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
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.