Judgement and Wrath

by Matt Hilton

‘You could say that,’ Dantalion grunted.

  ‘You thought I’d reneged on the deal?’ Petre steepled his hands against his lips. ‘I can see how you might have come to that conclusion. But it wasn’t the case, I was merely awaiting confirmation.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dantalion said. ‘Confirmation that I was dead.’

  The skin on Petre’s brow creased. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘My words when we spoke at Bayside Park.’

  Petre sat back in the chair. He shook his head, a smile on his tanned face. ‘I took them as the words of someone bolstering his negotiating position, not as a direct threat. I hear similar comments day in and day out at all levels of my business.’

  ‘It’s one thing receiving veiled threats from ordinary business associates,’ Dantalion pointed out. ‘Quite different when dealing with a professional killer, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Petre put up a hand, as though waving away Dantalion’s words. ‘Nevertheless, I did not take them seriously. Your credentials are superb; I had no doubt that you would deliver. I never perceived you as a threat to me.’

  ‘So why send a man to kill me?’

  Petre rested his hands in his lap. At ease. Nothing to hide. ‘I didn’t.’

  Dantalion glanced round the room, taking in the positions of the other armed men. They too had visibly relaxed. Their guns were still aimed at him, but only loosely.

  ‘How do you explain this man turning up, then? He was prepared for me, almost got me. Only I happened to be better than him.’

  ‘Mr Seagram. Please come in now,’ said Petre. Dantalion made a quarter turn, watching as the man with the brush-cut hair walked into the room. He skirted Dantalion so that he was standing next to Petre’s desk. Petre raised his palm, giving him the go-ahead. ‘Explain, Mr Seagram.’

  ‘The man’s name is Joe Hunter. He’s freelance.’

  ‘So you hired outside the network.’ Dantalion directed his comment at Petre, who lifted his shoulders in a ‘so what?’ gesture. Dantalion wasn’t in Petre Jorgenson’s network either, so this was no major surprise.

  Seagram said, ‘He wasn’t hired by us.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Dantalion said. ‘I saw you talking to this Hunter earlier. At the front gate.’

  Seagram made an apologetic nod towards Petre. ‘No offence, sir. My allegiance lies here, but officially I work for Bradley Jorgenson. I was with Bradley when Hunter and his partner turned up at the front gate. Unannounced, I may add.’

  ‘So it was Bradley who hired him?’ Despite his misgivings, Dantalion could see how that could work.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Then who?’

  ‘Like I said, Hunter is a freelance. Our best guess is that it was Marianne Dean’s father. Hunter’s there to protect Marianne.’

  ‘How would her father know I was coming?’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Petre put in. ‘Hunter turning up was a coincidence, that’s all. He has come here for reasons of his own.’

  Dantalion gently stroked the book beneath the material of his sweater.

  Seagram went on; ‘There is no love lost between Bradley and Hunter. However, Bradley’s doing what he is told. Hunter’s moved in and practically taken over the security arrangements in the house. Him and his partner, some asshole who goes by the name of Rink.’

  ‘Two of them. Is that all?’

  ‘I’m still in charge of security, whatever Hunter thinks,’ Seagram said, his face rigid. ‘I command all the others in Bradley’s house. I can ensure that there is just the two of them.’

  Dantalion looked away from the man. He was a disgrace, a turncoat with no honour. Check Gabe Wellborn into the same box. He returned his attention to his client. This was a man who desired his own cousin dead. He was no better than Gabe or Seagram. But for one important fact. He was the man with the money.

  Petre Jorgenson spoke now, ‘Thanks for your input, Mr Seagram. Best you get back to Bradley before you are missed.’

  After he was gone, Petre said, ‘So how does this play out, Dantalion? Now that you know we are not enemies.’

  ‘I’d be dead by now if you weren’t considering some new arrangement,’ Dantalion said. ‘Double the money. Half up front for services already rendered. The remainder when I kill Bradley, Marianne and Rink. I’ll kill Hunter for free.’

  Petre nodded. Satisfied in part. ‘How do we know that we won’t be in this self-same position after you are done with Bradley and the others?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be good for business if I went around killing my clients, would it?’ He gave a slow smile that would have curdled milk. ‘Now, I see Gabe has his laptop with him. He can patch into your system, transfer the money across to my account. Once that’s done, you can count me in. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Petre said.

  They didn’t shake hands. Petre recalled the scaly touch of Dantalion’s fingers.

  ‘Five hundred thousand, now, Gabe. Five hundred on completion,’ Petre ordered. Double again the price just requested. ‘Call it a token of my sincerity.’

  Gabe flipped open the laptop, and set to it with a speed that belied his bulk. Dantalion smiled inwardly. Not too bad a resolution when all was said and done.

  ‘That’s it!’ Gabe said with a final flourish. ‘The money has been transferred to your offshore account.’

  Pointing to the man who held his Beretta, Dantalion said, ‘I’ll need my gun.’

  The man looked across at his boss for assurance. Petre gestured assent, sitting back in his seat.

  ‘Relax,’ Dantalion told the guard as he accepted the Beretta into his hand. ‘We’re on the same side again.’

  Then he shot the guard point blank in the face.

  Hollywood glamourises gun battles. On screen there are bunches of men loosing bullets while remaining cool and objective throughout. Every bullet finds a mark in the bad guys, while the hero dodges and whirls and avoids injury. Dantalion didn’t mind that scenario. He was the hero. The only man of honour in this pit of filth. But he was also a realist.

  Gun battles are down and dirty. No getting away from it.

  He would accept the risk of debilitating injury – even death – to get the job done.

  One guard dead. Three with guns in their hands. Petre Jorgenson already reaching for his. Gabe just a fat useless lump in the corner.

  Dantalion fired again. Not at anyone. He shot out the light bulb above his head. There remained enough light-spill from the hall that he could still be seen, but that was OK. He slammed shut the door.

  The Cuban guard brought up his gun and fired. The bullet made a hole in the door that sent a shaft of light across the room. It was as good as a laser guide back to the man who’d fired the gun. Dantalion fired twice, both bullets striking the man’s body. Droplets of blood rained through the narrow beam of light.

  Bullets punched the wall next to Dantalion, but he was already moving, dodging and whirling and avoiding injury like the best that Hollywood could offer. Snapping the night-vision goggles over his face. Firing 9 mm ammunition at the guards. One he got in the head, the other in the chest. Then, with no more than five seconds gone since he’d killed the first guard, he moved across the room towards his client.

  Petre Jorgenson fired.

  Dantalion felt the displacement of air by his left ear, realised how close the bullet had come to taking his head off. He shot back and his bullet didn’t miss. Petre slumped back into his seat, the Glock 19 falling across the desk and on to the floor at Dantalion’s feet.

  Petre Jorgenson wasn’t dead. Not yet. Dantalion had deliberately shot him in the gut. The man would last, but his final minutes on earth would be in extreme torment. Petre screamed.

  So did Gabe Wellborn.

  He knew exactly what was coming.

  ‘You betrayed me, Gabe.’

  ‘No. I didn’t betray you. I got you the money, Dan. You would have blown everything if it wasn’t for me!’

  ‘You’re right, Gabe. I thank you for that. B
ut don’t call me Dan.’

  He shot Gabe between the eyes.

  Turning back to Petre Jorgenson, he levelled the gun on the man’s face. Petre couldn’t possibly see him in the dark, but he would know how close death hovered over him.

  ‘We made a deal,’ Petre croaked.

  ‘I made a deal to kill the original targets. You can rest assured that I will do that. I did not make a deal not to kill you.’

  ‘Bastard …’ Jorgenson hissed. ‘Not … good … business …’

  ‘To kill my client?’ Dantalion exhaled. ‘You’re right, Petre. Except I haven’t killed my client, have I? I made a choice. This was personal. I am the client.’

  He shot Petre Jorgenson in the heart.

  By now the suppressor was almost useless. The sound was very loud. An exclamation mark to this latest chapter recorded in Dantalion’s book.

  23

  Seagram came in the room yelling.

  We were in the downstairs library again. Me, Rink, Marianne and Bradley. I almost shot the security man as he burst in. I thought he’d lost it and had gambled his lot on a mad charge into the room. But then I saw the terror on his face and the blood on his hands.

  Some professional, I thought scornfully. Ex-West Point? Made me wonder if Rink’s estimation of the man had been about right, except cooks aren’t normally upset by the sight of blood.

  Marianne had been against the idea of splitting up from Bradley, but the combined effort of the three of us had convinced her that it was in her best interests. Probably more persuasive was my argument that Bradley would be safer without the added worry that she could come to harm or – worse still – be used against him. She was just gathering up the last few possessions she couldn’t do without when Seagram burst in.

  ‘What the hell?’ Rink intercepted the older man, barring his way with one hand. Seagram twisted, tried to get by and Rink grabbed him round the neck, spinning him into the crook of his elbow and giving his throat a squeeze. The pressure of Rink’s corded muscles could easily have throttled the security man within seconds, but that wasn’t the intent. Rink only held him, hissing into his ear, ‘Calm down, Seagram. You’re good to nobody like this.’

  The blood on his hands wasn’t his own. Neither were the smears on his trouser legs. But to look at him, you’d think Seagram was mortally wounded. His face was pale and his lips had a faint blue tinge to them. He was shivering uncontrollably. Shock, I decided.

  Rink manoeuvred Seagram to a chair, pressed him down into it. ‘Now, tell us what’s going on.’

  Hands twisted together, shivering wildly, Seagram looked past Rink. Bradley had moved to cover Marianne, but when he realised there was no immediate danger, he crept closer to Seagram. He also asked, ‘What’s going on, Seagram?’

  Seagram moaned.

  In the end, Rink lost patience. ‘Call yourself a fucking soldier? Suck it up, man. You’re a goddamn disgrace.’

  The older man’s reaction was to slump, his head going into his hands. His knees shuddered with the fear coursing through his frame, making the chair creak with each movement. Sounded ear-piercing. Enough to make my mouth flood with saliva.

  Rink grabbed at him again, forcing the man’s head up by gripping the longer hair at the front of his brush cut. ‘Goddamn it! Do I have to beat the freakin’ words outa you?’

  Finally Seagram appeared to take stock of where he was. Colour swept through his features like a morning tide racing to shore. He reached up, batting at Rink’s hand. ‘Get off me, for Christ’s sake!’

  Rink released him, took a step back. He held his hand ready to smack Seagram should the necessity arise.

  Seagram rocked back in the chair. He turned his hands palms out like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. To Bradley he said, ‘This is Petre’s blood.’

  Petre Jorgenson. Recalling Marianne’s earlier words, I knew that Petre was the name of Bradley’s eldest cousin. One of those she couldn’t believe would have anything to do with harming Bradley or her. Maybe she’d been right.

  ‘Is he hurt?’ Bradley asked.

  Judging by the amount of blood on Seagram, the way he was reacting, the question was pretty redundant. But to be fair, the same words had been on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I changed the emphasis, ‘Is he dead?’

  Seagram’s face twisted into a leering gargoyle’s. He stared at the floor as if the answer to some great riddle could be found within the weave of the carpet. When he looked up, he had a touch of mania in his eyes. ‘They’re all dead. Every last one of them. Murdered by the same man who’s after you!’

  Behind me I heard Marianne moan. Bradley, too. Rink and I took out our guns.

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ I demanded.

  Seagram shook his head. It wasn’t in denial; he was trying to regiment the words in his head. That, or come up with a plausible lie. I’ve dealt with too many self-serving assholes in my lifetime not to recognise another when I saw him. I guessed the story he was about to unfold would be only partly true. As long he was honest about the important details, I didn’t mind. We could deal with the lies at another time.

  ‘Don’t be mad at me, Bradley,’ he began. ‘I only went to speak with Petre out of concern for you. You haven’t been getting on that well lately but …’ His eyes flickered once to Marianne, then back to Bradley. ‘But I thought that he could help. He has his own security team, and if we pooled our resources—’

  ‘There’d be an even bigger bunch of amateurs running around the place with guns,’ Rink offered.

  Seagram’s face darkened. But he ignored the insult. ‘When I got there I could hear talking upstairs. I couldn’t see any of his staff around, so I made my way up to where Petre has his office. Suddenly there were guns going off. The door slammed. There was more shooting. Then silence. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t immediately go into the room to help, but my first loyalty was to you. I thought about running back to raise the alarm then and there.’

  ‘Very noble,’ Rink said. I could see he was buying Seagram’s tale about as much as I was. The only part that rang true was that he didn’t try to help.

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’ Seagram asked. ‘I had no idea who was in the room. No idea of the numbers or the fire power. I waited. Hid myself. That’s when I saw a man come out and run down the stairs. I was going to follow him, stop him, but I realised that Petre maybe needed help.’

  ‘Petre was dead?’ Bradley asked.

  Seagram looked at his hands.

  ‘I tried to save him. But it was no good. The man had shot him twice. He was gone.’

  ‘Who else? I asked.

  Seagram looked at me as though I was a stranger.

  ‘Tell me,’ I ordered. ‘Who else was dead? Numbers specifically.’

  ‘Petre. Some computer geek I’d never seen before. Four of Petre’s guards.’ He made as if to wipe his hands over his mouth, but then realised they were covered in blood, and scrubbed them down the front of his trousers. ‘There were others, too. The security staff downstairs were dead. At least another four.’

  ‘So a man kills ten people single-handedly?’ My question was pure rhetoric; I was weighing up the ability of the man, not questioning the figures.

  ‘Perhaps more,’ Seagram said. ‘But that’s how many I saw.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Just a handgun, I think.’

  ‘You saw it? Describe it.’

  ‘I didn’t get a good look.’

  ‘Useless,’ Rink said.

  ‘What did he look like?’ I asked. ‘Tell me about him.’

  Seagram chewed his lips. It was like he wanted to tell but also to hold something in reserve for later. Like it was his ‘get out of jail free’ card.

  ‘White male. Mid thirties. Tall but thin. A hundred and fifty pounds at most. Dressed like a cat burglar.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. He had on night-vision goggles.’

  ‘And he managed to shoot dead five men in that
one room?’

  ‘In the space of seconds,’ Seagram confirmed.

  Damn good shooting, I had to give him that.

  ‘We have to leave,’ I announced. Marianne didn’t appear so reluctant now. She took a couple of steps towards me, and I nodded her on. Took her hand in mine. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let him harm you. I won’t let anyone harm you.’

  She flicked a glance at Bradley, her lips pinching. They clung together.

  ‘How long since you saw the killer?’ Rink asked Seagram.

  ‘Ten … fifteen minutes, I can’t be sure.’

  ‘How far away is Petre’s house?’

  ‘Two down. Maybe a little over a half-mile.’

  ‘So he could already be here.’

  ‘I was inside the house a few minutes after he left. But I drove, he was on foot.’

  Rink shot me a glance. We’d both caught something very obvious in Seagram’s words. But we let it go.

  ‘Seagram,’ I said. ‘Among your supplies, do you have any Kevlar vests?’

  He thought a moment. ‘Yes. I think we do.’

  ‘Go get them.’

  ‘There’s one at least.’

  ‘Then go get it.’

  ‘I should be here with Mr Jorgenson,’ he said. ‘To protect him.’

  ‘Punk!’ Rink called him. ‘Tell me where the fucking thing is and I’ll get it.’

  ‘No,’ Seagram made an attempt at regaining face. His eyelids were flickering wildly, so his words didn’t do the trick. ‘I’ll get it. You make sure Bradley is safe.’

  ‘Just get the vest, then get back here,’ I snapped. ‘Round up any of your men that aren’t already dead.’

  Seagram got up from his chair looking unsteady on his feet. He moved towards the door, faltered, grappled with his shoulder holster to pull out a gun. A Colt Mark III .38 special. Double action revolver. The famous law enforcement gun. It looked large and cumbersome in Seagram’s shaking hand.

  He ducked out the door, disappearing along the corridor to our left. I turned to Bradley. ‘After this is done, you should take a serious look at the calibre of staff you employ.’

  Bradley frowned. But he wasn’t thinking about the ineptitude of Seagram. He’d lost his father. Now a cousin had died. The Jorgenson family was dwindling fast, and he was wondering if he was going to be next.