Judgement and Wrath

by Matt Hilton

  Thankfully they turned to my right. If they’d headed for the stairs the killer would have shot them dead in an instant. In a crouch they ran along the hall. Bullets whacked the wall in their wake, but they managed to gain cover and were – for the moment – safe.

  Leaning forwards, I hung my SIG over the balcony, shooting blindly at the man below. Then I swung back on to my knees, rolling backwards into the bedroom for fear of return fire. My gun was depleted of ammo, so I took the time to eject the magazine, tug a fresh one from my hip pocket and slam it in place.

  I was just coming to my feet when I heard a dull whumph! from below. A nanosecond later I was racing across the room, head down, firing repeatedly at the window. The glass was double-glazed and resisted the bullets somewhat. Then I was driving forwards, arms folded tight over my head. For one frightening instant I thought I’d recoil from the window, but then I was through the shattered glass and sailing through space. Around me the air went searing hot and even though I shouted involuntarily all the oxygen was sucked out of my lungs.

  The sound was deafening, like some angry god had stamped his feet. The concussion of the blast picked me out of the air and sent me somersaulting towards trees. If I’d struck the bole of one of the palms, I’d have split like rotten fruit. Luckily, I hit the hanging fronds first, my body was spun full-tilt and I caromed to the floor through rasping leaves that whipped me mercilessly. Then I slammed the ground with enough force that my internal organs must have gone as flat as pancakes.

  For too long I lay there groaning. Glad to be alive, but in agony everywhere. It was probably no more than ten seconds, but to my stunned brain it felt like I was prone for a month. The rest and recuperation didn’t help. When I finally clawed myself on to my knees, I had to hold that position while my brain tried to right itself in my skull. I needed to vomit, but all that came out was a thin stream of bile. I spat on the mulch to clear my mouth. My eyes were still rattling in my skull, but I saw my SIG lying a few feet away and trained response made me reach for it.

  Struggling to my feet, I limped through the bushes, making my way round the building in hope of a sign that Marianne had got out of there alive. As I went I wiped the SIG clean on my sweater sleeve.

  Jorgenson’s house was devastated. The entire upper floor had collapsed; the roof was a burst open wreck pushing splintered joists skyward. Flames and smoke broiled against the sky. The condominium I’d leased next door wasn’t in much better shape with the whole of the front of the building spilling out towards the parking area. The buggy I’d rented to get me here from the ferry landing was flattened beneath fallen masonry.

  Two cash deposits I wouldn’t be getting back.

  There was rubble heaped everywhere. Thankfully there weren’t any chunks of burnt flesh or bones poking from the mounds. Which didn’t negate the possibility that Marianne was buried beneath the wreckage of the house.

  Movement nearby caught my eye. A shadow moving away from me. Wearing a dark suit, neither Jorgenson nor Marianne. The killer, I thought, making his escape. I lifted the SIG, drawing a bead on him. But then I let the barrel droop. The figure had longish fair hair, whereas the killer’s had been jet black. For all I knew this was an innocent passer-by caught up in the fury of the explosion.

  Moving back to the side of the building, batting cinders from my hair, I sought the couple’s exit route. The building was still standing here, even if the upper portion now boasted a view to the sky and crenellations that hadn’t been there previously. At ground level I saw an open door, steps leading upwards. A service stairway down to the dumpsters stacked against the wall.

  The sound of an engine caught my attention.

  Spinning on my heels, I ran towards the boundary wall, hooked my elbows over the top and pulled myself up. As I cleared the top of the wall I looked down to where the promontory pushed out into Biscayne Bay.

  No sign of Marianne, but Jorgenson was standing in the cabin of his boat. His face was smudged with dirt, but he looked like he’d escaped the explosion without serious injury. I could only hope that Marianne had fared equally well. I shouted to Jorgenson. My voice was lost amidst the crackling flames, the creaking of collapsing masonry, the thrum of the boat’s engine. But Jorgenson looked my way.

  Our eyes met.

  Jorgenson snarled in my direction. Then the boat was swinging away from the dock, heading for open water. I felt more than a little inadequate. Especially when I caught a flash of pale blue sweater, and realised that I’d failed to get Marianne away from her abuser.

  In my pocket my mobile phone vibrated.

  Pulling it out, I looked down at the screen. Despite myself, I smiled.

  YOU STILL ALIVE?

  Pressing buttons, I returned the call.

  ‘Hi, Rink. Where are you now?’

  ‘Watching some kinda fireball from out on Biscayne Bay,’ Rink said. ‘Don’t tell me that was your doing.’

  ‘Not responsible,’ I reassured him.

  ‘But as usual you’re smack bang in the middle of it.’

  ‘Who, me?’

  Rink laughed. ‘Glad you’re OK, Hunter. Did you get Marianne away?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘Something else went down here, Rink. But at least the girl is safe. We can pick her up later.’ Then I told him about the killer, and what he’d done.

  ‘Sounds like one desperate son of a bitch,’ Rink offered. ‘Any idea who he was? Why he was there?’

  ‘I overheard a little. Sounded like a real sadist: he wanted Jorgenson to pick which of them died first.’

  ‘Ah, just your typical whacked-out freak with his own agenda, huh?’

  ‘He came across like a psycho killer, Rink. But there was more to it. He was a professional. He wasn’t there just to get his kicks. He’d been sent by someone who wants Jorgenson and Marianne dead.’

  ‘But they got away?’

  ‘Yeah. And when this asshole realises he missed them, he’ll be back.’

  And we’d be waiting.

  11

  The destruction of Jorgenson’s home was all over the news before I even woke up. I was greeted by the early-morning paper slapped down on my chest by my big buddy, Rink. It had the desired effect of rousing me from troubled dreams where I was engulfed in flames while a demon tittered at me from behind a wax mask. Sitting bolt upright on my impromptu bed, I found it was the couch in the front office at Rington Investigations. Took a few seconds of head shaking to recall the mad flight from Baker Island, dodging police and Coast Guard boats so that I wasn’t pulled in as the cause of the conflagration.

  Feeling the effects of the evening before in every muscle and bone, I stretched, yawned, then decided I had to get my butt in gear. I could give in to the discomfort, or I could work the kinks out of my aching limbs.

  When my eyes were able to focus, I scanned the newspaper. The press had given the explosion all the due of a planet-smashing meteor strike. Speculation was the order of the day. Rescue teams were sifting through the wreckage, but as yet no bodies had been discovered. That simple fact gave us a little breathing space. I threw the paper down and accepted the coffee that Rink held towards me.

  The coffee was strong, the rich aroma invading my nigh-empty skull. It was the kick I needed. My injuries were superficial, grazes and scratches, the occasional bruise, but thankfully my bones were intact. The bullet graze on my shoulder hurt like a bitch, but it was more burn than open wound. The gash in my scalp had required stitches, and my last memory from the early hours of this morning was Rink coming at me with a tube of super glue, a needle and some cat gut. Probing the wound, I decided Rink was no Florence Nightingale, but he’d pass first level at sewing school.

  I’d suffered a ride on an explosion, and a crashing fall through a window, but Rink didn’t look to be in much better shape than me. He had dark smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes like he’d been peeping through keyholes all night. Can’t have got much sleep, I surmised.

  Sometimes Rink seems to read my m
ind. He nodded me through into his office. His glowing computer monitor cast a cold light on the walls of the otherwise darkened room; it made me feel the chill of the air-conditioning unit. I cupped my mug of coffee in my hands, savouring the steam on my face.

  ‘Been surfing all night, trying to get a handle on who this killer for hire is.’ He sat down wearily, his shoulders sinking.

  ‘You look like you could do with some of this.’ I held my mug up to him.

  ‘Had a gallon of the stuff already,’ he said. He tapped on the keyboard, brought up his email account. ‘Been speaking to some people in the know about these kinds of things.’

  ‘Find anything?’ I asked. I could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he hadn’t.

  ‘Diddlysquat on the shooter. But there’s a guy here says there’s been a bit of a power struggle going on in the Jorgenson empire. Since Valentin announced his illness, and his impending retirement from the business, people have been jostling for position. Bradley is in pole position for taking over the business, as well as the family fortune. Couple of second runners not too happy with the situation. They don’t think that the company is in safe hands with Brad. Apparently he hasn’t the head for business his pa and grandpa had.’

  ‘You think one of them would go as far as putting out a contract on Bradley? Bit extreme, isn’t it?’

  Of course, there maybe wasn’t anything extreme about it. Richard Dean had set me on Jorgenson’s heels because he was a little too liberal with the amount of contact he was laying on his daughter. Billions of dollars into the equation, I didn’t doubt it warranted half-a-dozen hit men sent his way.

  Rink said, ‘There is any number of members of the “make-Brad-dead” club. Seems he’s pissed off a lot of people. Mainly family.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The girl. Marianne Dean.’

  ‘What? The way he’s been treating her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rink said. ‘But not how you mean. According to some of his nearest and dearest, he should be shot of her. They don’t think she meets the high expectations demanded of one in their social circle. He treats her like a princess and they ain’t too happy about it.’

  ‘According to her father, Bradley treats her like shit. Beats her and practically keeps her a prisoner. You saw the police report, Rink.’

  ‘Saw she had a bashed-up face, but nowhere where it said Bradley was responsible.’

  ‘The witnesses denied it, too. But if you remember, the gossip was that Bradley beat her after some bad deal went down.’

  ‘Someone beat her, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What’re you saying, Rink? That it could’ve been another one of these disgruntled family members? They beat Marianne so they would get their way with Bradley. Maybe to force him into their line of thinking?’

  ‘Could have been,’ he said, dismissive. It wasn’t like him. He closed down his emails, not meeting my eyes. There was something wrong with him, that was for sure.

  ‘You should get some sleep, Rink.’

  ‘No time for sleep,’ he said, sounding a little like his old self.

  ‘Nothing we can do for now. We don’t even know where Jorgenson and Marianne are, let alone the killer.’ Getting up and leading the way out of the office, I hoped that Rink would follow me. He didn’t.

  ‘Rink?’

  He lowered his face. What is it about men that they don’t want to show any weakness? He was my best friend, for Christ’s sake. His pain was my pain. I moved back towards him.

  ‘What is it, Rink?’

  He coughed. Another male thing. His big fingers, capable of throttling a bullock, trembled over the keyboard. Rink was afraid of something. But I doubted that it had anything to do with hired killers or the dysfunctional state of the Jorgenson family. I’d been there when Rink was going into battle. Like the rest of our Special Forces unit, he’d practised the art of compartmentalisation – as had I – and could shove that fear somewhere where it didn’t inhibit his ability to function. Like the rest of us he could use that fear to galvanise him. Make him a more efficient soldier. Rink’s reticence now, the trembling in his hands, stopped me in my tracks surer than all the bullets ever fired my way.

  ‘I should go to San Francisco, buddy,’ Rink said.

  Rink’s parents currently lived in San Francisco. The wheels of trepidation began to churn in my gut.

  ‘Tell me, Rink. What’s happened?’

  ‘My mother.’ His eyes closed slowly and it was all the explanation I required.

  ‘She hasn’t …’

  ‘Died? No, not yet. But she is very ill.’ Rink started shutting down the open windows on the computer. ‘She’s had a heart attack. I should go to her.’

  Immediately I said, ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Rink shook his head, looked at me with sparkling eyes. ‘We have a job to do here, Hunter. There’s a girl out there who needs us. There’s a chance we can still save her.’ There was a long pause, filled only by Rink’s harsh breathing. ‘It’s maybe too late to save my mom.’

  12

  Dantalion was on his way to Neptune Island further up the coast. It wasn’t really an island, but a long finger of land separated from the mainland by a marshy inlet surrounding the Inter-Coastal Waterway. At the northern end, a causeway gave access to the island, the causeway constructed so that it was a permanent route and not governed by the tides. At the southernmost tip the coastal highway crossed the inlet on a suspended bridge that attracted weekend naturalists and bird watchers who parked on the bridge to view the wildlife on the estuary below.

  It wasn’t a densely populated region of Florida.

  In fact, one family practically owned sole rights to call Neptune its own.

  For three generations the Jorgenson estate had claimed much of the land that straddled Neptune’s Atlantic shoreline. Since the late 1950s the family had purchased, acquired or built twelve family houses on the land. Each house was distinct in itself, but all were enclosed within a single walled estate that stretched almost three miles down the coast. At intersections every four hundred yards, access was gained by gates that were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. CCTV cameras were mounted on tall poles between each gate, so there was nowhere along the three-mile stretch where an intruder could gain entry without a swift visit from the armed security who patrolled the grounds.

  On the coast side, men in boats patrolled night and day, and enforced an exclusion zone of almost a quarter of a mile off shore.

  Some would think that the security measures were extreme. But the Jorgensons were implicitly tied to the military, and their secrets were protected almost as though they were a principality that the US military depended upon for its survival.

  Dantalion had no worries about getting in. He was too good at his job to doubt himself.

  Last night hadn’t gone to plan, but he wouldn’t let that dent his self-belief. At the end of the day, he’d successfully completed his mission. Killed the targets and then some. It was just a pity he hadn’t been able to look into Bradley Jorgenson’s face at the end. He always liked to watch the final grains of life sift away like sand in an hour glass.

  He would have preferred to see the gunman dead, too. His unwelcome arrival had spoiled his plans for torturing Jorgenson. He’d been looking forward to killing the girl in front of him, then putting a bullet into each of Jorgenson’s limbs. Lastly he’d have gut-shot him, made him squirm in his own spilled innards while Dantalion revealed who it was that wanted him dead. It would have been beautiful.

  He was driving a truck. Blacked-out windows helped keep the sun off his exposed limbs, but there was another motive. CCTV observation would be kept to the minimum. The truck would be spotted, yes, but not the driver. He could drive by; scout the perimeter without alerting anyone to his identity. Unconcerned, they wouldn’t be ready for the visit he’d pay them this evening.

  Before arriving at the Jorgenson estate, he pulled into a layover, parking the truck beneath a copse of trees. A
fforded shade, he lowered the window and peered across the marshlands that stretched towards the Atlantic. A flight of birds streaked through the pale blue sky, heading south, as if they had a premonition of what was to come.

  On the passenger seat next to him, Dantalion laid his book of lists. He was tempted to look at it. Go over the numbers in his head, try to match them to the people he had killed over the twenty-two years he’d been engaged in the murder trade. The first few numbers were easy to recall. First, his abusive uncle. Second, his school friend Tyler. After that things grew a little foggy. The faces tended to meld and swirl in his mind. A week ago he’d murdered Caitlin Moore, her husband and child. That one stuck in his mind. He regretted having to kill the little girl, but she’d woken from the mild dose of sodium amatol he’d injected into her. Couldn’t leave a witness who could describe his appearance, could he? Shame really; after he’d promised Caitlin that her daughter would be safe.

  Then there were those he’d killed on yesterday’s mission.

  The boat owner was collateral damage, but he was still given a number. Two bodyguards, a maid, Valentin and Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean. Last, but not least, the assassin sent to kill him after the job was done. Dantalion touched his thigh where the gunman’s bullet had nicked him. The guy had been good, but not as good as he was.

  He would show his client the folly of sending someone second-rate after a master killer.

  From his deep pockets he pulled out his BlackBerry. Bringing up the internet, he deftly keyed in numbers that would put him in touch with an associate of his. In coded message Dantalion enquired as to successful completion of payment for his services. Was not happy when informed that the client had reneged on the arrangement. Positive confirmation of death had not been announced.