Free One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) by James P. Sumner Page B

wearing backward, so I immediately take him as being a massive prick… He’s the one who speaks first.
    “Are you harassing one of our girls?” he asks, more professional than confrontational.
    “Technically, she was harassing me,” I reply, shrugging casually. “Although I wasn’t about to complain about it.” I look over at her and wink, to give them the impression I’m naïve and more mouth than anything else.
    “Looked to us like you were causing problems,” he says.
    “I was just asking to speak to the boss, that’s all. I was given the names of either Tommy Blunt or Jonas Pike. They around?”
    Both men exchange a concerned glance. Everyone obviously knows about Blunt, but they’re not about to say anything.
    “Mr. Blunt’s not here,” he says after a moment.
    “I know, Tammy’s already said that. You know when he’ll be back?”
    He shakes his head.
    “What about Jonas, is he here?”
    “Not seen him since last night, actually,” he replies, sounding surprisingly helpful.
    “So, who’s in charge right this second?”
    The guy on my right shrugs. “Me. Who’s asking?”
    “It’s not important who I am. I’m just after some information. You help me out, I’ll leave you all in peace.”
    “And if I don’t?” he asks, smirking.
    “Then I’ll leave you all in pieces.”
    He smiles and looks around. His friend on the left starts laughing.
    “Listen, asshole. I’ve no idea who you are, or what you’re after, but you’re in the wrong fuckin’ place. Do you have any idea who owns this joint?”
    I smile. Bingo.
    “Yes. Does he have any idea you’re dealing drugs out the back of this place?” Both men’s eyes go wide. “What am I saying?” I continue, feigning stupidity. “Of course he does. Because he’s the worst kind of piece of shit there is, isn’t he?”
    In the blink of an eye, I whip one of my Berettas out from behind me with my right hand and place the barrel against the forehead of the man now in charge. The music stops, the girl on the stage stands still, and everyone’s eyes are now on me. Luckily, I’m not the self-conscious type.
    “What’s your name?” I ask, calmly.
    “J-Justin,” he replies. Any confidence he once had now departed.
    His friend shifts anxiously back and forth next to him. In another swift movement, I produce the other Beretta in my left hand and place it right between his eyes.
    “And you...” I say to him. “Name?”
    “Eight Ball,” he replies quietly.
    “Eight Ball? Really?”
    He nods silently, almost ashamed.
    “Fine, whatever. Listen, I’m an old acquaintance of your boss’, and I’d like to get a message to him. Anyone gonna tell me where I can find him?”
    Tammy, who’s standing off to the side, watching on more with curiosity than fear, steps toward us.
    “Hey, Mister, you want some advice?”
    I look at her, somewhat bemused.
    “Sure,” I say.
    “These guys won’t tell you shit. They’re more scared of Mr. Trent than they are of you. You’re wastin’ your time here.”
    “Tammy, shut your goddamn mouth!” shouts Justin, who then addresses me. “You’ve got no idea how much shit you’re in right now.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bartender suddenly duck down behind the counter.
    Well, he’s getting his gun…
    He quickly re-appears holding a shotgun, which he levels in our direction. Time slows down for me as I look on, assessing every possible outcome and planning my response.
    He’s holding an Ithaca, which is a versatile pump-action model designed to fire many different caliber rounds. The shotgun itself is a close-range weapon, and when it fires, it sprays the buckshot in a conical arc toward its target, meaning that the farther away you are from the gun, the less accurate the shot is, but the wider the target area, meaning you’re more likely to get hit but less likely to receive heavy damage. However, if it’s fired close quarters, it’ll blow you in half.
    I’ve got maybe three