Judgement and Wrath Read online

  By keeping his eyes averted and walking like he had somewhere to be, he was able to go directly past officers from the local Sheriff’s Department and towards Bradley Jorgenson’s house. Commandos from the FBI Hostage Rescue Team had previously secured the area. With no viable threat evident, they had stood down. Dantalion saw a group of them standing around with their helmets off and their assault rifles slung from their shoulders. Talking and enjoying the sunshine. A couple of them smoked cigarettes round the side of the building, out of sight of their superiors. Most of the activity was carried out by ambulance crews and people from the Martin County Medical Examiner’s Office. Apparently the thirteen-hours-old crime scene had been thoroughly picked through by the CSI technicians and had now been handed over to the men with the body bags.

  Dantalion knew he’d be pushing his luck if he went inside the building, but his anonymity would be protected while in the grounds. As yet he wasn’t even sure that Bradley had returned to the house. In fact, would it not be a better idea if Bradley went to another of the family houses where there hadn’t been blood and mayhem? To one of the other family members who hadn’t been in on the plot to have Bradley and Marianne murdered, for instance? That ruled out the houses of both Simon and Jack, but there were plenty of others to choose from. Was there a sympathetic aunt or uncle? Or would the officers in charge of the investigation have picked a house at random, commandeered it while they questioned Bradley and any other survivors about what had happened here?

  He decided not to linger at either crime scene too long. The proliferation of law enforcement officers around both Bradley’s and Petre Jorgenson’s houses meant that the odds of blowing his cover were great. Though he’d remained invisible up until now, all it took was one eagle-eyed cop to challenge him, ask for identification, and that would be it. Contrary to all their faults as a collective beast, singly the officers were still trained professionals, and not to be underestimated.

  Happy that there was no sign of the silver Lincoln sedan that Bradley and Seagram had made off in last night, he walked away. He headed northwards, towards the other half-dozen houses that lay strung out along the coast in that direction.

  The next house belonged to Valentin’s oldest sister, Hetti. Still a Jorgenson by birth, she now went by her deceased husband’s name of Gorman. The family business meant little to her and she had made her own fortune in real estate. From the documentation supplied by Petre Jorgenson when he still remained Dantalion’s client, he knew that Hetti kept herself aloof from the squabble between Valentin and her nephews. Aloof and unsympathetic; he doubted that Bradley would seek her out for comfort or support. Nevertheless he checked around her property for signs of the sedan, but it wasn’t parked there either. He continued.

  Christened Jan Jorgenson, but taking the Americanised form of John for the purpose of the business, Bradley’s youngest cousin had always been referred to by the less formal name of Jack. His family home was next in line. He had no wife or children, and the house was somewhat excessive for the single man.

  Simon, his brother, five years older at twenty-eight, did have a wife and a baby girl. However, the wife had taken the baby girl along with an out-of-court settlement of twenty million dollars when they’d divorced one year earlier. She’d moved with the child to her own place on Fisher’s Island off Miami Beach. Like Jack, Simon lived alone, but there was a transient population of women coming and going at all times, something that had begun before the acrimonious divorce and had led to the breakdown of their marriage.

  Dantalion bypassed both the brothers’ houses.

  He stuck to the coastline. The going was a little more difficult than if he’d walked along the road, but it was more in keeping with his disguise.

  A full half-mile from Bradley’s house, he found what he’d been looking for. Not the silver Lincoln, but a helicopter on the broad lawn of the next house. The helicopter was a Bell Jet Ranger, and it was decorated with the livery of the FBI. The only reason that Dantalion could think of for the presence of the helicopter was that it had some pretty important passengers. The Special Agent in Charge from the local FBI office. He would be overall commander of the investigation, and there was only one reason why he’d be at this location. Bradley had come here for tea and sympathy from his elderly great-aunt, Eunice.

  From where he was standing, Dantalion could see the pilot on board the helicopter. He was passing time by going through a series of checks, flicking buttons and reading dials. Dantalion quickly walked towards the house, striding purposefully. The pilot glanced his way, but didn’t appear concerned and continued with his pre-flight checks. Dantalion kept going, rounding the house and approaching the walled yard at the back.

  This house was not as impressive as those the cousins lived in, but was probably still worth a couple of million dollars. A two-storey wooden dwelling with porch and railings and a steepled roof and attic windows, it reminded Dantalion a little of a house in a movie he’d enjoyed: The Amityville Horror. One of the oldest houses on the island, it looked in need of renovation – not exactly dilapidated, but a lick of paint wouldn’t go amiss. The elderly woman who lived here was in fact one of the first generation of Jorgensons to arrive here back in the 1950s. The house would have been grand in its day, but now it was as dated as the chintz curtains in the windows. It looked like the old woman was just sitting out her time. When she passed, the house would likely go to one of the younger generation, doubtless to be torn down and rebuilt.

  He paused at the corner, studying the cars parked at the rear of the house. There was an older model Chrysler station wagon. Plus, there it was: the silver Lincoln sedan. He took a deep breath. Felt for the Taurus .38. Touched his book. Then quickly took a step backwards as he heard the rear door opening. The sound was followed by muted conversation. He couldn’t quite make out what was said, but then he detected the crunch of tyres as a vehicle approached. Angling himself against the corner of the wall, he watched a car from the Martin County Sheriff’s Department draw to a halt and a silver-haired man in a grey suit get in. The vehicle then did a quick U-turn and headed back along the road. What was that about? He waited until the car was shielded from sight by the swell in the land.

  Yesterday’s actions had been governed by fury. He’d acted recklessly and without thought of the repercussions. His thirst for vengeance had led him to slay his supporters. He’d left himself without back-up, the proverbial lone wolf. But, hadn’t he always preferred it that way?

  Gabe Wellborn had been useful, but he had also been a liability. His method of concealing his network of hired mercenaries had never been foolproof. Sooner or later the FBI would chance upon his website, put two and two together and draw correlations between the fantasised murders and those they reflected in the real world. Dantalion had cautioned him. He did not want the names of his brethren used by the other killers for hire on Gabe’s books. It cheapened his own identity when other men – nothing but thugs for hire in his estimation – plucked names from the Goetic pantheon with no thought for the true owners of those names. Dantalion had sought out each of those men in turn. He’d killed them all. He had planned to kill Gabe too. But not last night. That had been a reaction to the situation he’d found himself in.

  This time things would be different.

  He would be cool and rational. He wouldn’t go in with all guns blazing: he would use subtlety and guile to take Bradley Jorgenson. Neither would he kill him instantly. He would give him a choice. Tell me where Marianne is and I won’t cut off your hands. Tell me where Joe Hunter is and I won’t cut off your feet. Ask kindly and maybe I won’t chop off your balls and feed them to you.

  Good plan, nothing psychopathic about it.

  He scouted the building, looking for a sign that Bradley was inside. And found him almost immediately. He was sitting in the kitchen, his forearms resting on a table top. A man who Dantalion did not recognise sat opposite him. A digital voice recorder lay on the table between them. By the cut of the man’s s
uit, his well-groomed hair, and the give-away clip-on badge on his breast pocket, Dantalion saw that he was FBI. He appeared to be questioning Bradley – the digital recorder there to record the interview.

  There were only two others in the room: one of them the bodyguard named Seagram, the one who had offered to help him get to Bradley. That, of course, had been before Dantalion had slaughtered Petre, who had obviously been bribing Seagram to switch allegiance. He doubted that Seagram would be so keen with his sponsor out of the picture. Now that Bradley had resumed the role of his main employer, it was in Seagram’s best interest to keep him alive. The last person was a very elderly lady. She was sitting in a wooden chair and, despite the heat of the Floridian sun, she was dressed in thick wool and tweed and had a blanket over her knees. She looked like she hadn’t a clue what was going on, and sat smiling and nodding as Bradley answered the FBI agent’s questions.

  There did not appear to be anyone else around. No bodyguards, no police, only the one agent and the helicopter pilot to give assistance to Bradley and Seagram.

  This was about the best opportunity for taking Bradley that he was going to get.

  He quickly walked away from the house, not wanting to leave himself open to an attack from behind. As he approached the helicopter he heard the engine whine as the pilot continued his pre-flight preparations. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and carefully folded it round a small cylinder.

  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&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 grâce.

  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 fore
arms, 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.