by Matt Hilton
‘Were you thinking of taking a dip?’ She nodded over at the pool, then looked pointedly at the net I still grasped in my hand.
‘No, not just now. Look,’ I offered, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ve kept you long enough.’
‘It’s OK. It wasn’t as if I was doing anything. Just thinking about … stuff.’
‘Still, stopped you doing that.’
She waved down my concern.
‘It’s not important,’ she said. But her arms went back under her breasts. Defensive body language.
‘Anything I can help with?’
She looked at me strangely. ‘No.’
Nodding once, I told her, ‘If there is anything, well, you know where I am. You just have to say. I can help you, Marianne.’
There was confusion on her face now. I’d called her by her given name on purpose, and she’d picked up on that fact. In the past she’d made some bad decisions, yeah, but she wasn’t stupid.
‘Who are you, Joe?’
Staring into her face, exuding honesty, I made her a promise, ‘I’m someone who can help you.’
Marianne wavered. Fear flashed across her features, but was replaced instantly by something that looked too much like anger to be ignored. She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come. Before things went any further, I stepped back, hefting my net again. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d better get back to work and let you get on with thinking.’
There was a noise from up near Jorgenson’s house. A heavy tread on the poolside tiles. ‘Mari? You out there?’
I could see a heavy-built guy in a dark suit. His stomach was large and extended over his belt line. Thick rolls of flesh hung on his jowls and made a hump at the base of his shaved skull. He was like a heavyweight boxer who’d gone to seed. He glanced my way once. Then back to Marianne. ‘Something wrong, Mari?’
Mari glanced my way, then said, ‘No, of course not. I’m just saying hello to our new neighbour.’
The big man – undoubtedly hired muscle – squinted my way. I nodded a greeting which he mirrored with no enthusiasm. Back to Marianne he said, ‘Best you come in now, Mari. Mr Jorgenson’s looking for you.’
Marianne gave me the tight-lipped smile again, then turned in the direction of the house. I couldn’t swear but there seemed less melancholy to her humming now. I watched her until she was back inside the house. The muscle eyed me for a long beat, then he too went inside.
After that, I dropped the net by the pool and took up my place back on the balcony.
I’d come to take Marianne Dean away from Jorgenson. But the opportunity I’d just been given had passed. Obviously I wanted the girl to trust me when I did snatch her out of his hands, and I knew that she didn’t yet. But another opportunity would present itself.
To kill time I cleaned my gun again, and watched the boats coming and going from the marina.
I was watching for Rink, but I saw something else instead.
Good job I’d got the gun ready.
7
As a killer for hire, Dantalion had certain limitations. His looks – the paleness of his skin and hair, the limpidness of his eyes – made him stand out in a crowd. It was never good for one who prized anonymity to be seen and to be remembered. It was one reason why he rarely left anyone alive in his wake. There couldn’t be so many angels wandering around in the flesh that he could get away with his trade if anyone should witness his comings and goings.
But because of his individuality he had schooled himself in the art of concealment. He knew how to get in and out of places without alerting even the most vigilant of watchers. He was adept at disguises, could administer theatrical make-up as though born to the movie industry. But sometimes, he knew, boldness and confidence could win the day where all that sneaking around would achieve was raised eyebrows and pointed fingers.
Arriving at the Baker Island marina, he did so in style. He made sure that to any observer he was yet another man of the über-rich set. The boat – a $2.5 million cabin cruiser – might not be the most expensive in the marina, but it certainly didn’t look out of place. He was dressed in the finest silk suit and his face and hands were a light tan, his hair concealed under a sleek black wig. Even his eyes, his greatest giveaway, were disguised by tinted contact lenses. To all intents and purposes, he looked at home on the island. The real boat owner wouldn’t mind that Dantalion had stolen his identity; he was currently bleeding out through the hole in his head back at Miami Beach.
He purposely didn’t moor the boat anywhere near the target’s home; that could alert any minders prowling in the area. Better that he stroll in, a man arrived from the sea catching his balance now that he was back on dry land. As he walked he lit a cigar. He didn’t regularly smoke, but it was all part of the look. He walked with his free hand tucked into his jacket pocket, where a slit had been cut in the seam so he could reach the sound-suppressed 90-two Beretta strapped to his thigh.
Lights positioned along the dockside attracted swarms of gnats: even mega-money couldn’t eradicate the presence of pests. Dantalion ignored them. He was too intent on the row of luxury houses ahead. The buildings looked pink in the yellow haze of the lights, almost semi-circular in construction as they hugged the curve of the land where the marina spilled back into Biscayne Bay. Off to his right was the sprawling length of Dodge Island and beyond it the blazing nightscape that was Miami itself.
The house he was looking for was the one to the extreme right of the three comprising the half-moon shape. The houses, making the most of the view and the afternoon sun, were built so that the gardens and pools faced towards the sea. Entrance to the buildings could be gained from the gardens, but the main doors were at the far side of the buildings.
Taking in the nightscape of the metropolis across Biscayne Bay, he stood leaning his elbows on a low wall overlooking the promontory that gave private mooring to these three properties. A $10-million plus craft bobbed on the swells there, making Dantalion consider the fee he’d set to get this job done; maybe he should have doubled it. Perhaps he still would.
Putting the cigar to his lips, he took smoke into his mouth but no further. Then, exhaling slowly, he turned and leaned his elbows on the wall so that he was looking back towards the houses. It was nonchalant enough that to any observer he would appear simply as a man at peace with the world and enjoying the privileges afforded him. In that brief moment he scanned all three upper balconies of the properties he could see. The building furthest to the left appeared deserted. There was a man, apparently asleep on a reclining chair on building two. Lights blazed throughout the target house but he could not immediately detect any movement from within.
His eyes strayed back to the central balcony. He couldn’t see much of the man, but he appeared relaxed enough to be genuinely asleep. He watched for long seconds but got no reaction. He dismissed the presence of the man: he was probably drunk or sleeping off a long flight. He could always pay him a visit after he was done, make sure that a potential witness was no longer around. Jamming the cigar between his teeth, he pushed off from the wall and walked along the pathway overlooking the sea. Tiny waves made crystalline splashes on the rocks below. He flicked the cigar away, watching it spiral end-over-end like a tiny meteor before it fizzed out in the ocean.
He then moved inland towards the high wall bordering the garden. To look at him, he wouldn’t have the strength to catch the top of the wall and swing up as nimbly as a cat, but that was what he did. There he crouched, peering over the top of shrubbery towards the house. He held the pose, gargoyle-like, as though he was an evil sprite fleeing a European cathedral. Pretty apt, considering.
When he was sure he’d gone undetected, he hopped down into the garden, landing surefooted amid a stand of palm. Crouching again, he felt for the necessary tools of his trade. Beretta. Check. Book. Check. That was all he needed. He moved forward, staying within the shadows of the trees. Nothing stirred around him; even the endemic bugs had fallen silent.
The bush
es ended at a paved terrace, then came an open space he had to traverse to get to the door. From this vantage point he could see through the doorway to a well-appointed lobby area. An overweight man in a dark suit was sitting on a couch, using a telephone on an adjacent stand. He was giving someone quite express orders judging by the snapping motion of his free hand. Dantalion followed the man’s gesture. Another big man, the shoulder holster immediately obvious against his shirt. Two minders at the very least. Could be more on the upper floors.
Calculating figures, Dantalion moved forwards. He lifted the silenced Beretta, took aim. There was a noise like someone slapping a catcher’s mitt. The light above the entrance went out. Within the house neither of the bodyguards noticed the sudden darkness outside. Dantalion was immediately on the move.
He was across the terrace in seconds. He didn’t pause, pulling open the door in one swift motion. The fat man on the couch was the nearest target, but he was sitting down and had his gun hand full of telephone. Dantalion shot the standing man. The 9 mm bullet hit him centre mass, going through-and-through, putting a hole in the mirror behind him. Blood spray misted the crazy-paved glass.
It was a heart shot, but experience told Dantalion that sometimes that wasn’t enough. Even as the target crumpled, he shot the same man a second time, taking off a sizeable portion of his skull.
Barely two seconds had passed, but it was the length of mortality for at least one of the men. The heavy man had hardly registered what was happening. He swung his gaze from his dead companion to the mystery man in the lobby, his mouth hanging open. The Beretta was now aimed his way. The second victim was more show than substance, his real weapons his size and his fists. Not much good against an expert with a semi-automatic handgun. His response was to sink back on the couch, bringing up his hands. Dantalion shot him twice. Once in the throat to stop his shout of alarm, once in his tremulous gut, just for good measure.
Both men out of the picture in less time than it took to stalk the length of the lobby. The suppressor – though not as effective as Hollywood would have it – deadened the sounds of the gunshots, but there’d still been the sequence of thuds. Most noise had come from the smashing of the mirror. Still, Dantalion wasn’t concerned that the people upstairs had been alerted; they weren’t familiar with the sounds of death.
Moving to the foot of a staircase, Dantalion swept the remainder of the lobby with his gun. A closed door on his right, possibly an entrance to a kitchen area. He twisted the handle. Didn’t want to be going up the stairs only for the door to swing open and disgorge more minders. But the kitchen was in darkness, empty of armed guards. He quickly pulled the door shut.
The door out into the parking area was closed. No movement beyond it. He returned his attention to the stairs.
There was a young woman coming down, a step at a time, as she hefted a heavy suitcase. She saw the dead man on the couch, jerked her stupefied gaze towards Dantalion. Her eyes widened. A scream began to swell. Dantalion shot her in the mouth. No need of a second shot this time, not with half her skull decorating the stairway. She slipped to the stairs, boneless, making hardly a sound. Not the suitcase, though; it rattled and thumped and banged its way over the steps before Dantalion could reach it and halt its fall.
Quizzical voices were raised from above him. One female, two male. He glanced at the dead woman on the stairs. Slim and petite with a Hispanic look. She was wearing a white blouse, black skirt and sensible black shoes. Housemaid, he determined. That would mean the three upstairs were his targets, plus one more probable guard.
Taking their confusion as cover for his own upward charge, he gained the upper floor before any of them had the notion to come and investigate the commotion.
Walking along the landing, he saw another young woman step out of a bedroom. Anglo-Saxon this one. Light brown hair, blue-green eyes, nice figure. Dantalion smiled at her.
‘Hello, Marianne,’ he said.
Then he showed her the gun. The woman immediately yelped and jerked back into the room. Dantalion followed her. He was only a beat in her wake, and he was planning on using her fear against the others.
He blinked, taking in the tableau.
The woman was still running across the room. A young man, reddish hair marking him out, was in mid-pose pulling on a suit jacket. The second man was older, grey hair, slim, distinguished-looking. Sitting at a desk, he had been bending over a laptop computer. More accountant than bodyguard, perhaps, but still a viable threat. Dantalion lifted the Beretta and blew him out of contention.
To the younger man, Dantalion said, ‘Bradley, how are you, sir?’
Jorgenson gaped at him. Then he looked down at the dead man slumped over the computer, his fingers arched over the keys as though writing his own eulogy.
‘Dad?’ Jorgenson croaked. His face collapsed in on itself and he sobbed.
‘That was your father? The great Valentin Jorgenson? If it’s any consolation, your father would probably thank me for killing him. What was it? Cancer? He was in great pain, was he not?’ Dantalion went closer. He lifted the gun so it was aimed at Bradley’s heart. ‘Do you want a quick and painless death, Bradley? I’m prepared to give you the choice.’
Jorgenson stepped back, bringing up placating hands. ‘Look, whoever you are, whoever put you up to this, I will double the price. Don’t kill me.’
Dantalion let out a long sigh like an escape of steam. ‘I’m not averse to being handed heaps of cash, Bradley. However, a deal is a deal and you must die.’ He turned and sought out the woman. Marianne had pressed herself to the far wall as if she could melt through the brick and escape the horror. ‘You too, Marianne.’
Marianne whimpered, slipping down the wall and covering her head with both arms.
Dantalion waved Jorgenson over to the woman with the barrel of his gun. ‘Go and comfort her, Bradley. She deserves a hug, don’t you think?’
Jorgenson pleaded. ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong. Please don’t kill her.’
‘The deal has been made, Bradley. I must.’
Jorgenson was fit and strong. Approaching his prime, before the hedonistic ways the affluence afforded him would make him fat and slow. Dantalion saw him clench his fists.
‘Don’t be silly, Bradley. The hype is just that. They’ve dubbed you Superman, but, believe me; you’re not faster than a speeding bullet.’
‘Who sent you?’ Jorgenson demanded.
Dantalion tapped the Beretta alongside his nose. ‘That would be telling.’
Jorgenson snapped his gaze on Marianne. There was a flash of anger, but then the hardness melted.
‘Let her go.’
Dantalion shook his head.
‘I will let you choose, Bradley. The woman first?’
‘No!’
‘Then you first?’
‘No!’
Dantalion shook his head. ‘You just don’t seem to get this, do you?’
‘I’m not going to choose who you kill. How can you expect me to do that?’
‘Flip a coin if you wish,’ Dantalion said. ‘But if I kill her first, then we go back to my first offer. Quick and painless or slow and in untold agony.’
Shuddering, Jorgenson looked down at the woman. Her eyes were huge ovals as she looked back at him. ‘Mari,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this, babe.’
‘Not … your … fault,’ she whispered back.
‘Now that’s very touching,’ Dantalion said. Unconsciously he wiped his arm over his chin. A pale patch of skin drew Jorgenson’s gaze. Realising his error, Dantalion shook his head slowly. ‘Bang goes the neighbourhood! Now there’s definitely no choice.’
With a lifestyle built on giving commands, Jorgenson wasn’t one to give in so easily. The shock of seeing his father gunned down, the weirdness of the man threatening him with death, were beginning to dissipate. He squared his shoulders.
‘You touch either of us, you’ll be hunted down. They won’t stop. You’ll be hounded constantly and when th
ey get you they will make you hurt!’
Dantalion raised an eyebrow. ‘They? Who are these they you have so much faith in? They will have to find me first. If I don’t want them to find me, they never will.’
‘They already have,’ said a voice from behind him.
8
Not normally one for moving in the kind of circles the people of Baker Island enjoyed, I could be forgiven for missing just another rich man as he took an evening stroll along the dockside. But as one who had spent fourteen years hunting terrorists, and the last four dealing with criminals ranging from moneylenders to a bone-collecting maniac, I recognised a stone killer when I saw him.
An island this wealthy, it was probable that a large portion of the populace was ex-cops, ex-military – and everything in between – employed as executive protectors to those who called Baker Island their home. But something about the sinuous way this man moved told me he wasn’t the type who celebrated the sanctity of life. For one, he was too watchful of his surroundings. Even switched-on security men don’t act that way when they aren’t covering their mark.
The cigar was a prop. Too exaggerated, the way he put it to his mouth, then immediately removed it with a sweeping gesture of his arm. And all the while the other hand didn’t move from his pocket. It fiddled with something that extended much lower than the confines of his pocket. He was packing.
He flicked the cigar away, watching it as it pinwheeled away into the ocean. Leaning back on a wall, the man turned and stared directly at me. I’d been expecting that, so I’d already sunk down against the recliner, tilting my head as though dozing. I watched him through the merest slitting of my eyes. The man ghosted a smile. I’d have missed it in the subdued lighting if I hadn’t got a flash of saliva on teeth.
Out of his line of sight I was already mid-text to Rink.
‘GET HERE FAST. TROUBLE’
I hit the send button just as the man turned away and walked along the coast path. His very black hair picked up highlights from the lamps along the path, so I could make out his progress beyond the wall to Jorgenson’s garden. I blinked and the man was suddenly crouching on the wall like some unearthly bat. Next instant he was down in the garden and he paused to check his pockets. When next he moved it was as if a snake had sprung out of a coil, fast but sinuous at the same time. Then I couldn’t see him because of the angle and the obscuring foliage.
