Thicker Than Blood Read online

  THICKER THAN BLOOD

  BOOK 7 IN THE ADRIAN HELL SERIES

  JAMES P. SUMNER

  THICKER THAN BLOOD

  First published in Great Britain in 2017.

  First edition.

  Copyright © James P. Sumner 2017

  The right of James P. Sumner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission of the copyright owner.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, situations and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, place or event is purely coincidental.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio.

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  Table of Contents

  Thicker Than Blood (Adrian Hell, Book 7)

  More Books by the Author

  If I may…

  This book is dedicated to the greatest group of readers an author could wish for. Thank you for supporting me, and keeping me going during the writing of this book. It’s been a battle, but we fought it together, and it was damn sure worth it.

  I also want to thank Sacha, a fellow author and my young Padawan, for her support and advice, as well as Chris, for helping me construct some of the action in this book with his invaluable insight and expertise.

  Finally, a huge thank you to my wife and son, who tolerate the ups and downs of living with an author unquestioningly, and with smiles on their faces. I couldn’t do this without them.

  Now… are you ready?

  1

  June 6, 2017

  10:47 PDT

  The sun feels within touching distance as I stand alone, taking in the stunning, panoramic view of the world around me from the mountaintop. Dust dances around my feet, caught in the light breeze sweeping across the deserted plateau.

  It was surprisingly easy to get up here. I’m not an expert climber, or even that good with heights, but there’s a footpath on the opposite side that winds its way up on a gentle, but steady incline. It wasn’t too strenuous, despite the heat, and I actually enjoyed the walk—it gave me time to clear my head.

  It’s been a weird few weeks, to say the least. Yesterday marked the one month anniversary of my official death—and if that statement doesn’t highlight how messed up my life is I don’t know what does. I’m beat-up and tired. The bandage around my head is stopping a large gash from re-opening. My right hand is still effectively useless, due to nerve damage I sustained during an explosion. The cast I’m wearing is molded to provide as much comfort and protection as possible, and I’m popping painkillers every couple of hours to help take the edge off. My wounds serve as a constant reminder of both the choices I made, and the consequences I must live with.

  I spent the last few weeks living someone else’s life. I had a nice house, an expensive car, all the money in the world… and it didn’t mean a damn thing. I realize now I simply used it all to hide the fact I’m angry with myself, and to avoid admitting I was slowly being driven insane by my own guilt. But that life is gone now. I’m sure a new one will be created for me by the people I find myself enslaved by.

  A bird screeches overhead, interrupting my quiet moment of reflection. I focus on it for a moment, watching it glide effortlessly in a circle as I wonder what it feels like to live so free. Ever since I was pronounced dead, I’ve been expecting to feel overwhelmed by not living within the confines of a normal life. By being a phantom, able to roam the world without consequence. Ironically, having committed myself to serving The Order of Sabbah as payment for this new life, I’ve never felt more trapped.

  I take in a slow, deep breath and briefly close my eyes. Now isn’t the time for such musings. I need to focus. I have a job to do.

  I crouch beside the black sports bag currently resting at my feet. It’s close to fifty inches long and weighs around twenty-five pounds. Having this with me certainly made the walk up here harder, but it was a necessary burden. I unzip it and carefully lift out the sniper rifle contained within. I fold down the bi-pod legs, clicking them into place, and rest it gently on the ground.

  I pause for a moment to admire it. It’s a beautiful weapon, one of only three ever made—a rare collection referred to as the Holy Trinity by the people who live in my world. Each bolt-action rifle has a distinctive emblem engraved on the stock—a golden bullet standing on its end, with a crown on the tip, and a number on the casing. The one I have with me is number three. Last I heard, number one was somewhere in Africa, but that was mostly hearsay and rumor.

  The story goes that they were manufactured by the son of a former marine sniper, who was some kind of engineering prodigy. No one knows exactly how the weapons are capable of such extreme long-distance shooting. They’re worth so much money that anyone fortunate enough to have owned one hasn’t dared take it apart and reverse-engineer it to find out.

  I reach back inside the bag and take out the scope. It’s military-grade, with 20x zoom, and anti-glare technology, as well as thermal, infra-red, and night vision sighting options—perfect for targeting under any circumstances. I fasten it in place on the upper receiver, directly above the trigger, leaving the lens caps in place. A common mistake people make is taking them off while they’re setting up the rifle. It should always be the last thing you remove, because once you expose the lens, you risk sunlight reflecting off it, giving away your position. You only remove it when you’re ready to look at your target.

  Finally, I take out the magazine, which contains five .338-caliber Lapua Scenar rounds. They’re what’s known as a very-low-drag round, or VLD for short. Each three-hundred-grain bullet is roughly three-point-six inches long, and has a lead core, designed specifically for long-range shooting. I cup the magazine in my left hand and slam it firmly into the breach.

  I move the rifle nearer to the edge of the plateau and lie on my front, stretching my legs out behind me. Resting on my elbows, I tuck the stock into my left shoulder, adjusting it for comfort. I need to position myself on the opposite side from what I’m used to, as I can’t use my right hand for the trigger.

  I work the bolt and hear the mechanical clanking of a round being chambered. I flip the lens caps up, and close one eye, focusing on the view through the sight. The building I’m looking at is twenty-three hundred yards away, give or take. That’s a very long shot. Not impossible, but incredibly difficult, even for me. There are numerous calculations to run through before firing—bullet velocity, wind resistance, gravity, motion delay… even the rotation of the earth. It’s very complex, and a skill even military snipers struggle to master. The reality is that most people, even with intense training, can’t hit a target more than thirteen hundred yards away with any degree of accuracy.

  Fortunately, I’m one of the people who can.

  The longest shot I ever made was just under twenty-two hundred yards, in conditions far worse than those I have right now. My spotter said it was an incredible shot, but lucky. He said the wind was too strong to guarantee accuracy, and despite the first bullet finding the target, he argued
that he knew a marker shot when he saw one. He might have had a point, but I never confirmed or denied it either way. The way I see it, if you try to do something and succeed, it’s skill, not luck. It was a great shot, and I’m twice the shooter now than I was back then, so this distance doesn’t concern me.

  I look at the slightly-blurred building in front of me, almost a mile-and-a-half away. I adjust the zoom on the scope until the image sharpens. It’s only six stories high, yet it seems to tower over the surrounding structures.

  I consciously slow my breathing, pushing my heart rate as low as I can. Beginning at the roof, I work my way down, one floor at a time, moving left to right, checking each window, searching for my target. At this distance, the slightest movement makes a large impact, so I keep the adjustments as gentle as I can while I scan the offices for—

  Bingo.

  Two floors down, in the window farthest right. It’s huge inside—typical of a corner office—and has two walls that consist of glass running floor-to-ceiling. The anti-glare technology of the scope makes it easier to see inside, despite the reflection of the sun. I can make out two chairs, facing the east side. Opposite them is a large desk, with a man sitting behind it. It looks as if he’s writing something, but I can’t be sure from here.

  What I am sure of, however, is who he is. I smile to myself as I think about how he hasn’t changed much since I last saw him. Not that I would expect him to, really. It may feel as if a lifetime has elapsed, but it’s only been a couple of months.

  I take another slow, deep breath, trying to push the rising pulse of emotion from my mind as I stare at my best friend through the scope of my sniper rifle.

  “Hey, Josh.”

  2

  11:06 PDT

  Okay, now what? I don’t want to shoot him, obviously, but what choice do I have? The Order knows I’m here—they can track me anywhere in the world, to within about three feet of my position. If they don’t like where I am, or what I’m doing, they press a button, and… poof!—off with my head.

  Talk about a rock and a hard place. Literally. I’m on top of a massive rock, facing another tough decision. Do I kill my best friend? Or do I refuse, which would result in my own swift, messy demise? I’m too young to die. Okay, that’s not true—I’m forty-five, and probably deserve to. But I don’t want to die. I also don’t want to shoot Josh.

  I focus on my breathing, trying to calm my mind. It’s doing that thing it sometimes does, where it races in every direction at once, trying to find a solution, but ultimately gets me nowhere. I close my eyes for a second and flick the switch inside my head that turns off my emotions. I need to look at this objectively. I’ve been far too emotional lately and I’m forgetting all the skills I spent my life honing.

  …

  …

  …

  Right, if I shoot Josh… then what? It’s clear that whatever he’s doing is getting in the way of whatever The Order wants to do, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. So, what’s he actually doing? Thanks to President Schultz, I know he now runs the largest privately-owned military in the world. In addition to manufacturing weapons, and their research toward technological and pharmaceutical advances, GlobaTech has replaced the UN Peacekeeping Force, and is now active all over the world trying to restore order to regions affected by 4/17.

  He’s also an advisor to the National Security Council, which is an unprecedented appointment. He’s the first person from the private sector to play such a pivotal role in government. Consequently, he’s a very prominent figure nowadays. Maybe taking him out is nothing more than a show of strength by Horizon? Proof that The Order can manipulate government at any level? Or, more likely, it’s precautionary. I imagine Josh is in a unique position to influence a great many things The Order wouldn’t like. They might want him out of the picture to make sure he doesn’t do any of them.

  Now, remaining objective, what if I don’t kill him? Well, I die—that’s easy. But what impact would my death have? I smile regrettably. The sad, lonely answer to that is absolutely none. Everyone, including Josh, already thinks I’m dead, so it makes no difference to anyone whatsoever if I die right here, right now.

  So, what do I do?

  I suppose I could—

  No, I couldn’t. That would be stupid.

  There’s always—

  Wait, no, there isn’t.

  Shit. Come on, Adrian, think!

  …

  …

  …

  Hold on a second.

  I could call him. Is that insane? I mean, I’m not entirely sure what I would say, but let’s face it, if there’s one person who can get me out of this shit, it’s Josh, right? Plus, The Order can only see where I am. They can’t hear me, so if we can work something out between us, it might buy us some time.

  I trap the stock between my chin and shoulder to keep it steady, and reach down into my pocket for my cell. Not the one Horizon gave me, which will almost certainly be bugged. It’s a burner phone I picked up out of habit, for emergencies.

  I rest it on the ground in front of me, beside the rifle, and tap in his number. I pause, my finger hovering over the call button. Seriously, what do I say? He would’ve been devastated when he heard I was dead. I know I would be, if the situation were reversed. How do you tell someone who has been grieving for the past month that the person they’re mourning is still alive?

  Ah, screw it. I’ll figure it out.

  I hit call and then put it on speaker. The sound of ringing fills the air. I watch through the scope and can see him clearly, staring at his computer screen. He’s just glanced at his cell phone, which he’s now holding in his hand. He looks all around the room, as if he’s debating whether or not to answer. I guess he’s used to receiving calls from numbers he doesn’t recognize—half the world must want to speak to him nowadays.

  I feel really, really bad about this.

  He stands and begins pacing around his office as he puts the phone to his ear. The ringing stops.

  “Hello?”

  I take a deep breath. “Hey, Josh.”

  “Who is this?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s me, man. It’s Adrian.”

  “Look, asshole, whoever this is, it isn’t funny. How did you even get this number? I’m gonna trace the call, find you, and—”

  “Josh, relax. Take a breath, and listen. It’s me, alright? It’s me.”

  He stops pacing.

  “A-Adrian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t… What… Is this… How?”

  I smile. “In all the years I’ve known you, this is the first time you’ve been lost for words.”

  “But… I don’t…”

  “I know, and I’m sorry to do this to you. I can’t imagine what must be going through your mind right now, but I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”

  I watch him walk back over to his desk and rest on the edge. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in trouble, Josh. We both are. I need—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hang on a minute. Back up. Are you telling me you’ve been alive this whole time?”

  I sigh heavily. “Yeah.”

  “And you’re making contact now, after a month, purely out of necessity?”

  I close my eyes. “Yeah…”

  “So, you let me believe my best friend was dead for a fucking month? Are you being serious?”

  “Josh, it’s not like that, okay? I didn’t—”

  “Adrian, you’re alive, and you didn’t tell me! It’s exactly like that!”

  I fight to keep my temper, which is frustrating for me, because I know I’ve no right to get angry with him.

  “Look, I get that you’re pissed with me, Josh, but it’s not that simple. Can we just—”

  “No! We can’t just… anything! You let me think you were dead, Adrian. All this time. Do you know how hard I worked to save your ass after you killed Cunningham? How much I begged Schultz to spare you? And when he wouldn’t do that—wh
en he couldn’t—how much I pleaded with him to let me see you? I’ve spent every waking moment hating myself for not being able to save you. Feeling guilty, and angry, and sad, because the man I considered a brother, who I spent over half my life standing beside, was gone. Except, guess what? He wasn’t! He just let me think he was, so I could go through all that for nothing! And the worst part is, when he finally tells me he’s alive, the first thing he says is that he’s not doing it because he wants to.”

  I let out a long breath, which tremors with emotion I can’t subdue. “Josh, I—”

  “You sonofabitch.”

  He hangs up.

  Well, that went well.

  I watch him through the scope. He’s still sitting on the edge of his desk, staring ahead. Oh… no, he’s not. He’s throwing his computer monitor across the room. And the keyboard. He’s banging his fists on his desk. There’s more movement. I adjust slightly and see his door has opened. There’s a woman standing there. Josh turns to her and gestures with his hand. She steps out again hurriedly, closing the door behind her.

  I feel terrible. He’s right. Everything he said was right.

  But, do you know what? Now isn’t the time. Both our lives are in danger, and we need to deal with that first. He can be pissed with me later.

  I call him again.

  It clicks on after one ring. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry, Josh. You’re right about everything. It was a real dick move letting you think I was dead, and I feel terrible about it.”

  “Oh, well, now you’ve apologized that makes everything okay…”

  “Look, be pissed with me all you want—”

  “I will, don’t you worry!”

  “—but… it’ll have to wait. The reason I’m calling is because you’re in danger. We both are. And if we don’t work together, we’ll both be dead by morning.”