“I hope you have good news for me,” he said.
Bennett shifted nervously on the spot for a moment before replying. “I did as you asked, Boss,” he said. “I followed the assassin.”
“And?”
“She fired a rocket launcher at Adrian’s motel room. She blew up their car, then fired again and blew up half the motel.”
Trent half-smiled. “You’ve got to admire her approach.”
Bennett took a deep breath before continuing. “But she didn’t kill him, or either of his friends. She had a pretty brutal fight with him and he drove her head into the goddamn parking lot — split her skull wide open. To her credit, she got up and went after him again, but some guy shot her dead.”
Trent put down his knife and fork and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He took a small sip of his water before finally looking up at one of his most trusted enforcers.
“She failed?”
Bennett nodded.
“So Adrian fucking Hughes — Hell… whatever he calls himself — he’s still alive?”
He nodded again.
“How fucking hard is it to kill someone?’ he yelled, causing everyone in the restaurant to fall silent and turn to look at him.
He took a deep breath as he felt his anger swirling around inside of him, like he was trying to contain a tornado is a coffee mug. He paused for a moment before standing and grabbing the knife off his plate. He walked over to the nearest occupied table, where a young man and woman were sitting. They both looked terrified and couldn’t take their eyes off him. Trent grabbed the man by the hair and yanked his head back, then thrust the knife into his exposed throat. Once… twice… and a third time before leaving it sticking out as blood spurted in a thick, crimson fountain all over the table and the young woman. She started screaming, and Trent picked up the man’s fork and stepped around the table, grabbing the woman by her hair and driving her face into the table. Once… twice… her nose burst open and blood gushed down her face. Then, holding her head back, Trent jammed the fork into her right eye and pushed her aside, causing her to fall to the floor.
Nobody screamed. Nobody moved. Everyone froze.
Trent walked back to Bennett.
“See how fucking easy it is?” he said, frighteningly calm after his moment of explosive rage. “Why can’t anyone kill Adrian Hell?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Trent looked at each one of his men individually before turning back to Bennett.
“I’m going to the game,” he announced. “You are going to find that sonofabitch and bring me his head. Or I’ll take each and every one of yours.”
He left the restaurant, hastily followed by all his men, except Bennett, who he left standing there.
Trent stepped into his private box in Heinz Field, which was behind the goalposts at one end of the ground. He had a slightly raised, unobstructed view of the entire field. He sat down and looked out, relaxing and forgetting all of his troubles. The view alone was well worth the thousands of dollars he paid each season. Floodlights were beaming down on the field below as the players warmed up, ahead of kick-off.
Inside the booth, a small wall that came waist-high, then a double-glazed window, which could be slid open if required. He always preferred having the window open, weather permitting, to soak up more of the atmosphere. He leaned forward and looked up at the evening sky, which was all but black and threatened another downpour. He hoped the weather would hold off long enough for the game to finish.
Surrounding him were the five men who had been with him in the restaurant, all standing in a loose semi-circle behind him. There was a knock on the door, and a caterer came in pushing a trolley with a bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket on it. It was a vintage Krug Brut, which was Trent’s personal favorite, and was around two thousand dollars a bottle.
“Drink, sir?” asked the caterer.
Trent nodded silently without taking his eyes off the field. The Steelers were warming up and he was genuinely looking forward to seeing them play for the first time since the new season had started.
“How do you think the Steelers will fare this season?” asked the caterer.
Trent frowned and looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust, wondering why someone would feel the need to make small talk with him. The caterer seemed unfazed, oblivious to who Trent was.
“You ask me,” he continued. “I think they’ve got a good shot at it. Although, I’m not really much of a fan, myself. Never quite understood the appeal of the game. Like, for one thing, why do they call it football? They hardly touch the ball with their feet… And it’s not even a ball, really — it’s not round…”
Trent held up his hand to stop the caterer talking. His eyes narrowed as he looked him up and down. His long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, the white shirt creased and partly un-tucked. He threw a quick glance to one of his men, who understood the silent command instantly and reached into his jacket, gripping the butt of the gun he had holstered inside. The other men quickly took note and followed suit.
“Do I know you?” asked Trent. “Because you’re a real talkative guy, and way too comfortable in my presence. So, do we know each other, or do you just dislike breathing?”
The caterer put the champagne bottle down slowly and held his hands up in silent apology. “No sir, don’t think we’ve met before. I’m new to the job.”
Trent stood and squared up to him. “Where are you from? Your accent sounds British.”
The caterer nodded slowly. “I’m from London,” he replied.
“And how long have you worked here?”
He checked his watch before answering. “About twenty minutes…”
“What?”
Trent’s men all took a step toward their boss, sensing the need to offer protection. But the door burst open, kicked in from outside. Everyone turned round to see who was in the doorway. The caterer stepped in close to Trent and pressed a knife against his kidney.
“Yeah, we haven’t met, so let me introduce myself… My name’s Josh. I believe you know my friend?”
Josh nodded to the doorway, where Adrian Hell stood, a Beretta in each hand and an evil smile on his face.
31
We all arrived back at the Hilton hotel within minutes of each other, and we’ve congregated in the parking lot around the Winnebago. Frank looks out of breath and Josh seems frustrated, but we’re all in one piece, which is a blessing.
“Everyone okay?” I ask.
Frank’s leaning forward, his hands resting just above his knees. “I haven’t done that much exercise in years,” he replies.
Josh remains silent, pacing up and down for a few moments.
“Josh…?” I say.
“My laptop’s fried,” he says, eventually. “Damaged beyond repair in the blast. I salvaged what I could and downloaded it to a USB drive, but I don’t know if I’ve got enough to launch my virus and attack the accounts.”
I sigh heavily. If that’s the case, it’s a massive blow to us. The attack by Dominique had been completely unexpected, and I’m lucky to still be alive after fighting with her. I just hope Josh can still work his magic with what he has. He hates it when his toys get damaged…
We all clamber into the back of the Winnebago and Josh turns on a spare laptop, sitting down at his makeshift workbench in silence. I sit on the old sofa along the back and rest my head against the pillows. It’s been a long few days. I feel tired, I’m sore from various fights and gunshot wounds, and the light at the end of the tunnel has just been moved a little farther away than it was before.
I look over at Frank, who’s shifting uncomfortably on the spot, like he’s unsure if it’s okay for him to sit down. His hands are trembling a little, and he’s sweating. And not, I suspect, purely because of the run to get here.