by Matt Hilton
Marianne went to him like he was a hero returning from war. He held her, and they cooed to each other. It would have been sickening if it wasn't for the context. Bradley's father had been brutally murdered, after all. I couldn't deny him the measure of comfort.
'We're going to have to make some decisions,' I told him when they finally drew apart.
Jorgenson nodded in resignation. It was as though the return to Miami had brought the enormity of what had happened yesterday to the forefront of his mind. Someone had tried to kill him and Marianne. In doing that the killer had murdered four others — one of them his own father — destroyed a multi-million dollar house, and would have killed the two of them if I hadn't shown up. This killer wasn't about to stop. When he discovered that his targets had thwarted him he'd come again. Who knew what lengths he'd go to this time to achieve his aim?
'The police didn't believe I wasn't at the house on Baker Island. Witnesses saw my boat. I'm under suspicion.' Tears sprang into his eyes and he turned away. He batted at his face with his hands, scrubbed them up and through his hair. When he turned back to me, he said, 'We can't leave the house. My attorney agreed to that and I can't go against the agreement. If I run away it'll look like I'm guilty.'
'Stay here and you'll die.'
'I can't run.'
'You can,' I said. 'And you will.'
Taking Bradley by the elbow I led him to the far side of the room. Marianne made to follow until Rink interposed himself between us. While she was distracted, I pushed Bradley through the open door and into the en-suite bathroom.
'Let's get a couple of things straight,' I said. To spare Marianne, I kept my voice low. 'I don't like you, Bradley. In fact, I'm struggling hard not to put a bullet in your skull. You're scum in my estimation. Do you understand?'
His mouth fell open and the blood drained from his face, leaving mottled patterns in his flesh. He tried to step away but my fingers dug into the nerve at the back of his elbow. He squirmed against the pain, but was unable to escape.
'I don't like what you did to Marianne. Not one bit. Normally I treat men like you as the shit you are. I scrape you off the sole of my boot. But the truth is, I believe that there's someone out there who means Marianne more harm than you've already done her.'
'Marianne?'
'Shut it! Let me finish.' I leaned in, placing my mouth very close to his right ear. 'I came here with the intention of taking Marianne away from you. I'm still going to do that.'
He began to shake his head and I grabbed his arm even tighter, probing for the radial nerve. When I'd gained his compliance, I added, 'And you're going to give me your blessing.'
'What do you mean?'
'You are going to persuade Marianne to come with me. She's smitten by you, afraid to go against you. I want you to tell her it's best that she goes somewhere safe until this is over with.'
'You're not taking her back to her father?'
'I'll take her where I want, but no, I won't be taking her there.'
His shoulders relaxed a little. Was that relief in his eyes, I wondered. I said, 'The man who tried to kill you last night will come again. I can guarantee you that. It would be best if you went somewhere safe as well.'
'The estate is like a fortress,' Bradley said. 'Where would be safer than here?'
I snorted out a laugh. 'If I'd wanted to kill you I could've done it any time I pleased. The man from last night was good. He could get to you too.'
'I'll strengthen my security, bring in more men.'
'The killer could be among them for all you'd know.' Leaning close again, I whispered in his ear. 'Take my advice, Bradley. Don't strengthen your security. Strengthen your options. Take some of your most trusted men and get the hell away from here. Go somewhere you can't be found — it's the only way to stay safe.'
'Why do you care about my safety? You've just made it clear that you don't like me.'
'You're right, Bradley: I don't like you. The only reason I'm interested in keeping you alive is for Marianne's sake. Things are bad enough; I don't want to have to contend with a distraught woman grieving for her dead lover as well.'
Letting him go, I watched him work his sore arm. There was a scent coming off him that I recognised as fear. The patches under his armpits had grown.
'Where will you take Mari?'
'I can't tell you that.'
'Why not? I-'
'If the killer gets to you he could make you tell him where she is. Do you want that, Bradley?'
'No. No, of course not. I… I?…'
'Love her?' My mouth twisted into a knot around the words. 'If you do love her, you'll let her go. The most important thing in the world to you should be her safety.'
'It is.'
'Then we're in agreement?'
He nodded acquiescence.
I shoved him towards the door. 'Go and do it, Bradley. Convince her.'
He paused, looked back. 'I will. But there's something that you've got wrong, Hunter.'
'Yeah? What would that be?'
'Whatever you were told, you're wrong about me.'
'We'll see.'
He pointed a finger at me. 'Ask her. Ask Mari, and she'll tell you.'
'Put the finger down, Bradley, or I'll break it,' I snapped. He dropped his hand to his side, but the challenge remained in the set of his shoulders. I shook my head at him. Pathetic bastard didn't frighten me. 'Marianne will only tell me what you've ordered her to say.'
He exhaled. 'Believe what you want. But you'll learn the truth in the end.'
'Yes, Bradley, I will.'
22
Dantalion is a great and mighty duke of Hell. He knows the thoughts of all men and women, and can change them at will. Nothing can stand in his way. Or so it was written in the fabled Book of Enoch.
After sedating the dogs, he'd walked through the rear entrance unchallenged. In a vestibule he'd come across a man sitting reading a newspaper and had shot him in the throat. Then he'd moved on. At the front of the house was another man in a small room that was in darkness but for the glow from numerous CCTV monitors. He seemed to be dozing, and Dantalion killed him without his victim even coming awake. Next he'd checked the opposite wing of the house where he shot two guards in the back. The plush carpets had absorbed the shock of their landing.
And then he was moving up the stairs, intent on the task he'd set himself. The numbers in his book required correction and there was only one way to achieve that.
Numbers are the building blocks of equations, he reminded himself. Equations are formulae with a strict resolution. They gave him the answers to his existence.
Answers. That was why he was there. He wanted answers.
At the head of the stairs he heard the murmur of voices from within a room to his left. He took a spare magazine out of his pocket, ejected the one from his gun that was half depleted, and fed in the fresh one. He racked the slide. Continued up the stairs with new resolve. He moved along the hall towards the bedroom. The tugging sensation in his wounded thigh was a reminder of what mistakes can cost. There would be no mistakes this time. He entered the room, the gun levelled at chest height.
And found himself staring down the barrels of five guns pointed directly at him.
'Ah, Dantalion. We've been expecting you. Please come in,' said a familiar voice.
He didn't look at Petre Jorgenson, instead he looked at the fat man sitting behind the armed men. The fat man wouldn't return his gaze.
'You betrayed me, Gabe?'
Gabe Wellborn shifted in his chair, looked to Petre for support.
Petre took a step forwards, his gun pointed at Dantalion's midriff. 'Best you drop the weapon.'
Dantalion kept his gun exactly where it was.
'If that's your choice,' he said. Then he allowed the gun to lower to his side.
'Put the gun on the floor and kick it away,' Petre ordered.
'No,' said Dantalion.
'Then we'll shoot you and you'll never know why you had to die.'<
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Dantalion dropped the Beretta, kicked it from him with the side of his foot. 'Explain.'
Petre approached Gabe and placed a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed reassuringly.
'Mr Wellborn has done us all a great service.'
'He has?' Dantalion twisted the corner of his mouth into a sneer.
'Yes.' Petre looked at him oddly. Nodded at the night-vision goggles. 'Are you going to take off that ridiculous contraption?'
Dantalion made do with flicking up the dual tubes so that they stood up from his forehead like a ram's horns. Symbolic in its own way, but lost on all the others in the room. Petre waved a hand. 'Take a seat. We may as well be comfortable.'
'I'll stand.'
'OK, but I insist that you are searched for weapons. You can lose the dart gun, for a start.'
Dantalion allowed two of the armed men to strip the gun from him, then the backpack. His Beretta was scooped off the floor. One of them, a tall, thin Cuban, brushed the book concealed beneath his sweatshirt. Dantalion grasped his wrist. 'You don't touch that! Nobody touches that.'
The man pulled his wrist free, but it was an effort. Dantalion's spindly fingers held more strength than his emaciated frame would suggest. The man looked at his boss for direction.
Petre said, 'Leave it.' Then to Dantalion, 'I take it that's the book you showed me at Bayside Park. Mr Wellborn has already explained to me how important it is to you. You may keep it, Dantalion.'
'I was going to.'
The armed men moved away, giving him space so they could hold him in their line of fire without blocking the other two guards. Petre sat down behind a desk. He laid his Glock 19 on its top within easy reach of his hand.
Normally, the position of power is held by the standing person. It forces those seated to look up at them, see them as the dominant figure. It didn't seem to perturb Petre Jorgenson, he appeared at ease. But then again, the illusion of Dantalion's dominance was severely compromised by having four automatic weapons aimed at him.
Dantalion looked from Petre to Gabe. He blinked very slowly. 'You betrayed me, Gabe. How could that be a great service?'
Gabe swallowed.
But it was Petre who answered. 'Mr Wellborn was concerned about your intentions. He believed that your decision to come here was not based upon professional logic, but on some misguided notion of revenge. Revenge is never good for business.'
'My decisions are never misguided,' Dantalion said.
Petre folded his hands, tapped his little fingers on the desk top. 'OK. So let's call it misinformed.'
Dantalion didn't reply. The tapping set off a tic on his jaw line.
Petre continued, 'Mr Wellborn — as you know — is an asset to both of us. He brokers deals, organises payment, supplies necessary equipment and intelligence. After he spoke to you earlier, he contacted me. He feared that you were acting irrationally. When you heard that your targets had survived last night, he believed that you might do something to rectify the situation. I applaud that; you have pride in your work. But he also gained the impression that there was an underlying problem.'
'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, an
d 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.
