I pick up the phone and call Josh. “Hey, it’s me,” I say.
“Hey, Cupcake, whaddaya need now?” he replies.
I do my best to ignore his greeting. “I’m just thinking out loud here, okay? So, Pellaggio tries to buy the land off Jackson for this casino venture. Both parties are expecting to make a shitload of cash. Then, suddenly, without any warning or explanation, Jackson pulls the plug, costing both himself and Pellaggio a small fortune.”
“Yeah, seems strange when you say it like that,” says Josh. “If you’re the kind of guy who brokers business deals with the mafia, you’re probably the kind of guy who’s always on the lookout for the big money opportunities and would do whatever it takes to secure them…”
“My thoughts exactly. So there must’ve been a damn good reason for Jackson to pull a move like this, and in such a hurry that he didn’t even bother to tell Pellaggio. That’s both corporate, and in this case, actual, suicide.”
“Well, that’s why you’re there, after all.”
“Precisely. Do me a favor, would you? Look into Jackson a bit more. Find out what exactly his role is at GlobaTech. Also, see if you can find out if they’ve got anything in the pipeline that might cause him to switch his priorities in a hurry.”
“Good idea. These people work military defense contracts — could be something big came up that dwarfed the Pellaggio deal?”
“I mean, what’s a mob boss gonna do to them, when they’re working alongside the United States military?”
“Sounds like a good theory. Give me a few minutes,” he replies and hangs up.
While I’m waiting for him to work more of his magic, I look at the photograph again of Jackson and his bodyguard that I took a couple of hours ago. I’ve uploaded it to my laptop so I can see it more clearly now it’s on the bigger screen. Then I open up the last e-mail, with nothing in the subject. Josh hasn’t managed to get a lot of information about the mystery woman, which in itself actually tells me quite a bit…
He’s attached a grainy photograph, allegedly taken four years ago, in what looks like the middle of the jungle. It shows our woman, minus the lipstick and leather, wearing camo fatigues and holding an assault rifle. She’s standing between two guys dressed roughly the same way.
Other than that, there’s little else to go on. No names or aliases, no known addresses, no reported sightings in the last few years. She’s a ghost. And speaking as someone who spends every day trying to stay invisible — it’s difficult and expensive to do properly.
Typically, you gain the skills while either serving in the military like I did, after a decade of black-ops and covert assassinations, or the military or government directly made you invisible, meaning you’re still in active service. Whether she’s on somebody’s books or not, she’s still a factor in all this that I’d rather not have to deal with.
It’s human instinct to be wary of the unknown. She’s very talented and apparently doesn’t exist, which was troublesome. Although it explains why Jackson hired her for protection… Sounds to me like she’s the kind of person who’ll do a damn good job of keeping you alive.
Maybe she’s a gun-for-hire, like me… I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. If she were good enough to be heard of then I’d know who she is.
Josh added to the bottom of the message that he’s running searches through active military and government databases all over the world, which is why it’s taking so much time to come through.
My phone rings, interrupting my train of thought. It’s Josh again.
“What have you got for me?” I ask as I answer.
“Nothing new on GlobaTech,” he says, sounding slightly deflated. “There’s nothing in the news and nothing on their website or their local servers.”
“So either there was no pressure on Jackson from GlobaTech, or he's involved in something that's classified and not on the public record?”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
“Well, either way it’s a dead-end for now…” I stand and start pacing around my motel room, thinking.
“You’re doing that thing where you wear the carpet out walking around trying to think, aren’t you?” says Josh after a few moments of silence.
I sheepishly sit back down on the bed. “No… I’m just sitting here trying to figure this all out.” I hear Josh scoff down the phone, knowing full well he was right. I ignore him.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asks.
“I’m going to speak to Jimmy Manhattan again, try to find out what the hell’s going on. Either there’s more to this than he’s letting on, or he’s as oblivious as the rest of us about Jackson’s true motivations. Whatever the case, it’s still probably worth having another conversation.”
“Adrian, make sure you don’t say or do anything you may regret later, okay? Just some friendly advice…”
“If this is any kind of set up, Josh, the bigger concern is that I’ll do something they regret right now.”
5
Josh tracked down where in the city Jimmy Manhattan spends his time, so I grabbed a bite to eat before heading over there. I’ve changed into a black t-shirt and thrown on my trusty, brown leather jacket. Tucked in the waistband of my jeans at the back is one of my prized possessions — a custom Beretta 92A1 handgun. It holds fifteen, nine-by-nineteen millimeter Parabellum rounds in its magazine. The 92-series is the preferred firearm of the United States Armed Forces. I’ve always preferred this particular variation to the 96-series, which fires the ten-by-twenty-two millimeter, 40 caliber Smith and Wesson rounds. The reason being, the Parabellums have a higher rate of velocity than their Smith and Wesson counterparts, and as a result have a higher penetration depth, meaning they ultimately do more damage.
It might sound terribly impressive that I’m an information junkie and know all the stats, but when it comes down to it, I just want to make the biggest bang.
The barrel is metallic silver, as are the outer edges of the butt. On either side of the grip is an ebony plate with a downward-pointing pentagram engraved in silver. I’ve always liked the moniker of Adrian Hell that I inadvertently acquired several years ago, and I try to play on it as much as I can. Image and reputation is everything in this business and having an expensive, customized handgun with the Sigil of Baphomet on it really helps both. I actually have two and usually when I’m on a job, I wear them both in a custom-made holster at the small of my back. The barrels touch and the butts point out forming a T-shape which I can easily hide beneath whatever top I’m wearing. I’m only taking one with me to meet Manhattan as a precaution. I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it, as the saying goes.
Manhattan works out of one of Pellaggio’s nightclubs, called The Pit. It’s on the fringe of the city center, surrounded by other popular nighttime destinations. From what Josh has told me, it’s your typical hotspot for neon lights, hot girls, and guys looking to either deal drugs or get laid.
I’m not exactly worried about any security he might have there with him. A nightclub won't be open for business in the middle of the day, so any staff that’s there will be minimal and probably cleaners. Plus, I’ve already met two of his bodyguards and we all know they won’t be of any use to him.
But I’m not going looking for a fight — I just want some answers. From what I’ve put together about this whole thing so far, there’s definitely more to it than what Manhattan told me. I intend to ask him, quite politely, if he’s trying to set me up in some way for some reason, or if he’s just plain stupid.