Judgement and Wrath

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Hold tight,’ I told her.

  Then I stomped the brake.

  The Lincoln was the much heavier vehicle, but I was counting on the killer’s reaction to do more damage than the Porsche could. True to my expectation, he swerved. The front fender clipped the back of the Porsche, lifting us from the road for the space of a very long two seconds or more. I felt weightless, and a tiny portion of my mind expected the car to flip over and disintegrate in a billion pieces. Then the rear tyres found traction again, and I pushed the Porsche forwards, gaining distance on the killer, who had to struggle to control the Lincoln.

  The daring manoeuvre bought us only a few seconds’ respite from the bullets. But it had slowed the pursuit somewhat. We were now only averaging 140 mph.

  The bridge swept upwards, then curved to the right. There was no meridian on the bridge, only collapsible plastic markers. A U-Haul truck went by on the other side. The driver swerved in dismay. Distractedly I wondered what he’d think of the Lincoln behind, with the gun poking past the door frame and raining 9 mm Parabellum ammo at me.

  On my right, all that protected us from launching into the sea was a waist-high barrier. Every so often along the way, I saw evidence of where other cars had clipped the barrier, gouging paint but causing little other damage. I doubted they were doing more than twice the average speed when they’d collided, though. I swung the Porsche to the left, straddling the central markers of the two southbound lanes.

  Behind us, I saw the Lincoln roaring towards our back end. When I braked, the killer had been forced to control his vehicle. Now he had decided that it was our turn. He rammed the Lincoln into the rear end of the Porsche, jamming us forwards. He rammed us again. I could feel some of the traction go from beneath me. I dropped a gear, pressed the throttle, surged ahead, taking control again. In response the gun came out of the window once more and another bullet went through the Porsche. The windscreen had had enough. It exploded, some of the glass collapsing inside so that I got a lap full of tiny, grainy squares. I closed my eyes to avoid the splinters and glass particles I felt on my skin.

  It was little more than an exaggerated blink. But when I opened my eyes once more, the Lincoln was surging up alongside the Porsche on my left. It was scattering the plastic markers up the meridian as though they were ten pins, flattening them or throwing them into the air. I swung the Porsche at the Lincoln, but all that achieved was to lock us together momentarily. There was a squeal of buckling metal.

  I got my first look at the man behind the wheel. I’d been correct about the pale smear on his chin. The guy had the face of a ghost. Or some other more evil, ethereal creature. His thin blond hair knitted a pattern over his features from the wind driving in through the open window, and I only caught a snatch of his eyes. Pale blue slits. But it was enough to see that he was as psychopathic as every other nutcase who killed for fun.

  He nodded at me, as if in recognition.

  Here, I thought, do you recognise this?

  I lifted my SIG Sauer left-handed and fired at him, unloading half the clip as fast as I could pull the trigger. The noise inside the Porsche was deafening. I didn’t hear my rounds smack his car, but I saw his windscreen implode. Sparks and particles of metal flew off the bonnet. Something burst in the engine and there was a gout of steam. No blood, unfortunately.

  The Lincoln dipped on its suspension. He was braking. Then he was behind me and I couldn’t see to shoot any more. A quick glance at the odometer showed me I’d decelerated almost forty miles an hour. But we were still travelling at over one hundred. It was insane. Something else – our collision had taken us back towards the barrier on my right. The wing mirror was snatched off and went tinkling into the darkness behind us. I jinked left, to get away from the metal barrier.

  Now the Lincoln was nosing up to my bumper. He nudged the Porsche. We slewed. Almost had me with the PIT manoeuvre police patrol vehicles occasionally employ to stop fugitive vehicles. Unfortunately for him – very fortunately for us – his vehicle hadn’t been in the optimum position to spin us out. But it did make the Porsche’s back end swerve towards the central median, blasting more of the plastic markers out of commission, the front end juddering for traction on the concrete.

  Marianne wasn’t the only one yelling. I probably had the edge on anger, though. I grappled with the steering, righting the Porsche, but the Lincoln was now alongside me, and this time the killer was directly in line with me. In his left hand I saw a Beretta 90-two. In the split second it took to register the make and model of the gun I also calculated my chances of avoiding the bullet aimed at my skull. Zero or nil. Take your pick.

  He mouthed something at me, but I didn’t catch it.

  In one of those slow-motion moments of ultra-clarity, I saw his index finger caress the trigger. In reflex I started to duck. But, even in slow motion, the bullet wouldn’t register.

  26

  He’d lost count of the times he’d been back and forth over and under this selfsame bridge in the last day, but Dantalion had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last. Even after he finished Hunter and his unseen passenger, he was going to have to go back after the second vehicle that had headed off up the coastline towards Jupiter Island.

  He’d recognised the dupe immediately the sedan had turned right, while Hunter had headed left. They were attempting to split his targets with the hope that he’d be frustrated and give up the chase. He wasn’t the kind of man to back down, so they’d assume he’d continue hunting Jorgenson and Dean, but not until he rallied and got his act together. Likely they thought that would give them the opportunity to prepare for his next assault. They couldn’t have expected that he’d chase one of them with unabated determination.

  If Seagram had been telling the truth earlier, Hunter would be Marianne Dean’s chaperone, so it was probable that the woman was in the Porsche with him. She was most likely hunkered down in the footwell so she made a smaller target. He didn’t mind killing Marianne first. That had always been the plan, what he’d almost forced Jorgenson into agreeing to yesterday on Baker Island. And he definitely didn’t mind killing Hunter.

  It had been an exhilarating chase up until now. But it was time to end it. Dantalion saw his opportunity. Hunter was a damn good defensive driver to have controlled the Porsche after he’d rammed it into a sidelong skid, but in doing so he’d lost some of his forward volition. Plus he must have dropped the gun. Dantalion swerved round the Porsche and came parallel with the driver’s door, smiling as his theory was proven.

  Both Hunter’s hands were back on the wheel, the gun out of sight. Dantalion lifted the Beretta. Aimed it directly at Hunter’s face as it swung to look at him. The man didn’t look alarmed, he just had a grim set to his jaw.

  ‘Hello, Hunter,’ Dantalion said. ‘And goodbye!’

  Hunter made a token attempt at saving himself, but a bullet would always be faster than human reaction.

  He pulled the trigger.

  And heard only an empty click.

  ‘Shit!’

  He was a man governed by numbers, yet he had to have miscounted. He was positive that there had been one last bullet in the gun. Seventeen rounds. But then he remembered. When he’d reloaded, shoved in the fresh magazine, he hadn’t racked one into the firing chamber as he had when first loading the gun. He hadn’t miscounted. He’d made an error of gun craft.

  A bigger error would be to dwell on the fact. He quickly traded the Beretta for the Glock 19. It was a matter of no more than two seconds, but as he tracked his vision on Hunter the man was no longer in sight. Neither was the Porsche!

  Hunter had braked, and the Lincoln had sailed on by.

  Worse than that, Hunter was now behind him lifting his own gun. Through the gaping hole in the windshield Hunter fired. The flash of the gun was like a strobe light. Bullets zinged through the Lincoln. Three missed, lifting padding from the headrest on the passenger seat. One of them scored a hot line along the flesh of his jaw just below his left ear.

/>   It was like someone had hit him with a hammer and his mind flashed with scarlet agony. The pain was excruciating, sense-numbing. Darkness descended for the briefest of moments, and his hands slipped from the steering wheel.

  And that was all it took.

  In the next instant his mind was full of flashes and bangs, and he was rocked sideways, jerked upright, then slammed back in his seat. The volume of noise was horrendous and seemed to go on and on and on. Around him the Lincoln shuddered like a dying behemoth. Finally, he blinked, and silence surrounded him.

  Stunned, he was only vaguely aware that the Porsche was now passing him, then in front of him, moving away at speed over the arch of the bridge and out of sight.

  He was sitting in the driver’s seat and both his hands were in his lap. He’d lost his grip on the Glock, and it was now somewhere out of view in the footwell. The partly inflated airbag that had erupted from the steering column didn’t help. He wasn’t concerned about the Glock. He could soon pick it up again. As with the Beretta. First he had to check that he was uninjured. Both arms were all right. His hands responded to the messages sent from his brain, fluttering up his midriff to find the comforting bulge made by his book beneath his sweater. His toes wiggled at command. His legs ached, primarily the one that was already injured, but he detected no broken bones. His jaw hurt more than anything. Tremulously, he lifted his fingers to check the wound. Part of his mind expected a gaping wound through which would project shattered teeth, but his fingers found only a groove in the meat itself. It oozed blood, but it wasn’t going to kill him.

  He looked out of the open window.

  He had lost control and the Lincoln had collided with the barrier at the edge of the bridge. The metal barrier was mangled into a twisted heap. But it had done its job. It had stopped the Lincoln from sailing out unchecked into the Inter-Coastal Waterway. The front of the Lincoln hung a precarious two feet over space, only one loose portion of the barrier holding the sedan in place.

  He laughed. There was a slight manic edge to the sound: realisation at how close the car had come to going right through the barrier and into the sea a long way below him.

  But that was when he heard the roar of an approaching engine.

  Swinging round to stare at the vehicle barrelling towards him, he had only a second or so to register the face of the driver. It was enough.

  Rink, Seagram had called him.

  Black hair, hooded eyes, livid scar across his chin.

  Rink made no attempt at shooting him. Neither did he stop the car. He kept on coming and rammed the car into the side of the Lincoln.

  Dantalion was rocked and slammed yet again. There was the rending of metal all around him. The front wheels went through the barrier and the car abruptly dipped forwards. Rink continued to force his vehicle against the Lincoln. Then the world tilted as the back wheels of the Lincoln were forced over the demolished barrier.

  He barely registered what had happened.

  All he saw was the solid black wall that reared into his field of vision. It approached him at speed and it was only when it was a few yards away that Dantalion made out sparkling highlights on the wall. A second after that he recognised the highlights for undulating waves casting back the reflections of his own headlights as the Lincoln hurtled down towards the sea.

  27

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Rink sighed. ‘There goes my no claims discount.’

  We were in a beauty spot, but he wasn’t interested. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying what remained of his Porsche.

  We’d stopped at a parking lot on the northern side of the Jupiter Inlet, near to a terracotta tower over one hundred feet tall that served as a lighthouse to steer boats into Loxahatchee River. The beacon itself stood on a mound almost fifty feet tall, so it was a definite landmark that I’d been able to pick out. Rink arrived minutes after Marianne and me.

  While Rink bemoaned the death of his pride and joy, we stood shoulder to shoulder. On the shoreline, we looked south, watching traffic zoom by on the Federal Bridge, and even more traffic on the A1a highway bridge beyond that. Across the water I noticed yet another marina, and found myself thinking that you couldn’t live in Florida without owning a boat. I saw my first mangroves, but in the darkness they just looked like a bundle of twisted branches dumped on the water. Which, I supposed, was exactly what they were.

  The lot was next to a visitor centre that served the lighthouse. Through the day the place would be a jumble of vehicles and bustling tourists snapping photographs. At this hour we were the only ones there. I’d parked the Porsche beneath a stand of palm trees so that it was hidden from the nearby road. Rink had parked adjacent to us. The big grey Ford Crown Victoria he had brought wasn’t as bashed up as the Porsche, and hadn’t been the target of numerous bullets. Nevertheless it did have a crumpled fender and one of the headlights was smashed. Any cop snooping around would immediately associate the two cars with the high-speed gun battle at nearby Neptune Island.

  ‘What happens now?’ Marianne asked.

  ‘We take you somewhere safe.’

  ‘But that madman is dead, isn’t he? Didn’t your friend say he rammed him right off the bridge and into the sea?’

  ‘I did just that,’ Rink said, coming over to join us. ‘But he’s not the only danger we have to contend with.’

  ‘If he’s dead, can’t we just go to the police?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I told her. ‘We still don’t know who sent the hit man after you. Whoever did so could try to get at you again.’

  ‘All the more reason to tell the police what’s going on. Why do we have to keep running away? It’s him who should be punished, not me and Bradley.’

  ‘You’re right. But we’re not ready to get the police involved yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked.

  ‘They’d take you from us,’ Rink explained. ‘And we don’t want that to happen. We’re committed to protecting you and we can’t do that if you’re kept away from us.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. Then she looked directly at me. ‘Yesterday on Baker Island, you said you were there to help me, Joe. But I don’t understand how you could have known that I was in danger. You aren’t doing this for nothing. Someone is paying you. Who sent you?’ Then she closed her eyes, shook her head. ‘No. Don’t answer. I know who it must be.’

  So I didn’t answer.

  Marianne said. ‘How could my father have known this was going to happen? No, wait … he couldn’t have. He sent you to take me away from Bradley. I can’t believe that he just won’t let things go.’

  Rink said, ‘Doesn’t matter who sent us. Or why. Truth is we’re here, and that should give you peace of mind. We ain’t going to leave you until we’re sure this damn thing is over with.’ He turned and scanned his Porsche again. His lips turned down. I looked at him. That was quite a mouthful from my usually imperturbable friend, and I guessed he was saying it for my benefit as much as Marianne’s.

  ‘Sorry about your wheels, Rink.’

  He shrugged. ‘S’OK. I was about due to trade it in anyway. C’mon, better get moving, folks.’

  We weren’t talking cars. Not as such. I was expressing my regret at keeping him away from his mum’s sick bed. He was telling me that material objects didn’t mean much to him. Ergo, his mind was fully on his mum and nothing would change that. Except getting this job done.

  ‘Better take the Crown Vic,’ Rink said. ‘Porsche is done, you ask me.’

  ‘We leaving the car as it is?’ I asked. The Porsche was full of trace evidence, fingerprints, fibres, spent rounds, and would be tied to us even faster when a CSI team got to it.

  Rink took out a petrol lighter and flicked back the lid. He turned the wheel and orange flame sprouted.

  ‘Like I said, I was about to trade it in anyway.’

  We drove away in the Crown Vic, the guttering inferno that once was a Porsche lighting up the parking lot. The flames were reflected on the hundred-foot lighthouse
and bounced back off the lens at the top like a ghost-light.

  Rink was in the driving seat. Both Marianne and I took up position in the back. She sat in a far corner, her legs pulled up and her feet tucked under. She hugged both arms round her knees. For safety’s sake I’d made her put the Kevlar vest back on. It swamped her, the collar riding up almost to her ears, so that only the upper portion of her face from the tip of her nose was visible. Cute in its own way. Desperately sad in another. She was lost in her own thoughts, so I concentrated on what we were going to do next.

  Rink had called our mutual friend Harvey Lucas. It was time to find out what he’d come up with. I had his number stored in my mobile phone and hit the hot key. Harvey picked up in seconds, his mellifluous tones rich in my ear. I put the call on to speaker so that Rink could catch what was said.

  ‘You guys are up to your necks in it as usual,’ Harvey said.

  ‘Tell us about it,’ I said. From the front seat Rink grunted agreement. He was navigating an interchange and taking us up and over the A1a highway bridge towards West Indiantown Road, crossing the broad Loxahatchee River inlet.

  ‘Don’t have much on your shooter,’ Harvey said without preamble. ‘Seems he’s a bit of a ghost.’

  ‘He is now,’ Rink said.

  ‘You got him?’

  ‘Pushed him into the sea from a great height,’ I said. The eternal sceptic in me wouldn’t accept he was dead until I saw him laid out all white and bloated on a coroner’s slab.

  ‘So the heat’s off?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘Not yet. Don’t know how many other players we have,’ I said. ‘What’ve you found out about who hired him?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I have done a bit of digging around regarding the Jorgenson business.’

  I glanced across at Marianne but she was lost inside her own head. She didn’t even look my way, and didn’t appear to be listening to the conversation. Thinking of other things: Bradley, for sure.