“That’s for making the last week of my life as shitty as it was, you sonofabitch!” I yell at him.
I holster my guns and look over to the detonator. I’ll get it in a minute — he’s not going anywhere and I want to deal with Clara first.
She’s managed to get up to one knee and remove her helmet. She’s shaking her head and holding her neck, trying to get her bearings. It reminds me of the first time we met, in Ted Jackson’s hotel suite. I walk up behind her, and when I’m a couple of feet away, I launch a right roundhouse kick to the side of her head. I turn my right hip over as I swing it, making sure I follow through for maximum effect. Her body lurches to the side, and she’s out cold before she hits the floor.
“And that’s for betraying me, bitch!”
I’m breathing harder and faster as my adrenaline starts to flow, and my anger gradually rises inside me. I want revenge. I want to make them both pay for everything they’ve done and everyone they’ve hurt. My door is opening, and I can feel my self-control leaving me once again, so that nothing remains but my inner Satan.
They’re going to suffer for what they’ve done here…
I hear shuffling behind me and I turn to see Ketranovich on his feet, slowly moving toward me. His eyes are wide and he has a crazed look on his face. He’s screaming half in English, and half in Russian. He has his arms raised, ready to attack. I walk over to meet him head on, ready to fight. He can barely stand. Half his right arm has been blown apart and he’ll likely have a few cracked ribs to go with it.
We’re only a couple of feet apart. I raise my arms to meet his, grabbing his left arm with my left hand and launching a right hook to his kidneys. I catch him clean and he bends over to the side as he lets out a grunt of pain.
As he doubles over, I move in for the kill. My plan is to bring my elbow down on the back of his head at the top of his spine. I can hear him coughing, and he drops to one knee in front of me and spits out some blood. I raise my elbow. I’m going to finish this right n—
My breath catches in my throat and my eyes go wide involuntarily as I feel the impact of a blow against the right side of my stomach. An icy cold washes over me and I stumble backward a few steps, staring at him in shock.
What the hell was that?
I look at Ketranovich, who’s reaching up with his left hand; his eyes manic with rage. I see the knife in his hand. I see the blood on the blade.
Oh, don’t tell me…
I look down and see an expanding, dark red stain on my t-shirt.
Shit.
I never saw it coming. I never expected him to have enough left in his tank to even lift a knife, let alone use one. I stagger back a few more steps and drop to my knees. The shock wears off and the pain erupts throughout my entire body. The icy shiver I feel up and down my spine counters the warmth from the blood pumping freely from the wound. I instinctively clasp at it with my hands, but it’s too late. The damage has been done.
I can feel myself falling forward. The dust on the ground is rushing toward me. I can’t get my breath…
31
I’m not religious in any way.
You could put my atheism down to losing my family, but in all honesty, even before that, I didn’t buy into it. I just think it would be in poor taste to say I believe in God, and then go around killing people for a living.
Plus, I’ve simply never needed the comfort that religion seems to give to so many. As a result, I’ve never been very spiritual either. I believe what I can see with my own eyes. Anything else is fiction until proven otherwise.
But I swear, I don’t know what’s happening right now, but it’s like I’m floating above the compound. I’m looking down at myself, lying motionless and barely breathing on dark, bloodstained sand. Ketranovich is struggling to his feet, searching for the detonator. Clara’s still lying there, not moving after the kick to the head.
I look around. There’s nothing else. The world outside the compound is a flat, barren desert, decorated only by mountains in the distance and the odd rock or bush dotted here and there for effect.
There’s no sign of the cavalry, charging over the hill to the rescue. No sound of trumpets as the soldiers approach, guns raised and ready for war.
What the hell is going on?
Am I dead? Is that what this is?
Have I been rejected by God and Lucifer? Have I been left to roam around in my own personal Purgatory for eternity? Am I being forced to re-live my death over and over, as penance for my lifetime of sin?
I look at my body again. The blood is still pooling around me, but I can see my right leg moving slightly…
Well, if my leg’s moving and the blood is still being pumped out of me, then I can’t be dead, can I?
And if I don’t believe in God or the Devil, how can they possibly exist to kick me out of their respective domains anyway?
This is just a dream, isn’t it?
This is my subconscious giving me a massive kick in the ass, to show me that it’s not over. Not by a long shot.
I’m Adrian fucking Hell, goddammit! You think stabbing me is going to stop me?
I’ll tell you when the fight’s over… I’ll tell you when I’m done… If there’s breath in my body…
Whoa, the ground’s rushing up at me really quickly…
32
My eyes snap open. My vision struggles to focus, clouding the world around me in a light fog. My mind feels just as hazy. My entire body is screaming at me to not move. But I have to. I lift my head slightly and turn to look the other way. I can just about make out a figure ahead of me, staggering across the courtyard.
Ketranovich.
Everything suddenly comes flooding back…
The detonator!
I bend my arms, preparing to push myself up. I bring my knees slowly up to my chest and in one colossal, excruciating effort, I manage to lift my body from the ground and stand up. I can’t straighten my back — I have to hunch forward to take the pressure off the knife wound in my stomach. But I’m up, that’s the main thing.
I rub my eyes, trying to clear the haze in front of them. I look ahead and see Ketranovich slowly making his way over to the detonator as he drags himself to his feet.
I try to walk, which is harder than I would’ve liked. Everything is unfolding in painfully slow motion.
“Hey!” I yell.
Ketranovich looks behind him, almost losing his balance as he does. His face is a mixture of shock and anger.
“Is that all you got?” I ask, laughing and coughing up a little blood.
He turns away from me, more concerned with getting the detonator than he was with any potential threat I may pose. I have to distract him.
“Hey!” I shout again. “Don’t walk away from me, you fucking coward!”
He stops him in his tracks. He turns to me once more. He’s barely able to stand up straight either, thanks to the damage my kick did to his ribs. He’s holding what remains of his right forearm in his left hand.
I continue toward him, stopping a few feet away. We look the same — hunched over, covered in blood, barely able to stand, hurting more and more with each breath we take.
“I am… no… coward, Adrian Hell,” say Ketranovich, struggling to get each word out. “I am… a hero! I am a great… warrior… fighting for my country since you were just… a child.”
“You’re a maniac,” I reply, grimacing as I face the same problem of trying to speak. “You’d kill hundreds of good men and women in the blink of an eye. And for what? Some self-righteous cause you use as an excuse for the fact you’re pissed because your country screwed you over? You’re just an angry old ex-grunt who wants to stomp his feet and relive the old days of killing without consequence, and you try to justify it by calling it revenge.”