by Matt Hilton
He made it all the way up to the cockpit before the pilot noticed him. The man saw only the uniform and he lifted his chin in a nod of greeting.
'Hello,' Dantalion said. He smiled. Then flicked the brim of his hat. Sunlight flashed in his eyes. He adjusted the brim so his face was again in shadow. A natural enough action to explain why he kept his hand elevated.
'Hi,' said the pilot, 'Can I help you?' He leaned out of the open door to better see his visitor. He was reading the emblem embroidered on Dantalion's shirt. Behind the visor of his flight helmet, Dantalion saw the man's eyes narrow to slivers. He opened his mouth to speak.
That was when Dantalion swung his right hand as though he was holding a hammer. The bottom of his fist struck the man flush on the left side of his neck. The blow in itself could prove fatal if delivered with enough power and precision. Coupled with the hypodermic piercing his carotid artery and pumping in a lethal dose of ketamine, the man was guaranteed a rapid death.
The punch itself stunned him, the drug raced immediately to his heart, and he was dead within seconds. He didn't have the chance to shout or even to lift his hands in defence. Dantalion accepted his sinking weight, catching the man under each armpit, and dragged him bodily from the helicopter. Then he slid open the side door and bundled the man into the rear compartment. He followed him inside and closed the door behind him.
Minutes later Dantalion emerged a new man.
Wearing the pilot's jumpsuit and helmet, he crossed the lawn towards the house. As he got to the window of the kitchen he saw that the tableau had not changed in the couple of minutes he'd been gone. Boldly he rapped a knuckle on the window, even as he turned aside, gesturing to those within with a gloved hand. All they would see was the familiar figure of the chopper pilot. They wouldn't be alarmed, but one of them would come to the door to see what he wanted. He walked towards the door, watching in his peripheral vision as someone — Seagram from the shape of the brush cut — moved towards the door to intercept him.
He stood very close to the door. It was solid wood, so the person inside would have to open it fully before realising that there was something familiar about the bogus pilot's face. He readied himself. He preferred giving his victims a choice of how they would die, but he didn't have that luxury. This death had to be conducted in silence too.
'Yeah, what is it?' Seagram's voice.
'I need to give my colleague a message,' Dantalion said, purposely speaking a couple of octaves lower than normal.
'What is it? I'll tell him.'
'Can't do that, sir,' Dantalion said. 'Official FBI business, I'm afraid. You do not have clearance. I have to tell him myself.'
Seagram muttered a curse under his breath. He tugged open the door, which squealed on seldom-used hinges.
Seagram stood looking at him for the briefest of moments. Then it was there, the subtle movement of his jaw, the dilating of his pupils. He'd recognised the lie.
'Hello, Seagram,' Dantalion said as he stepped forward. The knife he'd brought from the dead warden's house went under Seagram's ribcage. All eight glistening inches of it. Dantalion's other hand covered Seagram's gaping mouth. As the man's knees buckled under him, Dantalion supported him on the blade. He leaned close, placing his lips close to Seagram's ear. 'I've come to tell the FBI that the killer is here.'
Seagram knew he was dying, and that it was his greed that had brought him to this point. His eyes went large above Dantalion's cupped hand. He tried to shout, but the knife seemed to suck the words down into his throat as Dantalion pulled the blade out of his abdomen.
Dantalion placed Seagram on the floor just inside the vestibule, and swiped the blade across his trachea. His mouth still opened and closed like a fish on dry land, but no noises beyond the bubbling blood in his sliced trachea issued forth. Groping under Seagram's jacket, Dantalion pulled out a Glock 17. Not the model 19 he was used to, but still better than the five-shot Taurus.
He fitted his hands round both guns' stocks. The two-gunned assault had a decidedly intimidating quality to it that worked for him.
He strode along the hall.
The kitchen door was open and he could see the old lady sitting with her back to him. That would put the FBI agent on his right, Bradley on his left. The FBI agent was the most dangerous enemy in the room. By rights he should die first. Dantalion, however, had different ideas about rights and wrongs. He fired a single round through the old lady's back even before he was in the room. The Glock punched a 9 mm round directly through her and shattered something on the far wall. The woman toppled towards the table. As she did so her face twisted to one side, and Dantalion would have sworn that she was still smiling.
'Hello,' he called in his usual fashion. 'I'm Dantalion.'
Bradley and the FBI agent were too busy to take note of his words. They were half risen from their seats, Bradley turning away, the agent grabbing for the H amp;K inside his jacket.
Dantalion fired one shot from the Taurus, one shot from the Glock. Neither of them at Bradley. The.38 calibre bullet hit the agent above his right hip. A split second later the 9 mm struck him directly between the eyes. The opposing forces of the bullets made him jig in place like a disjointed puppet. Then he dropped straight to the floor, knocking over the chair he'd so recently been sitting upon.
Bradley was lurching around the far end of the table, seeking a way out. He had both arms over his head and was yelling something reminiscent of the defeated bellow of a bull as the matador serves the coup de grace.
Aiming left-handedly, Dantalion fired the Taurus. The bullet struck the wall directly in front of Bradley who responded by dropping down and covering his head with his two hands. He shouted something but Dantalion's ears were ringing to the echo of his own guns.
'Surprised to see me, Bradley? Thought I was dead, eh? Must piss you off that the big bold Hunter failed to stop me? Stand up.'
Terror kept Bradley exactly where he was.
'I said " stand up",' Dantalion yelled. 'Or I will shoot you where you are. Cowering on the ground like a dog!'
Bradley came partly to his feet, but couldn't prevent his knees dipping again. Dantalion stalked over, kicking aside the dead FBI agent to get at him. He pushed the hot muzzle of the Taurus under Bradley's ear. 'Stand up. That's the only choice I'm giving you right now.'
Cringing like a wounded animal, Bradley came to his feet. He tried to protect himself with his arms but Dantalion struck at the meat of his forearms, forcing the hands away. Then he pushed Bradley back against the kitchen counter and forced him to bend backwards away from the pressure of the gun.
'Now, Bradley, it's choices time again. Do you die instantly, or would you rather I kept you alive as bait to bring Marianne to me?' Dantalion pushed the muzzle of the Glock under Bradley's chin. 'Come on, speak up. I'm giving you the opportunity of living a little longer.'
'Please,' Bradley croaked. His plea never came to a conclusion, and Dantalion was left wondering what decision Bradley had reached.
Dantalion heard a car pull up outside the front of the house.
So he made the choice himself.
He slipped the Glock in his pocket, pulled out a hypodermic syringe. Given in the same dosage, ketamine would kill Bradley as instantly as it had the pilot, but this syringe didn't contain ketamine. He'd brought this ampoule from the truck: sodium amatol left over from the hit on the Moore household. In small doses it caused the drugged person to become compliant. A higher dose caused unconsciousness. Too much and the person would die. Dantalion administered just enough to leave Bradley with no will of his own but with the use of his legs. He didn't want to have to carry him out of there.
36
Special Agent in Charge Taylor Kaufman wasn't exactly pleased to see me. He extended his hand, but his shake was abrupt and his words dry. 'Walter Conrad says you're the best in the business.'
'Depends what business he's referring to,' I answered.
The silver-haired SAC studied me with eyes the colour of t
arnished brass. He didn't appear impressed. Something about my accent seemed to irk him as well. I guessed it was because he'd already fought a jurisdiction war with the Miami PD and Martin County Sheriff's Department, which he'd indubitably won, only now to be faced with a Brit with carte blanche to take over his position of power. He straightened his grey suit. Nodded towards the squad car.
'You'd better get in. I'll take you to Jorgenson.'
'Go ahead,' I told him. 'I'll bring my own car.'
The Audi was no good to me a half-mile away.
'Prefer it if you came with us,' SAC Kaufman said slowly. 'I'll also have to ask you to hand over your sidearm.'
'Isn't going to happen.' I challenged him with my stare.
'I've got a man down there who has already survived two attempts on his life. Don't want to risk that again,' he said.
'I'm here to protect him, not harm him.'
'I don't know that.'
'Walter Conrad vouched for me,' I reminded him.
'Walter is CIA,' Kaufman said in reply, 'and we all know what they are famous for.'
'I'm not CIA,' I said.
'No. But that's the problem… I'm not sure what you are.' Then he turned his back on me and walked towards the sheriff's car.
'Kaufman.'
He turned.
'I'm not here to usurp you. We're on the same side.'
His mouth made a thin line, and he turned away again. I shook my head and then climbed into the Audi. The cop at the gate gave me room to bring the car in and I followed the police vehicle back on to the Jorgenson estate.
Approaching the village made up of estate staff lodgings, I was surprised when we took a left, skirted the village and approached a lone wooden house standing on the Atlantic shore. This house wasn't like the others; it was older, more homely. Less forbidding than the brick monstrosities that the younger Jorgensons had erected.
Why we were headed there instead of directly towards Bradley's house I didn't quite get, but then I saw the silver Lincoln parked adjacent to the back of the house and it made sense. Bradley had gone somewhere he felt safe.
SAC Kaufman climbed out of the police car. He leaned in and said something to the uniformed driver. The driver shook his head, then peeled away, heading back along the road towards Bradley's house. I parked the Audi next to the Lincoln Seagram had been driving the day before. Climbing from my car, I felt the phone vibrate in my pocket. I answered it and Rink said, 'I'm back from San Francisco. Harvey's got Mari tucked up safe and sound. I'm on my way back to you now.'
'Pleased to hear it, Rink,' I said. 'Your mom?'
'On the mend. She smacked me round the head for leaving you alone and told me to get my ass back here. How could I argue with that?'
'You know better than that.'
'You ain't kidding,' he laughed. Then his tone grew more serious. Back to business. 'The punk survived, huh?'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm back at the estate,' I told him. 'Had to pull a few strings via Walter Conrad, but I should be with Bradley in a minute or two.'
'Walter came through, huh?'
'He had no option, did he? He owes us big time.'
'No,' Rink rumbled. I imagined him touching the scar on his chin. Like the knife wound in my chest, Rink's scar was courtesy of Tubal Cain.
'I'll wait here until you arrive, then we'll move Bradley between us.'
'Give me an hour or two, OK?'
'Should take that long to sort things out at this end,' I told him. 'I've got a fed here with a stick up his ass.'
'Nothing new there then,' Rink said.
I hung up.
'I heard that,' SAC Kaufman said.
'You were meant to, Kaufman,' I said. 'We started out on the wrong foot back there. Can we try this again? We're both here for the same reason, so let's agree to work together, huh? Truth is, I'm not going anywhere, so we may as well be civil to each other.'
Kaufman nodded. He swept the surroundings with one look. 'Would be a whole lot easier without this stick up my ass.'
We shook hands again, this time with meaning.
'Walter Conrad told me what you'd managed to piece together about the shooter. I've passed the information along to my people. Got someone on the skin-complaint angle, another on this demon stuff. Hopefully we'll have something useful before long.'
'He's unorthodox. I don't think he's been trained through the usual channels.'
Kaufman paused mid-step. 'That in itself could point us towards him. Maybe one of these private CQB courses or something?'
'Nah, close quarter battle's about protection. This guy comes from a different school. Maybe he has roots with one of those paramilitary Home Defence groups or something similar.'
Kaufman continued walking.
My step after him turned into a lunge.
I grabbed him by the shoulders, and powered my chest against him, taking us both down hard on the pavement.
Through the space we'd just vacated whistled two high-velocity rounds.
For all he was wearing an expensive suit, Kaufman was no slouch at crawling. He was off, scurrying for the cover of a low wall. He reached it within seconds and went over, landing on his back.
I had gone the other direction, rolling sideways. Another round chipped concrete from the paving stones, throwing splinters towards my face. Blinking to clear my vision, I continued rolling and got myself under a parked station wagon. Somewhere along the way, I'd drawn my SIG and was looking for targets.
My first reaction was to aim for the window where the shooter had fired from. It was the subtle shifting of his shadow, the pale face looming above it that had warned me of his presence. If my mind hadn't been tuned to recognise the danger of his ghoulish face, Dantalion would have got us cold.
The window had been smashed by his bullets, but I saw no movement there. He'd moved, possibly to get a clearer angle on me.
Just as I had that thought a round struck the front tyre next to my head and the hiss of air sounded like an angry snake. The car dipped slowly towards me, and I wormed further away from the collapsing corner of the chassis.
'FBI,' Kaufman shouted. He had one arm propped on the low wall, his service revolver aiming towards the empty window. 'Drop your weapon and come out.'
The FBI SAC wasn't a stranger to action. But it looked like it was some years since he'd engaged in a gun battle. His face was as pale as that of the man who was trying to kill us.
'Keep your head down, Kaufman,' I shouted across the intervening space. His gaze jumped to me, back to the house. I knew he was going to shout again even before his mouth opened.
'Come out with your hands in the air and you will not be harmed.'
Bullets smacked the wall beside him and I saw his gun arm drop. He cursed loudly and I wasn't sure if he'd been wounded or not.
My position was not the best for shooting back. I could only see a small portion of the house, and most of that was blank wall. On my belly, I used my feet to push me towards the station wagon's engine. That was a slightly better position, but most of my view remained obscured by the sunken front end of the car. It took me about a nanosecond to decide I wasn't staying there. All the shooter had to do was fire under the car and the ricochets would probably kill me. I scooted away, rolled out from under the car and came up on the far side.
In the movies, you will often see a cop hunkered behind an open car door. 9 mm Parabellums will pass through the shell of a car with no problem. Some more enlightened movie makers have their good guy place the engine block between themselves and the shooter, but again there are too many open spaces and fragile components to stop most bullets. The reality is, a car isn't safe to hide behind. Neither are trees or concrete walls. The only thing that will stop a high-calibre bullet is about six inches of solid brick or steel. Kaufman had the best hiding place. My own, other than offering enough cover so the shooter couldn't get a bead on me, was third rate.
As if he had read my
mind, the man in the house fired again. He unloaded an entire clip from a semi-automatic. Not randomly either: he began at the front of the car, fired, moved his hand a fraction, fired, moved his hand a fraction and so on. Some of the rounds did flatten inside the engine, but for as many that were stopped, at least one got through. The hood buckled as rounds ricocheted under it. Holes appeared in the wing close by my body. I had no choice but run backwards, keeping my head down as bullets cut through the car and struck lumps from the ground beyond me.
Kaufman — jurisdiction battle or not — wasn't about to let me die. He bopped up, firing back at the house. He couldn't see his target, only hoped to offer covering fire while I raced for cover behind my Audi. I did so, sliding like I was headed for first base.
The retort of the shooter's gun changed. A lighter bore, but still enough to kill. I'd got myself all the way to the rear of the Audi and with its nose pointed towards the shooter it gave me much more cover than the other car had. Nonetheless, bullets punched through the galvanised steel body and lifted padding from the seats within. There was a loud pop — a tyre going. The semi-automatic was firing again and I had to drop as low as I could to the ground.
Then there was a lull. I quickly snapped a glance over the trunk. The door was opening and my first instinct was to shoot through it. Nevertheless I held my fire, waving over to Kaufman to do the same. Only someone with no sense would put themselves behind that door during a gun battle. Dantalion was as crazy as any other psycho out there, but he did appear to be knowledgeable about guns and their effects.
The door swung open, and there stood Bradley Jorgenson.
He swayed like he'd been out on a particularly heavy night's partying. His mouth hung open, a string of saliva knitting together his splayed teeth. His heavy-lidded eyes were unfocused. Drugged.
Bradley was a fair-sized guy. Maybe my height, but heavier. He was ample cover for the slim man crouching behind him. I could only catch a glimpse of white hair, an ear, one gloved hand that was under Bradley's arm and jammed into his armpit. Room under there for a.38 special. Over Bradley's shoulder the muzzle of a Glock.
