Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4) (9 page)

Quickly packing up my things, I step inside, closing the door quietly. It’s a nice, spacious apartment—must cost a small fortune to live here. The main room is an open plan lounge with a kitchenette on the right hand side. There are two doors at the opposite end—two rooms next to each other. I’m guessing the one on the left is the bedroom, as that’s where the windows will be.

Without paying any more attention to the apartment itself, I head over and open the door, stepping into the bedroom, as predicted. A double bed is on the right, in a small alcove created by the large, fitted wardrobe unit that’s dominating the wall. To my left are the two windows. I step toward them and peer out, spying the roof of the bay window below. It’s only a couple of feet down and, as I look across to the right, it puts me pretty much level with the window in the room next door, down the hall from Hussein’s mystery meeting.

I take off my holster, putting it in the bag and keeping one of my Berettas out. I attach the suppressor to it and tuck it in the waistband of my pants at the back. I then zip up my jacket and put the bag over both shoulders, before lifting the bottom of the window and sticking my head out. I look up and down the street, seeing if anyone’s paying me any attention. The road is busy, but there aren’t many people on the sidewalk, so as long as I’m quick, I should go un-noticed.

I climb out slowly, dropping as quietly as I can onto the roof below, and landing in a crouch. I look across at the other window, which is about a foot above my eye level. There’s a small gap, maybe five feet across in between. I edge forward, looking down to the ground below.

The fall wouldn’t kill me, but the landing sure wouldn’t tickle.

I take a deep breath and look back up at the ledge. The window itself is the same style as the one I just climbed out of, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to just slide it up and climb in.

I stand, readying myself for the jump. I take one last look over my left shoulder, down at the street, but anyone who is walking by hasn’t looked up at me yet.

It occurs to me how scary it is that terrorists could actually meet to plan God-knows-what in the middle of Manhattan, and no one would ever know… walking around in blissful ignorance as, potentially, world-threatening plans are being made right under their noses.

Just as I’m about to jump, Clark’s voice sounds in my ear.

“Adrian, wait a minute,” he says.

I relax my body again and crouch down. “What is it?” I ask.

“There’s movement inside. The eight guys are still in the meeting, but two of the men from downstairs have gone up, and are walking toward the guy standing outside the room you’re about to break into.”

“Shit. Any idea why?”

“No. There’s been no interior or exterior movement prior to it that would’ve alerted them to anything.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“The two outside are still manning the door. There are now four downstairs dotted around, with two having moved upstairs. One seems to have stopped at the top of the stairs. The other is standing with the guy outside the room.”

I think for a moment. “Might just be a status update or something,” I suggest. “Like you say, they’ve no reason to suspect anything’s wrong, so it could just be procedure.”

“Perhaps. Sit tight, see what happens.”

I stay crouched and focus on keeping my breathing slow. I’m still not entirely sure what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but the way I see it, getting inside is the hard part. Once I’m in there, I only need to get hold of Hussein, and I can probably negotiate my way out by holding my gun to his head, without needing to shoot anyone…

I almost kept a straight face as I thought that!

Instinctively, I reach behind me, drawing my gun and checking the clip is full. Sixteen in the mag, with one in the chamber. Including the drivers, I have sixteen potential targets and seventeen bullets. Take Hussein and whoever he’s meeting out of the equation, as I can’t shoot them, and I’m down to fourteen... One bullet each, with the three for grace.

I’ve done more with less.

Clark speaks, breaking my train of thought. “Okay, those two guys are heading back downstairs,” he announces. “Looks like you were right.”

“Okay, let me know when they’re gone, and I’ll make the jump.”

I stand again, readying myself once more. I crack my knuckles and rub my hands together, giving them some extra warmth, and checking the blood’s flowing, ready for the grip.

“You’re clear,” says Clark.

Without a word, I take two steps back and dash forward, jumping as my front foot hits the edge. I step through, clearing the gap with ease and getting a good, solid grip of the window ledge. I brace as the momentum slams my lower body against the building, closing my eyes to suppress an involuntary grunt from the impact.

Composing myself, I glance down, making sure my legs aren’t dangling in front of the window below me. Happy they’re not, I relax my arms.

“Any sign of movement?” I ask, my voice straining from the effort.

“Still looking good,” replies Clark.

I heave myself up, using my feet to push myself as best I can, and rest my elbows and forearms on the ledge. Happy with my grip, I lift my head up and look through the window into the room. My view is limited, as the sun is shining through the low, gray cloud and reflecting off the glass, meaning I can only really see myself. But the important thing is the room appears empty.

I steady myself and press my right palm flat against the glass. I push against it, and then try to slide it up, hoping the window will move. It’s a struggle, and I put plenty of pressure on it, but it doesn’t budge. The window’s locked.

Well, shit…

13.

10:53 EDT

“Ah… Bob?” I say.

“What’s wrong?” he replies.

“The window’s locked.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I’m dangling thirty feet above Manhattan—a little help wouldn’t go amiss.”

“You should really plan things a little better. Did you not consider the possibility of the window being locked
before
you jumped?”

“Well, obviously I
considered
it… I just believe positive thinking creates opportunity.”

“Adrian, you’re an idiot.”

“Bob, if I wasn’t hanging from a window ledge, I would absolutely kick your ass right now. Enough with the lecture—fix this.”

“What do you want me to do, exactly?”

“I don’t know! Josh would’ve thought of something by now...”

“Well, I’m not Josh, am I?”

He falls silent. My arms are starting to ache.

“Bob, I’ve clearly hurt your feelings here, and I feel I should apologize,” I say. “But I won’t. Stop being such a fucking old woman and find me a way into the building!”

I can hear him go to say something, then stop himself, audibly catching his breath and his words. More silence on the line, and my arms are really starting to hurt, to the point where my grip is slowly weakening.

“Any time you want, Bob…” I say, trying to hurry him along without antagonizing him further.

“Well, I hate myself for saying this, but given the circumstances… why don’t you just break the window, climb in, and shoot anyone who comes looking? You know you want to.”

I smile to myself. About damn time.

“Bob, you’re a good man.”

“Whatever… just don’t shoot the targets, okay?”

“Cross my heart.”

Using my feet, I scramble up the wall as much as I can, renewing my hold on the ledge, then slowly reach behind me to get my gun. Holding it in my right hand, I look left as much as I can, to shield my face from any shards of glass that might go flying. Then, I slam the butt of the gun hard into the center of the window. The glass breaks first time, and I quickly heave myself up and through, dropping to the floor of the room while avoiding the few pieces of glass still sticking out from the frame.

In a crouch, I remain still; aiming my gun at the door, waiting for the guy outside the room to come barging in to investigate the noise. My heart rate is increasing as the adrenaline kicks in. I take some deep breaths to try to regulate it, so I can use it to my advantage.

Three seconds pass before the door swings open. The guard stands there, a look of shock and confusion on his face, probably not expecting to see someone in the room. He must be one of Hussein’s men, as he looks Eastern European, and is dressed in jeans and a sleeveless, insulated jacket. In his right hand is a submachine gun—looks like a MAC-10, with a suppressor attached. Using the split second of hesitation to my advantage, I fire once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back and he slumps straight to the floor; a light, crimson stain appears on the wall opposite, across the hallway.

I creep to the door, quickly searching the dead guy for anything useful. I retrieve a driver’s license, which states his name is—sorry,
was
Joseph Jameson, from Ohio. Presumably a fake...

I really dislike the MAC-10 as a weapon, so I leave that where it is. It’s bulky and inaccurate, and its hair-trigger means one squeeze practically empties the clip, which is of no use when you’re trying to be subtle and effective.

I look right, down the hallway to the stairs, waiting a moment, but after seeing no sign of life, I turn left and glance at the door across the hall. It’s a big, wooden thing, probably quite thick, and looks out of place in the otherwise modern-looking apartment. I suspect the last time the place was re-decorated, the owners decided to leave the original wooden door to give it a rustic, classical feel. Again, after a minute of waiting, there’s no sign of life.

I step out into the hallway, heading for the meeting room.

An American accent behind me says, “Hey! Who the fuck are you?”

Shit.

I turn around to see two men at the top of the stairs. The one on the left is wearing a suit and an earpiece. My guess is he’s the one who just spoke—the American. The guy next to him is dressed in jeans and a black, loose-fitting sweater. He doesn’t have an earpiece. He has thick, dark hair and matching beard, with dark, caramel skin. He doesn’t look American—more likely one of Hussein’s men.

Clark’s voice sounds in my ear. “Adrian, head’s up—I think they might have spotted you.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the update,
Bob
…” I whisper back through gritted teeth.

Quickly, I drop to a crouch, firing twice. The first bullet hits the American in his left shoulder, close to the neck, and sends him crashing to the floor. The second bullet hits the guy in jeans square in the chest. He falls backward, his lifeless body tumbling down the stairs.

I know how it might look, but I’d rather injure someone I can’t identify—my spider sense is tingling about all these suited and booted Americans who are here. My gut tells me they’re not with the Armageddon Initiative, so I don’t want to risk killing someone and having a whole other bunch of people pissed at me. I’ve been there and done that, and it’s hard work.

The second guy, however, was
definitely
a terrorist, so fuck him.

I can hear commotion behind the wooden door now—I’m assuming everyone has been alerted to my presence...

“Adrian, you’ve got more guys heading up the stairs,” says Clark.

Great… so I can’t easily go that way. Plus, I need to get to Hussein and his friend, who are both in a room with six other people—who I can guarantee will be packing.

“Any ideas?” I ask Clark.

“I’m thinking… sorry, Adrian. We need Hussein, but you should maybe consider abandoning the mission, unless you want to run the risk of not getting out of there at all.”

“Rule number one, Bob—you never call off the mission. There’s always a way out—just gotta learn to think outside the box a little.”

I look around, searching for inspiration. Too time-consuming to go back the way I came, and too counter-productive to fight my way down the stairs and out of the building. My gaze keeps resting on the wooden door...

Going in that room would be crazy, wouldn’t it?

I mean, I don’t know who’s behind that door, where they are in the room, what weapons they have, anything…

It would just be sheer insanity to go bursting into the room.

I smile to myself.

I’ve always loved a little crazy…

I run at the door, barging into it shoulder first. I nearly take it off its hinges, and it swings open, revealing the room as I stand in the doorway, my right arm throbbing from the impact. Everything slows down—split seconds feel like hours as I take in every detail of the scene before me.

There’s a large rectangular table in the middle of the room, lengthways, facing the door. At the far end, standing and facing me with his back to the window, is Yalafi Hussein. I recognize him from the information I read on the flight over here. He’s just above average height, wearing a very expensive-looking suit and a small, fitted turban. His long, scraggly, black beard obscures much of his face, but in the split second I catch his eyes, I can see a glimpse of the hatred that lies beneath the surface. His mouth is open, frozen mid-speech, in shock.

On his left, my right, are three men all dressed in suits, with earpieces in, and conspicuous bulges underneath their left armpits. All are Caucasian and clean shaven, with a disciplined air about them.

On his right, my left, facing the men in suits, are three more men. They’re dressed more casually, with no obvious weaponry, concealed or otherwise. They’re all from different ethnic backgrounds, but each has short hair and trimmed beards, with dark eyes hiding the same, underlying anger that I see in Hussein.

Across the table, with their backs to me, another man in a suit stands and faces Hussein. I note that he doesn’t turn around to look at me, but his suit is a light brown and, from my limited view of him, I’m sure I can see the glint of military decoration on the left breast of his jacket. He’s bald and about my height, his stance is very rigid and upright, with his shoulders back to their full width—exuding confidence.

As we enter the third split second since I burst into the room, everyone stares at me—the suits on the right slowly reach into their jackets, presumably to retrieve their firearms. In front of Hussein is an open laptop.

I assess the situation, looking at the probable outcome of every possible course of action, deciding quickly that I have absolutely no chance of getting Hussein and the guy with his back to me out of here alive.

So, what’s the next best thing?

Seeing everyone’s guns are almost drawn, time restarts, and I sprint across the room toward Hussein. My gun’s already in my hand, I fire off five shots in total—one goes in the table in front of Hussein to make him duck down, three go at the suited men reaching for their guns, and one goes in the window that looks down over the street.

I reach the end of the table and spin clockwise, closing and swiping up the laptop in one movement, before firing off another two rounds in quick succession, aimed at the chests of two of the three men there with Hussein, killing them instantly. This also gives me my first real look at the guy Hussein is meeting. It’s a very quick glance, but I take in his old, drawn, stern, weathered face and his emotionless, dark eyes. He’s wearing lots of medals on his suit, and stars on his shoulders. We look at each other for a brief moment, and then he calmly turns away from me as I turn away from him.

Tucking the laptop under my left arm, and without a second’s hesitation, I jump at the window, dropping my head to the right and rolling into it, so my left shoulder and back go first. With the glass already weakened from the bullet, I smash through, rolling naturally and falling the thirty feet down to the street.

Having developed the useful ability to accurately judge distances with the naked eye throughout my many years as a soldier and assassin, my calculations are spot on—I land, flat on my back, on the roof of the middle limousine parked out front, with a heavy thud. I let out an involuntary grunt of pain from the impact.

My momentum carries me over, and I continue to roll, dropping down onto the street. Still holding my gun, I put my right hand on the ground, stopping in a crouch and steadying myself. I quickly check to make sure the laptop wasn’t damaged—luckily, it seems intact. When I look up, a car’s speeding toward me. The driver slams on his brakes and the car screeches to a halt. I can only watch, rooted to the ground and unable to think to move quickly enough. Luckily, the car stops inches from my head.

Jesus…

I’m breathing heavily, and pain is pulsing through my entire body from the exertion and fall, but I manage to get to my feet. The smell of burning rubber from the tires drifts across the street, stinging my nostrils. I move to the driver’s door and open it, using my gun to gesture to the driver to get out. It’s a middle-aged man wearing chinos and a sweater, looking shaken up.

“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “But I really need a ride.”

The man says nothing; he just gets out of the car with a petrified look on his face. I throw a quick glance up at the apartment before I climb in. The men guarding the door outside have disappeared—I’m guessing they’ve gone inside to see what was going on. I look up at the window and see Hussein standing there—his expression a mixture of gloating that I didn’t capture him, and anger that I’d dare try to. I smile at him, then duck into the car, speeding off down West 81
st
Street, eager to put some distance between the roomful of angry terrorists and me.

And who was that guy meeting with Hussein? He looked important, and vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.

“Clark, you there?” I say.

“Adrian! What the hell’s going on? Did you just get thrown out of a second story window?”

“No, I jumped.”

“Of course you did… what happened?”

“My only way out of that room was straight down. No way was I getting out of there with Hussein, or his friend. I got a decent look at the guy, but I don’t know who he is.”

“So you didn’t get either target? I’m glad you’re alright, Adrian, but I’m disappointed the mission was such a bust. All that risk for nothing...”

“It wasn’t a complete write-off,” I say, looking at the laptop on the seat next to me. “I managed to swipe Hussein’s computer before I jumped. I don’t think it’s damaged, so we might be able to get something off it.”

“That’s damn good work, Adrian. Sorry I wasn’t more use to you.”

“You did fine, Bob, honestly. Where are you?”

“I’m still at the other safe house, over in Brooklyn.”

“I’ll make sure I’m not followed and head over to you now. See you soon.”

I navigate the traffic, heading back through Central Park and turning right onto FDR Drive. I follow it for over six miles, eventually turning onto the Brooklyn Bridge.