“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.