Judgement and Wrath jh-2 Page 12

  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. But 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.

  Not my problem, I decided. Marianne was the only reason I was there. Bradley should thank his lucky stars that I hadn't killed him at the first opportunity. Rink's suggestion of waiting until Bradley's back was turned then spiriting Marianne away maybe hadn't been a bad idea after all. She'd have been more angry than reluctant to go with us, but it would have saved us this latest trouble.

  Might as well make the most of the situation.

  'Bradley, you're going to help us get Marianne to safety,' I told him.

  Then I related the rest of my plan.

  By the end, everyone was in agreement.

  Seagram returned with the Kevlar vest.

  I gestured to Marianne.

  'Put it on her,' I said.

  Seagram reared up. 'But that's for Mr Jorgenson.'

  'Shut up, Seagram, you asshole!' Bradley said, and the man just took a step up in my estimation. Bradley snatched the bulletproof vest, turned and held it out to Marianne. She accepted it like he'd just gone down on one knee and presented her with a diamond ring.

  The vest was designed for a man, not a young woman, so was rather big and clumsy-looking on her. But it had adjustable Velcro straps. I stepped in close and cinched them tight.

  'I can barely breathe,' Marianne said.

  'You'll breathe less if a stray round makes its way between the vest and your body,' I pointed out.

  She turned back to Bradley and he smiled at her. Touched her chin. She tilted her head and kissed his palm. Sweet.

  'Let's get moving,' I grunted.

  'Sheesh! Thank fuck for that,' Rink said.

  24

  The night-vision goggles were an encumbrance now that Dantalion was close to Bradley Jorgenson's house. Lights had come on all over. Floodlights spilling out from the building like it was the finale of a rock concert. Bugs swarmed in the beams, making swirling patterns around the floodlight housings.

  'Good move,' he whispered. The people inside knew he was there, and what he'd come equipped with. They were trying to take away the advantage of his goggles by making the area as bright as day.

  With old-type goggles a sudden intrusion of light could strike the lenses and momentarily blind the wearer. These Generation Three goggles didn't have that problem. They had integrated flare protection to combat such a thing. Still, with the bright lights surrounding the building, the contraption did feel a little redundant. He took it off. Dropped it on the ground next to him. Moved towards the house.

  His Beretta was in his right hand; Petre Jorgenson's appropriated Glock 19 in his left. The extra firepower wouldn't go amiss.

  Dantalion had still been outside Petre's house when Seagram had come running out. The man looked ready to vomit. His face was white. He'd jumped into a silver sedan and streaked off towards Bradley's house. He should have shot the man when the opportunity was there, but he'd decided to wait. He regretted that decision now. With Petre gone, Seagram would be Bradley's boy again. He would spill everything. That meant they knew Dantalion was coming, and were setting themselves up to defend the house.

  Hunter and Rink.

  He hadn't heard the names before. Not associated with his line of business. They had to come from some other discipline. The only yard stick he had to measure their ability with was how Hunter had fared the night before. He'd done well — credit where credit was due. The man had stopped him killing his targets, had shot him in the leg, and then survived an explosion that should have put anyone in a casket. He had to assume Rink would be as good.

  He'd better be very careful here on in.

  Careful but not cautious.

  Caution breeds fear; fear builds an inability to act. Lack of action would kill him.

  He crept forwards.

  This house was very similar in design to that owned by Petre Jorgenson, in the form of a sideways 'H'. Dantalion had decided on the same approach as before: from the beach to the front of the house. To hell with the EMF meter, he didn't need it. They knew he was coming anyway. This time his advantage wasn't in stealth, but in full-on assault. Movement and noise. Shock and awe.

  He came out of his crouch and ran.

  From inside the front door a gun opened up in his direction. Dantalion swerved right, then left, bullets punching turf from the ground behind him. He kept moving, bringing up the two guns and firing as rapidly as he could pull the triggers. Three shots from each gun. A half-dozen high-velocity rounds into the partly open doorway.

  Unaware if he'd hit the shooter or not, he continued to zigzag his way across the lawn, until he had the corner of the left wing between himself and the gunman. There he didn't stop. His painful leg wasn't a hindrance now. Adrenalin was a good anaesthetic, better than all the ketamine in the world.

  He ran along the front of the building, stooped, but peering sideways through the windows. The rooms were deserted. He kept going. Came to the corner. The camera above him was swinging wildly, trying to get a bead on him, but he was below its arc of movement. The camera swung along the side of the building, just as he'd thought it might, and he immediately spun round, running back the way he'd come.

  Alerted by whoever was controlling the cameras, the people inside the house had expected him to rush to the back of the building. But here he was approaching the front door again. T
he lack of bullets fired his way suggested he'd hit the person who'd been guarding the door earlier, or that his ploy had worked and the guard was even now rushing to the rear of the house to add reinforcement to the troops there.

  Fortune favours the bold. Sometimes a full-on assault can achieve more than any amount of sneaking around. Bravery, or downright recklessness, had the ability to disarm the enemy.

  Dantalion had never been of a timid disposition. He ran at the front door, lifted a boot and kicked the partially open door back on its hinges. He was through in an instant, moving sideways with his back to the wall as he probed the entrance hall for movement. Nobody. But there was blood on the floor, a trail of drops leading further inside the house. Stepping forward, he lifted his guns, one to the front, one to the side, exchanging positions as he moved along the hall, passing doorways.

  Further back in the house he could hear voices and the thump of feet. The sound of a vehicle roaring to life. Dantalion was spurred on. He passed through a doorway and into the kitchen. The sounds were now further to his right, and he charged through the kitchen, seeking the far door. A shadow lurched into view and Dantalion fired. No time for differentiating one target from another when everyone in the building was a viable kill. If the man falling across the threshold was Hunter or Rink or Bradley Jorgenson, then so be it. In the event that it turned out to be none of them, well, that was all right, too. He'd get them soon enough.

  When he gained the doorway he saw that his bullet had struck the man in the throat, and he was gagging on his own blood. The gun had fallen from his hand, but Dantalion wasn't of a mind to leave behind an enemy who might yet have the capacity to put a bullet in his spine. He shot him a second time, and the man's skull and brain matter spilled across the floor.

  Another vehicle started. A lower roar, as the vehicle was driven away at speed. Dantalion cursed under his breath. He stepped into a second vestibule beyond the kitchen. There were three men blocking his exit. They turned on him even as he ran at them. He fired. They fired. A bullet tugged at his left arm — a searing pain — but he ignored it. His arm was still up and his hand was still pulling the trigger of the Glock 19. His mind processed these things without inhibiting his ability to perform. He continued towards the men, and they scattered, seeking cover. He shot one of them in the side and the man went to his knees. The other two had the sense to put the door frame between them. One on each side of the opening.