“Adrian, I don’t—”
“Just trust me, please. Let me handle this. Now go!”
She looks at me, confused and afraid, and then nods slowly. She turns and scrambles across the floor into the back. As soon as she’s out of sight, I stand and fire off a few rounds out the window, catching two of the gunmen to the left of the line and dropping them. I duck back behind the bar and take a few deep breaths, controlling the adrenaline rush I’ve not felt in a long time.
Six left, but the gunfire seems relentless.
I can’t stay here, as I’m a sitting duck, but I don’t know where else I can go. I just have to bide my time, wait for them to change mags, and be accurate when I return fire.
The bar’s starting to disintegrate around me from the perpetual onslaught of bullets. Another minute passes before I get an opportunity to return fire. I quickly poke out the side of the bar, keeping low, and pick off a guy on the right.
That’s another one down…
But I know my little resistance is just prolonging the inevitable. I know a shitty situation when I see one, and this couldn’t get much shittier.
I move to stand, intending to get another couple of shots off, but the sound of a shotgun blast makes me hesitate.
Crunch-crunch… BANG!
I chance a look over the bar as I see the guy now standing on the far left explode and go flying off to the right, knocking into the guy next to him.
What the…?
I wait a second longer before standing, and I fire off five more rounds, taking out three of the four remaining guys before clicking down on an empty chamber. The last guy stares at me through the smoke for a moment, then he quickly disappears off to the right in a red mist — the result of another shotgun blast.
Silence falls, and I step out from behind the bar and walk cautiously over to the door, holding my gun ready, despite being out of ammo. The smell of gunpowder in the air stings my nose; the smoke catches my throat, but I fight to suppress a cough. From the left, Sheriff John Raynor appears, shotgun in hand and his hat on a slight angle.
“Looked like you could use a hand,” he says.
“Yeah, thanks,” I reply, tucking the gun into my waistband behind me.
I step outside and stand next to him, turning to look at the front of my bar, which now resembles a war zone.
“Jesus…” I say to myself.
“So, you mind tellin’ me what all this is about?” asks Raynor.
“Would if I could, Sheriff. I have no idea.”
Raynor rests the shotgun on his shoulder, the barrel still smoking. “Adrian, you’re a good guy, and I consider us friends. But cut the crap and level with me, because I just helped you take down eight fellas emptying their machine guns at your bar. Somethin’s goin’ on here, and you know more than you’re tellin’ me.”
I sigh, knowing I’ve reached the point I guess I always knew would come one day. Where I can no longer outrun my past. I walk over to the nearest dead guy and pick up his gun. I feel its weight as I turn back to show it to Raynor.
“This is a Steyr AUG A3 SF assault rifle. Manufactured in Austria and fires nineteen mil’ cartridges at a rate of about seven hundred rounds per minute. It’s been used by the Austrian Special Forces for the last decade.”
Raynor takes off his hat, rubbing his hand across his head, before replacing it and stroking his mustache.
“Now how the hell d’you know that kinda shit about guns like that?” he asks, nodding at the weapon. “What exactly did you do in the military?”
“Sheriff, I’m being straight with you here, and I’d appreciate you keeping what I’m about to tell you between us.”
He nods.
“My full name is Adrian Hughes. I’m ex-military and used to head up a black ops unit for the CIA. I did a lot of things that no one kept any record of, and when I retired I became a professional assassin. I was the best there was, and I made a lot of money doing it. I had a global reputation for being the greatest. But I also made a lot of enemies. I lost a wife and daughter because of that job, and when I finally avenged their deaths, I found my passion for the business had gone. I was Adrian Hell, but I buried him alongside my family and hung up my guns.”
I pause so he can process what I’m saying. He just kind of nods along, like none of it is really that hard to believe… like it kind of explains a lot. But I continue.
“Those three guys the other night came here looking for me, trying to recruit me for something. I don’t know who sent them, or what they wanted me for, I just explained I’d retired, and they shouldn’t come back. Then when you said they’d been found dead, I started to worry that maybe there was more to it than just my old reputation coming back to haunt me. Next thing I know, I have seven guys in my bar holding Tori hostage, saying I shouldn’t have refused their offer, and now I was a liability of some kind. But they came with no weapons…”
“So you took out seven guys?” asks Raynor. “On your own?”
I shrug like it wasn’t a big deal, though I guess it probably was to the sheriff of a small town in Texas.
“Just as I was about to get Tori to safety, these boys turned up outside and started raisin’ hell. I appreciate the save there, sheriff.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Surprised you needed it, given your past. So why are you here, Adrian?”
“Starting over, somewhere small and anonymous. I’ve got plenty of money and no ties anywhere else. And I’ve been real happy here. But you have my word, Sheriff. When all this is over, I’ll move on. I don’t wanna put the people of this town in any danger. I guess there’s never any escaping a past like mine…”
He scoffs. “Cut the shit, you self-righteous son’bitch,” he says. “I could give a rat’s ass about your past, and if you think this is your fault, you’re dumber than you look.”
“Thanks, John.”
“Where’s that girl of yours?”
“Shit, Tori! I’ll be right back.” I turn and run through the bar, into the back and up the stairs. “Tori!” I shout. “It’s me. Are you alright?”
There’s silence for a moment, and then a muffled voice says, “Wh-what’s the password?”
I smile to myself. She’s a smart girl. “It’s hellbound,” I say. “Now get your ass out here, baby — it’s all over.”
As I enter the bedroom, the bathroom door flies open, and she jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and burying her head into my shoulder, tears flowing down her cheeks, wetting my T-shirt.
“It’s okay,” I say, to reassure her. “It’s over now.”
“And you’re alright?” she sobs.
“Baby, I’m fine, just like I promised I would be.”
We spend a few minutes hugging, and then head back downstairs to the bar. The sheriff’s sitting on a bar stool, looking at the damage to the interior, which is extensive to say the very least. He stands when we enter, his hat resting on the bar next to his shotgun.
“Tori, how you holdin’ up?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
She nods and smiles weakly.
We stand for a minute, looking at the devastation around us. In the silence, I hear a low, muffled cry… not a cry, actually. More of a… yelp.
My eyes go wide.
“Styx!”
I rush over to the far side of the bar, where tables and chairs have splintered and broken, covering the floor in debris. I follow the noise and come to a small heap of wood in the corner by the window. I throw piece after piece away to the side, uncovering Styx, lying on his side, his breathing shallow and fast.