Deadly Intent: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 4) by James P. Sumner Page B
Authors: James P. Sumner
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is limited, as the sun is shining through the low, gray cloud and reflecting off the glass, meaning I can only really see myself. But the important thing is the room appears empty.
I steady myself and press my right palm flat against the glass. I push against it, and then try to slide it up, hoping the window will move. It’s a struggle, and I put plenty of pressure on it, but it doesn’t budge. The window’s locked.
Well, shit…
13.
10:53 EDT
“Ah… Bob?” I say.
“What’s wrong?” he replies.
“The window’s locked.”
“Oh, shit…”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I’m dangling thirty feet above Manhattan—a little help wouldn’t go amiss.”
“You should really plan things a little better. Did you not consider the possibility of the window being locked before you jumped?”
“Well, obviously I considered it… I just believe positive thinking creates opportunity.”
“Adrian, you’re an idiot.”
“Bob, if I wasn’t hanging from a window ledge, I would absolutely kick your ass right now. Enough with the lecture—fix this.”
“What do you want me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know! Josh would’ve thought of something by now...”
“Well, I’m not Josh, am I?”
He falls silent. My arms are starting to ache.
“Bob, I’ve clearly hurt your feelings here, and I feel I should apologize,” I say. “But I won’t. Stop being such a fucking old woman and find me a way into the building!”
I can hear him go to say something, then stop himself, audibly catching his breath and his words. More silence on the line, and my arms are really starting to hurt, to the point where my grip is slowly weakening.
“Any time you want, Bob…” I say, trying to hurry him along without antagonizing him further.
“Well, I hate myself for saying this, but given the circumstances… why don’t you just break the window, climb in, and shoot anyone who comes looking? You know you want to.”
I smile to myself. About damn time.
“Bob, you’re a good man.”
“Whatever… just don’t shoot the targets, okay?”
“Cross my heart.”
Using my feet, I scramble up the wall as much as I can, renewing my hold on the ledge, then slowly reach behind me to get my gun. Holding it in my right hand, I look left as much as I can, to shield my face from any shards of glass that might go flying. Then, I slam the butt of the gun hard into the center of the window. The glass breaks first time, and I quickly heave myself up and through, dropping to the floor of the room while avoiding the few pieces of glass still sticking out from the frame.
In a crouch, I remain still; aiming my gun at the door, waiting for the guy outside the room to come barging in to investigate the noise. My heart rate is increasing as the adrenaline kicks in. I take some deep breaths to try to regulate it, so I can use it to my advantage.
Three seconds pass before the door swings open. The guard stands there, a look of shock and confusion on his face, probably not expecting to see someone in the room. He must be one of Hussein’s men, as he looks Eastern European, and is dressed in jeans and a sleeveless, insulated jacket. In his right hand is a submachine gun—looks like a MAC-10, with a suppressor attached. Using the split second of hesitation to my advantage, I fire once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back and he slumps straight to the floor; a light, crimson stain appears on the wall opposite, across the hallway.
I creep to the door, quickly searching the dead guy for anything useful. I retrieve a driver’s license, which states his name is—sorry, was Joseph Jameson, from Ohio. Presumably a fake...
I really dislike the MAC-10 as a weapon, so I leave that where it is. It’s bulky and inaccurate, and its hair-trigger means one squeeze practically empties the clip, which is of no use when you’re trying to be subtle and effective.
I look right, down the hallway to the
I steady myself and press my right palm flat against the glass. I push against it, and then try to slide it up, hoping the window will move. It’s a struggle, and I put plenty of pressure on it, but it doesn’t budge. The window’s locked.
Well, shit…
13.
10:53 EDT
“Ah… Bob?” I say.
“What’s wrong?” he replies.
“The window’s locked.”
“Oh, shit…”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I’m dangling thirty feet above Manhattan—a little help wouldn’t go amiss.”
“You should really plan things a little better. Did you not consider the possibility of the window being locked before you jumped?”
“Well, obviously I considered it… I just believe positive thinking creates opportunity.”
“Adrian, you’re an idiot.”
“Bob, if I wasn’t hanging from a window ledge, I would absolutely kick your ass right now. Enough with the lecture—fix this.”
“What do you want me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know! Josh would’ve thought of something by now...”
“Well, I’m not Josh, am I?”
He falls silent. My arms are starting to ache.
“Bob, I’ve clearly hurt your feelings here, and I feel I should apologize,” I say. “But I won’t. Stop being such a fucking old woman and find me a way into the building!”
I can hear him go to say something, then stop himself, audibly catching his breath and his words. More silence on the line, and my arms are really starting to hurt, to the point where my grip is slowly weakening.
“Any time you want, Bob…” I say, trying to hurry him along without antagonizing him further.
“Well, I hate myself for saying this, but given the circumstances… why don’t you just break the window, climb in, and shoot anyone who comes looking? You know you want to.”
I smile to myself. About damn time.
“Bob, you’re a good man.”
“Whatever… just don’t shoot the targets, okay?”
“Cross my heart.”
Using my feet, I scramble up the wall as much as I can, renewing my hold on the ledge, then slowly reach behind me to get my gun. Holding it in my right hand, I look left as much as I can, to shield my face from any shards of glass that might go flying. Then, I slam the butt of the gun hard into the center of the window. The glass breaks first time, and I quickly heave myself up and through, dropping to the floor of the room while avoiding the few pieces of glass still sticking out from the frame.
In a crouch, I remain still; aiming my gun at the door, waiting for the guy outside the room to come barging in to investigate the noise. My heart rate is increasing as the adrenaline kicks in. I take some deep breaths to try to regulate it, so I can use it to my advantage.
Three seconds pass before the door swings open. The guard stands there, a look of shock and confusion on his face, probably not expecting to see someone in the room. He must be one of Hussein’s men, as he looks Eastern European, and is dressed in jeans and a sleeveless, insulated jacket. In his right hand is a submachine gun—looks like a MAC-10, with a suppressor attached. Using the split second of hesitation to my advantage, I fire once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back and he slumps straight to the floor; a light, crimson stain appears on the wall opposite, across the hallway.
I creep to the door, quickly searching the dead guy for anything useful. I retrieve a driver’s license, which states his name is—sorry, was Joseph Jameson, from Ohio. Presumably a fake...
I really dislike the MAC-10 as a weapon, so I leave that where it is. It’s bulky and inaccurate, and its hair-trigger means one squeeze practically empties the clip, which is of no use when you’re trying to be subtle and effective.
I look right, down the hallway to the
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