by Matt Hilton
I was here on the knight errant's quest to save a damsel in distress. I wouldn't be much good to her if I ended up dead.
Swinging round into a sitting position, I levelled my SIG on the killer.
He must have had an equally important reason to live, because he fired back. Burning cold creased my right shoulder. It wasn't a debilitating hit, in fact the bullet had barely grazed me. It was enough to draw my aim though, and my return fire went over his head and struck the door frame as he vaulted back into the landing. The clatter of his feet down the stairs resounded through the house.
Pretty certain he wasn't going to return in the next second or two, I searched for Marianne. She was unhurt, but still in a state of near collapse. Jorgenson was in a duck's crouch of his own, ass almost touching his heels.
'You OK?' I asked the two of them.
Receiving nods from both, I rolled over on my front, swinging to cover the door. 'Jorgenson,' I said. 'Get over here.'
Jorgenson blinked at me, half rose, then sunk down again. Not sure why, but not wanting to approach me either.
I snapped, 'If you want to get out of here alive, you're gonna have to do what I say. Now get the fuck over here!'
I had started this job with the understanding that I might have to kill Bradley Jorgenson. It's funny how fate plays out sometimes. The arrival of this would-be killer had changed the dynamics of my mission. In my mind, Bradley had been someone to be loathed, someone to be put down with all the regret of shooting a rabid dog. And yet here I was, offering to be his protector.
'Are you armed?'
He shook his head.
'What about him?' I jerked my head towards a man folded over a desk.
Jorgenson's eyes teared up. He shook his head sadly.
'Make sure,' I ordered him. 'He could be carrying.'
'He isn't,' Jorgenson said. 'My father. He abhorred violence. He was a man who only wanted to stop pain.'
Noble, I thought, but misguided. Someone who makes their billions from military contracts can't play the moral card when challenged over their source of income. He could say what he wanted, but Daddy Jorgenson was as much to do with causing pain as curing it.
'Check,' I said.
I crept over to the door. Keeping low, I bobbed my head round the frame, then back inside again. I didn't see the killer, but he was likely still in the house. When I glanced in his direction, Jorgenson was gently patting around inside his father's jacket. He was looking at me, his eyes full of disgust.
'Nothing,' he spat, moving away quickly.
'Get Marianne,' I told him. 'Take her over there.'
Jorgenson helped Marianne up. She looked shaky, but unhurt. On rubber legs, she allowed Jorgenson to lead her past the dead man to the far end of the room. Her eyes swooped, like birds chasing insects at dusk, never still, never in one place.
'Do you know that man?' I demanded. I snuck a look round the door frame, noticing a play of shadows from below.
'No,' Jorgenson said. 'And I don't know you. Who the hell are you?'
It was Marianne who offered an explanation. 'He's Joe. He's here to help.'
'You've no idea why he wants you dead?' I asked.
No reply. When I looked, Jorgenson was holding Marianne to him, his hands cupping her head against his chest. Marianne was sobbing into his shirt. The picture of young love. It didn't look much like Marianne had ever suffered at his hands. Maybe she'd only traded one lesser terror for another.
There'd be time for resolving the Jorgenson problem later. Right now there was a far greater danger to Marianne's welfare. The killer was downstairs and he was up to no good.
'Is there another way out of here?' Studying the windows, I decided that we could smash one of them and climb out. It would be a fair drop to the ground but we were all capable of it. What I didn't like the idea of was the killer waiting for us, picking us off from below as we clambered from the window.
RINK HOW FAR AWAY
My text was hurried. Thankfully I received his reply in seconds, but it wasn't what I wanted to see.
FIFTEEN MINS
Not soon enough. The killer wasn't going to wait that long.
I heard a clatter and dull thump from below us.
'What's he doing?' Marianne asked.
I'd been thinking the same thing. Sounded like he was in the kitchen.
MEET US SOBE, I sent to Rink.
In her schoolgirl guise, Marianne might not have been much help in these circumstances. But as the sleek trophy Jorgenson had made of her, perhaps there was something she could bring into play.
'Marianne, you have perfume in here?'
Marianne stared at me as if I was mad. In all honesty she wasn't so far removed from the truth. 'Perfume?'
'Good stuff. Concentrated.'
She nodded, pulling free from Jorgenson's embrace. She took a wide berth round the dead man and went to a credenza where she pulled open a compartment and grabbed at bottles of scent. Judging by the brands and designs of the bottles, she handed me the makings of a bomb that would cost thousands of dollars.
Checking that the killer wasn't sneaking back along the landing, I snatched a look. The sounds from below reassured me he was still being industrious in the kitchen. For a second I considered leading Marianne and Jorgenson out of the bedroom, taking our chances on getting out while he was busy with whatever the hell he was doing. He'd hear us, though, and would pick us off as we came down the stairs.
When I turned back to the bedroom, Jorgenson had joined Marianne beside me.
'This better not be what I'm thinking,' Jorgenson said. His head shake was pure denial.
'We have to make a diversion; otherwise we aren't going to get out of here alive.' I began unscrewing tops off the perfume bottles. 'Find me something larger than these. That wine bottle over there will do.'
'But my father…' Jorgenson croaked.
'Your father is already dead,' I pointed out. 'But I'm pretty sure he'd want you to live. Now go and fetch me the fucking bottle.'
I stepped out on to the landing and peered over the railing. The killer immediately shot at me, and I ducked back. I unloaded five bullets directly through the floor. Not really an attempt to hit him — the wooden joists would probably sap much of the velocity of the rounds — but it was enough to force him back into the kitchen.
Two could play at the same game. The killer's bullets drilled upwards, lifting tatters of carpet in front of my eyes. I jumped back into the room. Good enough, I thought, I'd got his attention. Plus he was using the kitchen for cover.
'Empty the perfume into the wine bottle, and get me some sort of rag for a fuse,' I whispered to Marianne. She understood my train of thought and nodded. She turned to the bottles I'd set on the floor.
Jorgenson brought the wine bottle. He walked slowly, and his eyes never left the still form of his father. His father was a sick man, dying from cancer as I recalled, but I don't think that Jorgenson expected to be cremating him so soon.
'If there was any other way,' I said, by way of apology. His face was set in stone. There'd be no consoling him. It'd be pointless trying, so I turned away, concentrating on keeping the killer at bay.
Behind my back Jorgenson sobbed for his murdered father. It was enough to make him step over a precipice.
The stupid son of a bitch swung the bottle and smashed it over my skull.
9
The appearance of the mystery gunman was an unfortunate — and unforeseen — complication. Dantalion recognised the man who'd been dozing on the balcony next door, but couldn't at first understand his reasons for intervening. Dantalion didn't think the man was in the employ of Jorgenson. The targets had been as surprised by his appearance as Dantalion had been. Plus, however much cash you could throw around, you didn't hire a condominium adjacent to the one you're living in and set the guard up as sole occupant. This man had another reason for being here.
Recalling the meeting with his client back in Bayside Park, Dantalion thought of th
e subtle threat he'd levelled at the man. Bad idea in hindsight. Maybe his employer had set this man up to kill him after the hit had been completed on his targets. Insurance that Dantalion wouldn't come after he'd been paid for his services. Or that Dantalion didn't become a liability: someone who could lead back to the client, implicating him in the murders.
Fucker! Well, if that was the case, the client better watch his ass. He was numbered now.
But first he had to finish what he'd started here.
Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean must die. So must the gunman. In fact, the gunman took priority because he was stopping Dantalion getting the primary job done.
Time was against him.
He'd come with a silenced gun but the other man hadn't been so discerning a killer. He'd been shooting off a barrage of loud volleys. Place like this where the populace of the island lived on tightly wound nerves for fear of robbery or kidnap, dozens of people would be demanding the immediate arrival of Miami P.D. The cops didn't have a station house on the island, but there'd be plenty of rent-a-cops en route. The police wouldn't be far behind.
There were two possible ways for this to play out. He could get the hell away now and take a second shot at his targets later, or he could try and kill them now and take his chances with the swarm of uniforms bearing down on him.
He wasn't worried about security guards or cops. They'd never been capable of stopping him before.
He made his choice.
He exited the kitchen and looked up. He saw a head glance over the balcony. Quickly, Dantalion lifted his Beretta and fired. The man had seen him, though, and ducked back out of sight. Then Dantalion had to dance to avoid the bullets blasting holes through the balcony above his head. Splinters of wood rained down on him, but miraculously none of the bullets hit their mark.
Dantalion fired back.
Then he was back in the kitchen. His mind made up. Choice made.
The island wasn't supplied with a gas main. Electricity was the overriding source of power to these houses. However there were secondary sources, too. Oil tanks. Propane gas. Jorgenson's house was equipped with a full cooking range.
Reaching down alongside the range he found a rubber pipe attached to a valve on the wall. Dantalion grabbed a knife from a nearby cutting block and swiped it through the rubber pipe. He heard the hiss of escaping gas. Then he moved back across the room to the door. Listened. A mutter of voices from above. Good, they were still in the room.
Dantalion looked back at the range. He imagined that there was a haze over the cooker now, but knew that was only fancy. The gas was invisible. But it was there, the cloud growing exponentially by the second.
The scorching flames of hell would scour this house, do his work for him. How appropriate for one who fancied himself as one of the Fallen. It would be just like home.
Above him he heard smashing glass. Not a window, more a dull thud followed by tinkling. A second more solid thump and he almost believed that he saw the balcony above him shift under the weight.
He went into the foyer, training his gun on the bedroom door. Two forms raced out, bent low as they charged along the balcony towards the rear of the house. Startled by the direction they'd taken, he was a split second behind them as he fired. His bullets found only plaster, then the two were out of sight behind a turn in the hall above.
A gun poked over the balcony. Firing blind. One of the bullets snicked a bleeding chunk from Dantalion's right thigh and he was forced to swerve away. Back towards the kitchen. In the doorway he searched for the front door. Should have opened it first. But never mind. He'd take his chances. He took out the lighter he'd used to ignite his cigar earlier. Back out under the balcony, using the wall as a shield, he flipped the lid open and spun the wheel of the lighter. A flame guttered, went out. He hissed, spun the wheel again and this time the flame stood an inch tall.
As he slid the lighter across the floor towards the cooking range, he was already running.
The gas caught with an imploding cough, then expanded as the flames raced through the kitchen.
Two feet from the front door, Dantalion held his breath in anticipation. He grabbed at the handle, tugged open the door, was through it. That was when the flames backed fully down the exposed rubber pipe, found the reserve tank and exploded like Hiroshima.
The impact knocked Dantalion sprawling. His ability to hear deserted him. His vision was full of raining debris and flames and smoke. His body was pummelled by flying dust and fragments of wood.
But he was happy.
No way the people inside could survive that explosion.
Back on his feet, his first concern was for his book. He felt in his pockets while his ears whooshed and squealed as they sought to regain normal function. His book was there, attached to his belt by the ever-present chain.
Numbers needed adding to the list.
10
Bradley Jorgenson was a man capable of beating the woman he supposedly loved, so I should have expected something like this from him. He didn't want me to burn down the house where his father's body lay. Fair enough. But my plan to lob a jerry-built fire bomb at the killer was only intended to keep him at bay in the kitchen while we escaped down the stairs. The house was equipped with a water sprinkler system that would handle a localised fire set off by the perfume bomb. In reality I didn't trust the makeshift device to do more than set off a sweet-smelling flash, but it would have been enough to make the killer duck for cover, giving us the opportunity to get out.
But Jorgenson whacked me over the head with the goddamn wine bottle, putting paid to those plans. He hit me hard enough that the bottle shattered, cutting a strip of flesh from my scalp, knocking me to the floor. I was disoriented for a few seconds, but not stunned to a point that I lost my senses. Marianne yelped in dismay, but didn't resist him as Jorgenson grabbed her wrists and dragged her past me into the hall. I made a grab at her but missed, not able to go after them because of my ignominious position on the floor.
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 rea
ch 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.
