suits and blood-red shirts as the guys in the hospital yesterday. One of them is the old guy, still wearing the same dirty white vest and short brown trousers

Does he ever change his clothes?

The last guy walks in slowly, purposefully. He’s wearing a light gray suit and looks a bit older, maybe closer to my age. He’s bald and has very smooth, unblemished skin. He’s wearing a black shirt with the collar open.

Jak Soo Yung, I’m guessing.

They all walk in and fan out, seemingly ignoring me completely. Turner and his man stand in the middle of the room between the sofa and the kitchenette. The three guys in blood-red shirts form a loose line in front of them, with their backs to me. The old guy narrows his eyes and frowns, glaring at me angrily as he walks past everyone, sitting down in the armchair over by the TV. The last guy stops in front of me. He’s holding a gun in his right hand. It’s a Browning Hi-Power and is solid gold.

Very nice!

“Adrian Hell?” he asks. His voice is low and deliberate.

I lower my gun a little. “Yeah, who’s asking?” I say.

“We are Red Dragon.”

“So you’re Jak Soo Yung?”

He nods.

I look over at Turner, who looks furious and frightened at the same time. He’s glaring at me.

“I can’t believe you’re Adrian Hell!” he snarls through gritted teeth.

I smile and shrug. “My reputation clearly precedes me. I’m sorry, Jo-Jo. All this is kinda my fault. You see, I told Mr. Yung here your secret—that you’re really an undercover Fed. That’s why he’s so pissed off.”

His mouth opens and his eyes widen, shocked and appalled at the insinuation.

“What? No I’m not!” he protests. He looks at Soo Yung, fear flickering into his eyes.

“Jak, I’m not a cop—you know me!” he pleads. “We’ve done business together for years.”

Soo Yung looks at me as he adjusts his grip on his Browning. He raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, this is nothing to do with me,” I say. “Check out his computer if you don’t believe me.”

Soo Yung looks past everyone to the old man and nods. The old man stands and pushes past Turner, then his men, then me, and sits down at the table, spinning the laptop in front of him and tapping away on the keyboard.

He quickly finds the FBI file on Red Dragon. He shouts in Chinese—presumably cursing and looks at Soo Yung. He strides over and looks at the screen himself.

“What? What are you looking at?” asks Turner, panicking. He looks at me. “What the fuck have you done?”

“I think they’ve just found the FBI file you’ve been keeping on them on your computer,” I say.

“That’s ridiculous! I don’t have a—”

The old man interrupts him; he pushes past me and walks over to him, grabbing him by the back of the neck, and ushering him across the room to the table. He forces him into one of the chairs and moves the laptop in front of him, jabbing angrily at the screen.

“You undercover?” asks the old man.

Turner looks at the screen and his eyes go wide as he reads the file.

I smile to myself.

Gotcha.

“You sonofabitch!” he yells at me. “You did this!”

I shrug and look at Soo Yung. “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I say. “But I’m not happy he’s giving your details to the FBI… he must be giving mine too.”

I level my Desert Eagle at him.

Doing this prompts everyone else to raise their guns too, causing a loud, metallic noise as multiple weapons simultaneously cock and take aim. Soo Yung levels his Browning at me. I look behind me and one of the three men in suits is aiming at Turner’s muscle. The other two have one gun on me, one on Turner.

“Well, this is exciting, isn’t it?” I say with a smile.

“You dead man,” Yung says to me.

“Oh, are we still not okay?” I ask. “That’s… disappointing.”

I move my gun and aim at Soo Yung.

“Here’s what I propose… I’m going to walk out of here and you have my word you’ll never see me again. You can feel free to dispose of Mr. Turner here and destroy the FBI file, so you guys are in the clear. Everybody wins. Sound good?”

He aims his gun at me.

“No. You dead man. Nobody disrespect the Red Dragon!”

I see Turner sitting at the table getting twitchy out of the corner of my eye. I think he’s getting ready to make a move… But what move can he make? He’s got one man with him, unarmed. He’s sitting down, unarmed. There are three Triad men with guns on the pair of them, and I’m in a standoff with the leader of the Triad. He’ll be dead before he takes a step.

I see his right arm moving slightly and his hand’s under the table.

That sneaky bastard’s got a gun under there, hasn’t he?

I turn and look at him, raising an eyebrow. He smiles back at me and confirms my suspicions.

Soo Yung is maybe four feet away from me. Arm’s length at a stretch. It’s the three guys behind me I’m worried about…

I glance at Turner again and he’s ready to make his move.

I’ve got to play this just right…

I lunge forward, dropping and driving my left shoulder into Soo Yung’s thighs. I aim blindly behind me with my right and fire off a couple of rounds at the men behind me—the blast of the Desert Eagle is deafening in the quiet apartment. I don’t see if I hit anyone.

As we hit the deck, Soo Yung grunts under my weight. A thunderous blast sounds behind me. I roll onto my back and look over to see Turner standing with a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun in his hand. Smoke is whispering out of the ends and the old man is on the floor—his head has pretty much evaporated and there’s a large pool of thick crimson all around him.

I take my aim at Turner just as he fires at the three men in the center of the room. His blast takes out two of the men at the same moment I fire, hitting him in the shoulder, and nearly severing his left arm. He flies backward to the floor and I scramble to my feet at the exact moment Soo Yung does.

Side by side with little room to maneuver, I drop my gun and grab him with both hands around the head, clasping them together and pulling him down toward me. I drive my right knee up to meet him and feel his jaw dislocate from the impact. I let go and he slumps to the floor, dropping his weapon.

I crouch to retrieve it as a bullet flies over my head. I spin around to see the remaining Triad member taking aim at me. I raise the Browning that Soo Yung dropped and fire three rounds, hitting the guy in the chest.

I stand for a moment, holding the gun ready while I let the scene settle. The echoes of the gunfire fade away and I hear a groaning off to my right. I look over and Turner is slumped against the wall, sitting upright on the floor holding his left shoulder.

“Well, that was fun,” I say to him.

He’s lost a lot of blood and is fighting to stay conscious.

“What the… fuck, man?” he manages to say. “Why did… you… do this?”

I walk over and squat down next to him, gesturing with the gun as I talk.

“Well, initially, this was about the Remington,” I explain. “The one you sold the other day? The guy who bought it used it to shoot a friend of mine and I want to find the sonofabitch.”

“That’s not… my fault…”

“I never said it was. But along the way, I managed to piss off these Red Dragon assholes. When I found out they do business with you as well, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

He smiles; his mouth is filled with blood. “You’ll never… get out of here… alive,” he says.

“Don’t you worry yourself about that—I’ll think of something.”

I place the barrel of the Browning Hi-Power against his left temple and rest my finger on the trigger. “Any last words?” I ask him.

He turns his head slightly and looks at me. “Fuck… you…”

I smile. “Original…”

I squeeze the trigger and blow the right side of his head clean off. He falls away from me, landing heavily on the floor among the parts of his head and brain that’s exploded across the floor.

I stand and walk over to Soo Yung, who’s out cold but not dead. I tap his foot with mine, but I get nothing.

I look around the apartment. The three half-naked women are still sitting on the sofa, very much alive, if only in the biological sense of the word. The one on the left is covered in the blood of… someone—I don’t know who. They’re giggling to themselves, seemingly unaware of what’s been happening around them.

I should really try to help them get out of here… but I just can’t find it in me to do it. These three are nothing but a colossal waste of life. I’ll let fate decide what happens to them.

I walk out of the apartment and into the corridor. There’s a sea of bodies—both Red Dragon and Turner’s men, leading from the doorway down to the elevators and the stairs.

Jesus—it’s like a goddamn slaughterhouse in here!

I navigate the minefield of corpses and stand at the top of the stairs. I look over the handrail, all the way down to the first floor. From what I can see, pretty much every floor is the same. I can hear voices below—sounds like some Triads are still alive, which means they’ll be coming to re-group with their Boss. I look at the Browning in my hand, which has maybe seven rounds left in it.

Hmmm… the numbers are against me. How the hell am I getting out of here?

Oooo, light bulb moment!

I rush back to Turner’s apartment, stepping over Soo Yung’s still unconscious body and over into the kitchenette. I quickly raid the cupboards, looking for something useful. I find two bottles of vodka and a pack of cigarettes with a lighter.

I smile. These will do nicely.

I tuck the Browning in my waistband at the back and move over to the oven, turning all the gas burners on full. I grab both bottles of vodka in one hand and the lighter in the other and turn to walk out of the apartment.

I glance over at the women on the sofa. Two of them have passed out and the third one is looking at me curiously.

“You might want to consider getting out of here,” I say to her, but she doesn’t reply.

I shrug and walk away. “Suit yourself…” I mutter.

I walk toward the door but Soo Yung stops me, grabbing my ankle as I walk past. I look down at him and see he’s trying to say something, but he can’t get the words out because of the dislocated jaw. I kick him in the face with my other foot.

“Piss off,” I say to him.

I stand in the doorway and tuck one bottle under my arm, as I open the other, and pour it on the floor just inside the room. Walking backward down the hall and toward the elevator, I pour a thin trail of vodka as I do.

I reach the handrail by the stairs and can hear shouting below me. I quickly glance over the edge and see at least ten guys running up the stairs toward me—all Triad.

I empty the bottle and open the second one, pouring a small pool of it at the top of the stairs before trailing it back to the elevators. I place it on the ground and, using my fingertips, force the doors of the elevator open. I slide them apart and look down the ten story shaft, glimpsing the roof of the elevator below. I let out a heavy sigh.

Heights have never been a favorite of mine… I haven’t really thought this through have I?

I hear the noise of the men getting closer behind me.

Well, no time for fear now.

I finish emptying the second vodka bottle on the floor by the doors and without thinking, I step out into the abyss, grabbing hold of the thick cables running down the center of the shaft. I grip them tightly and wrap my feet around it. Putting one hand underneath the other, I slowly move myself down. I stop when my head’s level with the floor and get the lighter, flicking it on and holding it for a moment, watching the flame flickering in my hand.

I glance down and close my eyes briefly, steeling myself for what is going to have to be a very quick descent.

I open my eyes again and throw the lighter up through the doors. I hear the faint whooshing sound as the trail of vodka catches fire.

Time to go!

As quickly as I dare, I climb down the cables. My hands soon start to sting and burn, but I ignore it. I’m keeping count of how many sets of doors I pass, so I know how far down I am without having to look below me.

I’ve just passed the fifth floor.

I hear screaming above me. I’ve got just a few more seconds before that trail of alcohol leads the flame into the apartment filled with gas… With a bit of luck, the remaining Triad men will make it in there just in time.

Third floor.

The cable shakes as I hear the explosion, almost causing me to lose my grip. Looking up, I see a huge fireball enter the shaft and force its way down toward me.

Oh shit!

I start to fall. Looking up again, the cable whips and lashes toward me, being chased by a cloud of fire. The blast must have snapped it…

Thankfully, I don’t have that far to fall, but it’s still close to two floors. I land heavily on the roof of the elevator, pain instantly shooting through my entire body. I wince, but I know I have very little time to get out of here. I scramble to my feet and stomp on the security vent on the roof. It takes me three kicks, but it eventually falls into the elevator. Quickly, I jump into it, diving through the open doors and into the lobby. As I land, the explosion completely engulfs the elevator shaft and billows out behind me.

There’s a loud roar as the flames rush over me. I cover my head with my hands and make myself as flat as possible. The heat scorches my skin, and the stench of burnt vodka and flesh stings my nostrils.

After a few seconds, it’s over.

I push myself up and rest on all fours, catching my breath. My arms are burning from the workout of climbing down the cable. It seems I’m not as light as I used to be…

I look up at the front door, only to see the large twins both standing with their mouths open, in complete shock.

Speaking of not being as light as we used to be...

I stand up, dust myself down and stretch to crack my neck and back. I draw Soo Yung’s gold Browning and level it at the pair of them.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ve had a really bad day. I’ve just killed Joseph Turner and most of the Red Dragon Triad—including its boss, Jak Soo Yung. Before that, they killed the majority of Turner’s men. I’ve also just blown up probably the top three floors of the building, hopefully killing any stragglers. I can’t be bothered fighting with you two, and trust me, you two don’t wanna try to fight with me, either. What say we all forget we saw one another, and we live to see another day?”

They look at each other, and then throw their guns down, turning and running for the main doors. Well, I say ‘running’... it’s more like an awkward waddle, but you get the idea.

I breathe a sigh of relief and walk slowly out of the main doors.

13.

13:40

I’M SITTING IN the conference room in the FBI Field Office, at the head of the table at the far end, with the TV behind me. To my immediate left and right are Agents Wallis and Johnson respectively. At the opposite end of the table is Agent Chambers.

The mood is… tense, shall we say.

I’d walked out of Turner’s apartment building and seen bodies—and bits of bodies—littering the sidewalk. I looked up and saw the top of the building on fire. Must’ve been the top three floors easily.

I smiled to myself, walked back to the car, climbed in the back beside Johnson, and we’d sped off as fire crews and local police began showing up.

We made our way back to the Field Office and I was ushered into this room with very little interaction from anyone. The three of them disappeared for a while and only came back a few minutes ago.

Chambers stands and leans on the desk, looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.

“Adrian, we trusted you,” she says. “What the hell happened in there?”

I shrug. “It went south,” I reply. “It started off alright—Jak Soo Yung arrived just as I was conducting the deal with Turner. I managed to plant the file on Turner’s laptop, and Soo Yung found it like I’d hoped he would.”

“So what went wrong?” asks Wallis.

“The Red Dragon came a little more prepared than I anticipated. They brought a goddamn army with them—must’ve taken out nearly all of Turner’s men and were coming for me. I had no choice but to fight my way out.”

Chambers sits down again and massages her temples, struggling to get her head around what’s happened.

“Adrian, you killed one of the largest black market weapons dealers in the country and single-handedly destroyed an entire Triad operation,” she says. “The repercussions this will have on the streets don’t bear thinking about. What have you got to say for yourself?”

I shrug. “I don’t know… you’re welcome?”

She shakes her head and leans back in her chair and the room falls awkwardly silent.

“Did you find anything out from Turner about Pellaggio?’ asks Wallis after a moment”

I reach down and take off my shoe, sliding the heel back and taking out the USB drive. I slide it over to him.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“I found it on his laptop,” I say. “Well, on an external server. It’s a rather long shopping list of disturbingly high-quality weaponry and tech—including a Remington—from a few days ago, along with an address where Turner delivered them.”

The agents exchange looks and Wallis gets up and leaves the room.

“At least you did something right,” mutters Johnson, a little too loudly.

“Hey, it was either that or die in there,” I say. “Sorry I chose not to sacrifice my life for the sake of your bureaucracy.”

“Cut it out, the pair of you,” says Chambers. “This isn’t the time. We need to focus on finding Pellaggio and stopping him before anyone else dies.”

Wallis re-enters holding a laptop. He sits back down without a word and opens the lid, connecting it via a cable that allows his screen to be displayed on the TV behind me. He connects the USB drive and opens up the file it contains.

Silence falls as the three of them stare at the screen behind me, reading through the list. I watch Chambers. I see her expression change, as mine had when I read it.

“I don’t even know what half of this stuff is,” she says.

“It’s all bad, trust me,” I explain. “Especially in Pellaggio’s hands.”

They all finish reading and look at each other, worrying as the numerous possibilities of what this stuff could be used for crosses their minds.

“Right, Johnson, I want eyes on that address,” says Chambers after a moment. “Get me a real-time feed, plus still images going back seven days at thirty minute intervals. If he’s there, I want to see what he’s doing. If he’s moved on, I want to know when, and where to.”

“On it,” he says, standing and leaving the room, breaking into a run as he crosses the office floor outside.

“Wallis, I want you to work on this list of weapons. Where could Turner have gotten his hands on all this to sell it in the first place? This is all military-grade, so start there. We want to know of any missing shipments, serial numbers—the works. If we can find out where it came from, we might be able to get some help from the real owners in getting it all back.”

“No problem,” he says, standing and racing out of the room as his colleague had just done.

She turns to me and gives me another disapproving look.

“What?” I ask, innocently.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’m a little annoyed about the fact you blew up half a tower block and killed God knows how many people? How do you do such things so frivolously?”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “Grace, it’s not like I do things like this for fun, or take them lightly,” I say, finding myself trying to reassure her in some way that I’m not a psychopath. “I was defending myself, that’s all.”

She looks away, resigning to the fact that she’ll probably never understand what it’s like to have to deal with that kind of situation.

“Hey, on the bright side,” I continue. “At least you’ve got one less arms dealer in your city. Look at it as an opportunity.”

“How can I possibly do that?” she asks.

“You talk about the repercussions on the street… when the Red Dragon was in charge, they dictated what happened and you guys let them. Be it out of fear or diplomacy or whatever you want to call it. But now, there’s no one in charge. Nobody was big enough to take over before, which means they won’t be big enough to do it now. They’ll fight among themselves first. This is your chance to step in and put them in their place, let them know there’s nothing to take over—that the law is back in charge.”

I smile, and after a moment, she smiles back, albeit shaking her head.

“Maybe you’re right… You never cease to amaze me,” she says. “Finding a silver lining in every cloud seems to be one of your many talents.”

I shrug with light-hearted humility. “Years of practice creating the clouds,” I reply.

Chambers takes a deep breath and leans back again, rubbing her neck. I can imagine how she feels. My instinct is to rush over there and put a bullet in Pellaggio’s head, but there’s no way it would be that simple. For one, I doubt very much he’s still there. And two, it was probably more important to find out what he’s done, or intends to do, with the stuff on that list.

I look at her. Even though she’s tired, she still looks great. She wears very little make-up, but doesn’t really need any. She stretches her arms up and arches her back. I feel bad for so many reasons, but I can’t help but steal a quick look at her. The way her white blouse falls and rests on her body, clinging to the right places, and showing off all the work she puts in at the gym.

I look away quickly, which I think she spotted, but to her credit she says nothing.

“When was the last time you got any sleep?” I ask, feeling I should say something to steer any attention away from myself.

“I don’t remember,” she replies wearily.

“Grace, you’re no good to anyone if you’re running on empty. Go and get your head down for a couple of hours. Wallis and Johnson can manage here, I’m sure.”

She smiles, which I think is out of appreciation for the gesture, but I know what she’ll say. She’ll say she won’t rest until the thing is over, or something along those lines.

“Thanks, Adrian. But we have no idea what’s coming next from Pellaggio, and I will not stop until this thing is over.”

Told you.

I nod, understanding completely, and stand up to stretch. My back is aching from my fall.

Talk about getting the shaft...

I smile to myself and walk over to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, half seriously and, I think, half flirtatiously.

“I thought I might catch up with Johnson, see if he’s got a fix on that address yet. I wouldn’t mind having a look at the place myself. If that’s alright?”

She thinks about it for a moment.

“Fine, but play nice,” she says.

She smiles and looks back at the screen, re-reading Pellaggio’s shopping list. I turn and walk out of the conference room, across the open plan area and then right into the corridor. I follow it along as it doglegs to the right, and head left into the larger open plan area, which is full of activity.

I stand in the entrance, scanning the busy office, looking for Johnson. I see him on the right hand side, about halfway down. He’s at a bank of desks with four computer monitors on it. He’s standing behind a chair, leaning over and discussing something with the person sitting in it.

I make my way over to them, nodding politely to the people who stop and stare as I walk past. Johnson turns to look at me as I approach. I expect he’ll greet me with some sort of confrontational or sarcastic retort…

“Hey,” he says. “Check this out.”

Hmmm, a pleasant surprise.

He points to the screen, which is showing a slightly grainy, black and white, top-down image of a warehouse.

“What am I looking at?” I ask.

“This is a real-time satellite feed on the address you got from Turner. It’s a warehouse on a disused pier near the Alcatraz ferry way.”

The feed shows a man standing alone, looking out over the water from the pier. In front of him, tied up, is a small speedboat. It looks like he was pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette.

“Is that him?” I ask, struggling to hide the excitement in my voice.

“We don’t know,” says Johnson. “We can’t get a good enough look at him to allow the facial recognition software to complete a scan.”

“Can we not view it from a different angle?”

The agent sitting in the seat working the computer turns to look at me and launches into a very technical and detailed explanation about why that isn’t possible.

I won’t lie, I zoned out shortly after the guy said, “Well, to put it simply...”—whatever he’s saying didn’t even sound English to me. God, I wish Josh was here.

I picture him lying unconscious and oblivious to everything that’s happening. Chambers quickly interrupts my train of thought. I look over and see her standing across the office. She’s holding her cell phone and looks worried.

“Adrian, it’s him. And he’s asking for you.”

I rush over with Johnson close behind. I take the phone off her and put it on speaker.

“I’m here,” I say.

“Good,” replies Pellaggio.

His voice is different this time. He’s not distorting in any way and there’s a hint of old Italy present in his surprisingly deep voice. He sounds just like his old man.

“Are you taking me seriously now?” he asks.

“No,” I reply with a shrug. “You’re still a worthless bastard, Danny, and you’re still gonna die.”

He laughs. “I’m so glad you finally figured out who I am. I left you enough hints. So, tell me, how’s your little friend?”

I clench my jaw muscles and take a breath to compose myself.

“He’s fine,” I say. “Unlike you, he’s not a little pussy who cries off from a bullet wound or two. He’s sitting in bed watching Downton Abbey, or whatever it is British folks watch. You shoot like an old woman, you know that?”

Again, he laughs—a little longer this time.

“Adrian... Adrian, Adrian, Adrian... ever the macho asshole. I know full well he’s in a coma and not likely to survive. Your false bravado won’t do you any good now. You think my last attack was bad? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

I exchange glances with Chambers and Johnson, who are looking increasingly more concerned as the conversation goes on. Before I can speak, Wallis comes running down the corridor toward us. He immediately senses the mood and holds back, gesturing he’ll remain quiet.

“So, what, you just rang to brag about it?” I ask. “Is this all part of your twisted little game? If you’ve got a problem with me, why don’t you come and get me and we’ll settle it like men?”

“Typical Adrian, thinking this is all about you.” His voice seems to darken. “Have you not figured it out yet? I fucking hate you and I intend watching you die, but if you think I went to all this trouble just for little ol’ you, then you’re much more stupid than you look.”

“So what’s your endgame, Danny?”

“You know where I am, don’t you? Why don’t you come and find out?”

The line clicks dead.

Christ.

I look at Chambers. “We have a serious problem,” I say.

“Yes, we do,” interrupts Wallis.

“What have you got?” asks Chambers.

“Two things,” he replies. “The first is a report detailing a missing shipment of weapons coming in from Afghanistan, which was originally scheduled for delivery to Hawthorne Army Depot in Nevada, where they were to be decommissioned. They never made it there. The full inventory is quite extensive, but it includes everything on Pellaggio’s shopping list.”

“Okay, so we know where Turner got the weapons,” she says, nodding. “I normally wouldn’t want to ask the military for help, but under the circumstances...”

I briefly consider pointing out the hypocrisy of being criticized for my male pride, then having to listen to them worry about saving face with other agencies, but I decide against it.

“Already taken care of,” says Wallis. “I’ve contacted Hawthorne and explained that we have reason to believe those weapons are in play with an ongoing investigation we have. I said I was letting them know as a courtesy, if they wanted to help clean up their own mess.”

“Nice,” says Johnson.

“What did they say?” asks Chambers.

“They’re going to send a liaison over, who should be here in the morning,” replies Wallis.

“Well, that’s something,” she says. “What else have you got?”

“I’ve got two dead naval officers,” he continues. “A Petty Officer Higgins, and an Ensign Lyman. Both found dead within the last week.”

“How’s that related?” asks Johnson.

“Both bodies were found within seven blocks of Pellaggio’s warehouse. Both were on active duty in the area at the time. Both were shot at close range with a silenced Beretta 92A1.”

I frown with concern as I feel all eyes turn to me.

“Hey, it wasn’t me,” I say. “You all know that—you’ve got my guns here. Wallis, was that weapon on Turner’s list?”

He checks his notes.

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“Right, so this is another sick little message for me. Question is, why kill two active navy personnel?”

“Could they just be random, like the shootings at the Transamerica building?” asks Johnson, thinking out loud.

“Possibly,” says Chambers. “But they weren’t really random the first time, and this doesn’t feel random either. A Petty Officer and an Ensign, shot at close range…”

She looks at me. Her face is a mixture of confusion, resignation and despair.

I nod back.

“They were executed,” I say, confirming her suspicions. “We just need to figure out why.”

“We do,” she agrees. “But right now we have to focus on the things we can actively work with.” She turns to Wallis. “That’s great work,” she says. “When the liaison from Hawthorne gets here, I want you to work with them on that lead. They might be able to offer some extra insight.”

“Got it,” he replies.

“Johnson,” she says, turning to him. “You’re with me and Adrian.”

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“We’re going to follow up on the only solid lead we have,” she says.

“We’re going to the warehouse?” asks Johnson, somewhat apprehensively.

“Even if he’s not there anymore, we might find some clue about where he’s gone.”

“Well, you know it’s gonna be a trap, right?” I say. “He wouldn’t invite us down there if there was any real chance of us actually finding him.”

“I know,” she says with a smile. “It’s almost certainly a trap of some kind. That’s why you’re going in first.”

I smile back. She’s starting to think like me, the poor woman. But she’s also starting to see what it takes to win these types of games...

I nod. “Works for me.”

14.

14:16

IT WAS FUNNY noting the contrast between them all. Chambers armed herself with her Glock and Kevlar vest quickly and professionally. Johnson had done the same, but in the way a child would do their chores—like it was necessary, but he can think of a billion things he’d rather be doing instead. Wallis, on the other hand, had been visibly unhappy not to be included, as if sitting behind a desk was his idea of hell.

I was surprised at how little convincing Chambers had taken to get her to give me my guns back. All I had to do was ask.

We’re huddled together around a table in the smaller office area by the conference room. The whole team of agents is here, game faces on. I look around the crowd as Chambers prepares to explain what’s about to happen. I notice at the back is Agent Green. I’ve not seen him since he arrested me a couple of days ago outside City Hall. I stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

“Myself, Special Agent Johnson and Adrian are going to go and check out the warehouse,” announces Chambers to the room. “We want to keep this discreet, just in case Pellaggio is still there. The last thing we want to do is give him more notice to run. We’ll carry out a preliminary search of the property, then call it in. We’ll have a second team on stand-by to come in and carry out a full analysis. We’ll want Forensics in there too. Hopefully we can find something that will give us an indication as to what Pellaggio’s next move will be.”

There are a few murmurs from the crowd—a mixture of agreement and concern.

“Okay, let’s get to it,” says Chambers, before looking at Johnson and me in turn and gesturing us to follow her.

The crowd disperses with practiced efficiency. They all return to their own workstations as I follow Chambers and Johnson out of the office area and through the small network of corridors to the elevator. We take it down to the lobby and walk out to the street. There’s a sedan parked out front and we climb into it before setting off for Pellaggio’s warehouse. Johnson’s driving and Chambers is riding shotgun. I’ve climbed into the back.

Chambers turns slightly in her seat to face me.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks.

“For once, we’re doing something I wouldn’t do any differently on my own,” I replied. “Just get me to that warehouse.”

The traffic is flowing steadily, despite being mid-afternoon and approaching rush hour. Johnson navigates the increasingly busy streets with ease as we make our way over to The Embarcadero, which runs the full length of the coast where all the piers are, and where the ferry ways converge.

“I’m glad you approve of the operation,” says Chambers, sarcastically. “But just remember—this is still our show. We work as a team. You don’t go off on your own and start blowing things up or anything, okay?”

I can’t tell how serious she’s being, so I simply raise an eyebrow in silent acknowledgement.

After ten minutes or so, we turn left at Embarcadero and Broadway. Johnson points to our right.

“It should be just along here,” he says. “I think it’s the third pier up from where we are.”

I look behind us, seeing Pier 7 just on the other side of the junction.

“Yeah, that’ll be about right,” I say. “He was right down at the far end, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, Pier 17,” confirms Johnson. “We can drive straight down.”

“I suggest we park halfway down and approach on foot,” says Chambers. “It’ll make our presence less obvious, if anybody is there.”

“Agreed,” I say.

There’s only one way in or out of the warehouse, which I don’t like. If I’m infiltrating somewhere, I look at all entrances and pick the hardest one to get in. That’s always the one least protected. But in this instance, we have no choice, and I hate being so exposed.

“We’re here,” says Johnson, as he pulls over to the parking lot and eases the sedan to a stop just by the entrance to the pier.

I look around. Along the side of the street are a few parked cars. The sidewalk isn’t busy, but there are a few people walking back and forth. The parking lot is half-full, and the entrance to the pier is open. There are a couple of businesses that occupy the warehouses nearest to us, and there’s some hustle and bustle as they go about their day.

“Okay,” says Chambers. “Let’s make a slow approach.”

Johnson set offs again, turning cautiously onto the pier. The sun glares through the windshield, reflecting off the Bay and partly blinding us. Both Johnson and Chambers pull down the visors and squint as we make our way along.

We pass an open loading bay on the right, with a couple of guys in dark blue coveralls unloading something from a truck. I lean forward to get a clear view of what lies ahead. The sun glistens on the Bay, making for a picturesque scene that I wish I had more time to appreciate.

“This will do,” says Chambers, as we drive slowly past what’s probably the halfway point of the pier. “Pull up here and we’ll cover the rest on foot.”

Johnson slows to a stop and we all get out. I stretch and look around, seeing nothing that jumps out at me as strange.

“On me,” says Chambers, as she draws her weapon and walks on toward the last warehouse of the pier.

I look up, knowing the FBI is watching in real-time through the miracle of technology. I draw one of my Berettas and follow her.

“You got a permit for that?” Johnson asks.

I’m not sure if he’s joking or not—it’s never easy to tell with him.

“Seriously?” I reply. “Is now really the time?”

He kind of smirks and walks on, so he’s in between Chambers and me.

I figure it was his attempt at light humor, so I think nothing more of it.

We walk past another truck parked up in front of the warehouse before Pellaggio’s. It’s empty, and there’s no one else around.

Pellaggio’s going to be long gone. We’re all thinking it. I just hope we find something useful inside. Ever since I spoke to him, like everyone else, it’s had me worried exactly what he might have planned. Since the beginning, we’ve assumed this entire thing has been about taking revenge on me. And I think it still is, to a point. But if the game he’s playing with me is just a small part of something bigger, then we’ve been purposefully distracted, so we wouldn’t figure things out sooner.

Ahead, Chambers raises her left arm, bent at the elbow with her fist clenched, signaling for us to stop. We’ve reached the entrance to the warehouse.

She puts her first two fingers together, like a gun, and whips them repeatedly forward in a gesture for Johnson to run on ahead and cover the other side of the entrance. I fall in behind her, no stranger to the tactics of breaching a building. Both Chambers and Johnson lean against the wall either side of the entrance, which is a large metal roller with a smaller door etched into it, their guns held out low in front of them, arms locked. I kneel behind Chambers, a couple of paces back, holding my Beretta firm but with my arms loose.

She gestures to the handle and Johnson leans forward and grabs it.

“On three,” she whispers.

She counts up on her hand. When she hits three, Johnson thrusts the door open for me.

There’s no way Pellaggio is still here…

I walk in, casually; my gun by my side, my arm relaxed. Johnson follows and heads to the right, taking a few steps inside then crouching down to cover. Chambers is last in, doing the same, but to the left.

I look at them both. Their operational tactics are sharp and accurate. Textbook, almost. But I fear it’s un-necessary.

I look around the vast expanse of the warehouse. There are no partitions or makeshift rooms—it’s just one big, empty building. The far wall is all old brick, except the top few feet, which is a large, dirty, plastic window that’s bathing half the floor in natural light. There’s nothing on the left hand side except the odd piece of old timber and large puddles. Along the right hand wall, toward the back corner, is a pile of old wooden boxes—probably been there for years. You can smell the damp and decay that’s been eating away at them over time.

In the middle of the area is a workbench, of sorts—three tables arranged into a loose U-shape, with a few sheets of paper scattered across them. My eyes rest on the large pile of wooden crates just to the right of it. They’re new. And they’re open.

“Guys,” I say, gesturing to the middle of the room. “Looks like we’re too late.”

They both stand, each having a quick look around before turning to me.

“Goddammit,” says Chambers, visibly frustrated—although I figure that’s more because we had an idea what we’d find and didn’t wanna be right about it.

“Shit! We missed him,” adds Johnson.

“We expected as much,” I say, walking over to the workbench. “Don’t take it too personal.”

They both follow me and we all stand in front of the table that runs horizontally between the other two, looking down at the papers.

“Check this out,” I say, picking up the top sheet and holding it out for them both to see. “Looks like a blueprint for chaos.”

She takes hold of it and looks at it briefly. It’s a detailed sketch of the California Academy of Sciences entrance, with markings that clearly detail where the bombs were.

Chambers takes out her phone and walks slowly off to the side dialing a number. Johnson moves over to inspect the crates. The top one of the pile is about chest high and the lid is resting open. I watch him slide it off fully, letting it drop to the floor. He looks inside and his eyes go wide with horror.

“What is it?” I say, rushing over.

“We’ve got a major fucking problem!” he says.

I look inside and see a very large bomb resting on a bed of wood shavings. It’s got multiple wires coming out of it, and an LED timer that’s counting down…

It’s showing 00:19 seconds...

“Oh shit!” I turn and start running, knowing Johnson is right behind me. “Grace, we gotta go! Now!”

She sees us running and follows without question. We cross the warehouse floor at full speed and make it to the entrance. I’m trying to keep count of how long we have, but I lost track as I was running.

We all file through the metal door and out onto the pier.

“Run!” I yell, but the word barely passes my lips when a deafening explosion goes off behind us, tearing through the warehouse, and drowning out my voice.

The force from the blast sends us flying off the edge of the pier and into the Bay below. I take a large breath in as I’m falling—my survival instincts kicking in and protecting me while my brain freezes, trying to understand what’s happening.

If you’re ever going underwater, the best thing to do is take a deep breath before you go under. If you simply hold your breath, it means that you have to breathe in as you re-surface, which causes you to inhale all the water that splashes up with you. If you have a lungful of air already, you simply breathe out and avoid choking.

I plunge into the water back first. I turn and move quickly underwater, looking around to make sure the other two are okay. I can see them twisting and turning and thrashing, dealing with the surprise of what’s happened and the shock of the water. They’ll be fine.

I think for a brief moment how insane it is that I can be so used to things like this happening… I get blown up way too much!

Above us, the cloud of fire from the explosion is still billowing out over the water. I look again at Johnson and Chambers, who have managed to compose themselves a bit more and are looking around for me. Our eyes all meet and I give them the ‘okay’ signal with my hand, which they return. I point up and swim to the surface.

My head breaks the surface, and I exhale a long breath, before taking some quick ones to regulate my heartbeat once again. The others do the same.

“Well, I’m no expert,” I say as I swim over to them. “But I think that might have been the trap we were talking about.”

“Jesus Christ!” yells Johnson.

I look at Chambers, who hasn’t said anything. She’s pale and her eyes are wide, darting around from side to side rapidly. It looks like she’s going into shock.

“Grace, talk to me. Are you alright?” I ask.

She’s taking in quick, deep breaths, but she manages a nod.

I focus on my breathing for a moment to compose myself.

Yet again, someone has taken the time to find a new way of pissing me off. The door keeping my Inner Satan at bay was blown off its hinges with the school bus full of kids. Now, Pellaggio has just walked inside and slapped him across the face.

Enough is enough.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Your official methods got us this far, and it’s been a great team effort to figure out where this bastard was hiding. But I only stick with a plan until it gets me blown up. Now, we do things my way.”

“Adrian,” Johnson begins. “This is still an FBI invest—”

“I’m not asking,” I say, interrupting him. “I’m gonna get out of this water, hunt that sonofabitch down and put a bullet in his fucking head. That’s what’s going to happen next. Whether I end up in prison afterward or not when all this is over is up to you. But I’m done playing nice.”

Johnson looks over at Chambers, as if expecting her to back him up, but she’s too busy trying to control her breathing and deal with the shock, and she simply shakes her head.

I swim over to the edge of the pier, where there’s some rope netting tied to one of the wooden struts. I pull myself up and climb slowly back to the pier. I look down to make sure they’re both behind me.

I reach up and place both hands flat on the pier. With a final push of my legs, I heave myself up and over, resting on all fours. I need a minute to catch my breath.

I’m getting too old for this shit…

I look behind me at what’s left of the warehouse. The blast has blown the roof almost completely off, as well as most of the wall that’s facing the Bay. Debris is scattered everywhere and the heat coming from the building is intense.

I look back up the pier, to see if there’s been any collateral damage to neighboring buildings. That empty white van is still parked outside the next warehouse over.

Wait a minute…

It’s not empty. There’s a head poking out of the passenger side window, staring at me. I can’t quite make out the exact features, because of all the smoke around, but I can see the smile on their face. It’s a sick, evil smile.

Danny Pellaggio.

15.

14:58

“Hey!” I SHOUT, scrambling to my feet and running toward the van. I reach behind me to draw a Beretta. “Pellaggio, you piece of shit!”

He laughs as he disappears back inside the van. It quickly speeds off; its tires screeching as people who have gathered at the far end of the pier, near the entrance, scatter to avoid getting ran over.

“Fuck!”

Chambers and Johnson appear next to me, confused.

“That was him,” I say, setting off running back to our sedan.

“Pellaggio?” asks Chambers.

“Come on! I’m not letting him go now!”

We all run back to our car. I jump into the passenger side. I much prefer shooting than driving. Johnson takes the wheel and Chambers clambers into the back seat behind me. We shoot off in pursuit, following them up The Embarcadero and left on Lombard Street. Johnson hits the sirens. I lean out the window, yelling and gesturing at people on the sidewalk and crossing the street to move out of the way, as we speed past. Behind me, I can hear Chambers on her phone, calling for back up.

“See if we can get close enough to ID the plates,” she shouts to Johnson.

“Doing my best,” he replies tersely as he navigates the busy streets at high speed.

The van is a few cars in front of us.

“Adrian, did you get a look at him?” she asks, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

“I didn’t get a good look,” I shout back. “But I know it was him.”

Johnson moves sharply to the left, narrowly fitting into a gap in the outside lane, causing the nearby drivers to beep their horns.

“Jesus, Johnson! Who taught you how to drive?” I ask.

He sighs. “Just trying to get you near enough to shoot the bastard, alright?” He throws me a sideways glance and I can see he’s not happy about it, but knows what has to be done. I nod in acknowledgement.

“We’ve got another thing to consider,” I say over my left shoulder to Chambers. “Pellaggio was in the passenger side.”

“Shit,” she says, realizing what I mean. “So who’s driving?”

“Hang on, I’ll go ask,” I reply, with sarcastic frustration.

We’ve gained a few places thanks to Johnson’s adventurous driving, and we’re only a couple of cars behind the van. We’re driving through the Russian Hill district, and we’re gaining ground on Pellaggio as we hit the 101.

“You’ve almost got him,” I say to Johnson.

The van is just ahead, but he’s goes through a red light causing two cars coming across us at the junction to crash. Johnson just manages to swerve and avoid the collision, but we fall behind again—stuck behind a car that’s slowing down to view the accident.

“Get out of the goddamn way!” yells Johnson, beeping his horn.

We manage to get through the congestion and back on the trail, but he’s way out in front. We converge on Richardson Avenue and follow the 101 as it becomes the Presidio Parkway.

“Christ, he’s heading for the bridge,” says Chambers. “If he gets on there, we won’t be able to stop him without causing complete chaos on the roads and endangering a whole lot of innocent people.”

I lean out the window again. We’re doing fifty, which is no mean feat in this much traffic. But we’re still not gaining enough ground to catch him.

It’s time for a more direct approach, I think.

“Line us up behind him,” I shout.

“What for?” asks Johnson. “There are seven cars between us!”

“Just do it!”

Johnson takes another tight gap and gets us in the same lane as Pellaggio, albeit some way back. With my Beretta in my right hand, I reach over with my left and grab the edge of the roof, pulling myself out of the window further, until I’m practically sitting on the doorframe.

“What are you doing?” yells Chambers from the back seat, but I ignore her. Mostly because I don’t have an answer she’ll want to hear.

I’m lucky, in that there are only cars in between us, so I have an unobstructed view of the larger, taller van.

Using my left hand to steady myself, I take aim with my gun and fire. The first bullet misses the mark, as does the second. But the third hits the wing mirror of the passenger door, which makes the van swerve sharply left. They fishtail back and forth, eventually regaining control, but we’ve been able to make up some ground and we’re now only one car behind them.

The back doors of the van fly open and I see him—Danny Pellaggio! He’s stands holding onto the roof with one hand, and holding an M4 Carbine assault rifle in the other, aiming directly at us.

Oh, shit…

I don’t remember anything about him from when I’d shot him a year ago. I didn’t know who he was, so paid no attention to which of the men he was that I shot or what he looked like. He was just another target back then. But now, as I look into his empty, brown eyes, I can see exactly who he is. He’s quite thin, almost gaunt, but wiry and with some muscle on his small frame. He’s wearing a dark gray jumpsuit and black boots. His skin is a light olive color, as you’d expect from someone with a Mediterranean background.

I look quickly ahead of us, seeing the tollbooth for the Golden Gate Bridge approaching fast. Then I look back at Pellaggio, but before I can aim my gun at him, he flashes me a wicked smile and opens fire.

“Look out!” I yell as I quickly duck back into the car, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets that pepper our hood.

I crouch down as low as possible behind the dashboard. I look quickly back at Chambers—she’s flattened herself across the back seat. Johnson’s doing the best he can, but he has to keep looking where he’s driving, so can’t afford too much cover. I stick my arm out of the window and fire a few rounds blind, trying to deter Pellaggio from shooting, but don’t succeed.

The car in between Pellaggio and us catches a burst of fire and swerves off to the right, crashing up on the sidewalk and into a building.

This guy is insane! He has no regard whatsoever for innocent life… I’ve got to stop him!

We weave back and forth, trying to make ourselves harder to hit, but we’re so close it doesn’t really make any difference.

“Johnson!” I shout. “Try and draw nearer to him on the right hand side!”

Without question, he does. He puts his foot to the floor and nears the rear right hand side of the van. Pellaggio is still firing, but he’s holding an assault rifle in one hand and has his arm extended almost level in front of him. The strain on his muscles is going to be intense, and he doesn’t look that strong. Sooner or later, he’ll either need to hold it with both hands—which he can’t do, as he’d fall over if he lets go with his right—or stop firing altogether.

More bullets spray into the driver’s side of the car, shattering with window next to Johnson.

“Fuck!” he yells, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle.

He’s doing a great job, considering we’re doing nearly sixty right now.

I lean over him and return fire, this time accurately enough to make Pellaggio stop shooting and retreat into the van.

“You alright?” I ask Johnson.

“Yeah, thanks,” he replies.

I look behind me. “Grace, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says, wincing. She’s been showered with glass and has lots of small cuts across her hands and top. “Focus on stopping him.”

I hear her pick up the phone again, giving details of the license plate of the van as well as a SITREP. Hopefully, that means the cavalry will soon be on its way.

I look ahead of us and see that the traffic’s slowing right down as we come up to the tollbooth. It doesn’t seem to deter the van driver, worryingly. It speeds on and smashes into the back of a car, spinning it out of the way and into some others, causing a pile-up that spreads across the opposite lane.

Jesus, I need to take this guy down and fast!

“Just follow him,” I say to Johnson. “He’s making a path for us through the traffic, so hang back and follow him until we get to the bridge. When we’ve got a straight run, I can take him down.”

“Got it,” he replies, as he drops back and tailgates the van as it ploughs recklessly through the queues of vehicles and reaches the toll plaza. The van clips the rear end of a car, spinning it away to the right as we shoot through the booth and hit the Golden Gate Bridge. It skids off to the left, but the driver regains control and they speed on. We’re just a few feet behind them.

“We’ve got a chopper inbound,” announces Chambers as she hangs up the phone. “ETA—five minutes.”

“That might be too long,” I reply, as another car crashes into the side of the bridge. “This guy’s insane, and a really shit driver. I’ve gotta try to stop them now.”

On cue, Johnson pulls away to the side, faking right, then going left, trying to get alongside the van. I lean out of the window again and fire three rounds. The first two hit the wheel arch and the driver’s door. The third blows out the front left tire.

“Fall back!” I yell, as the van slides out of control and does a three-sixty spin in front of us. But Johnson sees it a fraction too late, and the van slams into the front of our car as the driver fights for control.

“Oh, shit!” shouts Johnson.

“Hang on!” I say.

The collision sends us spinning left and into the barrier along the edge of the bridge. The van spins away from us and skids to a halt farther along the road ahead on the right. We manage to keep control of the car, but the front end’s been smashed beyond repair. The hood has crumpled up and pieces have flown off the car and into the road. Chambers grunts in pain from the back as she flies forward into the back of my seat, catapulting me forward against the dashboard and smashing my ribs against it just before the airbag inflates.

The screeching of tires and the sound of crushing metal stops, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the occasional horn of a car and distant sirens.

I sit back, wincing as pain shoots through my ribs with every breath I take. I look over at Johnson, whose head is resting on the wheel. I tap his arm.

“Hey, you with us?” I ask.

He groans and sits up slowly, revealing a nasty, deep gash across his right eyebrow. A thin line of blood is trickling down the side of his face.

“My bad,” he says.

I smile. “Hey, you did good, Johnson. But we gotta get out of here.”

I look over at the van, which has spun around to a stop and is now facing us. The grill and the hood look damaged beyond repair. I can’t see any movement, but I’m not taking any chances.

I hustle myself out of the car and make my way cautiously over to the van, my gun in my right hand, ready to shoot. The broken glass crunches underfoot with each step I take, sounding loud in the silence, and growing louder as Chambers and Johnson exit the car and follow me.

I approach the passenger side door in a wide arc, gun raised and ready. I smell the burnt rubber from the tires, and a faint odor of gasoline. I can see inside the van—the driver is resting against the wheel, as Johnson had been. Except this guy’s not moving.

There’s no sign of Pellaggio… He must’ve gone through and out the back, which means he might have that Carbine locked and loaded.

Shit.

I hold back, edging slowly further out to the left, trying to get the angle to see.

“Erm... Adrian? I think we’ve got company,” says Chambers behind me.

I look over my right shoulder, back at the others, and see them standing, guns drawn, looking down the bridge, back toward the toll booth we’d just come through. I follow their gaze and see two more vans, similar to Pellaggio’s, speeding toward us.

I look back just in time to see Pellaggio walk around from behind his van, Carbine in both hands, aimed right at me.

“Put your fucking gun down, Adrian,” he says with an evil smile.

I quickly look back behind me and see the other two vans pulling up side on to us. Four men get out of each, all carrying similar-looking assault rifles.

Shit...

I turn and look at Pellaggio, sighing heavily.

Double shit…

I relax and let my Beretta hang loose from my index finger by the trigger guard. He walks over and takes it from me with his left hand, before snapping a short left elbow into my face. I stagger backward a few steps, but don’t go down.

He throws it to the ground.

“And the other one,” he says.

I do the same with the one still at my back. He tosses it aside.

“Now, tell your FBI friends to drop their guns too,” he says.

My jaw muscles clench as a fresh wave anger hits me. Every cell in my body is urging me to rip this bastard’s throat out… but right now, I know he’s simply got us beat.

“Guys, do as he says,” I shout over. “We’ve got no move here.”

“Now get over there with them,” he orders.

I turn and walk over, standing in between them with Chambers to my left and Johnson to my right, facing the eight guys who have just arrived.

Pellaggio walks in front of us, eyeballing each one of us in turn.

“Who was driving?” he asks.

I say nothing, hoping the other two will do the same. Straight away, I know where this is going... I look around quickly for inspiration—any sliver of hope that will allow me to stop this from unfolding exactly how I know it will… but I’ve got nothing.

Triple shit.

“I was,” says Johnson, after a moment.

I close my eyes and look away down at the ground.

Why the hell did he have to open his mouth?

That stupid…

I sigh.

I’m getting angry, but not at him. Not really. I’m angry at myself because I’ve allowed myself to be put in this position—where I’m completely helpless and can’t do anything to stop what’s happening.

I hate it.

Without a word, Pellaggio raises his rifle and opens fire, riddling Johnson with bullets. He aims low and raises the gun as he fires; the sickening, dull squelch as the bullets pound into Johnson’s body is muted by the staccato roar of the Carbine. He’s hit in his thighs, his stomach, his chest, and eventually, his face. His whole body spasms and jerks around in a crazy dance. His arms flail up and down as his body flies backward from the impact and smashes into our car. He bounces off the side and lands on the road, rolling and finishing face down; his features contorted from the agony he endured in his final breath and his eyes wide in a vacant gaze.

“No!” screams Chambers. I quickly put my arms around her to stop her doing anything stupid like running at Pellaggio. That was my instinct too, but I know better than to let any emotions cloud my judgment in a moment like this.

“Now,” said Pellaggio, looking at Chambers and myself in turn, as he rests the Carbine over his shoulder and smiles. “To business.”

16.

15:16

I LET GO of Chambers and we stand side by side facing Pellaggio and his eight hired guns.

There’s a cool breeze coming off the Bay, whirling the lingering smell of gunpowder around us from the Carbine. The sun is high and there’s very little cloud in the sky. I glance over at Johnson’s body, slowing drowning in a pool of blood on the road.

The area around us is strangely deserted. I assume authorities are on their way in force. I can hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance, but the traffic’s managed to stop all on its own; people and cars are giving the area a wide berth.

Pellaggio is standing about fifteen feet away. He’s aiming his gun loosely from his hip in our general direction. He’s looking at me quietly, with a bemused expression on this face.

My eyes narrow as my mind ticks over, visualizing all the ways I could end his twisted little life. And believe me—I am going to end his life. Maybe not right now, but I will. He’s earned the privilege of dying by my hand.

I look past him at his back up. No chance of avoiding getting shot if I make a move. I’ll have to bide my time…

I feel Chambers reach and grab my hand, squeezing tightly. She’s an exceptional FBI agent from what I’ve seen, and a very smart and capable woman. But right now, I can see she’s absolutely terrified—her hand is trembling in mine, and she’s staring vacantly at the ground. Which I can understand. Nothing can prepare you for things like this—seeing someone you know murdered in cold blood in front of you… knowing your life is in danger and being helpless to do anything about it…

“You’re going to come with us,” says Pellaggio. “We’re going to go somewhere a little more private so you can have a front row seat for the grand finale.”

I know that chopper’s on its way… I just have to buy a few more minutes.

“Tell me, Danny Boy, after Heaven’s Valley, did you ever suffer from that—what’s it called?—survivor’s guilt thing?” I ask.

His expression darkens and his jaw muscles clench, but he remains silent.

“You know, because you lay there bleeding, looking on as your entire family was slaughtered right in front of you... You lay there and did nothing as I put a bullet between your old man’s eyes. Surely you feel bad about that?”

In the blink of an eye, he rushes toward me, raising his gun behind him and thrusting it forward as he approaches, slamming the butt hard into my stomach and knocking the wind out of me. I have no choice but to drop to one knee and double over.

I touched a nerve there, I think.

I laugh out loud, which is harder than it should be.

“My only regret is not going back to finish you off in the hospital when I heard you’d survived,” I continue, looking him right in the eye. He raises the gun once more, but refrains from smashing it into my face. Instead, he smiles and walks back to where he was originally standing.

“I’m smarter than you are, Adrian,” he says, tapping his temple with his left index finger. “You and your famous mouth are trying to taunt me, and it won’t work. I’ve spent a year planning this, and I’m too close to the end to let you ruin things now.”

In the sky, behind him and his crew, I see the small outline of a helicopter appear.

Bingo.

“So, tell me, what is your endgame here?” I ask, desperate to delay him a few extra seconds. “If all this wasn’t for me, what was it for?”

“Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” he says, smiling. I see him catch my gaze as I glance at the chopper again.

Shit.

He turns and looks up, seeing it for himself. He looks back at me and smiles.

“Ah, you think your rescue is coming, don’t you?” he says.

He laughs, turns, and walks over to one of the two vans that just arrived full of goons. He disappears into the back for a moment, and then re-appears holding an RPG-7 launcher.

Something else off his shopping list…

“Oh my God,” says Chambers, almost in a whisper of disbelief as she re-focuses on the situation.

“Danny!” I shout, unable to stop myself from panicking. “Leave them alone, they’re innocent. Let us call them off at least, then we’ll come along with no more fuss, you have my word.”

He laughs again, prompting his men to laugh with him.

“Your word, eh?” he says. “Well, I appreciate that, and your sentiment is touching. However, you’ll be coming with us anyway, so your proposal is meaningless.”

He walks into the middle of the bridge and lifts the launcher up onto his shoulder. The weapon is roughly three feet long and weighs around fifteen pounds. It fires a single high explosive, anti-tank warhead, known as a HEAT missile. It’s good for a thousand yards before it self-detonates. It’ll destroy that chopper easily.

“Danny, don’t do it!” I yell.

Next to me, Chambers is squeezing my hand so tightly I’m worried she’ll break it. Her fear is slowly giving way to anger. I know how she feels, but we can’t do anything. As things stand, I’m sure Pellaggio wants us alive, at least until he’s executed his plan, so I think it’s unlikely he’ll kill us just yet, but then, I don’t doubt that he would if I push him too far. Plus, he has eight of his men surrounding us…

We’ve got no choice but to stand and watch.

The chopper approaches and Pellaggio takes aim. It’s still about a mile out, but closing fast. It’ll be in range of that missile any moment.

“Please, don’t!” pleads Chambers, but her words are wasted breath.

She instinctively steps forward, but I hold her hand firmly, stopping her as all eight guns turn and take aim at us.

“Grace, don’t,” I say quietly. “I hate this too, but there’s nothing we can do unless you wanna die here on this bridge.”

She looks at me with tears in her eyes. “How can you be okay with this?” she says.

“I’m not, goddammit!” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to watch innocent people die any more than you do, but we die right here, right now if we try to stop him, and whatever’s happening is bigger than us, and that chopper.”

“So this is what you do, is it? Your life, your job—it’s made you into a monster, Adrian, whether you admit it or not. You disgust me!”

I take a deep breath. It actually hurts hearing her say that, but it’s not the time for sentiment. I look back at the chopper. It’s almost within range.

“No more playing games!” shouts Pellaggio, his eyes glued to his target.

A silent, tense moment passes… then he fires.

The missile makes a deafening whooshing sound and Chambers jumps in fright.

“Oh yeah!” he shouts with sickening joy.

I watch in horror as the missile flies with deadly intent through the sky toward the chopper. The pilot tries to bank sharply left, away from the bridge, but isn’t quick enough. I see the impact a split second before I hear it. The chopper disappears in the explosion. It sounds like an eruption, and seconds later the flaming wreckage of the helicopter plummets toward the ground, leaving a black trail of smoke behind it.

It hits the edge of the bridge, snapping the burning wreck in two—the tail sliding across the blacktop, hitting a couple of abandoned cars a way in front of us; the cabin section drops over the edge and into the Bay below.

Pellaggio watches the scene unfold almost perversely for a moment. He turns to us and drops the launcher to the ground.

“Now, get in the fucking van,” he says, sounding oddly satisfied. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

“At least let her go,” I say, nodding to Chambers. “Your issues aren’t with her.”

He smiles and raises his arm, gesturing with his hand to the guys behind him. Four of them walk over purposefully. Two move behind us; one moves either side. They prod us with the muzzles of their rifles and usher us over to the two vans.

Two guys climb in the back of the van on the left first, and then we’re ushered in behind them. There are two wooden benches running the length of each side of the interior behind the cab. I sit on the left and Chambers is sat down opposite me. Finally, two more guys get in and the slam the door shut behind them.

She stares at me with a mixture of emotions on her face.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her.

The engine starts up and we drive off.

“So am I, Adrian,” she says. “So am I.”

15:58

I try keeping track in my head of how long we’ve been in the van, but I soon lose count. It can’t be more than twenty minutes or so. We’re traveling mostly in silence.

Chambers looks distraught and very pissed off. I’m not sure whether her anger is directed at me personally, or just a general feeling after being forced into such an awful situation and being so helpless to do anything about it. I think she knows it was the right decision to stand down on the bridge, but I know from experience that knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. She’s staring at the floor, barely blinking.

In theory, I could take out these four guys with minimal fuss. It’s not like I’m restrained in any way…

But I better not. There’s nowhere really to run. Plus, a stray bullet in such a confined space could be disastrous.

It’s not worth the risk.

I nudge Chambers’ foot with mine and she looks up at me. Silently, I ask if she’s alright. She doesn’t acknowledge me; she just stares at me blankly for a moment before going to back to looking at the floor.

I’ll leave her in peace for now. I think she’s strong enough to avoid going into shock, but no one can tell you how you should act in a time like this—you’ve got to get there on your own.

We seem to have been keeping a steady speed for most of the journey since leaving the bridge, but I feel us slowing down now. I figure we’ve turned into a side street or something. A few moments later, the tires crunch on gravel as we gradually slow to a stop.

I hear the cab doors open and close, followed by footsteps. Then, the back doors open to reveal Pellaggio, standing next to the guy I assume was driving. Neither of them have weapons. The two guys in the back with us, nearest to the doors, jump out then turn and aim their weapons at Chambers and me. The guys on the other side of us stand and usher us both out.

I jump down and make a point of stretching my arms and back. I casually glance around but don’t recognize where we are. It looks like an old industrial estate of some kind. I stand with my back to our van. The other four guys have parked up a few feet behind us and are milling around, weapons loose. To my left is a large warehouse, with four big loading bays in a line. The shutters are down on all of them. I scan the skyline to the right, trying to find something identifiable that gives me some idea of where we are, but see nothing of any use.

I look at Chambers, who still has a glazed look on her face. She doesn’t look at me; she just keeps her eyes to the ground. I think she’s trying to numb herself to the situation, which isn’t a bad idea.

Right now, my spider sense is tingling and I’ve got a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better.

But it will get better. I just have to bide my time for the right opportunity.

I turn to Pellaggio. “Nice place,” I say. “Could do with a little work.”

He laughs. “Your mouth really doesn’t have an off switch, does it?” he asks.

“If it does, I ain’t found it yet,” I reply, with a smile.

“Allow me.”

He walks over and launches his right fist into my face. He connects squarely on my left cheekbone. It’s a lovely shot, and I take a step back to re-balance myself. I instinctively turned away as he hit me, to take away some of the impact. I look back at him and laugh.

“That all you got?” I ask. “You hit like a Girl Scout.”

I have to keep pushing his buttons and wait for the mistake. If you make them angry enough, they always make a mistake. And that’s when you make your move.

Antagonize and capitalize.

He doesn’t bite. He simply stares at me through his evil eyes then walks away. His group of armed minions follows him, ushering Chambers and me along with them.

We head toward the loading bay doors second from the left. I keep looking around, memorizing my surroundings, and planning my escape route for later. I just need to let all this play out long enough to learn what’s really going on.

As we approach, the shutters on the loading bay rumble and splutter into life, slowly moving up. There’s a small platform to climb up in front of the doorway. We step up and inside the warehouse.

The interior is spacious. It’s one enormous warehouse, not four separate ones like I thought it might be from the outside. It resembles an aircraft hangar. The roof isn’t anywhere near high enough, but looking at the vast floor space in front of me, you would almost expect to see an airplane parked here. Along the walls and in the middle of the floor are tall racks of metal shelving, rusted and long-abandoned. Toward the back wall, someone’s used plywood to section off a few rooms, creating a kind of makeshift office area.

We walk about halfway across the warehouse floor and stop. The men with guns move and form a loose, wide circle, surrounding Chambers and me. Her glazed-over look gives way to alertness and concern, her eyes flicking left and right at the circle of assault rifles pointing at us.

Pellaggio’s in the circle, as well, and smiling his wicked smile. My eyes narrow as I stare at him, remembering everything he’s put me through in such a short space of time. Not to mention the innocent lives lost in the process, and the injuries he inflicted upon Josh.

I can’t wait to kill him.

“So, Adrian,” he begins. “Here we are... finally! I’ve waited a very long time to get you all to myself. Patience isn’t one of my virtues, so it’s a relief for all the games to finally be over.”

I glance around the circle, gesturing to all the armed men.

“I’d hardly say you had me all to yourself, Danny Boy,” I say, scoffing. “Looks like you’re sharing me out with all your boyfriends. What say you send them all away and we settle this like gentlemen, yeah?”

In an instant, his expression darkens and his face changes to one of pure evil. He lunges forward with lightning speed, producing a knife from behind him as he does. He takes me by surprise—I didn’t expect him to be capable of such speed and precision. He grabs Chambers by her arm and drags her toward him. He pulls her close to him, turning her so he has her pinned with her back against him. He moves the knife to her throat and presses the sharp metal against her flesh.

“Fuck you, Adrian!” he says, practically spitting the words at me. “You’re going to suffer, and you’re going to watch everyone die before I end you! You took everything from me, and now you will feel the full extent of my wrath!”

I instinctively take a step back, dropping into a loose fighting stance. I’m unarmed and surrounded by eight men who aren’t... Not exactly the best situation I’ve ever been in... My mind quickly flashes back to my first morning in San Francisco, when the FBI had put me in the exact same situation in front of City Hall.

I look at Chambers, who’s seemingly put her opinions of me to one side and is staring at me with frightening, pleading eyes.

Ironically, the closest thing I have to an ally right now is an FBI agent. How far I’ve come...

“Danny, let her go!” I urge, trying to subdue the desperation creeping into my voice. I’m no stranger to bad circumstances, but the last few days have been a particularly shitty run of luck. I need to catch a break and turn this whole thing around.

I realize how dependent I actually am on Josh and his ability to give me information that can save my ass. I’ve not been doing so great without him. He better pull through or I’m screwed!

“What do you care about one more victim?” hisses Pellaggio, as he presses the blade harder against Chambers’ throat. “You’re Adrian Hell—master assassin! You’ve got more blood on your hands than anyone here. How can you plead for someone’s life, when you’ve taken so many yourself? What gives you the right?”

“Hey, I only take contracts to kill people who deserve it,” I say, defending myself. “Bad people who’ve done bad things. You know, like your old man?”

Rage erupts in his eyes and he points the knife at me, giving Chambers a moment’s reprieve.

“You don’t get to say his name!” he bellows.

Jesus, this guy’s losing it. It’s almost like he has a split personality. He can flip and go from zero to crazy in a heartbeat. I need to be careful… I might have underestimated exactly how pissed off Pellaggio is.

“Fair enough,” I say, raising my hands defensively. “Let’s talk about your name. Why call yourself The Shark?”

Pellaggio visibly calms down and his chest swells a little with pride.

“Because the shark is a beast... a predator... that’s been honed to genetic perfection through evolution,” he explains. “It’s immune to all known diseases, it smells blood from miles away and it strikes without conscience or fear. It’s nature’s ultimate killer!”

“Fuck me, you’re insane! It was definitely a mistake not going back to finish you off when I had the chance... I would’ve been doing the world a favor.”

Before Pellaggio can react, a voice shouts from the back of the warehouse, echoing around.

“Danny, stop playing with him. You’re wasting time.”

The voice is calm and calculated. The outline of a figure emerges from the plywood office area at the back. There isn’t much light coming from back there, so I can’t make out their features, but the voice sounds oddly familiar.

Pellaggio smiles and turns to greet the silhouetted figure as they approach. The light is slowly washing over them, revealing them piece by piece from the ground up. I see a nice suit, light gray. Shiny black shoes…

Before the light reveals their face, I suddenly feel a sharp explosion of pain in the back of my—

17.

??:??

“HELLO, ADRIAN.”

I open my eyes slowly. The bright light forces me to squint, so I close them again. I frown as I feel the dull ache throbbing at the base of my skull.

Okay, I’ll leave the eyes for a moment.

How long have I been out?

I’ll try moving instead… I twist my shoulders, but feel my arms bound together behind me at the wrists.

Shit.

I try to stand, but my legs are tied to whatever I’m sitting on at the ankles.

Double shit.

Fine… let’s try the eyes again.

I open them slowly, letting them gradually adjust to the light.

“Wakey, wakey, Adrian,” says the voice.

There’s that voice again… who is that? I recognize it from somewhere…

I blink rapidly to clear the last of the fuzz and look around. The first thing I see is Jimmy Manhattan sitting in front of me, perched on the end of a desk.

And… triple shit!

I knew I recognized the voice. Great…

I frown again as I try to process the fact he’s here and figure out why. I look around the rest of the room. I’m guessing I’m in one of the makeshift offices at the back of the warehouse. The space is small—no bigger than fifteen square feet. The door must be behind me, because I can’t see it from where I am.

I look down and see I’m sitting on an old, wooden chair in the center of the room. In front of me is a desk—the surface of which is clear, except for Manhattan who’s sitting on it staring at me.

Jimmy fucking Manhattan.

He’s the last person I expected to see again, although the more I think about it, it does explain a lot—namely, Pellaggio’s bankroll and the intricate planning of his attacks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I manage to ask.

“I’m helping young Daniel get revenge for the death of his family,” he replies, matter-of-factly.

“Ah, okay… So what are you really doing here?”

He smiles, like he didn’t really expect me to buy his first answer.

“I’ve always said you were smarter than you look.”

“Not that smart,” I say. “I’ve no idea how you managed to track me down in the first place? I took the San Francisco job on a whim…”

“I know you did,” says Manhattan, flashing a knowing smile across his thin face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was worried I wasn’t subtle enough at the start, but once your little British friend was out of the picture, I knew you’d have too much going on to notice...”

He lets his words trail off, and my brain starts ticking over.

What does he mean?

My mind’s racing in a thousand different directions at once, and I can’t focus on any one thing. I have to figure out how to get out of here without getting killed—something that seems to be getting harder and harder to do... I’m also worried about Chambers. I have no idea where she is or what’s happening to her.

I take some deep breaths, calming myself.

Focus, Adrian...

They’ve been playing me from the start, setting me up so I’d be right where they wanted me, when they wanted me there. But how?

Wait a minute…

Oh, you sonofabitch…

“The Richard Blake job was a set-up, wasn’t it?” I say, finally.

Manhattan smiles again and nods, remaining silent and letting me come to the conclusions myself.

“There was no gangster,” I continue. “You’re Nathan Tam, aren’t you?”

Nathan Tam… hang on a minute!

“…which is an anagram of Manhattan—goddammit!”

He laughs. “Well done, Adrian. All on your own, too. As I say, I was worried I hadn’t been subtle enough, but it’s all worked out perfectly.”

“So who was Richard Blake? And why did you want him dead?”

“Well, he wasn’t a drug user, obviously. He was on Roberto’s payroll, and then found himself on mine. He’d served his purpose, so I killed two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“Sonofabitch... And how have you managed to stay one step ahead of the FBI all this time?”

“Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would. Which is kind of why I asked, asshole!”

Manhattan smiles again, patiently, and stands up. “All in good time,” he says as he reaches around the desk, opening a drawer and retrieving a small box, which he places on the surface in front of me. “First, you and I have some unfinished business.”

Hmmm.

Jimmy Manhattan... A small box… Me tied to a chair…

We’ve been here before…

The two-inch long scar below my left eye itches—a psychological reaction as I recall the last time I was in this situation, back in Heaven’s Valley last year.

Manhattan opens the box and takes out a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Oh, come on!” I say. “Really? Jimmy, at least try something original, please!”

“I like to stick with what works,” he replies.

He moves toward me, pointing the scalpel at my face. The lights above reflect off the blade, shining into my eyes and forcing me to squint as he leans over me—his face inches from mine with the blade in between us.

“Now, the privilege of killing the mighty Adrian Hell belongs to Daniel,” he says. “But I think I owe you some payback nonetheless.”

“How’d you figure that?” I ask, keeping my eye on the scalpel and trying to move my head away from it. “I’m pretty sure the last time we spoke, I saved your life.”

“The last time we spoke, you hit me in the face with your gun and left me on the floor of a portable cabin, surrounded by a group of heavily armed Russian terrorists.”

“Well, if you’re going to argue over the details...”

“And then you had me arrested for a murder that I paid you to commit.”

“Oh, that was just a joke between friends, c’mon!”

“And now, I get to say to you the one thing I’ve been dying to say for almost a year.”

“Do I wanna know?”

Manhattan stands up straight and tosses the scalpel up in the air. He watches it spin around and as it falls, he catches it by the handle and jams it deep into my left shoulder, just above my pectoral muscle. He holds it there and leans forward, our noses almost touching. His eyes are burning with rage.

“Now we’re even, you sonofabitch!” he hisses through gritted teeth.

I scream in agony as blood starts running from the wound. I take quick, deep breaths to counter the pain and focus.

He regards me a moment, the anger leaving as quickly as it came. He walks past me and out of the room, leaving me sitting here with a scalpel sticking out of me, tied to a chair.

Shit!

Think, Adrian—think!

I doubt I’ll have long to wait before either Manhattan or someone else comes back. I have to get out of here. I look around the room and see nothing that’s any use to me. I jerk my whole body up, but I’m held in place to the chair. It achieves nothing besides making the chair squeak a little.

Wait a minute…

I'm tied to an old, wooden, squeaky chair.

Hmmm...

I rock forward, so I’m essentially standing up, but still positioned like I’m sitting down. I don’t have much mobility in my legs, but I bounce up and down on my toes, trying to build a little momentum. After a few moments, I jump as high as I can and dive forward, twisting in the air so I land on my back. The impact hurts like hell, especially my arms, but the chair shatters under my bodyweight, just as I hoped it would.

Now I’m free of the chair, I bring my knees up to my chest and move my arms down the back of legs and over my feet so they’re in front of me. I reach up and quickly yank the scalpel out of my shoulder, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots through my arm and chest. I turn it in my hands and quickly cut through the ties on my wrists, then my ankles.

I lie on the floor for a moment, slightly out of breath, processing the pain that’s pulsating through my entire body.

I’m definitely getting too old for this shit...

I feel like I’m saying that a lot at the moment.

I drag myself up and inspect the wound on my shoulder. It’s deep, but with it being a very narrow blade, the overall damage is minimal. I can certainly live with it. I throw the scalpel on the desk and instinctively reach behind me for my Berettas.

Shit—they’re both on the Golden Gate Bridge…

I pick the scalpel back up. It’ll have to do for the time being.

I hear a long, high-pitched scream from somewhere nearby.

Grace!

I burst out of the door and into a narrow corridor between the two rows of offices, crudely constructed out of plywood. Quickly, I scan left and right. There’s no sign of anyone, and I can’t tell which direction the scream had come from.

When in doubt, go left.

I hold the scalpel in my hand, upside down by the handle to conceal the blade against the underside of my forearm, ready to strike should anyone discover me.

This is how a professional holds a knife—so you never see the blade until it’s too late. If you see someone holding it like a Popsicle, waving it around in front of them—don’t worry about it. They have no idea what they’re doing and you can disarm them easily enough. But if you see someone holding it like I am, run like hell.

I move as quietly as I can and as quickly as I dare, pausing at every closed door, listening for movement behind. Every small room looks the same—the doors cut from the same plywood as the walls. A rush job of simply cutting a hole in the wall and then re-attaching the piece with hinges.

There’s no sign of life so far. I press on and soon reach the end of the corridor with no success.

I should’ve gone right—dammit!

I turn back and the door nearest to me on the right immediately opens. One of the eight armed minions who brought me here walks out with his M4 Carbine slung over his shoulder, hanging loose by its strap. He has some papers in his right hand. He looks at me, and we both freeze, like deer caught in a set of oncoming headlights.

I feel like I’ve been staring at him for hours… I should probably kill him.

My brain re-engages, and my natural killer instincts take over. I dash forward and rush him, catching him off-guard. I clamp my left hand over his mouth and jam the scalpel into the left side of his stomach. I feel it pierce through his flesh. I push it until it can’t penetrate him any further, then I yank it out and jam it into his neck, just next to my hand. Blood spurts out of him in a thin fountain. He makes a brief noise, but my hand muffles it.

His death is quick and reasonably painless. I feel his lifeless body sag against me. Leaving the scalpel in his neck, I take his weight in both arms and guide him gently to the floor, trying to keep any noise to a minimum. I lie him down and step over his body, opening the door he’s just closed. With the back of my foot, I prop it open and bend down, grabbing his ankles and dragging him into the room. I take the Carbine from around his shoulder and check him for spare magazines. I quickly leave the room and close the door gently.

I take a deep breath, wincing as my shoulder wound throbs to remind me it’s still there.

That’s one down and, including Pellaggio and Manhattan, nine to go.

I look at the M4 assault rifle in my hands.

The next one won’t be going as quietly...

I make my way back up the corridor, keeping as low as I can. Just past the room Manhattan had me in is a crossroads. There are more offices straight-ahead, arranged exactly like the ones behind me. If I go left, it’ll take me back to the main warehouse floor; going right seems to lead to an exit out the back, which is worth noting for later.

I press myself against the left hand wall and peer round the corner. I see a group of five men standing in the middle of the main warehouse floor, but I’m too far away to make out any features. From the outlines, I’m pretty sure none of them are Pellaggio or Manhattan.

I can probably get the drop on them and take them out with minimal fuss, but this isn’t my first rodeo. A full frontal assault is time-consuming and noisy. Yes, I’ll inevitably dispose of those five, but I leave myself open to the four guys I’ve not found yet—who are likely further down this corridor. The first sign of noise, they’ll flank me and I’ll be dead. I’ll save them for last, when there’s no one to help them.

I carry on down the corridor ahead of me, quickly crossing over the gap ensuring I remain unseen. Just ahead of me, I can hear voices. I pause halfway and drop to one knee, raising my rifle. The door on my left is slightly open, a bright, fluorescent light shines out the narrow gap. I listen closely…

“Get the hell off me!” says a woman’s voice.

That’s definitely Chambers.

My jaw muscles tighten and I go short of breath as I feel my anger start to rise. While there’s always an exception to every rule, I still generally don’t condone violence against women. If they’re trying to kill you, then fair enough. But you don’t hurt them just for the sake of it.

I hear Manhattan talking to Pellaggio.

“Danny, stay focused. You can have your fun when all this is over, but for now... we all carry on as planned. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand, Jimmy. But Adrian and this FBI bitch stay here. I’ve got big plans for them when we’re done with this city.”

That doesn’t sound too promising…

I have to avoid firing my gun until I’m ready to engage the large group on the main floor. I’ll be a sitting duck if they decide to come running right now. But at the same time, I have to get in there and rescue Chambers. With Manhattan and Pellaggio in the same room, I can’t pass up the opportunity to take them both out and put an end to all this. Rushing in there is a stupid plan, and it'll likely end up with either Chambers or me being killed… or both of us.

Think, Adrian—think!

If only I could ring Josh…

Well, I can’t, so I’ll just stick with what I know… fuck it.

I stand and kick the door open.

In my mind, the entire scene slows down. I scan the room, which looks identical to the one I woke up in—even down to the desk and wooden chair, which Chambers is sitting on. She has her back to me. Manhattan and Pellaggio are standing behind the desk in front of her. Both are unarmed. To the right as I enter, there’s one of the minions, who is armed—his rifle aimed at her.

Everyone looks up, their faces a mix of shock and confusion. The guy in the corner swings his gun lazily toward me, but I drop to one knee as I turn and fire a three round burst into his chest. The force of the impact pushes him backward and he hits the wall, sliding down to the floor and leaving a crimson stain behind him.

I stand up again quickly and take aim at Manhattan and Pellaggio.

Everything resumes normal speed.

“Hey fellas,” I say. “Miss me?”

“What the fuck?” shouts Pellaggio. “How did you get free?”

Hmmm, what would Josh say right now?

“Ah, a magician never reveals his secrets,” I reply with a smile.

I see Pellaggio’s right hand move behind him. I quickly snap my aim to him.

“Both hands front and center, asshole,” I say. He reluctantly complies. “Grace, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just get me out of here.”

I look up at Manhattan. “You heard the lady—untie her.”

I hear commotion close by outside the room. I assume the five guys from the warehouse are coming to see what’s happening...

I emphasize the fact my rifle’s pointing at him by nodding at it.

“Today would be nice, shit-for-brains,” I say.

Manhattan takes a deep breath and opens the top drawer of the desk, pulling out another blade. Not a scalpel this time, but a combat knife with a leather grip and a long blade that has one serrated edge.

“Do you keep knives in every desk you have?” I ask. “Jesus!”

He holds the blade in his hand for a moment, seemingly weighing up what options he has.

“Nice and easy,” I say.

Manhattan’s smiling, but he complies without incident. He moves behind Chambers and cuts the ties on her wrists, then crouches down and does the same with her ankles. I step back, almost behind the door, so I can cover the room and everyone in it with ease. He stands slowly, his narrow eyes staring a hole through me. His entire body is tense; the rage seeping from his very pores. But he doesn’t move.

Chambers stands, rubbing her wrists to get the blood flowing. She turns to look at me. She doesn’t smile, but she looks like she’s past hating me. Her eyes betray her feelings—a mixture of regret, sorrow, anger and determination.

She marches over to the dead minion and picks up his Carbine. Then she turns to face Manhattan and, without a word, slams the butt of the rifle into the side of his head. He drops almost instantly to his knees.

“Bastard!” she shouts, looking down at him as he reels from the blow. She quickly raises the gun, aiming it at Pellaggio. “And you, you piece of shit,” she says. “You start talking, right now. What the hell’s going on here?”

Pellaggio looks at me, seemingly surprised at her approach to interrogation. I simply raise an eyebrow, smile, and shrug, as if to say you’re on your own. I look at her, admiringly. Now I’ve seen her in action, I like her even more.

I swap sides so my back’s to her, allowing me to cover the door. I can still hear the guys outside. I assume the reason they’ve not yet rushed in, guns a-blazing, is because they know their bosses are in here.

At my feet, Manhattan’s trying to stand. I kick him in his side and he collapses on his front, groaning in pain. If I thought I’m too old for this shit, he definitely is!

“Talk,” says Chambers. “Why are you doing all this?”

I look over my shoulder at him. “And don’t feed us the bullshit about this being all about me,” I add. “We all know there’s more to it than that.”

He smiles at us both. A sickening smile, far more confident than his current situation warrants.

“Fine,” he says. “You wanna know what I’m doing?”

He pauses for effect.

What a prick…

“I’m going to start a war!”

18.

??:??

MANHATTAN’S LYING ON the floor, trying to tell him to keep quiet, but he doesn’t have the energy. His words are coming out as a dull groan. He gives up and focuses on trying to get to his feet again.

Pellaggio’s statement was dramatic, and cause for great concern, but I don’t understand it.

“Details, asshole!” she yells, clearly feeling the same way.

I’m aware that time’s running out for us, so whatever we’re going to get out of Pellaggio, we have to get it fast.

“In a way, this is all about you, Adrian,” he says. “About your actions in Heaven’s Valley.”

“Make your mind up,” I shout over, without taking my eyes off the door. “I thought you said this wasn’t about taking revenge on me?”

“Oh, I will have my revenge for the fact you killed my entire family,” he says. “But this isn’t just personal—it’s business. My father lost millions of dollars, not to mention a large amount of assets, because of the betrayal of his business associates and the actions of a small few.”

Chambers half turns to me, keeping one eye on Pellaggio. “Adrian, what’s he talking about?”

I run what he’s just said through my head. Starting a war; loss of money and assets; a small few... There’s only really one logical explanation.

“He’s referring to Dark Rain,” I say. “My guess is that he blames them for his Daddy’s business deal falling through, because ultimately, they were given the land that he wanted.”

Manhattan has managed to crawl over to the desk and is using it to drag himself to his feet. He looks exhausted from the effort and, as he shuffles to get comfortable on it, he glares at Pellaggio, seemingly pissed at him for opening his mouth. He’s breathing heavily through his nose—his lips are clasped shut, forming a thin line of frustration. He looks like he wants to say something, but keeps stopping himself. I doubt he’ll be thinking of a way to talk himself out of this—he’s smart enough to know when he’s beaten.

“Jimmy?” I say, watching his personal dilemma. “Something to add?”

Manhattan lets out a heavy sigh. “After your initial involvement, Adrian, Roberto blamed GlobaTech and Dark Rain for his losses—which were… considerable. They took the land he was supposed to buy, and then you came along and took it from them before giving it away. He was planning how to recoup those losses when you… ah… paid him a visit.”

“I ain’t here for the re-run, Jimmy,” I say, impatiently. “What’s happening here and now?”

Pellaggio speaks up before Manhattan gets a chance to answer me.

“We’re gonna devastate this city and make sure those Russian bastards take the blame!” he shouts, practically spitting the words out. I can see the venom in his eyes—the unwavering belief in what he wants to do.

Chambers and I exchange a worried look.

What else can he possibly intend doing?

Actually, I’ve just remembered some of the things on his shopping list… He can do pretty much whatever he wants.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say after a moment. “And here’s why: you do realize that the people in Dark Rain were just as pissed off at Russia as they were at everyone else? And everybody knows that—including the U.S. government. Framing the Russians in the hope that the U.S. will retaliate against them won’t achieve anything. It’s causing chaos for nothing!”

“I’ve lost everything!” he screams, his eyes wide. Even Manhattan looks on with curiosity, almost like he’s never been fully aware of Pellaggio’s torment until right now. “Because of you, I have no one. But it doesn’t start with you. If you look at the reasons you were there, and trace it all back to the beginning, it’s because of those Russian bastards that the whole thing happened the way it did. And you’re all gonna pay!”

Manhattan interrupts, trying to add some decorum to the room. “The events unfolding now have been meticulously planned for almost a year,” he says. “And we will not be stopped—by you or anyone else.”

His gaze flicks over to Chambers then back to me.

“Call your men off,” she says. “This is over—there’s no need for any more bloodshed.”

I admire her optimism, and her ability to remain professional under the circumstances, but things are far from over. We’re still outnumbered, and we still have no real idea what Pellaggio intends doing next. They won’t be coming along quietly, I know that much.

“Grace, we have to move. Can you cover these two?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. No doubt, no fear, just a job that needs doing.

“Good. We’re leaving—stay behind me.”

She organizes her prisoners, keeping them covered with the rifle, and stays a few steps behind me.

I notice that we require very little interaction in order to function as a highly effective team. It’s nice. I remember how I got it all wrong the last time I found myself in a similar situation to this, but things are different with Grace. I’m not dealing with another killer, like me. I’m dealing with the law. And I know she’s got my back—not because she agrees with working alongside a bad guy, but because it’s simply the right thing to do to get the job done.

I open the door slowly and edge out, trying to see where the other guys are. I have two dead and two in custody, which leaves six still active. Five are about to die, I know that much. My guess is the remaining minion is outside by the vans.

I keep low and make my way slowly into the corridor. There’s no sign of life, but I know they’re here.

“Stay low,” I whisper behind me. “And that means all of you. I don’t want either of you getting shot in any crossfire.” I turn to look at them both. “But make no mistake—step out of line from this point on, and she’ll put a bullet in the pair of you.”

They both look at her and she smiles in return.

I make my way to the crossroads in the corridor. I press myself against the right hand wall and peer around the corner into the main warehouse.

The plywood splinters inches from my head as a hail of bullets comes flying toward me.

“Shit!”

I dive back around the corner for cover. I look behind me down the corridor, to make sure everything’s alright. Chambers has stepped away from them both and is covering them tightly, but from a small distance. From the position she’s in, she has all the angles covered, and enough distance that they can’t surprise her.

Despite the gunfire, I manage to smile. She never ceases to impress me.

I hold my Carbine around the corner and fire blind, trying to buy myself some time. I peer around the corner again. I can see four out of the five guys, all behind cover of boxes and shelving, poised and ready to shoot on sight. The fifth guy must be closer to me, likely against one of the front walls of the office area, just around the right corner of the corridor I’m looking down.

I can’t take them all out in one move, because they’re too spread out. Plus, I have to make sure Manhattan and Pellaggio remain unharmed until I can figure out how to get them out of here.

I look at my options. I can either stand here trading pot shots with them, hoping I kill them before I run out of bullets, or…

I stand and look at Chambers, right in the eye.

“I need to ask you to trust me,” I say.

She regards me for a moment, her hard gray eyes unblinking. “I do,” she replies. “Do whatever you have to do to get us out of here.”

“Okay then.”

I walk over to them, take a hold of my rifle and slam the butt into both Manhattan’s and Pellaggio’s faces in turn. Both of them fall to the floor—Pellaggio is dazed but awake; Manhattan’s out for the count.

“Wait here,” I say.

She stares at me, bewildered. “Well, I could’ve done that,” she says quietly, sounding dejected that she didn’t get a chance to hit either of them herself.

I walk back to the corner and peer round at the main warehouse floor. I lean round and slide my rifle across the floor as far as I can toward the group of men.

“Adrian!” she says with a hushed urgency. “What are you doing?”

I wink at her and smile. “I told you to trust me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah, people keep telling me that.”

“I wonder why?” she mutters, mostly to herself.

I poke my head around the corner. “You guys win!” I shout out. “I’m unarmed and I’m coming out.”

I take a deep breath and stand up, then walk out into the main warehouse.

The loading bay door is still open, and the afternoon sun is shining in. Outside, I see the two vans still parked near the bay doors. There’s a light breeze blowing through the warehouse, which is more likely a draft from in there than the actual wind from outside.

I’ve got my hands up, elbows bent, and palms open, facing the front—my body language giving a clear message of surrender and compliance.

“Take it easy, fellas,” I say, as the first of them emerges from cover. “I’ve got no weapon. Your boss has my friend and I know when I’m beat.”

They all congregate in a wide circle around me, similar to how they had when we first arrived. Except there’s only five of them now. They’re holding their weapons loose at their sides, sensing no threat from the surrounded, unarmed man.

Like I hoped they wouldn’t.

As they move in closer, their formation becomes more rigid. I stand facing the loading bay door, with two guys just behind me, at my four and eight o’clock. I’ve got two more just in front of me, at my ten and two o’clock, with the remaining guy dead ahead at my twelve o’clock.

I lower my hands and hold them out in front of me, as a further gesture of submission.

“Be gentle, boys,” I say, smiling.

As expected, the guy at my twelve o’clock steps forward to restrain me. I’m facing him square on, and as he approaches, I discreetly slide my right foot behind me about three inches, bringing my heel up so all my weight is on my toes, giving myself some extra leverage. I let him get within three feet of me…

I push off with my back foot and explode forward, catching him flush on the bridge of his nose with my forehead. Bone crunches under the impact as I crush his nose, flattening it into a crimson mess that erupts across his face.

As he starts falling, I use my momentum to fall forward into him and grab the barrel of his gun. I push with my body weight and swing him round by his rifle, spinning him so we swap places and his body is shielding mine. As he turns, I slide the rifle off his shoulder and hold it with my right hand by its barrel, like a baseball bat.

No one’s reacted yet, and I’m taking advantage of every valuable second of surprise that I’ve got left.

I grab the guy by the collar with my left hand and push him as hard as I can off to my left while stepping out to the right. The guy collides with his colleague who was originally on my two o’clock, temporarily neutralizing them both.

As I make my way right, I swing the rifle and connect with the ten o’clock guy, smashing the butt into the side of his head. Maintaining my swing, I follow through and round, spinning a full circle counter-clockwise as I duck low. As I come around the second time, I hit the eight o’clock guy on the outside of his left knee. The impact takes both his legs out from under him, causing him to drop to the floor.

I come to a stop on one knee and flip the rifle around in my hands, ready to shoot. I fire two short bursts at the four o’clock guy before he has time to process what’s happening and react. I hit him in both legs and he goes down hard, screaming in pain.

I stand and look around. The guy at my two o’clock is just getting to his feet, pushing his semi-conscious colleague off to the side. I walk over as he gets to one knee and thrust my right knee forward, catching him sweetly on the side of his face, on the bend of his jaw. He’s out before he hits the floor.

Slowly circling, breathing heavy, and trying to control my adrenaline, I look down at the five bodies. Satisfied it’s over, I look back at the corridor and see Chambers standing at the crossroad with her mouth open, staring at me. We lock eyes for a moment, but I turn away. She’s not going to like this, but it’s not over quite yet.

This is war…

I level the Carbine and fire a three-round burst into each of the five guys’ chests. Their bodies twitch on the floor as the bullets drill into them.

I look at each of them in turn, making sure they’re dead.

Now it’s over…

I hear a noise behind me. I spin around to see Chambers on all fours, holding the back of her head. I start running toward her and hear a gunshot from behind her, out of sight. Pellaggio appears behind her, pausing to stare at me and smile.

“Hey!” I shout. “Don’t you even think about it, asshole!”

I try to aim with the Carbine, but I can’t get in position for an accurate shot while I’m running and I don’t want to risk hitting Grace. I make it to her just as he turns and runs down the corridor that leads out back.

“Shit!” I yell in frustration.

I crouch down to check on her and look to the left. Manhattan is lying on the floor with a bullet hole in his chest. I look back at the exit again. Should I go after him? I put my hand on Chambers’ shoulder as she groans from what I assume is a blow to her head. No… I’ve found him once and I’ll find him again.

“What the hell happened?” I ask, concerned and confused in equal parts. “Are you alright?”

“It was... Pellaggio,” she says, holding her head. “He got the drop on me—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I grab her hand and squeeze gently, offering some comfort and reassurance. She looks up at me and smiles, groggily.

“What happened to him?” I ask after a moment, nodding to Manhattan.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I must’ve blacked out for a moment when Pellaggio hit me on the head.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, frowning with confusion.

“Adrian, it wasn’t me,” she says with a sigh. “It was Pellaggio. He shot Manhattan.”

Outside, I hear the faint sound of doors slamming shut.

Pellaggio must’ve made it to the vans…

I look at Chambers, who’s staring toward the main doors, clearly having heard it too. She just waves me away dismissively before I have chance to check she’s okay.

Gun in hand, I turn and sprint across the warehouse floor toward the loading bay doors. At full speed, I exit and jump down the small ledge just as the van is pulling off. Pellaggio leans out of the passenger window, producing a pistol and firing in my general direction. I skid to a halt on the gravel and drop to the ground in one movement to avoid the bullets. The second he stops firing, I’m straight back up. I level the gun and take aim, but the van’s too far away for it to be worth my effort.

Pellaggio is in the wind again, at least for now.

“Fuck!” I shout out. My voice echoes around the otherwise deserted industrial estate.

I walk back inside and over to Chambers, who’s managed to get to her feet.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m fine. No luck?” she replies.

“No, he’d already got away.”

She looks down at Manhattan. “He’s still breathing. We should get him to a hospital.”

“Or we could leave him here to die? Saves me a bullet later.”

“Adrian... He’s got valuable information on Pellaggio’s plans, and now he’s just been shot by his little protégé, he might just be a bit more willing to tell us about it.”

“Fair point.” I take my phone out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Here, make the call,” I say.

I leave her on the phone and walk down the corridors at the back of the warehouse. I might as well explore each room back here—I might find something useful. Some clue about what’s coming next from Pellaggio.

I spend a few minutes and try all the rooms on this corridor, except the one I found Chambers in, as I know there’s nothing in there.

No luck.

I head down the opposite corridor, starting in the room across from the one I’d woken up in. It’s where I dumped the first guy’s body. I’d left without looking around but it looks like I’ve hit the jackpot here.

He was holding some papers when I’d killed him. There are more scattered over the desk that’s in here, too. I gather them all together and have a quick look over them. They don’t mean much to me, but I’ll take them for Wallis—he might find something useful in them.

I fold them up and tuck them into my inside jacket pocket. I leave the room and head back to the warehouse floor to find Chambers.

“An ambulance is on its way,” she says, walking over as she sees me. “I rang the office too. Wallis and the military liaison are going to meet us at the hospital. They have an update for us, which sounds positive.”

“Well, I’ve just found some documents that look useful—diagrams and receipts, mostly. I’ll let Wallis look over them.”

We fall silent for a moment.

“Did you tell Wallis about Johnson when you spoke to him?” I ask.

She looks at the floor and shakes her head. “I couldn’t do it,” she says. “I’m a coward.”

I take a step toward her and she moves in close, taking me by surprise and throwing her arms around me, burying her head in my chest as the tears start to flow. My arms are out to the sides as she holds onto me. I’m not entirely sure what’s appropriate here… It’s been a pretty stressful day. Me? I've grown somewhat accustomed to being shot at, blown up, car chases, and seeing innocent people die. But Grace? I think it’s all a little too much. I imagine seeing her colleague gunned down tipped her over the edge. That’s when she fell silent, on the bridge. I initially thought it was anger toward me, but looking at her now, it’s clear she’s in the early stages of shock.

I slowly put my arms around her and hold her as she sobs her heart out. No amount of training or experience can prepare you for days like today. I look over at Manhattan, lying on the floor, wounded by his own man and it sets my spider sense tingling.

The worst is still to come…

19.

17:19

THE AMBULANCE DOESN’T take long to get to us. Chambers had called her office first and they’d triangulated our location from her cellular signal. We’re both riding in the back as EMTs work on Manhattan. He’s apparently going to survive, but is in a bad way.

We arrive at San Francisco General and Wallis greets us at the main entrance. Chambers talks him through what’s happened, which he struggles to get his head round. He asks where Johnson is, so she takes him off into a room—I assume to break the news to him. They were partners and the news is going to hit him hard. I was staying with Manhattan, but when nurses wheeled him away to surgery, I figured I’ll go and see how Josh is doing.

A nurse approaches me when I enter the room and asks who I am. I tell her I’m family. She explains that his vitals are improving steadily, but he isn’t out of the woods just yet. They’ve brought him out of the coma, but they’re keeping him sedated. She checks his charts and his various drips and machines, and then leaves.

I’m standing at his bedside. He’s still unconscious. I look down at him. He’s wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and has various wires connected to small pads stuck to his chest. There’s an IV feed in his left hand and a small crocodile clip on his index finger. The machine next to him is still beeping away, steady and stubborn.

I can’t help but think about how everything would’ve played out if he’d been there, helping me like he always does. I couldn’t have avoided getting blown up on the pier, I don’t think. Could I have prevented what happened on the bridge had Josh been in my ear? Maybe. But I’ve learnt from experience that there’s no point beating myself up about all the things I could’ve done differently. Things have played out the way they’ve played out, so that’s what we have to work with. End of story.

What’s that saying Josh sometimes comes out with? There’s no use crying over spilt milk, that’s it. I smile and think about how annoyingly upbeat and British he always is. I could definitely do with some of his trademark enthusiasm right now.

A short knock on the door interrupts me. I turn to see Chambers standing there, with Wallis by her side. Without a word, Wallis walks up to me and extends his hand. I shake it without question.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing it’ll be of little comfort. “He might have been an asshole to me, but he was a good agent and a decent guy. He didn’t deserve what happened.”

Wallis nods his appreciation. “Way I hear things, as bad as it was, it could’ve been worse if it wasn’t for you,” he replies, throwing a quick glance behind him at Chambers, who smiles weakly.

I simply give a small smile, not wishing to receive any praise for any of my actions during the last twenty-four hours. Eager to move on, I change the subject.

“Agent Chambers mentioned you have an update?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies, understandably distracted. “I’ve been working with the liaison from Hawthorne on the weaponry that Pellaggio got a hold of. They also had a look at the case, as a courtesy, and have come up with some good theories. I’m hoping the papers that you took from the warehouse will back some of them up.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and hand all the documents over to him. “Knock yourself out,” I say.

Wallis takes them and leaves, presumably heading back to the Field Office to begin his analysis.

I look at Chambers. “How you holdin’ up?” I ask.

‘I’ll live,’ she says with a tough smile. ‘The doctor gave me a once over.’

She nods at my shoulder wound. “How are you?”

I look down at it and shrug. “Forgot all about it to be honest,” I reply. “I’ll get someone to look at it before I leave here.”

“Make sure you do,” she says, with a warmer smile this time.

“Hey, this liaison sounds like a team player. Bet you’re glad they’re co-operating with the FBI so willingly?”

“Actually, they said they were doing it as a favor to you.”

I frown. “A favor to me? I don’t understand.”

“And I know how much that must piss you off,” says a man’s voice from outside the room.

The voice is familiar, but I’m too confused to place it right now.

Robert Clark walks into the room and stands beside Chambers.

“Hello, Adrian,” he says.

Robert Clark is a high-level employee of GlobaTech Industries. He got promoted when I executed Ted Jackson in Heaven’s Valley last year, who held his position at the time. He’s the one who figured out GlobaTech’s involvement in that whole affair and put an end to it, helping me take out Roberto Pellaggio and stop Dark Rain from killing a lot of innocent men and women.

Josh had kept in touch with them to keep the relationship alive, with the thinking being they could prove a valuable ally. I’ve not personally seen or spoken to Bob since I’d left him on that highway, just after blowing half of Nevada into space.

“Hey, Bobby,” I say, after a few moments of stunned silence. “What are you doing here?”

“I was asked to work with the FBI on behalf of Hawthorne Air Base,” he explains.

“So you’re the liaison? I was expecting someone... you know, from the military?”

Clark shrugs. “GlobaTech works closely with Hawthorne, as a lot of the weapons we make go through there. Our R&D boys made most of the stuff that Pellaggio Junior now has in his possession, so we have a vested interest in getting this whole debacle resolved. How’s that going, by the way?”

I look behind me at Josh, then back at Clark, without saying a word. He simply nods in understanding.

“How’s he doing?” he asks.

“I just spoke to the nurse who said he’s improving, slowly but surely. Not in the clear yet, but I know he’ll pull through. The guy’s too annoying and too stubborn to give up and die anyway.”

He smiles and nods. “I remember. He’s a good man. I know how hard this must be for you.”

“Got plenty going on to distract me,” I say, returning the smile.

“Well, I hope everyone involved on this side of things is aware of how this is likely to end?”

He smiles, like a friend would smile when they offer you reassurance about something. My jaw muscles tighten as I think about how exactly things will end here.

Very badly. For Pellaggio, at least.

“I think there’s a certain level of understanding, yeah,” I say, flicking my gaze over to Chambers, who remains silent.

“Well, as always, Adrian, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” He turns to speak to Chambers. “I’ll head over to your office now and assist Agent Wallis in any way I can,” he says. He looks back at me. “Good to see you again, Adrian.”

He turns and walks out, leaving Agent Chambers and me staring at each other by Josh’s bedside.

She looks at me and smiles, and then leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“What was that for?” I ask, unsure of how to react.

“My way of apologizing for the things I said to you,” she replies. “And to thank you for saving my life—more than once.”

“Forget about it,” I say with a shrug, somewhat humbled by receiving thanks and praise for doing what I do. First time for everything, I guess.

“No one is ever going to see past what you do, Adrian. At its core, you kill people for a living. Whatever justification you give, that will always be what you do. But you’re a good man. And the things you’ve done—what you’re capable of doing... that’s almost superhuman. You have a gift, Adrian—if you can call it that. I just hope, in time, you’ll put it to better use.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a few moments. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time. I can feel the moment overwhelming me. I actually feel close to her. I’ve not thought about a woman this way in what seems like a lifetime. Not since Janine.

I quickly clear my mind and look away. I feel like I’m betraying my wife by even looking at another woman. I’m not ready to put her behind me yet. Maybe I never will be; I don’t know.

“Anyway, I’m going to head off,” she says, maybe sensing my discomfort and changing the mood. “I want to catch up at the office and see where we’re at on figuring out what Pellaggio’s next move is.”

I nod. “Good idea,” I say. “I’m going to hang around here for a bit. I want to keep an eye on Josh, just in case Pellaggio decides to lash out in any way. Plus, I want to be here when Manhattan wakes up.”

She looks at me with concern.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill him,” I say, reassuring her. “I’ll find out what he knows and come straight to you, I promise.”

“Okay, stay out of trouble.”

She smiles and walks out, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone once again with Josh. I look around the room and drag a chair from against the wall on the far side of the bed over to the wall facing Josh and sit down. This way, I can see whoever’s coming in and out the room as well as keep an eye on Josh, without leaving myself open to an unseen attack.

I sit back in the chair and cross my arms, leaning my head back and staring up at the ceiling. This is the first time I’ve rested in two days.

My eyes are heavy…

September 25th, 2014

07:37

I snap awake with a grunt. I blink hard and rub my eyes to clear them of grit. I gaze wide-eyed around the room, trying to focus as my mind comes out of what I suspect was a long and deep sleep. The door’s still closed, which I take as a good sign. I look over at the window and see the pale skies of another sunny day peeking through the blinds.

I look over at the bed…

“Fuck me!” I yell as I jump a clear foot off my chair, sending my heart hammering into my ribcage.

Josh is sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide open, staring straight at me and smiling, tilting his head slightly to the left like a goddamn psychopath!

“Boo!” he says before bursting out laughing, his familiar British accent tinges with his lovable, yet annoying happiness.

“Jesus Christ, Josh! What the hell?” I say as I fight to get my heart rate back under control.

“Hey Boss,” he say. “Miss me?”

‘I was missing you until you nearly give me a heart attack, you asshole!’

He laughs. “I’ve been sitting staring at you for half an hour… it was totally worth it!”

“How are you... why are you awake?”

“The nurse came in a few hours ago, checked my bits and bobs, and gave me chance to wake up on my own. I did—go me!”

I sigh, finally calming down and processing the good news. God knows I’m due some. “It’s good to have you back, man,” I say. “How do you feel?”

He shrugs. “Still sore where the bullets got me, obviously. Bit tired, a little hungry, but other than that, I feel pretty good. You?”

I smile. “Well, seeing as you’ve stopped being such a pussy and finally woken up, I may as well fill you in on what you’ve missed.”

He smiles and sits back, adjusting himself to get comfortable. “Go for it,” he says enthusiastically.

So I tell him everything that’s happened since he got shot...

08:02

“You really figured out it was Danny Pellaggio from me getting shot?” he asks.

I nod.

“Really? All on your own?”

I flip him the middle finger and he smiles.

“So we still don’t know how they blew up the SWAT van or know our every move?” he asks.

“Nope. But the smart money would be on an inside man at the FBI. Question is, who? I’ve only really spoken with Grace and Wallis, and I’m comfortable vouching for them.”

He nods in agreement. “Maybe mention it to Agent Chambers?” he offers.

“Yeah, I will next time I see her,” I say. “Tricky subject to raise, though.”

‘Yeah, never nice being told your house isn’t in order… I can’t believe you managed to take out an entire Triad operation at the same time as a black market weapons dealer. That’s pretty crazy, man.”

I smile. “Would you have let me do it if you’d been there?”

“From what you’ve told me, I’d probably have suggested it to you!”

We laugh again and I realize just how much I miss him when he’s not around.

“So, what do we think Pellaggio’s plan is?” he asks.

“I’m hoping to get something from Manhattan when he wakes up,” I say. “Right now, I have no idea.”

“He’s still got most of the weaponry he bought from Turner, right?”

“We assume so.”

“I imagine he’ll be looking to use it then.”

I nod in agreement, before changing the subject. “So, anyway, when are you getting out of here?”

“I knew you’d missed working with me!” he says, chuckling.

“I wouldn’t say missed, but I definitely seem to get blown up slightly more often on my own than when I have you talking in my ear…”

“Well, I feel pretty good, all things being considered. Wouldn’t mind getting out of here and getting something to eat.”

“Shall I see if they can fix you up a plate of delicious hospital food?” I ask him with a smile.

“Oh boy, would you?”

I raise my eyebrow, questioningly.

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I forget that you’re still learning the fine art of sarcasm. It’s always been more of a British thing, hasn’t it?”

“No... has it?” I say with a wry smile.

He laughs and claps his hands like a child. “You’ve been practicing!”

I bow gracefully. “Been saving it for a special occasion,” I say.

We laugh again. Everything doesn’t seem so bad now. I know I’m guilty of forgetting many of the rules I operate by, because of everything that’s happened recently. But an important rule is: don’t think too much. I’ve been thinking an awful lot about everything lately, because my mind hasn’t been able to focus. Thinking about something too much leads to second-guessing, doubt, and hesitation. All of which will get you killed. You need to just do whatever it is, like a reflex or an instinct, and think about it later. After speaking with Josh, I feel like it’s finally time to start doing, and stop thinking.

My phone rings. “Yeah?” I say as I answer.

“Adrian? It’s Wallis. You alright?”

“Yeah. Josh is awake so I’ve just been catching him up.”

“He is? That’s great news. Pass on my regards.”

“I will, thanks. So what can I do for you?”

“Just thought you might want to know, we’ve had word from the hospital and Jimmy Manhattan’s awake, too.”

“Really? I’ll head up to his room now.”

“Oh, and Adrian? Agent Chambers has asked me to remind you that Mr. Manhattan needs to stay alive...”

I smile. “He will, don’t worry.”

“But between me and you, feel free to punch the bastard a few times if he doesn’t talk.”

We both laugh.

“You’re alright, Wallis,” I say.

“Take care,” he replies before hanging up.

“Good news?” asks Josh, as I put the phone back in my pocket.

“Agent Wallis is glad you’re not dead,” I say. “Oh, and Manhattan’s awake. Are you up for paying him a visit?”

“Just try and stop me,” he says.

He throws the bed cover back and swings his legs over the side, slowly putting his weight on them and easing himself to his feet. He pulls the wires off his chest, the clip from his finger and the IV out of his arm. Everything starts beeping and within seconds, a team of nurses burst through the door with practiced efficiency.

He’s a little uneasy on his feet, but seems to be managing well enough. He holds his hands up to try to calm them down, as they’re all shouting over each other to try to tell him to get back in bed.

“Ladies, ladies, don’t panic, I’m fine,” he says.

They all go quiet and start trying to fuss over him, but he waves them away.

“Can someone please just find me some pants?”

I move over to the door so I don’t get in everyone’s way. “I’ll give you a minute,” I say, smiling.

I walk out of the room and down the hallway toward the main waiting area. It’s a large, open plan area with two main corridors branching off opposite the one I’ve just come from. On the left is a circular desk area with clerical and nursing staff busying themselves behind it. On the right, across from the nurses’ station, is a seating area with rows of chairs linked together by the legs and laid out in a small grid. There’s a TV mounted on the far wall, just to the right.

I walk over to the desk and signal to one of the nurses to get her attention. She’s quite a big woman; dark skin like coal. She has big brown eyes and long black hair that’s tightly dreadlocked and pony-tailed. Her uniform struggles to stretch over her frame. But her smile is infectious.

“Hi,” I say. “Could you please tell me where a friend of mine is? He came in a few hours ago with gunshot wounds. His last name’s Manhattan.”

“Jus’ lemme check, sugar,” replies the nurse. She walks over to the computer on the other side of the desk and taps away at the keyboard. After a few moments, she walks back over.

“He’s in Room Five, B wing—one floor up,” she says.

“That’s great, thanks for your help.”

“No problem sugar,” she replies with a more flirtatious smile this time.

I smile politely back and make a hasty retreat to Josh’s room, where he’s just finished getting dressed.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, just found out Manhattan’s room number. You ready?”

He nods and gestures for me to lead the way.

He walks gingerly at first, but he soon loosens up and, despite some obvious discomfort and a slight limp, he seems fine. We walk side by side through the waiting area again. As we walk past the desk, the nurse I’ve just spoken to smiles and waves coyly over to me, which Josh picks up on instantly.

“You been making friends, you sly dog?” he asks with a grin.

“Screw you, Josh,” I reply.

“What will Agent Chambers say...?”

“Do you wanna be manually put back into a coma?”

He smiles and motions that he’s zipping his mouth closed and throwing away the key.

I smile. “Asshole...” I mutter.

We walk down the left hand corridor across the waiting area and turn right toward the elevator. I press the button and we wait for the doors to open. My mind quickly flashes back to Turner’s apartment building, which is the last time I was in an elevator. Well, an elevator shaft, anyway. I hope this won't end as dramatically as that did.

The doors ding, open, and we step inside. Josh pushes the button for the floor above. Just as the doors are closing, a man rushes over and puts his hand on them to keep them open. He smiles apologetically and steps inside, standing in front of us. He’s a nondescript guy: plain clothes, generic style. Short hair, no beard. He glances at which button is lit up and waits silently for the doors to close.

It’s a short ascent, and the doors open again almost as soon as they close. The man steps out and turns right. We follow him out, looking at the sign on the wall directly in front us to figure out which way we need to go.

“It says B wing is off to the right,” says Josh.

We set off down the corridor and after a short walk, it split into a T-junction, with another sign mounted on the wall.

“Rooms One to Five, left” I say.

We turn and head left. The guy from the elevator is just up ahead. He’s walking purposefully and after a moment, stops at the first door on the right. He looks both ways, seeing us but clearly not giving us a second thought, and then enters the room without knocking.

His body language was strange and he looked very conspicuous...

I won’t say anything—I’m probably just being paranoid.

We walk on, looking for Manhattan’s room. We pass the first door on the right.

Room Five.

I raise an eyebrow and look at Josh.

Maybe I’m not being paranoid.

We nod at each other, clearly coming to the same conclusion.

“Hitman?” he asks, quietly.

“Hitman,” I whisper.

20.

08:29

WE POSITION OURSELVES either side of the doorway, listening intently for any sound or movement from within. I motion to Josh that I’ll go in and he should wait outside. He frowns, silently questioning my decision, but I point at him with raised eyebrows, addressing the fact he’s in hospital and therefore not exactly a hundred percent. He rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to say yeah, yeah… fine!

I count down from three and burst through the door.

Jimmy Manhattan is lying in bed, hooked up to various machines and tubes, with an oxygen mask on his face. The man we’ve just seen entering the room is standing over him on the far side of the bed, facing us. He’s preparing to inject something into the drip.

“Oh, no you don’t!” I shout as I dash over and reach across the bed, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it sharply, causing him to drop the needle. I let go long enough to make my way around the bed and get a better hold of him. He’s not really had time to react yet, and I grab his throat with my left hand and drag him away into the corner of the room.

I hear Josh walk in behind me and shut the door before standing at Manhattan’s bedside.

I’m pinning this guy to the far wall by his throat—my arm fully extended and standing almost side on as I hold him, making my body a smaller target and harder for him to get at.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “And why are you trying to kill Jimmy over there?”

The guy’s breathing heavy, struggling against my grip. Both his hands are around my wrist, but I can squeeze like a vice when I need to, so he’s not moving unless I allow it.

“Answer me!” I say.

“Adrian, you’re crushing his windpipe,” says Josh behind me. “He can’t answer you…”

I glance back at him. “Fair point, smartass.” I look back at the guy and loosen my grip a little. “There… now, answer me,” I say.

“Mr. Pel-Pellaggio sent me,” he stutters with spittle forming on his lips.

“Why?”

He moves up on his tiptoes as I re-tighten my grip slightly—my hand wrapping around him so that my fingertips are applying pressure to the fleshy part of the neck where the pulse is, just behind the bend in the jaw.

“I—I’m following orders, that’s it,” he manages.

I sigh. I don’t have time for the formalities of interrogation. “Josh?” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.

“On it,” he says, leaning over Manhattan and pulling his oxygen mask off his face. “Jimmy? Jimmy? You awake mate?” he asks, slapping him gently on the cheek.

He looks up at Josh, disoriented and blurry-eyed.

“Listen, Jimmy, why would Danny Pellaggio try to kill you?”

“Because...,” replies Manhattan, failing to finish his sentence due to the struggle of getting each word out.

Josh looks up at me and shrugs. “I’m getting nothing,” he says.

I look back at the hitman. I look him right in the eye. I see fear, which is a good thing. It makes this next part a little easier.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

He nods hurriedly, but says nothing. I tighten my grip even more around his throat, making his eyes widen.

“Good—that saves me some time. You’re going to live, understand? And you’re going to go back to that piece of shit that hired you, and you’re gonna tell him that he’s a dead man walking. You tell him that if he wants a genetically perfect predator, then he’s got one. He walks around calling himself The Shark… well, I can smell blood, and I’m coming for the kill. Nod your head if you understand.”

He does.

“Excellent.”

Without warning, I swing my right arm around, leading from the hip, and smash my elbow into his left temple, causing his head to snap violently to the right. He loses consciousness instantly, and as I release my grip, he drops to the floor. I look down at him, and see the severe bruising around his throat.

I walk over to the bed and stand across from Josh, where the hitman had been. I look down at Jimmy. He looks old. I mean, I know he’s probably quite old anyway, but he’s always had an aura about him that exudes power and confidence. And looking at him now, he’s merely a shadow of his former self.

Getting shot and betrayed sucks.

“Right,” I say. “Jimmy, you better start talking. Given I just saved your life, arguably for the second time, I figure you owe me. Tell me what Pellaggio is planning.”

He takes a long, deep breath and closes his eyes momentarily before looking first at Josh, then at me.

“I honestly... don’t know the full extent of what he has planned,” he says, grimacing at every other word from the strain of talking.

“You can’t really expect us to believe that?” I ask.

He smiles. “Probably not,” he says, still struggling to get his words out. “But it’s the truth. I helped him, trained him, put him in touch with the right people and funded his whole operation. But for me, it was always about getting to you. For Danny, he didn’t just blame you for what happened to his father. He blamed that fucking terrorist, Ketranovich.”

“He’s already said he wants to make it look like the Russians did whatever it is he’s going to do, but we need you to fill in the blanks, Jimmy.”

He clenches his jaw as best he can, out of either anger or frustration, but remains silent.

“Jimmy, this isn’t the time for misplaced loyalties,” I continue. “Danny’s tried to kill you twice now. He obviously doesn’t need you anymore. I don’t care if you want me dead, but I do care about a potential threat against countless innocent lives. Help me, Jimmy.”

He sighs, reaching for his oxygen mask and placing it over his mouth while he takes a few deep breaths. He removes it again to speak.

“He has a Russian with him called Gregovski,” he says, eventually. “He’s an extremist who wishes to sever his own ties with the Motherland for different reasons. Danny's going to use Gregovski as the face and voice of his attack—he’ll publicly claim the attack as Russia’s. That will be enough to light the fire. The media and the government will do the rest.”

I look over at Josh, who’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ...” he says, letting his words trail off.

I look back at Manhattan. “You have to tell me what he’s planning, and when.”

“I don’t know,” he implores. “Right now, I swear I’d tell you if I knew, but I really don’t. I only know that he’s got something big planned, and that it involves the Russian.”

My gut says he’s telling the truth.

“One more thing,” I ask. “When you had me tied to a chair, I asked you how you managed to stay ahead of the FBI for so long. You never told me.”

Manhattan squirms in his bed, staring at me. He’s beaten and he knows it. He owes Pellaggio nothing. Yet he’s still reluctant to divulge anything to me. It must be pride.

“C’mon Jimmy,” I urge “This is your chance to do something good for once.”

He sighs. “We have a man inside the Field Office on our payroll,” he says finally.

“I fucking knew it! Give me their name.”

“Agent… Green.”

“The piece of shit that arrested me? Sonofabitch!”

I take a deep breath and pace slowly away from the bed, trying to process the information and figure out what the hell is going on. It’s all starting to make sense, which is kind of annoying, as the more I find out, the more I think I should’ve figured it out sooner.

Josh remains close to Manhattan.

“Here’s a question,” he says. “If that’s all you know—and, let’s be honest, it’s not much more than we already have—why does Pellaggio Junior want you dead so badly? Why did he shoot you in the first place? And why send such a pathetic excuse for an assassin to try to finish the job?”

Manhattan’s eyes shift back and forth. That’s a damn good question.

“Jimmy...?” I say, standing still and looking over at him.

“I... I started asking what his plan was after he captured you on the bridge and brought you to the warehouse,” he says to me. “And he lost control—started saying it wasn’t my business and that I should stop trying to look out for him; that I wasn’t his father.”

“He just… snapped?”

My mind kicks into overdrive, running through events again in my head, piecing things together. I remember when we first arrived at the warehouse, and everyone surrounded Chambers and me... He flipped like a switch when he grabbed her. And even before that, standing on the bridge—I remember asking him if he suffered from survivor’s guilt or something, purely to get a reaction. But he changed instantly and attacked me.

I should’ve seen it sooner.

“He snapped...” I say, looking at Josh for confirmation of my theory—but he doesn’t seem to know what I’m getting at. I look at Manhattan. “Pellaggio’s fucking insane, isn’t he? You’re still trying to protect him, but he’s a couple of cans short of a six-pack.”

Manhattan takes another drag on his oxygen mask before answering.

“I think he lost his grip on reality after your attack, if I’m being honest,” he says. “But the training and the planning kept him focused; kept him in check. It’s only since he’s finally caught up with you that he seems to be... struggling.”

“You’ve been looking after him all this time, and when you found out there was more to this than getting at me, you became naturally curious. Pellaggio took that as some kind of personal attack and that’s why he shot you, isn’t it?”

Manhattan nods.

“Sonofabitch...” says Josh. “You basically created a monster and kept him as a pet. You wound him up and he turned on you. Now, he’s off his leash and rabid on the streets.”

I crack my neck, loosening up. “I guess someone should go and put him down then?”

We leave Manhattan and the unconscious hitman and make our way back down in the elevator to Josh’s floor. I’m not bothered if Manhattan gets taken out anymore—we’ve got everything out of him that we’ll be able to use.

Josh walks over to the nurse’s station and starts going through the motions to discharge himself. I take out my phone and call Agent Wallis. I figure Chambers could do with a break.

“Wallis? It’s me,” I say as he answers.

“What have you got for me?” he asks.

“We just stopped someone from trying to kill Manhattan,” I explain. “Pellaggio sent them to finish him off.”

“Oh, shit! Really? What happened?”

“The guy’s out cold on the floor. Manhattan’s fine. We had a nice little talk.”

“And?”

“Bottom line is, we don’t know what Pellaggio’s next move is. Manhattan has no idea.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do. What I do have is a name—Gregovski. Mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Dunno. He’s a Russian who hates Russia, apparently, and he’s going to be the poster boy for Pellaggio’s big finale. Their idea is to frame Russia for whatever it is they intend doing in the hope it causes an international incident.”

“Why? What’s Pellaggio got against Russia?”

“He blames them for the death of his entire family.”

“I thought that was your fault?”

“Me too. I did kinda do all the hard work… But he blames the circumstances surrounding my motivation on the Russians, so...”

“Christ... Okay, I’ll run the name Gregovski, see what comes back. Good work, Adrian.”

“There’s one more thing,” I say. “About Pellaggio.”

“What?”

“The guy’s insane.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he says with a little laugh.

“No, I mean, genuinely, medically, certifiably fucking nuts.”

“Oh, I see. That’s… not good.”

“No, it’s really not. It’s all been a nightmare so far, but knowing he’s mentally unstable and the worst is yet to come, I think we need get some contingencies in place.”

“I’ll pull his medical records from last year, see if there’s anything in there.”

“Good idea. Me and Josh are on our way to you now, so I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” he says before hanging up.

I pocket the phone as Josh walks over.

“I’m free to go,” he announces.

“They okay with that?” I ask.

“Not really, but they can’t stop me.”

“Very true. You sure you’re alright? It’s okay if you need to rest up, y’know.”

“I’m fine,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You tell them about Agent Green?”

“No, I’m going to save that little revelation for when we get there,” I say.

09:25

We left the hospital and, realizing we had no transportation, set off on the forty-five minute walk over to the FBI Field Office. I offered to call a cab, but Josh said he’d prefer the walk and the fresh air, after being in hospital for the last couple of days. He was moving comfortably enough, considering.

We spent the first twenty minutes or so catching up some more, throwing theories around and generally trying to get back into our rhythm, so we’re ready for battle. Whatever’s coming from Pellaggio, we all know it will likely be pretty big, and we need to be ready for anything.

We passed a McDonalds, and Josh said he could ‘eat a dead horse between two rusty bread vans’—which I assumed was some kind of British euphemism for him being hungry. We walked in and stood in line for ten minutes, and then ordered a breakfast bagel and a coffee each. We picked some seats across from the side entrance and sat down.

We’re sitting opposite each other on a table for four, not far from the counter. It’s pretty busy—as McDonalds typically is, regardless of the time of day. A mixture of singles, couples, families and groups, all chatting and laughing and eating like there’s nothing wrong with the world. Ignorance really is bliss—I wouldn’t wish my current list of stresses on anyone.

In front of us is a pillar with a trashcan and shelf for empty trays built into it. Over on the right hand wall is a mounted plasma TV, with the news on. I look over at it and notice that whatever news channel’s on is reporting from outside the warehouse on Pier 17 that I got blown out of yesterday. I walk over and turn up the volume, standing and watching intently, despite some protests from people sitting nearby. Josh appears next to me. The female news reporter is mid-broadcast:

“...and while officials are keeping any details to themselves at the moment, early reports from both police and FBI agents on the scene lead us to believe this could’ve been a terrorist attack. There’s also speculation this could be related to the recent attacks around the city, but so far there has been no evidence released to support that.

“We have some video surveillance footage of the blast, being shown now for the first time, exclusively on WKRN, which seems to show three people being caught in the explosion. We’d like to advise viewers that they may find this footage disturbing...”

The screen shows a very poor quality, black and white video feed of me, Chambers and Wallis being blown into the Bay in slow motion.

“Is that you?” whispers Josh.

“Sadly, yes,” I reply.

“Jesus!”

“See what happens when you’re not around?”

“Adrian, that happens when I am around. You're a magnet for random explosions.”

“Yeah... lucky me.”

The news reporter comes back on the screen.

“The police are urging anyone with information about these people to come forward.”

I go to turn and walk back to my seat, but Josh grabs my arm to stop me, pointing to the screen again.

“Wait a sec,” he says.

The reporter continues:

“In other news, preparations are under way for the parade and celebrations later today on board the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien, which you can see docked just behind me, further along the Bay. It’s the seventieth D-Day anniversary, and a large turnout is expected, with both serving and veteran military and naval personnel being commemorated. The service will begin at around eight o’ clock this evening, and will finish with an address by the U.S. Secretary of Defense, Ryan Schultz, followed by a fireworks display. Security will obviously be high in light of recent events, but it’s expected to go ahead as planned. For WKRN, I’m Shelley Prince.”

“Say, Adrian,” says Josh. “Doesn’t that look like something a terrorist might consider a worthwhile target?”

“It really, really does, Josh,” I reply.

We look at each other, both seeing the other’s mind racing, trying to think of and assess every conceivable outcome of a theoretical attack against that ship. No scenario ends well.

Shit!

How did the biggest naval event the city had seen in years not cross people’s minds as something Pellaggio might be interested in?

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“I think we have a very big problem,” I say.

“I think you’re right,” he agrees.

“C’mon, we’ve got to let people know.”

We rush out of the doors, not bothering to go back to our table.

09:51

This time, we did hail a cab. We pull up outside the Field Office, clamber out of the taxi, and sprint through the main doors. We ride the elevator up to the eleventh floor. The doors ding, open, and we head toward the conference room where we’ve spent much of our time. I figure people will be there or thereabouts.

We rush into the open office space, and everyone stops and turns to stare at us.

“Where’s Agent Chambers?” I ask the room, unfazed by the attention.

“She’s in a meeting,” says a female agent on the left who’s standing next to a computer terminal.

“Okay… Agent Wallis?”

“He’s with her,” she says.

“Shit. Where?” They look a little unsure about telling me. “Goddammit, where?” I shout.

“They’re in a meeting across the hall with the ASAC.”

“Thank you,” I say, running out with Josh behind me.

“Hey!” I hear them shout after us. “You can’t just...”

I ignore them. I’m not going to hang around so someone can tell me I can’t do something, when they can’t stop me from doing it.

We head back down the corridor and turn left into the larger office area. It’s bustling with the noise of activity and we move unhindered through the maze of desks toward the far end. There’s a large room with a window that runs floor to ceiling. The blinds are down but open, and I see both Chambers and Wallis sitting side by side looking unhappy. I can’t see who they’re talking to.

“C’mon,” I say to Josh.

“Adrian, maybe we should wait ‘til they’re done?” he suggests.

“Why? Pellaggio fucking won’t!”

He sighs. “Fair point…”

“Wait here if you’re going to be such a woman about it,” I shrug.

I walk over to the office and open the door without knocking. I walk in and they both turn to look at me; their faces both confused and a little embarrassed.

I quickly look around the office. It’s very nice—lots of dark wood everywhere. The desk in front of them, in particular, looks really expensive. Behind the desk is a very broad man, probably late forties. He has thick dark hair with flecks of gray above the ears. He’s leaning back in a big leather chair, his elbows resting on the arms and his fingers bridged together in front of his face, like he’s deliberating over something. He looks up at me, but doesn’t look shocked or confused—and certainly not embarrassed. He doesn’t make a gesture to stand up and he doesn’t look questioningly at either Chambers or Wallis. He simply regards me, silently.

“We have a big problem,” I announce.

“Adrian!” hisses Chambers. “Now really isn’t the time!”

“It’s alright, Agent Chambers,” interjects the man behind the desk. “It’s obviously something Adrian Hell deems to be of great importance, so let’s hear him out.”

His voice is deep and powerful. I imagine he’s used to commanding respect from people. But I pick up on something in his tone that I don’t like. I turn to Josh, who’s standing behind me just outside the room.

“Josh, was he just being sarcastic? I’m not sure,” I ask.

“A little bit, yeah,” he says, stepping inside and waving awkwardly at everyone.

“Okay, I don’t know you, therefore I don’t trust you,” I say to the man behind the desk. I make a point of turning my back on him to face the others.

“Adrian, he’s my boss,” says Chambers, quietly and more embarrassed.

“So? He’s not my boss. Listen, guys, I think I know what Pellaggio is planning.”

“What?” asks Wallis, speaking for the first time since I’d walked in.

I look at them both in turn. “I think he’s going to launch an attack on the S.S. Jeremiah O’ Brien tonight.”

21.

09:58

I’VE NEVER HEARD so many people say ‘Shit!’ in such a short space of time.

Pellaggio’s target is glaringly obvious. The U.S. Secretary of Defense, along with a who’s who of military and naval personnel, are going to be in the same place at the same time—aboard a ship, celebrating seventy years since we kicked ass against half the world. And because everyone was so concerned with me being the main target, no one’s thought outside the box and considered the bigger picture.

Chambers and Wallis exchange worried and frustrated glances.

“Shit!” they say in unison again.

They look at their boss, silently asking permission to leave. He thinks for a moment into his bridged fingers, then nods. They both stand but I hold my hand up to stop them.

“There’s one more thing…” I say.

Josh steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“Grace, do you trust your boss?” I ask.

She frowns and looks over at him. “Yes,” she says. “Absolutely.”

I trust her judgment and I look over at Josh, who nods his agreement.

“Okay,” I say, looking at everyone in the room in turn. “Before we left Manhattan, I asked him how Pellaggio managed to stay one step ahead of us this whole time. He said Agent Green is working for him.”

Everyone looks at each other with a mixture of disbelief and anger. I think the thought had crossed everyone’s minds about an inside man, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept when it’s proven.

“Do you believe him?” asks the ASAC. The nameplate at the front of his desk says Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Webber.

“Yes, I do,” I say to him.

Webber looks at Chambers questioningly.

“How do you want us to handle this, sir?” she asks him.

“Get his ass in here,” he replies. “Now.”

“Can I suggest something?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, matter-of-factly. “This is an FBI matter, and we’ll handle it. Your contributions to our investigation have proven very useful, and your methods of obtaining information for us have proven effective—if not questionable at times. But we’re capable of handling our own problems.”

“Of course you are…” I say. “So why have I been working my ass off to help you all week?”

“Make no mistake, Adrian. I signed off on your involvement on Senior Special Agent Chambers’ recommendation, but don’t think for one second I approve of it.”

“Well, luckily for me, I’m not an FBI agent, and I could give two shits about your approval. You asked for my help, and I gave it. And people around here seem grateful for it. Now, I’ve got to go and stop a terrorist from killing the Secretary of Defense, but before I do, I’d like to suggest a way of dealing with your… rat problem. End of the day, he’s putting my life in danger as well.”

We regard each other silently for a moment. I can feel the tension in the room and everyone else—even Josh—seems awkward and on edge.

“I’ve read your file,” he says, casually changing the subject. “You and I have a lot in common, you know?”

“I very much doubt that…”

“We both served—I did two tours during Desert Storm before hanging up my boots and joining the FBI.”

“I joined up just as Desert Shield was starting,” I say. “I missed out on the conflict that made the headlines, but made up for it by fighting in countless wars that no one will ever know about.”

“Ah, yes—you’re referring to the large gap in your career history, I assume? What was it? Black ops? I bet those mission files are interesting to read...”

I laugh. “What files?” I say, with a knowing smile.

I hear Josh chuckle quietly behind me. Webber’s face darkens momentarily, but he glances at Chambers and eventually lightens up a bit.

“Agent Wallis, go and get Agent Green. Agent Chambers, round everybody up outside and de-brief them. If Adrian’s theory about Pellaggio’s target is correct, we need to move quickly.”

They both leave the room, leaving Josh and me alone with Webber.

“You think my theory might be wrong?” I ask.

Webber shrugs. “I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense, I just don’t want to run with something if there’s any doubt about it.”

“That’s fair enough. Mind if I stay in while you speak to Agent Green?”

“Depends on whether or not you’re going to behave yourself…”

“Well, that depends on the extent of his betrayal…”

Webber nods slowly but says nothing. There’s a knock on the door and Wallis enters, followed by Agent Green.

He eyes me wearily as Wallis shuts the door behind them and stands guarding it. I walk past him and stand with Josh at the back of the room, looking on intently.

“Take a seat, Agent Green,” says Webber, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of him.

He sits casually.

If he’s guilty, he’s good at hiding it, I’ll give him that.

“What’s up, sir?” he asks.

“Agent Green, I’m going to be frank. We have evidence that suggests you’ve been leaking critical information about this investigation to Daniel Pellaggio and Jimmy Manhattan. Would you care to comment on this?”

Green shakes his head wildly, looking shocked and appalled by the accusation. “Sir, that’s ridiculous!” he says, momentarily glancing back at me. “Who told you that? Him? Sir, he’s held a grudge against me ever since I arrested him the other day. He assaulted me and I went along with the FBI’s decision to overlook that. But I’m not going to sit here and be accused by this—”

Webber holds his hand up to silence him. “Agent Green, will you calm down. To clarify, are you denying these accusations?”

“Of course I am!”

“What if I was to say to you that it wasn’t Adrian who brought this to our attention?”

Green looks over his shoulder at me again and frowns before turning back to Webber. “So, who was it?” he asks.

Webber glances at me and I shrug and nod. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t normally divulge this kind of information in this kind of situation, but we’re running out of time.

“Jimmy Manhattan,” he replies. “He named you specifically.”

From behind, I watch Green’s body language change. He slumps his shoulders slightly and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Having just found out the guy topping up his pension fund has sold up the river by, Green’s realizing right now that he’s on his own and likely to both lose his job and face jail time.

If it was me, I know what I’d do…

I take a small step forward, anticipating his next move.

In a flash, Green stands, knocking the chair over as he reaches for his sidearm in a blind panic.

I wouldn’t panic, but that’s pretty much what I’d have done.

Before he can draw his gun, I stride toward him and kick the back of his left knee, making him buckle and lose his balance. He forgets his gun, opting to use his hands to steady himself, but I grab his left wrist in my left hand and push his left shoulder with my right, forcing him to the ground. I hold his arm at an awkward angle, putting pressure on his elbow and ensuring he stays where he is.

“Don’t be silly,” I say to him. I look at Webber. “You need to interrogate him formally—find out if there’s anything else he knows.”

Remaining perfectly calm and seated, Webber nods. “Agreed. Agent Wallis, will you please take Agent Green into custody? Adrian, I believe you’ve got work to do?”

I nod and decide against saying anything else to him. Josh grabs the door and holds it open for Wallis as he escorts Green out of the room. Josh follows them and I walk out last, closing the door behind me.

Outside, Chambers is standing in the middle of a large group of agents, explaining the theory about Pellaggio’s grand finale and organizing our response. The room falls silent, and everyone watches as Wallis leads Green through the crowd and off to an interrogation room. Josh and I hang back, standing near the exit.

“Okay, show’s over folks,” says Chambers. “You all know what we’re up against and you all know what you need to do. Get to it.”

There’s a rush of activity as the group disperses and everyone sets about their new tasks. Chambers walks over to join us, just as Robert Clark appears from behind us.

“Have I missed the excitement?” asks Clark.

“Yeah, sorry Bob,” I say.

Chambers looks at us each in turn, and then addresses our small group.

“Listen up. We need to find out how Pellaggio intends to carry out this attack,” she says. “Realistically, I can’t see the parade being postponed. At best, they’ll increase security, but I fear that won’t be enough.”

“I agree,” I say. “Pellaggio’s going to make a big, loud, bold statement with this attack, because he wants the whole world to sit up and take notice so he can then blame the Russians.”

“Will the world’s governments buy that Russia actually did it, though?” asks Josh. “I mean, just because one guy goes on TV and says he did, it doesn’t mean we’ll all instantly believe him, does it?”

“It’s difficult,” replies Chambers. “Worst case scenario and we lose Secretary Schultz tonight—the people are going to want someone to blame. They won’t care what makes sense and what doesn’t. They’ll see someone own up and they’ll cry for blood.”

“The White House will have to respond quickly with a big, decisive move,” adds Clark. “I know how these things work. They’ll need to make sure they look strong, so they’ll lash out at the person the public is begging them to blame.”

“I won’t let that happen,” I say, clenching my jaw muscles in an effort to restrain my anger.

Too many times in the past week, someone or something has come a-knockin’ on my door, asking my Inner Satan to come out and play. And too many times, he was held back or distracted. But as things stand, the path to my door is finally clear. No more games, no more secrets. Directly in front of me is the finish line. The only thing stopping me reaching it is Pellaggio. He has blood on his hands and he’s begging me to come after him.

And I’m going to give him exactly what he wants.

“You’ve got access to satellite imaging here,” I say, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah,” replies Wallis. “Only what we used to look at Pellaggio’s warehouse the other day though—it’s pretty basic.”

“Maybe I can help?” says Clark. “Wallis, if I can get access to your servers, I can get some of my guys to link up and give you access to our satellite network. Josh, I believe you’re familiar with the interface?”

Josh smiles. “I’ve used it before, yeah,” he says, looking at me with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Good,” I say. “I want to see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“I’ll leave you boys to your toys,” says Chambers. “I’ll follow up on Gregovski and see what I can find. We’ll meet up in an hour in the conference room down the hall, agreed?”

We all nod and Chambers heads off, leaving the four of us huddled together. Wallis moves over to one of the desks further down the room. It has three monitors and two keyboards set up on it. He pulls the chair out and gestures to Clark.

“Do what you need to do,” he says.

Clark sits down without a word and takes out his phone. We all step away, leaving him to work his magic, and congregate around another unoccupied desk nearby. Wallis logs onto the computer and starts typing.

“So, what are you thinking?” asks Josh.

“I’m thinking, if I was going to mount an attack against an old warship docked in the San Francisco Bay, how would I do it?” I say.

“Do I wanna know how you’d do it?” asks Wallis, looking up from the screen.

“I doubt it. I just hope Pellaggio doesn’t think the way I do.”

“Well, he’s certifiably insane,” says Josh. “So if he does, it says more about you than him.”

Wallis laughs. “Yeah, I‘ve got his medical records right here from when he got shot,” he says, reading from the screen. “After his wounds healed, he showed signs of post-traumatic stress, so they referred him to a psychiatrist following his discharge from hospital. He only went twice, and the notes from those sessions detailed, and I quote, a rapid decline in mental stability.”

“So you shot him and made him crazy?” says Josh to me. “Nice going there, Chief!”

Before I can respond with something equally sarcastic, Clark shouts over to us.

“Guys, we’re hot.”

Josh practically runs over to the computer, barely giving Clark chance to stand up before sitting down in front of the screen, tapping away on the keyboard.

I smile to myself. He looks like a kid at Christmas.

“How does it feel?” I ask, walking over to join him.

“Ah, man—I’ve missed being part of the team,” he says.

“Well, you can start making up for lost time right now,” I say, standing behind his chair and leaning on the back of it. Clark’s on my right and Wallis has joined us, standing on my left. “Get me a live feed of the Jeremiah.”

“So, what are you looking for?” asks Clark, as Josh does what he does best.

“Not sure yet,” I say. “But I’ll know it when I see it. Wallis, have you got that shopping list of hardware I took from Turner’s laptop?”

He fumbles around with the few papers he has with him, and then hands a sheet to me.

“Here it is,” he says.

I scan down the list, hoping I won’t find something in particular. But I do.

Shit.

“Okay,” I say, looking at Clark. “The bad news is that Pellaggio has one of your FIM-92 Stinger missiles.”

“Christ...” he mutters, mostly in disbelief.

“What’s the range on one of those things? About three miles, isn’t it?”

“That’s about right, yeah.”

“Okay, Josh—can you give me a three-mile radius from the ship on the screen? If I’m right, Pellaggio is going to fire the Stinger missile at the ship, but he’ll have to be within that radius to do it. At least we might be able to narrow down our search; try to find where he’s going to be.”

“Is that what you’d do?” asks Wallis, curiously.

“Absolutely. A big target needs big firepower to damage it. And he’s not going to be able to get close enough to set any charges or anything physically on board, so a ranged assault is the only real option.”

“I’d hate having the ability to think the way you do,” Wallis says, his slight laugh humorless with disbelief.

I simply shrug. “It’s not my job that makes me think this way,” I say. “It’s my military training. I’m no different than any other soldier.”

“Here you go,” interrupts Josh, pointing to the screen.

We all lean forward and look at the monitors. A blue circle, like a radar screen, is visible over the top of the live feed.

“That’s a three-mile radius from the Jeremiah,” he continues. “Not much to go on, as the ship is mostly surrounded by water. Looking at what land there is, there aren’t many viable options for a strategic ranged assault.”

I sigh. “There’s one,” I say.

I hate being right sometimes. But logically, it makes perfect sense. I point to the screen and everyone groans and sighs as they see what I’ve just seen.

It’s roughly one and a half miles away from the Jeremiah. It’s secluded, and it gives Pellaggio perfect line of sight to launch the Stinger.

I really hate being right sometimes…

Danny Pellaggio’s on Alcatraz.

22.

11:01

WE’RE ALL SITTING in silence around the big table in the conference room, waiting for Chambers. I’m at one end, with my back to the TV screen, facing the door. Josh is on my right with Clark next to him. Wallis is on the left side, opposite them.

The room is quiet, a palpable tension between us.

I hope Chambers has better news than we do.

Alcatraz is pretty much impossible to approach unseen. I have to assume Pellaggio’s already there and preparing his assault. Josh said there had clearly been some recent activity on the island when he’d looked at the satellite feed. All the regular ferry tours are postponed due to the celebrations on the Jeremiah, so it had to have been him…

It’s not the first time I’ve been up against it. Hopefully, it won’t be the last.

Chambers walks in and closes the door before sitting down at the opposite end of the table to me.

“I’m guessing you have something?” she asks, looking at the subdued expressions on our faces.

“We’re almost certain that Pellaggio is on Alcatraz,” says Wallis. “And he intends firing a Stinger missile at the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien.”

“Christ!” she exclaims.

“Please tell me you have better news?” I say to her.

She has a file in her hand which she puts down on the table and opens. “That depends on how you define good news,” she replies, somewhat cryptically.

Everyone looks on patiently as she sifts through the papers in the file to find what she wants.

“I have two pieces of news,” she says, after a moment. “The first didn’t seem that relevant to begin with, but now you’ve mentioned Alcatraz, it makes more sense.”

“Go on,” I say.

“Remember those two naval officers we found murdered near Pellaggio’s warehouse? Well, we ran their names through the system to see what they were doing in the city on active duty. And, you guessed it—they were assigned as security liaisons to the Jeremiah.”

“And you think Pellaggio’s got men on board using their ID’s?” I say, not so much asking, but confirming.

“I think that would be a justifiable assumption at this stage, yes.”

I nod. “If he’s got men on that ship, then there’s every chance he’s got bombs on there too,” I say. “You need to get word to the team you’ve got on the ground there to relay that to the Secret Service. That’s another thing you can use to convince them to call this whole thing off.”

“I agree,” she says. “But it won’t be getting postponed no matter what we do.”

The room falls silent for a moment.

“What else did you find out?” asks Wallis.

“This is where your definition of good news comes into play,” she says, looking at me specifically. “I ran the name Gregovski through every database we have access to,” she continues. “Ivan Gregovski—born 1965 in Nevelsk, Russia. Served eight and a half years in a Siberian prison for war crimes in the eighties. Kept a low profile upon release, married in the early nineties, no children. Became active again in early 2001, working alongside mercenary groups under various aliases...”

Her words trail off and she falls silent, seemingly hesitant to continue. Everyone looks at each other in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” asks Wallis.

She looks quickly at Josh, then focuses on me. “Adrian... Gregovski’s wife had a brother who had two children. Twins...”

I shrug and shake my head, failing to see her point.

“Her brother,” she continues, “was also a well-known mercenary—Nikolai Salikov.”

I sit up straight in my chair, my mind rushing into action like I’ve trained it to do upon hearing certain keywords.

Salikov.

Images come flooding back to me from Heaven’s Valley. The compound. The furnace. Natalia and Gene.

I look over at Josh, who’s staring at me with a worried expression on his face.

“I killed Gregovski’s niece and nephew?” I ask, rhetorically.

Chambers nods. “This whole thing seems to keep linking back to you and what happened last year in Nevada,” she says.

“Bloody hell!” says Josh, making everyone stare at him. “Danny’s basically recruited the remnants of Dark Rain to come after you, hasn’t he?”

“Looks that way,” I reply, half distracted. My mind’s still working on the word association. Salikov. Dark Rain. Nevada. Uranium. GlobaTech. Jackson... Clara!

Josh comes to it the same time I do. He reacts before I have chance to move—something he's had to become very adept at to keep me calm, free and alive over the years. He almost jumps out of his seat as he rushes round as best he can to stand between the door and me.

“Adrian, we don’t know that she’s involved, okay? Just take a breath and think this through before you, y’know, go all ‘Adrian Hell’ on us.”

“What’s going on?” asks Wallis. “Who are you talking about?”

“Clara Fox,” says Clark, breaking his silence. “You think she could be involved?”

I sigh. “No, I don’t think she’s involved,” I say, regrettably. “If she was, we’d have known about it before now. She has a bigger grudge against me than Pellaggio does. But I think we were right to rule her out of this one the other day.”

Chambers closes the file and stands up. “Well,” she says. “As nice as it is to stand around and discuss all the people who want you dead, we actually have work to do.”

Her short tone takes everyone a little by surprise—including me. I regard her for a moment, and then nod.

“I know,” I say. “And your priority is getting to the Jeremiah and alerting whoever you need to in order to stop the parade going ahead.”

“And what do you intend doing?” she asks.

“I’m gonna go to Alcatraz and stop Pellaggio and Gregovski before they can launch their attack.”

“I think you should leave that to the FBI and local authorities, don’t you?”

“And what are they gonna do, Grace?” I ask. “You’re gonna have Secret Service all over that ship. NCIS will likely be on their way to investigate the murders of their dead sailors. The Police Department will be on standard security duty anyway and will need to know of your involvement. Everyone is gonna be stretched thin and on high alert. You can’t even look at Alcatraz without Pellaggio seeing your move coming a mile away.”

“Okay, so what do you intend doing that we can’t?”

I turn to Clark. “I need a favor,” I say.

“Name it,” he replies without hesitating.

“I need a gun and a speedboat.”

Wallis raises his eyebrows and looks at Chambers, who doesn’t look impressed but remains poker-faced and silent. Josh shakes his head and smiles. Clark doesn’t look particularly fazed by the request either, although he’s had experience of helping me out before. I look at them all one by one.

“Pellaggio’s got at least one Stinger missile and God knows how many more RPG’s,” I explain. “Any approach by air will end badly, as we’ve already seen.”

I look at Chambers, who clenches her jaw and momentarily glazes over. I suspect she’s having a flashback to the Golden Gate Bridge yesterday.

“I can’t exactly swim there,” I continue. “But if I can get in a speedboat, I can loop round in a wide arc and hopefully stay out of sight. Even if I’m spotted, I’ll be harder to hit than a helicopter, and he won’t risk wasting too much ammunition on me. By the time I’m close enough to hit with bullets, it’ll be too late for them anyway. Plus, I know there’s all kinds of stealth technology nowadays… I’m sure you can come up with something that might help?”

Chambers and Wallis look at each other. They know I’m right, even if they don’t want to admit it. Clark stands up.

“I’ll make preparations at once,” he says. “GlobaTech will be happy to help in any way they can.”

He walks purposefully out of the room.

“Josh,” I say. “You’re going to stay here and be my eyes and ears, yeah?”

“Business as usual, Bossman,” he says without a second thought.

“I’ll show you where you can work from,” Wallis says to him. “I’m gonna sit in on Agent Green's interrogation, so I’ll take you on my way there.”

He leaves the room and Josh follows, leaving me alone with Chambers.

“Grace—” I begin, but she cuts me short.

“Adrian, it doesn’t matter. You have nothing to apologize for. I just don’t like hearing about what you do for a living and what you’ve done in the past. It’s easy to put it out of your mind when you’re actively fighting on our side, but it’s still hard to picture you being that person.”

I smile and look at her for a moment. “I wasn’t going to apologize,” I say. “I was gonna tell you to get your head in the game, because tonight is where all this ends. I can’t guarantee the safety of everyone on that ship, so I need you to handle that while I stop Pellaggio.”

She’s visibly taken aback, but soon smiles at my directness.

“I believe you,” she says. “And I can guarantee the safety of that ship and everyone aboard.”

I nod and walk toward the door, but she steps in the way, blocking my exit. We’re standing inches apart from each other. She’s looking at me, her eyes searching mine for a sign I want what she does. She moves her face closer to mine and steps up on her tiptoes.

My heart’s beating so fast, I’m worried it might burst through my ribcage. Not because of nerves or excitement. There are no butterflies like two young lovers realizing their mutual attraction for the first time. Right now, I’m absolutely terrified! She wants me to kiss her, and part of me wants to oblige. But I can’t betray the memory of my wife. I’m not ready to put her to rest. Not just yet.

I take a deep breath and a step back—a subtle gesture that I don’t wish to meet her advances. She immediately senses my body language and backs off, too.

“I’m sorry,” we both say simultaneously. We laugh, awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just... I shouldn’t have tried to...”

“Hey, I’m sorry too,” I reply. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I’m just not ready to...”

“It’s okay, really. Let’s just forget about it, alright?”

She smiles, but it looks forced. I think she’s either hurt, embarrassed or both.

I nod, but I feel awful. “Yeah, sure,” I say, smiling to offer a little comfort. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

It’s my turn smile without looking awkward. She turns and leaves the conference room. I stand alone for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath in and exhaling heavily.

“Christ...” I mutter to myself, before following her across the office.

16:21

The last few hours passed slowly. I spent most of the time pacing aimlessly around the office, as Josh and Wallis monitored Alcatraz Island and came up with a bunch of scenarios for me to figure out how to deal with without getting myself killed. Chambers wasn’t around much, as she was liaising with people on board the Jeremiah and trying to convince them to search the ship for explosive devices. As expected, it was proving harder to do than we’d hoped. I think she was right—there’s no way anyone will agree to postponing the celebrations later tonight. The best we can hope for is that the Secret Service realizes we’re not trying to interfere and actually listens to us.

I’ve not said much to anyone. I’ve eaten a little, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I keep thinking about Agent Chambers… Grace, and our moment in the conference room earlier.

Am I mad?

I mean, she’s an attractive woman. Very attractive. And she likes me, despite what I do for a living. I doubt I’ll find many women who are so accepting of the fact I’m a professional assassin.

But every time I think about her, I get mad at myself because I should be thinking about Danny Pellaggio. He’s on Alcatraz right now with Ivan Gregovski and an arsenal of weaponry that includes Stinger missiles—one of which he intends putting in a ship that has the Secretary of Defense on it.

You’d think I’d be prioritizing a little better…

I’m in the larger of the two office areas, which is deserted now, as many of the agents are already en route to the Jeremiah. Josh and Wallis are at their computer terminal with satellite and drone feeds of Alcatraz displayed on their screens.

“How’s it going?” I ask as I walk over to them.

Josh is lost in the computers, so Wallis replies.

“We’ve got thermal imaging up and running,” he says. “We’ve got eyes on eight bodies.”

“Pellaggio, Gregovski and six for practice,” I say, nodding.

“We’ve been over every inch of the island and ran every simulation we can think of—bottom line, Adrian, you’re not getting on there via a speedboat. You’ll be seen and shot at.”

“Josh?”

“He’s right,” he says without looking up from his keyboard. “It ain’t happening.”

“There’s got to be a way,” I say, feeling myself getting frustrated. “If I don’t get to them before the fireworks start tonight, it’s game over.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” says a voice behind us.

I turn and see Clark walking toward us, carrying two large black sports bags, one in each hand. He’s smiling from ear to ear. He drops the bags at my feet.

“Oh, Bobby…” I say, looking at them. “You sure know how to treat a guy!”

He laughs and picks up one of the bags, resting it on a nearby table. He unzips it and holds it open. Wallis and Josh walk over, curious.

“This…” he explains with a little too much pride and ceremony. “…is the latest in climbing technology. It’s a prototype I’ve… ah, borrowed from our Research Facility.”

He takes out a large grappling gun, maybe four feet long. It looks like a small rocket launcher, with an imposing four-pronged metal claw poking out of one end.

“Now, I’ll concede it’s a little noisy when you fire it,” he continues. “But, honestly, I don’t think anyone will notice over the sound of the waves. You simply aim and fire—the claw will penetrate almost anything. The cable that’s attached to it is a strengthened nylon polymer and will tie round a special body harness that’s also in the bag for you. You shouldn’t have any trouble scaling the side of the island with this.”

“Jesus…” says Josh quietly, clearly impressed.

“That’s brilliant, Bob—really. But these guys are saying a speedboat isn’t going to work… I can’t climb it if I can’t get to it.”

He smiles again and packs the grappling gun away, zipping the bag closed, and picking it up.

“Grab that other bag and follow me,” he says. “I’ve got that covered too.”

I frown, slightly confused, but pick up the bag and follow him as he walks off.

“What’s in the one Adrian’s carrying?” Wallis asks Josh behind me.

“Oh, you don’t wanna know,” he says laughing. “You know, what with you being a federal agent and all…”

“Right…”

We all follow Clark out of the office, down the corridor and into the elevator. We take it down to the first floor and step out into the lobby as the doors ding open. He walks outside and we all look at each other, getting more confused by the second.

We follow him, stepping out into the late afternoon sun. Clark is standing in the parking lot, the bag on the floor next to him, in front of a sports car. It’s nice—a convertible. A Lotus, I think.

“Here you go,” he says.

“Nice wheels,” I say with a shrug. “I think you might’ve misunderstood what I need though.”

Josh walks over to the vehicle and crouches down beside it, running his hand over the wheel arches and the chassis. Clark watches him as he stands and makes his way around the car, inspecting it with his educated eye. Wallis is next to me, looking as confused as I do.

After a minute, Josh moves next to Clark and stares at us, one hand over his mouth in genuine shock. He looks at him.

“Is this…?”

Clark nods and smiles.

Josh claps his hands and, I swear to God, he jumps and clicks his heels, laughing.

“You look like you’ve just won the state lottery—what’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Adrian, my loveable, un-educated friend, this is an amphibious sports car.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s a what now?”

“It’s an underwater car.”

I’m trying to understand how those two words can appear next to each other in a sentence, but I don’t have the mental capacity for it.

“An underwater car? That’s a thing now?” I ask.

Clark pats the hood like a proud father. “It runs off an electric motor that’s powered by six batteries. It’s capable of seventy-five miles an hour and can submerge to depths of up to three hundred feet.”

“So it’s a submarine?” I ask.

Clark nods.

“Well,” I continue. “Ain’t that something…”

“I hope this helps,” he says, extending his hand.

“This is incredible, Bob, thank you,” I reply, shaking it.

“Any time, Adrian,” he replies. “And now, I’m going to do something I learnt to do long ago—stay out of your way while you go kill people.”

He shakes hands with the others.

“Josh. Agent Wallis.”

He disappears back inside the office.

Wallis pats my shoulder. “Well, looks like you’re all set,” he says. “I’m going to be on board the Jeremiah with Agent Chambers. Good luck, Adrian.”

“Thanks. You too.”

He walks off, and as I watch him go, Agent Chambers comes out toward us. They exchange a quick word as they pass, then he carries on inside, and she approaches us.

“Nice wheels,” she says.

“It’s a submarine,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about.

Josh smirks as she looks confused.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, reaching into his pocket and taking out an earpiece. “Adrian, take this. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

I take it from him and smile. “Thanks man. See you on the other side.”

“Bet your ass.”

We bump fists, and he walks off, leaving me standing next to the car with Chambers in front of me.

“So, you’re all set?” she asks.

I look at the two black bags at my feet and the car behind me. “I reckon so, yeah.”

“I’ll do everything I can on the Jeremiah. Just stop Pellaggio, okay? Whatever it takes.”

“I fully intend to. You be careful—if there are bombs on board, you need to be ready to get people off that ship if things go wrong at my end.”

“I will,” she says, nodding. “But you’ll stop him. I know it.”

I smile and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment. Then I pick up the bags and drop them on the back seat, walk around the hood and open the driver’s door.

“Is this really a submarine?” she asks, skeptically.

“Apparently,” I reply.

“Huh…”

I climb inside and start the engine. I look at her one last time then drive off toward the pier.

23.

16:35

MY PHONE RINGS. It’s Josh. I put the earpiece in and answer the call.

“Where are you up to, Bossman?” he asks as I pick up.

“I’m a few minutes away from the docks,” I reply. “I’ve hit some traffic.”

“That’s to be expected, I guess, what with everything going on over there.”

“How are things with you?”

“This place is mental! I think the Secret Service is starting to take our concerns seriously, but aren’t being very cooperative in terms of allowing the FBI access to the ship. Agent Chambers is shouting a lot on the phone. I think she’s intending setting off for the Jeremiah with Agent Wallis any minute.”

“Unbelievable…They’ll be cooperative when they get blown to shit, and the FBI says I told you so.”

“If only people would listen to us, eh? Anyway, go do your thing, Bossman. I’ve got your back here.”

Instead of hanging up, Josh starts playing music down the line. I smile as the opening guitar riff from Smoke On The Water drifts into my ears.

I focus on the road and steadily navigate my way through the traffic, which is getting heavier the closer I get to the docks. As I hit The Embarcadero, vehicles are almost at a standstill. Cops are standing in the middle of the road, directing cars in different directions. I lean out the window and look ahead. The sun’s slowly turning orange as it begins its descent, and is casting a subtle glow on the never-ending line of traffic ahead of me.

Goddamnit!

I check the clock in the car. According to that news report I saw, the service aboard the Jeremiah is due to start at eight p.m. I’m running out of time and I’m probably ten minutes away from where I need to be right now.

The music fades away, and Josh comes back on the line.

“Still with us?” he asks.

“Just about,” I reply. “Although, I’m going to start shooting people if this traffic doesn’t clear up soon.”

He laughs. “Hang on a second… Right, I’m tracking you via the GPS in your phone. You still have a way to go before you reach Pier 33, and the traffic’s only going to get worse the further along you go, but you can turn off early onto Pier 29 and drive along there—it might save you some time.”

“Excellent, I can see the turn just ahead. So, here’s a question for you… have you ever driven an underwater car before?”

He laughs again. “Can’t say I have,” he replies.

“But you’re familiar with them?”

“More than you are, yeah.”

“So, what am I meant to do when I reach the end of the pier, exactly?”

“You’ve got to drive off the end!”

“Josh, I’m being serious here.”

“Adrian, so am I! How else do you expect to get underwater?”

“So, I just… drive off? Will I not drown in the car? This sounds like one of those things I really need to get right first time, y’know.”

“Have you got a lever at the side of you?”

I take a look. “I’ve got two.”

“Right, well one’s the handbrake. The other, you need to pull as soon as you’re airborne but before you hit the water.”

“What will it do?”

“It’s make sure the roof and windows and everything else is shut tight and sealed to make them waterproof. It will also disengage the main electric engine and switch on to the secondary supply, which is used to power the water-based part of the vehicle.”

“Christ, this is some real life James Bond shit, isn’t it! How do I steer the damn thing?”

“You’ll be able to push and pull the wheel as well as turn it—this will control your depth. Forward for down, backward for up.”

“Huh… Well, this should be entertaining.”

“Assuming you manage it, our comms will be down until you re-surface, so you’re on your own until you reach Alcatraz.”

I see a gap in the traffic and take it, accelerating quickly, and stopping again. The turn for Pier 29 is just ahead on my right.

“Fair enough. Tell Agent Chambers good luck from me.”

“I will…” He falls silent.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Josh, I can hear you smiling down the phone. What?”

He laughs. “I’m sorry—did you think all the awkward, uncomfortable flirting you two have been doing wasn’t visible to the rest of us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“‘Uh-huh...”

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“I have absolutely no issue with shooting you, you know that, right?”

He laughs again. “Whatever you say, Bossman.”

“Anyway, I’m just about to turn onto the Pier now. I’ll call you once I get to The Rock.”

I hang up and take the turn, slowing to a stop at the beginning of the pier. There’s a parking lot which is half-full, with spaces on the left along the side of a building. Luckily, there aren’t many people around. I set off again slowly toward the end of the pier.

I must admit, I’m not completely confident with driving into the water and pulling a lever so that I don’t drown. I get that technology is amazing and useful nowadays, but it doesn’t mean I trust it. I just want to make sure I know what I’m doing. No use going to all this trouble if I die before I even make it to Pellaggio.

I stop at an angle as I reach the edge of the pier and get out of the car. I look around and come across the first of what I suspect will be many roadblocks I encounter before all this is over—the pier is fenced off, so I can’t drive off the edge.

Great. Now what do I do?

I look around, but there’s no one this far down the pier. I walk over to the barriers. They’re interlinked metal gates, maybe three feet high and five feet wide, welded into place. If I drove at them full speed, I’d probably write the car off and injure myself. They’re too high to start trying to build a ramp either.

Shit.

Hang on…

I walk quickly back to the car, opening up the black sports bag on the back seat that doesn’t contain the grappling gun. Inside is a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun—my personal favorite—resting on top of a pile of spare magazines. Lining the bottom of the bag next to it is a selection of grenades. Smoke, flashbangs, white phosphorous and...

Frags.

I pick one up and look at it in my hand. There’s no one around… this would almost certainly blow at least one section of barrier off, which would leave a space wide enough to drive through.

I turn to walk back to the barrier when something inside the bag catches my eye. I reach inside and retrieve a back holster, identical to the one I used to wear. Resting in it are two brand new, custom Berettas. My eyes widen like a kid on Christmas morning who’s just opened a present and found the one thing he wanted more than anything in his life. They’re not the A1 model that I’d loved and lost, but the more prominent FS variation. I take one out and hold it in the palm of my hand, feeling the weight. I look at it and smile. On the butt, where I’d had the Sigil of Baphomet engraved on my A1s is an intricately detailed image of a smiling Devil’s face. Every aspect of the gun is jet black, but the engraving is blood red.

I tuck it into my waistband at my back. I’ll leave the other one in the bag for now. I walk over to the barrier once more and measure it up, casually tossing the grenade up and catching it as I concentrate.

My earpiece is still in place, so I dial Josh.

“You not drowned yet then?” he asks.

“Not yet… listen, is Grace still with you?”

“No, she and Wallis are en route to the Jeremiah. Why?”

“Can you get in touch with her?”

“I have her number, yeah. Why, Adrian?”

“Can you just let her know that if she hears any reports in the next few minutes of a small explosion on Pier 29, there’s no need to worry—it’s just me.”

There’s a moment of silence on the line.

“Yeah, why not...”

“Thanks.”

I hang up and pull the pin from the grenade, letting it cook for a second before rolling it along the ground toward the railing. As soon as it leaves my hand, I run back to the car. I reach it just as the explosion sounds out. It’s deafening and couples with the noise of screeching metal as the barrier blows out. A cloud of smoke fills the air, raining down rubble and splintered wood.

I climb in behind the wheel and wait for the dust to settle. As the cloud fades, the gap I’ve created appears, which is plenty big enough.

Excellent. Now I just need to drive off the pier…

I put the roof up on the sports car and make sure to fully raise the windows. I reach down with my right hand and grip the lever that isn’t my handbrake. I let out a heavy sigh.

I do some really stupid things sometimes…

Without hesitating, I push my foot to the floor and set off screaming down the pier toward the gap. As I approach, I look to my left and see the outline of Alcatraz Island in the distance. At least it’s not hard to find.

I fail to suppress a guttural scream of adrenaline as I fight every natural urge I have to slam my brakes on as the end approaches. I feel the car leave the ground, the engine revving loudly as all four wheels spin wildly as the water of the Bay appears in front of me, rushing toward me faster than I could’ve imagined. I quickly pull the lever, hard enough that I momentarily worry I’ve snapped it. I hear one loud mechanical noise as a million tiny components all adjust themselves milliseconds before I plunge into the water. Instinctively, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it as I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white. I count to five, and open my eyes. I give it another two before breathing out.

I start laughing.

Holy shit, I’m underwater!

I try the wheel and, sure enough, the steering column now allows me to push the wheel forward or pull it back. To put my mind at ease, I press my hand against the seats, the floor, the roof, the windows, everything. All watertight.

Un-fucking-believable!

Clark’s out-done himself this time.

I gently press the gas and pull back on the wheel and I surge forward, leveling out. I drive forward… am I driving? Or am I sailing or doing whatever it is a submarine does? I don’t know… anyway, after a few moments, I realize it’s harder to navigate than I thought it would be, so I pull back on the wheel as much as I can and climb; the wavy glare of the sun gets closer and brighter until I break the surface with a big splash and float.

I look around me. I’m facing just to the right of Alcatraz. I give it a little gas and line myself up, glancing to the left at the crowd of people lining the neighboring piers and pointing at me. Luckily I’m far enough from the streets that the main crowds and patrolling authorities haven’t seen me yet—but that’s surely only a matter of time because of the explosion.

I take a few deep breaths and gun the engine again, pushing forward on the wheel as I do. I slowly sink beneath the surface once more. The dash is lit up with screens that seem to tell me depth, as well as speed, and a whole bunch of other stuff that makes little sense to me right now. I focus on keeping going in a straight line.

Maybe a mile and a half ahead of me, Danny Pellaggio, along with Ivan Gregovski, and whoever else he has with him, is preparing to commit an act of terrorism that could potential start a second Cold War. He has no idea that I’m coming for him. My Inner Satan has two black bags and plenty of reasons to be pissed.

I smile at the irony of the situation—he’s been running around calling himself The Shark and here I am, a predator far above him in the food chain, approaching with deadly intent below the surface of the San Francisco Bay. I can smell the blood. I can taste it. And I’m looking to spill a whole lot more…

Who’s the shark now, asshole?

I can’t help but start to hum the theme tune from Jaws.

17:19

I cover the distance in a matter of minutes. Seeing the outline of the island ahead, I head left, looping around in a wide circle to approach from the far side of the island to where we assume Pellaggio will be. When we first looked at Alcatraz, we all agreed that if Pellaggio was going to fire on the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien, either he’d do it from the right hand side, on the roof of the main prison, or further down the East Road, near the Quartermaster’s building—he’d have line of sight and a better angle to fire from.

I drop my speed and slowly climb to the surface again. I wish I’d put a fin on the roof—that would’ve been brilliant!

I come to a stop and immediately dial Josh. “How am I looking?” I ask as he picks up.

“I’ve just picked you back up on the GPS,” he announces. “You’re looking good. How was it?”

“Being underwater? Fucking weird!”

“I bet!” he says, laughing. “At least you didn’t kill yourself.”

“Yeah, always a bonus. So where am I exactly?”

“Pretty much bang on where you need to be. The north-west corner of the island is just ahead. You should come up on the West Road at the back of the lighthouse, which will provide you with enough to get yourself prepared. Thermal imaging from the GlobaTech drone we’ve got over the area is showing minimal movement on the far side of the island. There’s literally one guy patrolling, and he’s heading over to the lighthouse as we speak. Take him out and you should have a clear run toward Pellaggio. Now, steer another couple of hundred meters and you should see a small inlet in the rock formation that’s level enough for you to climb onto. It’s the best place to begin your ascent.”

I raise my eyebrows, not surprised but very impressed by how much detail he had waiting for me. I expect nothing less from him, but it’s just further evidence of how talented Josh really is.

“See, this is why I don’t shoot you,” I say, laughing.

“Any reason’s a good reason!” he replies.

It’s good to hear his trademark enthusiasm at a time when there’s very little to look forward to. When I’m not on a job, it can irritate the shit out of me—which he knows damn well. But when I’m working or facing a particularly awful situation, it actually relaxes me knowing someone can still be so happy about everything.

“Oh, Clark got me some new guns,” I say. “Berettas again, but the 92FS model, not the 92A1’s. They’re beautiful.”

“Awww, ain’t he a sweetheart?”

“He’s somethin’ alright. What’s the latest from Grace? Any news from the Jeremiah?”

“Secretary Schultz is due to arrive in the next twenty minutes. Like she said, they’re going ahead with the parade no matter what. Secret Service has tightened up their security, but they’re still denying the FBI full access.”

I press a button on the dash that releases the roof. It folds slowly back, revealing the cold sea breeze and the setting sun. I reach behind me and open the black bag with the grappling gun in it. I take out the harness Clark had mentioned and start putting it on.

“That makes no sense,” I say. “Surely they’d want as much help as they could get?”

“My guess would be that because they already have military and naval security on board, plus the Secret Service, they don’t want to draw attention to themselves by suddenly having the FBI on there as well—no reason for them to be there normally, so people might start asking questions if they saw them working security. Plus, I think it’s probably a pride thing—they wanna handle it all themselves.”

“Well,” I say with a deep breath as I slowly stand up and tighten the fastenings around my waist. “That pride is gonna get people killed. We got anything we can use from Agent Green yet?”

“Nothing we don’t already know. Jimmy Manhattan set the whole thing up, as far as getting to you is concerned. Everything else was planned by Pellaggio behind Manhattan’s back.”

“Any word on his condition?” I ask, referring to Manhattan.

“Still breathing as far as I know. Do we care?”

With the harness firmly in place, I reach down and take out the grappling gun, heaving it up in my arms and taking aim.

“Not particularly,” I say.

It goes quiet on the line and I use the time to line up my shot. I’ve never used one of these things before, and I’m only going to get one shot and planting this grappling hook in the top the cliff ledge.

“Oh, shit!” says Josh in my ear.

I let out a tense sigh. “More good news?” I ask.

“Adrian, that one guy patrolling the perimeter is closing in on your position.”

“Where is he?”

“Approaching the helipad now, just a couple of hundred meters east of the lighthouse. You’re gonna come up on the Agave Trail. That path winds up to the top of the island. He’s gonna be directly above you as you’re climbing.”

“Wonderful. Is he going to hear my fire this grappling gun?”

“Possibly.”

“Great…”

I line up my shot again and steady myself, leaning into the weapon slightly so any recoil doesn’t knock me backward and overboard.

“Keep an eye on him,” I whisper.

I close one eye and adjust my grip, taking a deep breath and holding it. I steady myself and breathe out, squeezing the trigger as I do. The gas-propelled grappling line roars out of the gun, making a noise like a firework. The thunk as the hook penetrates the cliff side overhead sounds loud, even over the noise of the Bay.

Clark wasn’t kidding about it being noisy… Jesus!

“Christ!” yells Josh in my ear. “How loud?”

“I know, tell me about it,” I say, tensing my jaw muscles. “Has the sentry heard me?”

“It doesn’t look like it, no. He must be deaf or something.”

“Pardon?”

“I said he must be… oh, piss off!”

“Got you,” I say, laughing.

“Whatever. I hope he shoots you.”

“If he does, I’m going to come back and haunt you.”

“Adrian, you haunt me now! Every single day…”

“Fair point.”

I detach the rope from the gun and tie it to the harness. It’s like a sleeveless jacket, but thick, like a Kevlar vest. It has compartments on every side for useful things like weapons and grenades, but the main feature is that there are two straps running down each shoulder and another that wraps around the waist with a small device clipped to it. The rope feeds through the straps and into the device, which will then wind up the rope, helping speed up and control the climb. At the top, I simply disconnect the device and walk away.

I put the strap of the Heckler and Koch MP5 over my shoulder, securing it at my back. I load up the side pockets with grenades and attach my back holster with both Berettas in it. There’s a pair of fingerless gloves with tough leather sewn into the palm and a thin layer of padding over the knuckles in the bag as well. I put them on and carefully step out of the car and onto the shallow bank at the foot of Alcatraz.

“Right, I’m beginning the ascent now. How’s it looking up top?” I ask.

“The guy’s still wandering around near the helipad. You’re gonna need to be quick and quiet.”

“Roger that.”

I look up at the imposing cliff face and take a deep breath. I hate heights, and I hate being exposed. I loop my right arm once around the rope and get a firm grip in my hand. I pull hard to test if it’ll take my weight. I’m happy it will. I grab it with my left hand and place my left foot on the cliff in front of me. Slowly, I begin to climb. The device at my back whirrs away automatically, and it makes things much easier, taking a lot of pressure off my arms. Within minutes, I’m almost halfway up.

This is like walking—like in the old Batman TV show from the sixties with Adam West, where they’d scale a building, but if you tilted your head, you could tell they were just walking and the camera was on its side.

Whoa!

My foot slips on the cliff face and, for a brief moment, I crash forward into the rock, banging my left shoulder and knee.

“Ah, shit…” I say, grimacing, as quietly as I can.

“Adrian, you alright?” asks Josh.

“Yeah, I slipped.”

“Jesus, be careful, will you?”

“Josh, I’m hanging off the side of a fucking cliff—nothing about this safe.”

I push off gently and find my footing again, taking a deep breath to compose myself before continuing with the climb.

A few more minutes pass without incident and I’m soon at the top, level with the grappling hook. The steel prongs are lethal, and fully penetrated the rock. I slowly place one hand on the flat surface directly above me and, after a couple more steps up the side, place my other hand flat and heave myself up, swinging first one knee over, then the other. I rest on all fours and catch my breath before unclipping the device from my back and regarding it in my hand. It’s a great piece of tech, but while it makes things much easier, my arms are still burning from the effort. I stand and a pain shoots through my left shoulder making me wince. I look down to see blood soaking through my top and the harness.

Oh yeah, I got stabbed a couple of days ago… forgot to get that looked at.

I look around me. The lighthouse is off to my left, standing ominously against the skyline. The path beneath me is muddy and leads off to my right on a steady incline.

“I’m up,” I say. “Where’s the guy?”

“He’s stopped level with the helipad,” says Josh. “His heat signature’s spiked a bit, so I’m guessing he’s just lit a cigarette or something.”

I take one of my Berettas from my back and attach the silencer to it, which I’d shoved hurriedly into my pocket before I started the climb. I grip the gun tightly in my right hand. I take a last look over the edge of the cliff, seeing the amphibious sports car bobbing gently on the waves below me. I must be three or four hundred feet up.

Man, I hate heights…

I crouch slightly and move quickly along the path and around the bend. The Agave Trail runs uphill on a slight gradient to the helipad before leveling out on top of the island. I keep to the right, moving along the outside of the round as it curves up and round to the left, to keep out of the guy’s line of sight for as long as I can.

“He’s about thirty feet in front of you,” whispers Josh down my ear. “Just as the path veers right up ahead.”

I don’t respond to minimize the risk of giving my position away. I change my stance, standing straight and holding my gun in both hands—right arm locked, ready for any recoil; left arm bent but firm, to steady my aim.

I need to be fast here, as a one-man patrol this far away from anyone else will definitely have a radio, and I don’t want to announce my presence here any sooner than necessary.

I edge forward, peering around as much as I can. I see a small plume of smoke fly out and evaporate a few feet in front of me from around the bend. The wind isn’t blowing in that direction, so the guy must be just around the corner, and facing me.

I take a slow, deep breath to compose myself. I quickly step out and drop to one knee, raising my gun up to aim at the guy. He doesn’t even have time to register surprise or shock—he just looks at me impassively for a brief second before I squeeze the trigger twice. A double-tap—one in the chest, one in the head, in quick succession. He crumples to the floor, lifeless. The dirt around him turns dark from the flow of blood from his wounds. I walk over to him, twisting my foot on his cigarette as I pass.

“Those things’ll kill you,” I say to him, shaking my head disapprovingly. To Josh, I say, “One down.”

“Seven to go,” he replies.

24.

18:13

I QUICKLY SEARCH the body. He’s got a radio, which I slide into an empty compartment in my harness, and plenty of spare magazines for his gun, but I don’t need his weapon, so won’t need his bullets either.

“Right, where am I going? I ask Josh.

“Head straight up the West Road,” he replies. “When you get to the main prison building, you’re gonna need to head inside and cut through, which will bring you out on the East Road. You’ll see the water tower on your left as you do. The Quartermaster’s building is just beyond that. I can see three heat signatures in there. My money’s on one of them being Pellaggio.’

“Any other movement I should worry about? Where are the other three?”

“Nothing of any consequence. You should have a clear run into the prison at least—the rest of them are milling around near on the East Road at the moment. Looks like a loose patrol.”

I set off along the West Road in a small jog. I look to my left and see the outline of Angel Island State Park illuminated by the pale orange glow of the sun as it begins its descent for the night. It’s a beautiful evening—a little breezy, but that’s understandable, considering I’m surrounded completely by water. It should be a nice evening, which will likely see fireworks on board the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien.

Hopefully not the bad kind.

I make good time and come up on the main prison within ten minutes. The building is old and the brickwork has fallen away in places over time. Steel railings are block the entrance—presumably for the purposes of the tours that they operate on the island. There’s one door on the sidewall that looks like a service entrance of some kind. It’s metal, dark gray in color but rusted over the years, with thick bolts studding along the edges.

“I’m here,” I say into my earpiece. “Is this the only way in?”

“Seems to be,” replies Josh. “I’m checking the schematics now—that door should bring you into a small corridor that leads into the main prison holding area.”

“Okay. Anyone nearby?”

“No sign of life behind that door,” he confirms. “Everyone is still where they were a few minutes ago.”

“Great. I’m moving in.”

With my Beretta in hand, I try the handle slowly. The door is unlocked, which I expected—I figured this was the way the guy I’ve just killed had come. I open the door an inch and look up and down the gap, checking for wires, just in case it’s been booby-trapped. Ahead, I can see a short, narrow, open-ended maintenance corridor that seems to lead into the main prison area. Mold stains cover the walls, and the old cement floor is mottled with damp patches.

“Looks clear,” I whisper. “I’m heading inside.”

“Copy that,” acknowledges Josh. “Still looks good.”

I push the door open and take a step inside.

Click.

Oh, shit…

I spin around and see a small, black, circular device attached to the wall behind the door, which I immediately recognize as a trip mine. A small laser that fires out from the top of it. If that beam is broken, it triggers the explosive on a slight delay.

The door just broke it…

I react on instinct, knowing I have literally three seconds before it explodes. I lunge forward, urging my legs to sprint as fast as they can into the main prison. Unfortunately, my body is moving faster than my legs seem to want to, and all I end up doing is lunging forward through the corridor and out into the prison.

In mid-air, I hear the explosion go off behind me. The roar of the flames is deafening, and the heat is intense. As I land, I cover my head with my arms, looking underneath me as best I can. The blast has ripped the metal door from its hinges, and it’s flying toward me, propelled by the explosion.

I scramble to my feet and try to dive away to the right, but I’m too slow. The door lands on me, smashing against my back and the back of my head. The force of the impact sends me flying forward and skidding across the floor.

I roll over on my back and lie still for a moment, assessing the damage. I feel like an eighteen-wheeler as ran me over. I have a pulsating ache across my back and my ears are ringing. My headache is beyond words but other than that, it seems like I’m in one piece—which is a goddamn miracle.

I prop myself up on my elbows and look around. My vision’s a little hazy, but there’s not much to make out anyway. I roll over and push myself up on all fours. My hands are resting in shallow puddles and the ground is uneven and muddy around me. The area I’m in looks small—maybe thirty square feet, max. There are large double doors to the left and right, with holding cells lining the wall in front of me, facing the corridor I just got blown out of. I try to stand, moving my left leg forward to take my weight, but I barely get my knees off the floor before I topple over, landing awkwardly on my right shoulder.

I groan and blink hard, trying to focus. I’m in so much pain; anything new doesn’t even register anymore. I tap the earpiece absently with my right hand.

“Josh, you there?” I manage to say.

I get no response and when I tap it again, I get feedback in my ear. Great… I guess I’m on my own. I take it out and throw it across the floor. I struggle to get on all fours again. I’m facing the corridor now, and I look to my right at the doors across the room and they’re open.

Wonderful… what now?

I’m sense that I’m not alone. I squint to focus, dealing with the onset of a concussion and the dim interior lighting that aren’t helping clear the haze. Three men rush toward me, all armed and approaching in a loose, wide arc. All three of them are dressed in nondescript black denim and combat boots, with black t-shirts on. They look military, so they must be with Pellaggio and not left over from Manhattan’s reign in charge of things. They’ve got me covered from every angle.

I push myself up further, so I’m kneeling back, resting against my heels. I’m breathing heavy, grimacing from the pain that’s shooting around my body after each breath. I hold my hands out to the sides with exhausted resignation.

“I don’t suppose… you boys wanna surrender now, do you?” I ask. “To save us all some time and effort later?”

The guy on my right steps toward me while the other two hang back. Without a word, he slams the butt of his rifle into the side of my head—hard enough to make me dizzy, but restrained enough to keep me conscious. My concussion doubles in severity almost instantly and I fall forward to the floor again, fighting the urge to vomit.

I push myself back up on all fours and shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs and stay conscious. I spit out a little blood to the side of me and look up at each of them in turn.

“Huh… guess not.”

The one in the middle steps forward now. “Mr. Pellaggio has been expecting you,” he says.

“Well, I hope he’s got a cold beer waiting for me,” I say as I struggle to get myself up on one knee.

“Get up!” yells the guy on the right.

I ignore him and spit a little more blood out on the floor next to me. I feel inside my mouth with my finger for a cut. I can’t find anything, which I’m assuming means I’ve got some internal bleeding. I can breathe okay, so I’ve not got a punctured lung or anything.

“Hey!” he shouts again. “Get your ass up!”

“I’m doing my best, asshole,” I reply, slightly irritated. “How about you get yourself blown up then hit in the face—see how quickly you can move afterward?”

He steps forward and raises the butt of his rifle once again, but the guy in the middle stops him.

“Jones, enough,” he says. “Pellaggio wants him in one piece. It’s not our job to beat the shit out of him, remember?”

I look up at him. “Thanks,” I say, chuckling weakly.

He smiles back. “I wouldn’t thank me if I were you,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “You’ve not met the guy who will be beating the shit outta you!”

I look back down at the floor, grimacing through another deep breath. “Great…”

The guy on the left and the one in the middle steps toward me, letting their rifles hang loose as they each grab me underneath an arm and heave me up, holding me steady so Jones can frisk me. He takes my phone out of my pocket, tosses it to the floor and drives the heel of his boot down hard on it, smashing it beyond repair. He then unfastens the harness, along with my back holster and the strap of the MP5, letting them all drop to the floor at my feet.

“Pritchard, pick his shit up,” he says to the guy standing on my left. He looks at me. “You, move.”

I sigh and let them lead me over to the open door on the left, breathing slowly and painfully. High above, the hanging fluorescent lights buzz and crackle away, doing nothing for the earth-shattering headache I have. There’s no natural light inside here, and I imagine there’s very little outside by now, either. I think about the Jeremiah and realize I’m running out of time to stop Pellaggio.

“What time is it?” I ask, generally.

“Time you shut the fuck up,” replies Jones.

I shrug. “Wow… helpful, thanks.”

Josh would be so proud at how well I'm doing with my sarcasm.

They push me again, making me stumble forward and almost fall over. I’m definitely not firing on all cylinders. It’s too risky to attempt to take them all out now, although not impossible. I need to bide my time, mess with their heads as much as possible and get them good and pissed for when it is time to kill them. The madder they are, the more mistakes they’ll make and, as much as I hate to admit it, right now I need all the help I can get.

We walk through the doors and into a long corridor with old, empty offices either side. Turning right, we walk to the end where it becomes a crossroads. I stop, looking both ways. To the right I can see the corridor to the prison cells. Left looks to be the old dining hall. The guy behind me nudges me in the back with the barrel of his rifle, which I take as a sign to go straight on. After a short walk, the corridor opens up into a reception area, with two large doors ahead.

I wish Josh were still in my ear, telling me where I’m going and what’s coming. I hate flying blind, especially when I’m out-numbered and barely conscious.

Pritchard moves ahead and opens the doors, stepping through and holding them open for the rest of us. He’s carrying the harness, my holster, and the MP5 by its strap, all in his left hand. We emerge outside of the main prison block, on a pathway that seems to wind down the front of the island, all the way to the main docks.

We make our way down it, along the outside of the prison and dining hall. Pritchard is ahead of us, with Jones to my right and the remaining guy on my left. The sun is low on the horizon, its orange glow silhouetted against the shadowed skyline of the San Francisco Bay as dusk settles in. I can just about make out the shape of the Jeremiah in the distance. The Secretary of Defense will be on board by now, I suspect. It has to be close to seven p.m. by now, so they’ll be making their final preparations before the service begins. My money’s on Pellaggio waiting until the end, so he can be sure Schultz will be on the stage giving his speech. He’ll want to make certain he kills him, if nothing else.

Tick tock, Adrian.

I sigh, clenching my jaw muscles as I silently fight the headache and the pain in my neck and back, that’s starting to throb more prominently now.

After a few minutes, the path turns sharply to the right and works its way down a slope as we gradually head toward the East Road. It starts out with relatively new, well-maintained concrete underfoot, but the further we walk the worse the path gets, slowly becoming gravel with patches of old, stained concrete dotted around.

I try to walk a little faster—no use to me going downhill, because essentially they’re above me, giving them any physical advantage there is over me. Once we get back on level ground, I need to take these monkeys out before we get too close to Pellaggio. The guy before made it sound like I’m in for some serious punishment when I get to where we’re going. I imagine from either Pellaggio himself or Gregovski.

I can hardly wait...

The path turns left, going back on itself yet again. Looking down to my right, I can see the main East Road not far below. Further away to my right is the main dock. I can just about see one boat, and what looks like the back of another that’s partly blocked from view. Must be what Pellaggio and his crew came over in.

A few minutes later, we come out on the East Road at a junction, of sorts, just before the old Officer’s Club building, which is off to the right. The road doglegs slightly to the left, which is the way we’re going, apparently. The guy with my stuff takes point and the rest of us follow him, with one of them either side of me. A few hundred meters along and I can see the Quartermaster building up ahead on the right.

I’m running out of time.

“So,” I say, looking at Jones. “What’s Pellaggio planning on doing once he’s fired his Stinger missile at the S.S. Jeremiah?”

He frowns and looks somewhat nervously at his colleagues.

“Oh, sorry—was that meant to be some sort of secret?”

“Quit talkin’, asshole,” says Pritchard.

“I’m just curious,” I persist. “I figured if you guys told me now, it’d save him doing it later—he could use the time more effectively, like for torturing me or something instead. I’m just thinking of him, really.”

“You really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?”

“Not usually,” I shrug.

The guy on the left takes two quick steps forward and stops in front of me, gun raised and aimed at my chest. The guy on the right takes a step back and looks on. I glance over my shoulder at him, then at the remaining guy at the front, who’s stepped to his right and is slowly raising his rifle at me. They’ve got me covered, forming a loose triangle around me.

“We can have a little fun with this prick, can’t we?” he asks Pritchard.

“We could say he tried to get away, and had to stop him?” he replies, setting my equipment down at the side of him and holding his rifle loose in front of him.

Perfect!

“Hey, c’mon guys,” I say. “There are three of you, one of me—I’m concussed and can barely walk... surely you don’t need the guns? What say you put them down and we settle this the old-fashioned way? Give me a sporting chance, huh?”

Come on… take the bait, assholes, take the bait…

They all exchange glances and smile at each other, their grins filled with bad intentions. One by one, they rest their guns on the ground.

Bingo!

I know I have to be careful, as I’m still a bit unsteady on my feet and have limited maneuverability after the blast. I can’t afford for any confrontation to get dragged out.

I take a step back to my left, turning the loose triangle surrounding me into a square, with me in the bottom left corner. The guy called Pritchard is in the opposite corner to me. I figure he’ll make the first move, because the other two seem to be running things by him, so he might be more senior.

I’m right—Pritchard edges forward, one step at a time, his hands up in an amateurish boxing guard. I stand loose, turning slightly side on, with my arms by my sides. Even on my worst day, I’m twice as fast as any of these idiots. And today is definitely not one of my better days.

He’s approaching with all his weight on his back foot. He’s in an orthodox stance, meaning he’s right-handed; his weaker left hand is out in front. He’s going get close and immediately swing a big, lazy right haymaker and try to knock my head off straight away. It’s so obvious, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

I let him get two paces closer before reacting to the punch he’s about to throw. I move forward as fast as I can, bringing my right arm up across my chest. As his right haymaker comes up from his hip and swings slowly around, my right hand snaps to meet it and pushes it away, sending him off-balance to his right. I got to it before his momentum could get going, which made deflecting it easier.

As he’s leaning to my left, I take a step forward, raising my right foot and kicking his front leg at the knee. I step through, pushing my foot through his kneecap, instantly breaking his leg. The snap is sickening, and sounds loud on the near-deserted island, but is quickly drowned out by his agonizing screams.

I bring my leg back, waiting for him to fall toward me. As he inevitably does, I bring my right knee up to meet him, catching him flush on the nose. I feel the thin bone and cartilage give way under the impact, sounding like a wet explosion as blood splatters across his face.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious and broken. I take a couple of hurried steps back, narrowing my angle to the other two guys, who are standing in shock, yet to react to what’s happened. I look at each one in turn.

“Who’s next?” I ask casually, trying to hide the pain I’m feeling from all this moving around.

They look at each other, panic and confusion present on their faces. As they’re about to make a move, a gunshot sounds out from further up the East Road. I look over to see a figure walking toward us. They both look, and then turn back to me and smile.

“Enough!” shouts the man as he approaches us.

I relax my stance, sensing my little rebellion is over, for the time being at least. The new arrival walks up to the guy on my left.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice loud and angry and Russian.

Hello, Gregovski…

The guy’s huge! I’m no slouch; don’t get me wrong—I’m about six feet tall, maybe just over. I’m around the two hundred pound mark. I’m a pretty powerful guy when I need to be. But Gregovski has a good five inches on me, easily. And probably a good fifty pounds. And it’s all muscle. He looks younger than he is. He could comfortably pass for early forties, despite his FBI file confirming he’s approaching fifty. He’s got a shaved head and dark eyes, too.

“We, erm...” the guy hesitates, intimidated by Gregovski. “He tried to escape, so we surrounded him, tried to teach him a lesson.”

Gregovski looks over at me. I simply shrug at him. He then looks at Pritchard, unconscious on the floor with a busted nose and broken leg.

“You didn’t teach him very well, it would seem...” he replies, unimpressed.

He moves next to him and nudges him with his boot. Getting no reaction, he aims his gun and fires once, putting a bullet in the back of his head. He then turns and puts another bullet in the guy he's just spoken to, right between the eyes. No emotion, no hesitation.

I like his style.

He turns to Jones, who’s standing on my right shitting himself—his eyes are wide and his body language is tenses.

“Get his bag,” he says. Jones obeys without hesitation. Finally, he turns to me. “So, you’re Adrian Hell?”

“Last I checked, yeah,” I reply.

In a flash, he raises his gun and squeezes the trig—

25.

20:17

A HEAVY BOOT to my stomach wakes me up, causing me to cough. Not the nicest alarm call I’ve ever had. I slowly open my eyes as I try to lift my head and look around. My vision’s blurry and my body feels like it’s on fire.

I’m sitting on the floor with my back to a wall. I’m inside a large, dilapidated building that resembles a warehouse. The Quartermaster building. It’s long and narrow, with pools of water on the floor. It’s mostly hollowed out inside, except for two rickety, wooden staircases running up the far side of the building opposite me. The wooden gantries above look equally decayed from this angle.

I can hear some faint movement coming from the top floor, but can’t see anything. Looking around, I seem to be sitting against a wall at one end. On either side of me are three rows of windows stretching up. Out of the left side, I see the dusk fading into night; the skyline of the San Francisco Bay lighting up as daylight fades.

I must’ve been out well over an hour… shit! I can’t afford to keep losing time. I have to stop Pellaggio before he fires on the Jeremiah. I quickly run through a self-assessment. My right arm is throbbing and burning. I slowly put my hand on my shoulder, feeling the wet, blood-soaked material of my shirt and jacket. I look down, blinking rapidly to clear my vision and focus. The bullet Gregovski put in me went through and through the fleshy part of my arm, on the outside, below the shoulder. It hurts like hell, but it hasn't caused any permanent or troubling damage.

Just to the right of me, looking down with a mixture of anger and disgust on his face, is Gregovski. My God, the guy’s a monster! There’s no sign of anyone else with us. I guess they’re either upstairs or outside.

It’s just him and me.

He takes a step forward and kicks me once again in the stomach, just below the ribcage. I crease over and fall to my right, coughing up more blood.

“Okay, okay!” I wheeze. “I’m awake already!”

“Your pain has only just begun, Adrian Hell,” he says, in a slow, deliberate, and dramatic voice.

I manage to push myself back upright into a sitting position, hugging my knees to my chest as I look up at the menacing beast looming over me. This situation is going to get worse before it gets better. That’s assuming it actually does get better…

“Wonderful,” I say. “Is this because you’re pissed at me for killing your niece and nephew last year?”

Without a word, he leans down at full speed and punches me across the face, sending me down to my left.

Christ, that one’s going to leave a mark! Good job I can take a hit. But this guy is going to kill me if I let things carry on as they are. I need to do something to take this guy out, and I need to do it soon. I’m honestly, not sure how much more of this I can take…

I push myself back up to a sitting position, once again, and look up at him. His eyes are wide and he’s snarling through gritted teeth like a wild animal. He looks barely in control, and I’ve not even started trying to piss him off… I can see why Pellaggio wants this guy as the poster child for his attack on the Jeremiah. He’s a very convincing terrorist-slash-psychopath.

“So is this anger you’ve got going on for yourself all about me? Or is there any truth to the rumor you hate Russia, America and everyone else as well?”

He doesn’t answer me. He still looks incensed with rage—I can see it in his eyes, which are burning with hatred. He reaches down, grabs my throat with both hands and heaves me off the floor to my feet.

My eyes go wide as I balance on my tiptoes, trying to keep the ground beneath me as he lifts and squeezes, restricting my ability to breathe. I grab his wrists with both hands, frantically trying to loosen his grip.

That doesn’t work.

I start hammering down on his elbows, trying to force his arms to bend and take some of the pressure out of his vice-like grip.

That works a little, but he’s not letting up that easily.

My lungs start to burn as I gasp for oxygen, not getting anywhere near the amount that I need to stay awake. My arms are throbbing in agony from the wounds inflicted on both my shoulders now, so I can’t get as much power behind the blows as I need to.

When in doubt, go low.

I position myself as best I can and without warning launch my right foot into his balls, like I’m kicking a fifty yard field goal in the Superbowl.

That loosens his grip.

He yells as he lets go and staggers back, clutching his groin. I take a few paces back myself, putting some distance between us while I recover. My throat’s sore and feels like it’s starting to bruise already from where he’d gripped me. I look around the expanse of the old Quartermaster building, trying to find my equipment. Where the hell are my guns?

Oh, there they are… in the middle of the room next to a couple of upturned crates on the floor. Behind Gregovski…

Fucking brilliant.

I guess I’m going to have to fight this sonofabitch, aren’t I…

He looks up, shaking the effects of my kick away. He runs at me with a speed not befitting a man his size, arms wide and high, ready to slam down on me. The guy’s big. Like, really big. He looks like a Neanderthal on steroids—a big, thick brow and long arms the size of my legs. He’s definitely strong as well. But he’s slow—hindered by his size and weight. I haven’t been a hundred percent for a few hours and I’m certainly nowhere near that now, but I figure I’m still quicker than he is. And that’s my only advantage. That’s how I’m going to beat him. I’m faster than he is. And I can guarantee I’m better trained and more violent than he is too.

As he comes at me, I quickly play out every possible defensive technique in my head—what if I move left? What if I duck and feint right? Everything. I consider what could work and what definitely won’t.

Ah, when in doubt…

I let him get maybe five feet away from me, and I jump forward, snapping my forehead toward him in an arc, as if it were a dead weight. I time it perfectly with the jump, and I connect with the bridge of his nose, where it angles out in between the eyes. It’s like he'd run into a wall. The impact takes away all his momentum instantly, and he stops dead, stunned by shock and pain in equal measure.

His arms are by his sides, so his face was unprotected. I stare at him for a moment, frowning to ignore the throbbing pain in my head, seeing what he’s going to try next. He’s just standing there, eyes still wide, but confusion replaces the anger. I prepare to launch a right elbow at his head, but a shout from above distracts me.

“What the fuck is going on?”

It’s Pellaggio, who’s on the top floor, looking down over the railing. I look up and we lock eyes for a moment, then he disappears out of sight.

“Shoot him!” I hear him shout.

I can hear footsteps along the gantry as his two remaining men set off running for the stairwell at the far end.

I should probably get my guns…

I take a step toward the MP5 but Gregovski cuts me off, blocking my path having made good use of the small reprieve and recovered.

“I’m looking forward to killing you, Adrian Hell!” he says with an evil smile.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how many Russians have said that to me... And every one of them is dead from trying,” I reply.

“Not all of them,” he says cryptically, smiling before swinging for me once more.

I duck under his right hand, but catch his follow-up left on my ribs. I see him go for my throat again, and I block his hand and duck down to deliver a left hook to his right kidney.

It knocks him back a little, so I roll under and do the same on the other side—right hook to the left kidney. Again, it sends him back again and looks like it hurt him a bit more this time. Regardless, he remains stubbornly upright in front of me, his large arms held high in a loose fighting guard.

The magical thing about a blow to the kidney is that it has a devastating effect on the body, causing pain, nausea, and loss of balance. But it has a delayed reaction. It takes your body roughly ten seconds to process the impact and react accordingly. He just took two very nasty punches to his kidneys, one to each side, so he’s about to have a very bad day…

We stand looking at each other as the seconds pass. He bares his teeth again, like a caged beast taunting its prey. I simply stand and smile.

Three... Two... One...

Gregovski’s eyes go wide as he keels over and drops on all fours, vomiting profusely before falling over into a fetal position—his body going into something similar to shock as his brain finally registers the shots to his kidneys.

Goodnight sweetheart!

Satisfied he’s down for the count, I make my way over to my guns, crouch down, and take a Beretta from the holster. As I’m drawing it, I hear the familiar sound of a gun being cocked behind me.

No… two guns.

I look up and see two guys standing over me. My friend, Jones, is on the left, with someone else next to him. They must’ve made it down the stairs quicker than I thought they would. They’ve both got me dead to rites, and I doubt very much they’re going to hesitate for one second.

Shit!

The one on the right smiles, and I see his finger tense on the trigger.

“So long, asshole!” he yells.

I can’t believe they got the drop on me like that. I didn’t give them anywhere near as much as credit as I should’ve done. I was too busy focusing on Gregovski.

Shit, shit, shit!

I close my eyes and take a long, deep, painful breath as I wait for the inevitable.

Two gunshots sound out, making me flinch with surprise.

What the…?

I open one eye and look around. Then I open the other, just to be sure. Then I pat myself down as a final check.

Nope—definitely not dead...

I look at the two guys who were about to shoot me. Jones and his friend are lying on the ground with blood pouring from bullet holes in their chests.

Seriously, what the fuck just happened?

I look all around the building, quickly resting my gaze on the main door on the right hand side. It’s open, and Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers is standing in the doorway, gun in hand.

“Hey,” she says, smiling.

“Hey,” I replied, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass, by the looks of it.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. But seriously, why aren’t you on the Jeremiah?”

“Agent Wallis has it covered, working with the Secret Service. Obviously, they remained steadfast in their stance that nothing will change, so I figured I was more use to you. I took a speedboat over here, then spoke to Josh to find out where you were.”

“Not spoke to him—I lost comms when I got blown up earlier.”

“Blown up? Jesus Christ! Are you alright? What happened?” she asked, full of concern as she races over to me.

She smiles, and it makes me feel better. And even more so, the fact she has my back. I can feel myself beginning to trust her.

As she’s walking toward me, she shouts, “Adrian, look out!”

A hail of bullets streams down, narrowly missing us both. I look up and see Pellaggio screaming from the top floor, leaning over the balcony, and firing down at us.

No rest for the wicked...

“Grace, find cover!” I yell as I pick up my back holster containing both Berettas and sprint as fast as my broken and beaten body will allow over to the far wall underneath Pellaggio, to limit his visibility.

I have to find a way up those stairs so I can stop him.

“I’ll cover you!” shouts Chambers, who’s picked up my MP5 and moved behind the doorway outside. She leans in and fires off a couple of bursts at Pellaggio, forcing him to duck away for cover.

I take my Berettas out of the holster, tucking one in the back of my waistband and keeping hold of the other. I take a couple of deep breaths and look over to the door, to make sure she’s okay. She breaks cover and unleashes another burst of fire at Pellaggio.

Yeah, she’ll be fine.

I set off running for the stairwell on the back wall, which immediately draws more fire from above. I glance behind me, seeing Chambers move back behind cover. I keep my head down and make it to the stairwell, ducking down at the side of it. It offers precious little cover, but it allows me to squeeze off a couple of rounds in his general direction, buying me some more valuable seconds.

I hold out until Pellaggio pauses to reload, then set off up the stairs as fast as I can, taking two at a time. Every inch of my body aches from the explosion earlier, and both my arms are throbbing as blood continues to stream out of the flesh wounds caused by Manhattan’s blade and Gregovski’s bullet. But the pain can wait—I have to stop Pellaggio, that’s all that matters.

Another hail of bullets shreds and splinters the wooden staircase as I come up on the first floor and race around to begin the ascent to the top. I hear Chambers fire a few more short bursts, buying me a little more time. I hold my gun out in front of me, ready to fire as I dash up the final flight of stairs, coming out on the makeshift walkway at the top. I aim my gun at Pellaggio, who’s leaning over the balcony firing at Chambers below.

“Danny!” I yell. “It’s over. Drop your gun step away from the edge.”

He stops firing but doesn't move, keeping his gun trained on Chambers. I look down and see she has her gun pointed at him too, the scene frozen in a deadly stalemate.

“Throw your gun over the side, Adrian, or I’ll cut her in half!” he shouts back.

“You won’t get chance, and we both know it. Just give it up. You’ve lost.”

In the blink of an eye, he snaps round and levels his rifle at me.

“No, I’ve not,” he says with a wicked smile.

I heard a muffled cry below, and I flash a look back down to the floor. Gregovski is back on his feet and is standing behind Chambers with one hand over her mouth, and the other holding her right arm out to the side—her gun on the floor a few feet away from them.

“Now, throw your fucking gun over the side, or he’s gonna snap her pretty little neck!”

I sigh and lower my gun, pausing a moment before reluctantly throwing it over the side.

“Adrian, don’t!” yells Chambers as she struggles to get her mouth free from Gregovski’s grip.

Pellaggio smiles. “Touching,” he says. “Now, how’s this for real power, Adrian? I’m not even gonna keep my gun on you. You stay right there, or your little FBI bitch will die. Understand?”

Arrogant bastard… But I have little choice if I want to keep her alive. I nod reluctantly.

He puts his weapon down, turns and walks a little further down the walkway. There’s a sniper rifle leaning against the wall, and as he gets level with it, he pauses—his gaze alternating between the rifle and back over his shoulder at me.

“Well, this brings back some fond memories,” he says, picking it up and holding it in his arms like a new father would hold his baby for the first time.

“This... this is what I used to shoot your friend. How’s he doing, by the way?”

The anger erupts inside me, coursing through my veins and consuming me. But as pissed as I am right now, I’m smart enough to see the opportunity I need to stall him.

“Oh, yeah—you won’t have heard, will you?” I say. “With us finding your inside man at the FBI, you won’t be in the loop anymore. Josh is fine. In fact, he’s watching all this unfold via a satellite feed at the FBI Field Office right now.”

Pellaggio’s face drops, but he quickly recovers. “No matter,” he says, dismissively. “There’s nothing anyone can do to stop this happening. And then we will watch as a brave new world blossoms in the aftermath.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, do you know that?” I ask. “Why do you think I’m here? We figured most of what you were doing out on our own, and your old pal Jimmy Manhattan filled in the blanks. As we speak, the FBI and Secret Service are clearing that boat so all you’re gonna do is play a really expensive game of Battleship on your own.”

I know that’s not strictly true, but he doesn’t. He looks quickly in every direction, like he’s trying to follow a fly. His eyes are wide as he seems to teeter on the edge of control, about to lose it completely and snap. I can handle whatever he comes at me with, as long as he isn’t focusing on firing at the Jeremiah.

But he doesn’t snap. He doesn’t come at me. He struggles, but he exercises restraint and simply smiles back at me. An evil, twisted, intelligent smile.

“Nice try, Adrian. I don’t care if anything you just said is true or not. I’ve been planning this for a year, and nothing’s gonna stop me from succeeding.”

He drops the sniper rifle and continues along the walkway, stopping beside a large, black box that looks like a huge briefcase. He crouches down and opens it, lifting the lid and resting it against the wall. He reaches inside and takes out an FIM-92 Stinger missile launcher.

I quickly look at Chambers. She isn’t afraid, but she’s panicking. She can see how close we are to failing. Gregovski is staring up at me with menace in his eyes, his hand holding her steady by the side of her neck. He dwarfs her, towering a good foot over her. She struggles against his grip, but it’s more of a futile gesture than a serious attempt at escape.

I look back at Pellaggio, who’s hefted the launcher up on his right shoulder. It’s a tube about a meter and a half long—just a bit longer than the missile itself. His left hand is supporting the end, in the way you would a regular assault rifle. The butt and trigger are close to the shoulder, and his right arm bends as he grips it, finger on the trigger guard. On top of the tube, coming out at roughly a forty-five degree angle, is a thin piece of metal similar in size to a computer keyboard. Along the top edge of it is the sight, which he’s looking through now, out the window and across the Bay, lining up his target.

The way the targeting system works is that you look through the scope and see a computerized telescopic sight. Once you get the target in your sights, you hold it there while the on-board computer locks onto its position, based on GPS location and distance, which it measures via a laser fitted just underneath the sight. The screen confirms the target’s locked, and then you fire.

The missile is propelled out of the launch tube by a powerful stream of argon gas, which is kept cool by a battery pack fitted into the butt of the launcher. It travels at around nine hundred miles per hour and will penetrate its target before exploding like a very powerful fragmentation grenade, causing an insane amount of damage.

I’m screwed if he fires that missile, but if I move for him, Chambers is dead.

I clench my jaw muscles, running through every outcome in my head—what might work, what wouldn’t. There are no perfect endings.

Except one. Maybe.

I move my left hand slowly to my side, thinking about the Beretta I still have at my back. It’s risky, but it’s the only option that stands even a remote chance of working. Pellaggio is about to fire his missile, and if he does, everything we’ve done would've been for nothing.

I take a deep breath.

Fuck it.

26.

20:48

I’M VERY FORTUNATE to have some level of natural ability when it comes to what I do for a living. I've received a lot of training during my time in the military, but—and I say this with no ego at all—to get to the level that I operate on, you have to have some natural talent to begin with. It has to be in your blood.

I have two main strengths when it comes to shooting: speed and accuracy. If we lived in the Old West, I’d have been a quick draw champion—no doubt about that. Hand-to-eye co-ordination has always been something that’s come naturally to me. Which obviously has a positive effect on my level of accuracy.

You can train people to shoot the wings off a fly at a thousand yards and that’s great. But I can take one look at my target, instantly shoot from the hip and hit it—every single time. I don’t aim with my head. I aim with my eye. My brain then tells my hand to point at what my eye’s looking at and it does, like an instinct… a reflex. There’s no logical thought process involved. I just point and fire. And I never miss.

It’s quite a handy skill to have when you kill people for a living.

I look down one last time at Chambers. We lock eyes and time slows down around me. All noise disappears, leaving nothing except the two of us, staring at each other for what feels like a lifetime. I can see the panic in hers. She’ll be able to see the killer in mine.

I wink at her and take one last breath…

My left hand disappears behind my back, re-appearing a moment later and whipping my second Beretta around to aim at Pellaggio. I arc the swing of my arm out over the balcony as I do, and fire once. The bullet hits Gregovski in the center of his forehead, narrowly missing Chambers by a few inches. She screams as Gregovski shudders and falls heavily to the floor, a spray of blood catching her down her left side.

As confident as I was of making that shot, it’s always harder when there’s someone you care about in the way.

I save the sigh of relief for later. I know Chambers is okay, and there’s no time for celebrating.

I continue the swing, bringing my gun level with Pellaggio. But I hesitate. I can see his finger tensing on the trigger and, if I shoot him, it will likely cause him to twitch and get the shot off anyway. In a split second, I change my mind and drop my gun, racing toward Pellaggio as time resumes its normal speed. I can hear the launcher start to bleep as it acquires its target.

Goddammit, come on, Adrian—faster!

With gritted teeth, I approach him at full speed, jumping and aiming my right elbow at his head. I smash into him, catching him flush on his right temple at the exact moment he squeezes the trigger. He collapses to the floor, falling left with me on top of him.

But I’m too late…

The loud whoosh of the missile firing fills the building.

“No!” screams Chambers as she spears at the top of the stairs and starts running toward us along the gantry.

“Fuck!” I shout, punching the floor with frustration. But I shake my head. “No, this isn’t over!”

I’m Adrian Hell... I don’t fail, and I certainly don’t miss!

I scramble to my feet and lunge for the Remington sniper rifle that Pellaggio taunted me with earlier. The same rifle that put two bullets in my best friend. I pick it up and use it to smash the glass right in front of me. I quickly chamber a .300 round, drop to one knee, and line up my shot through the scope.

The Stinger missile is moving at around nine hundred miles an hour in a straight line. The bullet I’m about to fire will move at over twice that speed. The downside is, the range of my bullet is over half that of the Stinger, so the timeframe I have to work with is measured in split seconds at best.

I look through the scope and track the missile. It’s a very small target already, but I’m pretty sure that if I can just hit it, that’ll be enough to knock it off course at very least—or, ideally, detonate it early.

To my right, I hear Chambers approach me.

“Adrian, you could’ve shot me back there!” she says. “I can’t believe you would…”

She stops mid-sentence as she looks at me. I’ve not acknowledged her, but her silence tells me everything I need to know.

“Adrian, you can’t be serious?” she asks, seeing what I intend to do.

I don’t respond, focusing completely on this shot. Probably the biggest shot I’ve ever had to take—not wishing to add more pressure to myself or anything.

My whole body aches, and my arms are screaming as I try to hold the rifle steady. But this is it. I look through the scope at the missile, knowing that if I miss and it reaches the Jeremiah, the consequences will send shockwaves felt the world over.

I take a deep breath, and another, and then hold it. Everything around me fades away and I breathe out slowly, squeezing the trigger as the breath leaves my lungs. The sound of the shot echoes around the hollow interior of the building. I immediately throw the rifle down and look through the window. I feel Chambers’ hand on my shoulder. I reach up and grip it.

One… Two…

The missile explodes, and a small cloud of fire erupts briefly in the sky over the Bay. Seconds later, fireworks start flying, signaling the end of the service aboard the Jeremiah.

“Oh my God!” she shouts in both surprise and excitement. “You did it!”

I stand up slowly and look at her. A pulsating ache resonates around every inch of my body. My legs feel weak, and I can barely support my own body weight. She steps in close to me and throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. It hurts like hell, but it’s totally worth it.

I let out a heavy sigh. I’ve done it. After everything we’ve all been through over the past few days, in the space of a few seconds, it’s finally over. I step back from Chambers and turn to look at Pellaggio, just in time to see him running full speed toward me. I’m slow to react and just about manage to push Chambers away as he drops his head and spear-tackles me, sending us both crashing into her and to the floor.

“You sonofabitch!” he snarls. “You’ve ruined everything! I’ll kill you!”

He gets into a full mount position on top of me, resting on his knees, which are straddling my chest. He starts raining blow after blow down on me, connecting with my face and chest. I struggle to bring both my arms up to protect myself, writhing left and right with my body in an effort to evade the punches and look for an opportunity to escape. As I turn away from a big right hand, I steal a glance up and look behind me to see if Chambers is okay. I can see her lying on side a little away from us, not moving.

A punch catches me on my left cheekbone—punishment for getting distracted—and I feel myself almost lose consciousness, but another punch to my right cheek knocks the cobwebs away again. I look into his eyes, seeing the unbridled rage and fury burning behind them. He’s not going to stop, and I know I can’t take many more heavy punches.

I move my upper body to my left as much as I can, narrowly avoiding yet another powerful right hand. I catch his arm at the wrist and buck with my hips, using every ounce of strength I have left. It’s just enough to dislodge him and, using the arm I have a hold of for leverage, I manage to roll him off me to the left.

Seizing the opportunity, I struggle to my feet, standing up at roughly the same time he does. He comes at me again, but toe to toe in a straight-up fistfight, he’s got no chance against me, even in my current condition. Plus, he’s so far gone with his anger, he’s not thinking at all—he’s operating on pure hatred, and he’s going to be easy pickings for me.

He’s holding his right hand way behind him as he moves toward me. You can see the swing coming a mile away. Don’t get me wrong, if it connects, it’ll do some serious damage. But it’s so easy to telegraph, there’s more chance of Elvis hitting me than Pellaggio.

I dodge backward as the punch comes and watch as he hits thin air. His momentum carries him all the way around nearly, so as he’s spinning I smash my right elbow into his right temple. He drops like a stone and skids toward the edge of the walkway.

I bend over, resting my hands on my knees while I catch my breath. I look over at Chambers and see her making her way slowly to her feet.

“You... okay?” I ask, out of breath and barely able to speak.

She’s holding her head, but seems unscathed for the most part.

“I’m fine,” she replies. “You?”

I stand up straight and stretch my back, making the ‘okay’ gesture with my right hand. She looks at Pellaggio, then at me. She takes a deep breath and walks back along the gantry to where I dropped my Beretta. She picks it up by the barrel and walks back over to me, holding it out to me.

“It’s unfortunate I wasn’t able to make an arrest,” she says. “What with Danny Pellaggio catching a stray bullet during a shoot-out…”

She raises an eyebrow, but never quite manages the smile that should’ve gone with it. I take the gun from her and nod. Pellaggio’s making his way to his feet, holding on to the railing as he drags himself up.

“Okay,” he says, with a desperate, fatigued laugh. “You got me. Well done you! I’ll come quietly. Due process, and so on.”

Leaning back on the railing, he holds his hands out at Chambers, his wrists together in a gesture of restraint.

She finally manages a smile before turning her back on him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he asks, panicking. “I’m surrendering!”

I take a step forward, raising my gun so he looks directly down the barrel. “You’re past the stage where you get to just come along quietly and sit in a jail cell,” I say. “The FBI know you died on Alcatraz.”

“B-but I’m still alive!” he says, his eyes widening as the panic makes way for fear. “I’m giving myself up! I’m surrendering!”

“To who?” I ask calmly with a smile.

Without another word, I pull the trigger and put a bullet through his left eye. The force of the impact pushes him through the old, wooden railing, and he plummets two stories, landing with a sickening thud on the ground below. I glance over the edge, seeing his crumpled body staring back at me. A large, dark red splatter has formed where his head impacted the ground.

I should’ve done that twelve months ago—it would’ve saved me so much trouble.

I look back at Chambers, who’s walking toward the edge.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I say. “You don’t need to see that.”

She looks at me, her jaw clenched and her eyes looking the darkest I’ve ever seen them. “Yes,” she says. “I do.”

I nod and walk off down the gantry toward the staircase, leaving her to have her moment of closure. I walk down the stairs and retrieve my other Beretta. I take a quick look around the old Quartermaster building, my eyes resting for a moment on Gregovski before heading over to stand in the doorway. I look out at the prison complex down the East Road. It’s dark and the sky above me is being periodically lit up slightly by the fireworks from the Jeremiah.

After a few moments, Chambers appears next to me.

“What now?” I ask her.

“I need to call Wallis,” she replies. “I left him in charge on the Jeremiah.”

I nod.

“What about you?” she asks.

“That depends. Am I still a person of interest to every agency in America?”

She smiles. “After this? I wouldn’t think so. Not by the FBI anyway—I’ll see to that.”

“Thank you.”

“Any idea if you’re going to stick around? Maybe help us with the aftermath of all this?”

“I don’t think so. I think the best thing for me to do is put some distance between myself and this city for a while.”

“I guess you’ve earned a little holiday,” she says with a shrug and a smile.

I look over my shoulder, back at the bodies of Pellaggio and Gregovski one last time, and then set off walking. I stop after a few paces. I look back at Chambers and make a gesture with my left arm, silently asking her to link it.

“You coming?” I ask.

Without a word, she strolls over to me, takes my arm, and we set off together down the East Road once again. This time, taking the easy route back to the harbor.

27.

September 28th, 2014

13:59

AFTER CHAMBERS AND I had made it back to the mainland, we linked up with Wallis on the Jeremiah, where he told us they’d been able to track down Pellaggio’s men and find where they’d planted their bombs on board. I was then taken away in an ambulance, courtesy of the FBI, and driven to the hospital where I got patched up. Chambers had ridden with me, holding my hand the whole time.

We’d both got some much-needed and long-overdue sleep at the hospital, and in the early hours of the next day, we’d returned to the Field Office and de-briefed Josh on what had happened. He said he’d seen some of it on the satellite feed but got worried when he’d lost contact with me.

Chambers was escorted off to give the official de-brief to Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Webber, so Josh and I had taken that as a sign to leave quietly. We made a quick call to Robert Clark, thanking him for his support and offering our services in return, should he need them. He was grateful and we left it at that.

We ate, drank, and rested for the next day, keeping a low profile as we watched the various news channels around the city report on what had happened. Or, at least, what the authorities had told them had happened. I suspected some of the official statements given had omitted a few of the grittier details.

Then I got a call from Chambers to say that the FBI had arranged a funeral service for Special Agent Johnson, and that we’d be welcome if we wanted to pay our respects. I watched that man get gunned down in the line of duty right before my eyes, because of a situation I still hold myself accountable for. So, despite our initial differences, I absolutely had nothing but respect to give him.

It’s early afternoon now, and the sun’s beaming down as I stand in the National Cemetery on Lincoln Boulevard. Close friends and family are sitting in two rows of chairs directly in front of the open grave. FBI agents are standing solemnly just behind them. I can see Chambers stood beside to Wallis. She’s wearing a black trouser suit and even in mourning, she looks as great as always.

The coffin’s in front of the grave with the American flag laid over it.

I’m standing further away under the shade of a large tree with Josh beside me. We decided it would be best to keep a respectful distance. I've cleaned myself up and I’m on the mend, wearing my jeans and boots, a black shirt and my leather jacket. Josh is wearing his usual t-shirt and jeans with sneakers and a zip-through black hooded top. We don’t really have the wardrobe for this type of thing. We usually just focus on putting the body in the ground, not pausing to pay our respects afterward as well.

I bury my hands in my pockets and stare at the ground, lost in thought. I can feel Josh staring at me.

“What?” I ask, without looking at him.

“Nothing,” he replies.

I sigh. “Come on, out with it.”

“There’s something bothering you,” he says. “I can tell, so don’t waste your time denying it. If you don’t wanna tell me, I’m cool with that, I guess. But I’m worried about you. This has been a really shitty week, Boss. Are you sure you’re alright?”

He knows me too well for me to hide anything from him.

“Something Gregovski said, back on Alcatraz,” I say after a moment.

“What was it?”

“We were fighting, and I said to him that every Russian who has tried to kill me has died in the process.”

“True,” he says with a shrug.

“Gregovski said, and I quote, ‘Not all of them’…”

“You think he means—”

“Clara?” I say, finishing his sentence. “Yes, I do.”

“Look, you know we ain’t letting her go. If she’s alive, we’ll find her when the time’s right and play hide the bullet with her head. But don’t let it eat at you, man. Stay focused on the future.”

I finally turn to him. My jaw clenches as I struggle to find the right words to say. I’ve been meaning to say this for over eight years, and now the time’s right, I want to make sure I do it right.

“But things do eat at me, don’t they?” I say. “I’m not sure I can look to the future without first addressing my past.”

“What are you saying, Boss?”

“I’m saying, I think it’s time.”

“Really?” he says, his voice a mixture of excitement and concern.

“You said yourself, me and Agent Chambers—we clearly feel things for each other, but I can’t allow myself to move on like that. Not with the death of my family still hanging over my head. I need to go back to the beginning, to Pittsburgh. Put things right and deal with Wilson Trent once and for all. Put the memory of Janine and Maria to rest, along with my guilt. After everything I’ve been through over the last few days, I realize now that the life we lead might not afford me many more opportunities to do it. And I need to move on. It’s time, Josh.”

I let out a sigh. That wasn’t easy for me to say.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you to say that, Adrian. Watching you sweep those demons of yours under the carpet time and time again, carry the guilt on your shoulders the way you do—none of it was your fault. It was Wilson Trent who murdered your family, not you. And until right now, you’ve never been ready to aim those Berettas of yours back at him and avenge your wife and daughter. I’ve got your back, Boss, as always.”

Before I can say anything else, Josh nudges my arm and nods at Chambers and Wallis, who are walking toward us.

“Hey,” says Wallis, shaking both Josh’s hand and mine in turn.

“I’m glad you could make it,” says Chambers, with a smile.

“I’m sorry about Agent Johnson,” says Josh. “I know how hard it is when you lose a colleague. He was a fine agent.”

“Thank you,” she says, before looking at me.

“Adrian, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

I raise an eyebrow quizzically before looking at Josh, who simply shrugs. She turns and walks off and I follow her without another word.

Up ahead, across the cemetery over by the far gates is a black limousine, surrounded by four men wearing suits, earpieces, and black sunglasses. As we approach, the door opens and a man steps out. He’s shorter than me, maybe five-nine or five-ten. He’s got silver-gray hair, but he isn’t that old, maybe early fifties. His weathered face indicates a hard life, but he’s managed to retain a certain youthfulness about him.

“Adrian,” she begins. “This is—”

“Ryan Schultz,” he interrupts in his broad, Texan accent. “Secretary of Defense for the United States. And you are Adrian Hell.”

“That’s me,” I say.

“I have a dilemma, Adrian. See, this is the second time you’ve done our great country a service now, son.”

I shrug humbly and nod, recalling the last time I spoke with him, down in Heaven’s Valley last year.

“But this time you saved my damn life, so I hear.”

I shrug again.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“You’re welcome... what?”

“Don’t push your luck, Ryan.”

The Secret Service agents around his car all flex their shoulders back and shift uneasily on the spot. Sensing it, Schultz half-turns, and gestures with his right hand for them to relax.

“Fair enough, son. You’ve done your job and on behalf of the United States, I’d like to extend you our appreciation.”

“Does this get me off the government’s shit list?” I ask.

Schultz frowns and glares at me for a moment in silence, before making a dismissive gesture with his hand and turning back to his car.

“Doesn’t mean I like you, son,” he says, climbing in the back as one of the Secret Service agents slams the door shut behind him.

The limousine drives off, and I turn to Chambers.

“Nice guy.”

She smiles and we both set off walking back toward Josh and Wallis.

“So, what now, Adrian?” she asks. “Do you still intend leaving?”

“I do,” I reply.

She nods, but fails to hide the look of disappointment from her face.

“Where are you going? Do you know?”

I take a deep breath.

“I’m heading for Pittsburgh,” I say after a moment. Saying it out loud makes it seem more real. This is going to be one of the hardest things I’m ever likely to do in my life.

“What’s in Pittsburgh?” she asks.

I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek before taking a step back and looking into her steel-gray eyes.

“Closure.”

THE END

Dear Reader,

If you enjoyed this book, why not let me know?

Please take a moment to visit the online store you downloaded it from and leave a review. Thirty seconds of your time makes the world of difference to independent authors like me, and I’m genuinely grateful for your opinions.

Alternatively, you can visit my website, www.jamespsumner.com and contact me directly with your feedback.

Thank you in advance!

James P. Sumner

The first short story in the Adrian Hell: Origins series is available now! Visit www.jamespsumner.com/ahow to get your copy, and see how Adrian got started!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James P. Sumner was born in 1982, in Stockport, UK. He's married with a son, and currently lives in Bury, UK. His "other" job, besides being an author, is a full-time Account Manager for a large, international company.

An avid reader from a young age, his heart has always been in writing. In July 2013, he began work on his first novel. After some trial and error, he published his debut thriller himself on Amazon, and hasn't looked back!

He is a Top 10 Bestselling Author on Amazon, with both Hunter's Games and One Last Bullet. True Conviction is also a permanent fixture at the top of the Free charts.

When he's not writing, he's either reading (usually thrillers or comic books), cheering on his beloved Manchester City, or enjoying one of the many TV shows he follows religiously—he's a big fan of Game of Thrones and The Flash!

OTHER TITLES BY THE SAME AUTHOR

For your convenience, the links below take you to my website, where you will find links to all online retailers where the books are available.

THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES

True Conviction

Hunter’s Games

One Last Bullet

Deadly Intent

THE ADRIAN HELL: ORIGINS SERIES

A Hero Of War

DON’T MISS THE NEXT ADRIAN HELL THRILLER

ONE LAST BULLET

AVAILABLE

NOW!

Read on for a free sample of this next action-packed installment!

ONE LAST BULLET

1.

ADRIAN HELL

September 30th, 2014

08:37

WE LEFT SAN Francisco a couple of days ago, deciding to take Josh’s Winnebago all the way to Pittsburgh. It’s a long journey, but we’re not in any great rush to get there. I’ve decided it’s finally time to go after Wilson Trent, and now the wheels are in motion, I figured it’s best to take our time, get our heads straight, and make sure we do this right.

Josh is driving, whistling along occasionally to the radio. I’m sitting next to him with my feet resting up on the dash. Outside, the gray clouds overhead have started to spit down on us. I gaze out of the window, my mind racing in every direction as it tries to process what lies ahead.

“You alright?” asks Josh, his trademark British enthusiasm subdued by concern.

“I’m good,” I reply, without looking over. “You?”

“Honestly? I’m a little nervous. But also a little excited, I guess.”

I smile, but remain silent.

“So, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a job for you along the way,” he continues.

“I dunno about that,” I say, turning to face him. “I wanna stay focused on Trent, not get distracted by some small-time hit that anyone could do…”

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Boss—you’re doing this job. You absolutely need to stay focused on Trent, you’re right. But you also need to stay sharp and keep on top of your game. The whole Pellaggio thing took it outta you, and practice doesn’t do anyone any harm every once in a while.”

I smile as I regard him while he drives. His shoulder-length blonde hair gives him the look of an aging surfer. Josh Winters has been by my side almost half my life. Over the years, we’ve come to know each other better than brothers. We can have an entire conversation without saying a word. He knows what’s best for me, even when I don’t, and I know it goes without saying that he’s got my back right to the bloody end of the crusade we’re embarking on.

I sigh loudly, mostly for effect, acknowledging one of the rare occasions when he has me beat in an argument.

“Alright, fine... What’s the job?”

“That’s the spirit! The job’s in Vermillion, South Dakota. A rich investment banker has put the word out that his sister’s being violently abused by her husband. It’s been going on for years, apparently, and she’s too scared to do anything about it. Our client has taken matters into his own hands, and wants to hire us to take out the husband.”

My jaw muscles clench as a wave of white-hot anger sweeps over me. I might be a highly skilled, highly paid assassin, but that doesn’t make me a monster. I can’t abide any kind of violence toward women. There’s the occasional exception—namely, if the woman’s trying to kill you... In those rare situations, it’s perfectly acceptable to impose violence. But something like this situation in Vermillion—there’s nothing anyone could say to me that would convince me it’s justified.

I take a deep breath, to subdue the growing rage I feel inside.

“Tell the guy I’ll do it for free,” I say, after a moment.

“Really?” asks Josh, sounding surprised.

I shrug. “I need the practice, not the money. And from the sounds of it, I’d be doing the world a favor. So, yeah, set it up.”

“Alright then,” he says, nodding his head in agreement.

I turn back and resume my staring out the window, watching the world as it passes us by at eighty miles an hour. Since we hit the road, I’ve found myself in a somewhat reflective mood. Understandable, I guess. I’m heading into a war that I inadvertently started eight years ago... A war that’s already cost my wife and daughter their lives... A war that I’ve been running away from ever since... I know I’m a different person than I was way back when—I’m far more capable than I used to be, and mentally I’m in a much better place. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still a little apprehensive.

I quickly massage my temples and rub my eyes, eager to get out of my own head. I look back over at Josh.

“How do you find these jobs?” I ask, my curiosity randomly piqued as my mind wanders, trying to think about something else.

Josh laughs. “All these years and that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me that,” he says.

“Is this going to be one of those things, like when you first find out where milk comes from? Is it going to ruin the magic for me?”

He laughs again. “Not quite. There’s a network of people out there who collaborate with each other to find work,” he explains. “They look at who’s best suited to take the job, then pass the details on to guys like me, who then send guys like you to carry out the hit. We get paid by the client, and my contact gets a percentage, like a finder’s fee.”

I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised and impressed at how organized it all is. I can’t believe I never knew all this…

“Fair enough. It actually sounds like pretty slick business. So do we have, like, a union or something then?”

Josh laughs so much he almost swerves the Winnebago off the road and has to quickly fight to keep control. I smile to myself and resume my observations through the window.

We drive on in silence for a few more miles before Josh speaks again.

“It’s not too late, y’know,” he says. “If you wanna change your mind?”

“No going back now,” I reply, shaking my head. “One way or the other, when all this is over and the dust has settled, I’ll have put both my girls to rest.”

Josh nods slowly. “Amen, brother.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small device, which he connects to the vehicle’s radio.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s my music player,” he replies, like it’s the most stupid question he’s ever been asked. “Stocked full of MP3s.”

I roll my eyes. “I stopped paying attention when CDs hit the shelves,” I say.

He smiles. “You’re such an old fart sometimes, d’you know that?”

“Is that a British insult?”

He shakes his head with mock disbelief and selects a song, which starts blasting through the Winnebago. The opening guitar riff is brilliant, but I don’t recognize it.

‘Well I’m standing by the river, but the water doesn’t flow... It boils with every poison you can think of.’

“What’s this?” I ask. “It’s good.”

“Sure is,” he replies. “A bit of British rock and road music—one of Chris Rea’s all-time classics.”

“Never heard of him,” I shrug.

“You Yanks—don’t know you’re born!” Josh sighs purposefully.

“You Brits—don’t speak proper English!”

We laugh again, relaxing and enjoying the light mood during such heavy times.

‘This ain’t no technological breakdown... Oh no, this is the road to hell.’

I smile at the lyrics as the music plays on. You can say what you want about my life, but you can’t deny it’s always got a damn good soundtrack!

2.

10:57

THE WEATHER’S STILL dull and miserable as we arrive in Vermillion, South Dakota. We’ve headed straight for the first place we could find that provides food and drink. Josh pulls up in the parking lot out front and we both get out, stretching appreciatively. My back and neck crack—a small cry of relief after a few hours on the road.

It’s not particularly cold, despite the clouds and the light rain. I quickly duck in the back of the Winnebago and throw my jacket on, leaving it unfastened. I step back out onto the parking lot as Josh walks around to stand beside me. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that has a silver skull on the front of it with knee-length denim shorts and work boots, and a backpack over this left shoulder. I can’t decide if he’s going for the surfer or the rocker look, and I haven’t the heart to tell him that he ultimately looks like someone who refuses to accept they’re no longer in their twenties. Although, now that I think about it, I doubt he’d care even if I did say anything.

I’m wearing a more conservative tee shirt underneath my leather jacket, with simple jeans and boots. My custom holster is attached, holding both of my Berettas in place at the small of my back. I never leave home without them.

We walk into the diner—a long and low building with simple décor and a family-run look about the place—and sit down in a booth at the back that gives us a full view of the interior, as well as the main entrance and the doors to the kitchen area and restrooms. We take a quick look at the menu and, after a few moments, a waitress walks over to us—a young, pretty girl with dark, shoulder-length hair and a practiced smile. We both order coffee and stack of pancakes.

The diner looks nice enough. Not too big, half-full with what I presume is a local crowd who probably sit in the same seats at the same time every day. The morning rush has long since died down, and the lunchtime crowds are likely still an hour away.

The counter runs along the back wall, facing the door and windows, and two career waitresses approaching retirement age permanently man it. Sounds bad to say it, but they clearly have the younger, better-looking waitresses working the floor, bringing in the tips.

A few minutes pass, and our waitress reappears with our coffee and advises us the pancakes will be along in a few moments.

Josh opens his bag and takes out his laptop, which he sets up on the table in front of him, boots up, and starts typing away.

“I’m just contacting our client, letting him know we’ve arrived in town,” he says, offering an explanation without my asking. “How do you wanna do this?”

I shrug. I’ve not really thought about the specifics of the job yet, but it’s a simple hit. I know complacency can get you killed, but this won’t take much planning or too long to execute.

“Just get me the guy’s address and find out when he’ll be home,” I say. “I don’t want to spend too long on this—we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. Should have it done in the next few hours, hopefully.”

He nods his acknowledgement as he types.

Our pancakes arrive, and we both eat them with gusto, swilling them down with another mug of coffee.

Josh is working away in silence on God-knows-what, so I sit back and let my mind drift again. I run through the past eight years in my head, like viewing a thirty-second movie. From finding my wife and daughter, dead on my kitchen floor, dealing with my demons, working the hundreds of contracts I’ve done over the years, Heaven’s Valley, San Francisco—all the way up to that last mouthful of pancakes and the journey ahead. I’m under no illusions how hard this is going to be. Even setting foot in Pennsylvania again after all these years isn’t going to be easy.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind so I can focus on the task at hand. Wilson Trent is still close to a thousand miles away, and right now, I’ve got a job to do in South Dakota.

“So, tell me about my target,” I say, trying to change the subject of my own internal dialogue.

Josh closes the lid on his laptop and looks up.

“The guy’s name is Jonathon Faber,” he explains, as if remembering the details off a cheat sheet. “He’s been married to his wife, Tania, for five years, but they’ve been together almost twice that. According to Tania’s brother, the beating’s started a couple of years into the marriage. She’d have a fresh bruise or a black eye every other week, and explain it away with a weak excuse of having fallen or walked into something… the usual, sad affair.”

I shake my head with disbelief. A part of me can’t understand why any woman would allow herself to be treated that way. First sign of domestic abuse and they should get out of there without looking back. But at the same time, I fully understand fear can do strange things to you. Thanks to her husband’s abuse—which I suspect would be mental as well as physical—poor Tania probably blames herself or feels she deserves it. You hear about it all the time—too scared to walk away; too ashamed. Still in love with their other half, in spite of everything.

My jaw muscles tighten, and I force myself to stop thinking too much about it... to stay detached. Emotions will get you killed.

“So why wait three years to make the call?” I ask, referring to our client.

“Well, about a month ago, he happened to call round to see his sister and was standing on the front porch when he heard a beating taking place inside the house. He said he was too afraid to react, but stood listening as Faber hit her. That particular one was nasty, and she was in hospital for almost a fortnight.”

“Jesus...”

“He asked around locally, and finally got in touch with a contact who I deal with from time to time. The request was pretty simple: money was no object, but he wanted this Faber guy dead.”

I nod, absorbing the information and formulating the plan in my head.

One of the many reasons I’m so successful at what I do is because I harness the rage and violence that circles around inside me and use it to my advantage. Josh is always on hand to rein me in and make sure it doesn’t consume me completely. But I use that unbridled fury to walk into any situation and pull the trigger with zero hesitation. It’s one of my rules: don’t think too much about it, just do it—like an instinct.

Right now, I can feel my inner Satan cracking his knuckles, limbering up, ready to rush out from behind his door and claim another soul.

“Where do I find him?” I ask.

As if on cue, the laptop dings and Josh opens it up to check the incoming message. After a few moments, he spins it round to show me the screen.

“I just heard back from my contact,” he says, gesturing to the laptop. “Here’s the address, and confirmation that Jonathon Faber is at home right now.”

I nod and take a final gulp of my coffee. “Drink up,” I say. “We’ve got a job to do.”

11:23

The Faber’s live in a small suburb just outside the center of town. It’s a nice, quiet neighborhood. All the houses on the street are detached properties, with good-sized front lawns, driveways, and a garage on their individual plots.

It didn’t take us long to find the place, and we’re parked up across the street, a few doors down. We’ve been here five minutes or so, looking for any sign of life, but we can’t see any movement.

“How do you wanna play this?” asks Josh.

“I figure I’ll knock on the door, wait for him to answer then shoot him between the eyes,” I reply with a hint of nonchalance.

“Hmmm... it’s not the most subtle of approaches, but undeniably effective. Can I suggest that you at least talk your way into the house first, so the entire street doesn’t see you off the guy?”

I shrug. “Fine, but I’m not saying anything to the piece of shit that I don’t have to.”

“I can live with that.”

“Okay, wait here.”

I get out of the Winnebago and adjust my jacket, to make sure it covers my Berettas. I quickly cross the street, walk up the driveway, and knock on the front door. There’s no answer. I knock again and this time I hear movement inside. After a few moments, a key turns, a lock clicks, and then the door swings open.

In front of me is an average-looking man, just a shade below six feet in height, with a thick head of black hair and a moustache. He has brown eyes that seem to permanently frown and a thickset jaw. He has an average build—not fat or slim, but not well built or lean, just… average. He’s wearing a pair of black suit trousers and a light-blue shirt with no tie, as if he’s about to head out to the office or something.

His eyes narrow, probably wondering who I am. I stare at him for a moment, looking into his eyes and see the angry, drunken bastard that lies just underneath the surface.

“What?” he asks, curtly.

“Jonathon Faber?” I reply.

“Yeah... who are you?”

I throw a lightning-fast straight right punch and connect flush with his nose, breaking the cartilage and sending him staggering backward into his hallway. I quickly glance around the street, my eyes meeting Josh’s, who’s sitting behind the wheel of the Winnebago shaking his head. I shrug, failing to see what his problem could be; I step into the house, pushing the front door closed with my foot.

Faber’s struggling to his feet, his eyes watering from the impact to his nose. Blood’s dripping steadily down his chin and onto his shirt.

“What the fuck?” he shouts.

Before he can stand up, I punch him again, hard, on the side of his face. It’s not hard enough to knock him out, but there’s enough power behind it to send him sprawling to the floor once more. And, from experience, I know there was enough behind it to leave him with a serious headache.

“Shut your mouth,” I say, bluntly.

I take one of my Berettas out and reach into my pocket to retrieve the silencer. I screw it into place with practiced efficiency and take aim at Faber’s head. He looks first at the barrel of my gun, then at me. His eyes go wide with sheer terror, and his bladder weakens—the stench of urine instantly strong on his clothes.

“Oh my God, really?” I say in disbelief, honestly disgusted by the very sight of him. “You pathetic piece of shit.”

“I... I don’t understand... P-please, take whatever you want!”

“Amazing how cowardly you are now, yet you’re the big, scary man when Tania’s at home…”

I don’t think his eyes could get any wider. Honestly, they look like they’re going to pop right out of his head.

“Wh-what’s this about?” he manages to ask.

“This is about you, you overwhelming waste of sperm, and the fact you’ve been beating on your poor wife for so many years, somebody has felt it necessary to hire a professional assassin—that’s me, by the way—to kill you. So, any last words?”

Fear spreads across his face like the plague across Europe. Pure terror etches on every inch of his bloodstained features. He repeatedly opens his mouth to speak, but every time he does, words seem to fail him. He’s the epitome of a beaten man, and he’s about to reap everything he’s spent the last few years sowing.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, having given him ample opportunity to say something deep and meaningful.

Without any further warnings, I squeeze the trigger three times, putting one bullet in his balls, one in his stomach, and one between his eyes. In that order.

I’m a killer; there’s no escaping that. I made peace with what I do a long time ago. But I’m not a bad person, and I take no pleasure in doing what I do for a living. I certainly don’t intentionally make people suffer unless I absolutely have to. I look at what I do as being similar to working in a slaughterhouse. It’s a dirty, messy business, but it needs doing and you do it as humanely as possible. But, as an exception, I felt compelled to make sure that in the last few seconds of his life, Jonathon Faber felt pain he couldn’t have imagined. It might not seem like much, but I did it for his wife and I’m sure she’d agree it made all the difference.

I look around the hallway. The blood has stained the walls and the expensive-looking beige carpet. I make sure not to step in any as I walk back down the hall and into the living room, which is the first door on the left. I carefully walk across the room in search of a pen, ensuring I don’t touch anything and leave any forensic evidence. I see one on the side and take it, then reach into my back pocket and pull out a blank check. I write out the check to Tania Faber, for the amount of fifty thousand dollars—what her brother intended paying me for the job. I keep the pen and retrace my steps back into the hallway. I place the check on Jonathon Faber’s dead body. I take one last look around then open the front door, covering my hand with my jacket so I don’t leave any prints. I walk casually across the street, for the sake of appearances to anyone who might be looking, and climb in the Winnebago.

“You good?” asks Josh.

I look at the house, then at him.

“I’m good. Tell our client to tell his sister she should make a fresh start. I’ve left her with a little something to help her on her way.”

I stare out of the window, gazing at nothing in particular as my mind instantly wanders back to the larger task ahead of us. I can feel Josh staring at me silently for a moment, but I ignore him. He worries too much. I’m fine, just a little pre-occupied, which is understandable.

Without another word, he pulls away from the curb and we set off, back on the road and heading for Pittsburgh.

So, there you have it!

To find out what happens next in this exciting new Adrian Hell action thriller, head over to www.jamespsumner.com today for details on where you can purchase the full book—available now!

Thanks for reading!

Table of Contents

- Hunter’s Games (An Adrian Hell Thriller, Book 2)

- About the Author

- More Books by the Author

- A Sneak Preview of One Last Bullet (An Adrian Hell Thriller, Book 3)