Judgement and Wrath jh-2 Read online

  Out of the side door of the nearest chopper, a black garbed Hostage Rescue Team trooper rappelled to the floor. He was armed with an assault rifle and he took up a crouched covering position while two more members of the team dropped from the guts of the chopper like large black spiders on fat webs. Once the two exchanged positions with him, the first agent came towards us, his gun braced to his shoulder. The 'Little Bird' swooped away and finally I could hear myself think.

  The FBI agent's voice rang loud and clear.

  'Drop the weapon, Hunter. Now!'

  I wasn't surprised he recognised me. He was one of the men SAC Kaufman had been communicating with from the headset. Whatever Kaufman had told him, he wasn't taking any chances. Truth was, even with my gun in an awkward upside-down position, I could manipulate it faster than the human eye could follow and could've shot him.

  'Lose the fucking weapon.' To emphasise the command he leaned into his rifle so that it drew a bead on my forehead.

  'The killer is still out there,' I shouted back. 'I wounded him, but he's still dangerous. I'm not dropping my gun.'

  'The perp's our problem now. I have orders from SAC Kaufman to make you stand down.'

  'Bradley is my problem, and I don't stand down until I know he's no longer in danger.'

  Switching tack, the anonymous agent said to Bradley, 'Mr Jorgenson, we are here to protect you. You need immediate medical assistance. We can't offer that while Hunter is armed. Tell him to stand down.'

  'Look,' I said. 'We're on the same side here. Let's cut the crap and get Bradley the hell away from here. I'm going after Dantalion.'

  'You aren't going after anyone.' He'd taken another step forward. The two back-up agents had also moved to flank me. I was the proverbial fish in the barrel. But out there in the water lurked a more dangerous creature in need of spearing.

  Rising up from behind Bradley, I lifted the SIG so it was clear to all. 'I'm going to holster my weapon, but that's as far as it goes. You can load Bradley into one of those birds, but I'm staying.'

  'Step away from Mr Jorgenson,' said the first agent as though I hadn't spoken. 'The FBI will deal with this situation now. You do not have official sanction in this matter, Hunter. You are no longer on active duty and do not work with our government's agreement. If you refuse to step away you will be arrested for obstructing a federal agent.'

  I stepped away.

  I pushed the SIG into the waistband at the back of my jeans. One of the HRT agents came and laid a hand on Bradley's shoulder. He took a grip on the cloth of Bradley's shirt and pulled him round and away from me. As if I was the bad guy. The other two covered me with their rifles, but I was gratified to note that neither tried to disarm me. Not immediately.

  I indicated the Ka-bar, hilt deep in the silt. 'I'm taking that as well.'

  I stooped and picked up the knife. As I rose from my crouch I was already pivoting. The Ka-bar is a man-killer. To kill is its primary function, and all other applications of the fighting knife are side-products of its design. Not that I was about to kill an FBI agent in the correct execution of his duty. I used only the butt-end to thrust into the midriff of the man nearest me. He was wearing armour, but my blow was delivered with all the power of my upswinging arm and the force went directly through the vest and into his internal organs. Wind rushed out of his wide open mouth, even as I whipped the rifle out of his grasp and turned it on the first agent. I hurled the rifle at him, end over end. His reaction was to bat it away with the barrel of his own gun. And into the space he'd left me I stepped and launched a kick that caught him in the juncture of his thighs. He was wearing a box, but it didn't make a difference. Not when my shin lifted him a hand's width off the floor. I jumped in as he landed on his face, kicking away his gun with the side of my foot.

  One and a half seconds isn't long in any violent confrontation. Viewed in afterthought it's amazing how rapidly a tableau can change. But there was a third armed agent to deal with.

  'Now, Bradley,' I yelled.

  Bradley immediately became less than the crippled weight he seemed. He threw his arms round the man supporting him, grappling the agent's rifle so that it was wedged between them. Bradley continued to drive into the man, and they went down on the ground, rolling in spongy earth. I charged over and grabbed the man's rifle away from him. Then I spun so that I was covering them all with the levelled rifle.

  'OK, boys,' I yelled. 'The deal's the same. You get Bradley out of here, I go after Dantalion.'

  The first agent was the first to recover from our attack. 'You have assaulted FBI agents in the execution of their duties. It is a federal crime, Hunter. You'll be arrested for this.'

  'Get a fuckin' life,' I snapped. 'We all know how this is gonna go down. I'm leaving. You lot get the fuck out of here. You tell Kaufman I escaped. I've gone after the demented killer we all want to see dead. Where's the fucking crime in that?'

  I threw the gun aside, took out my SIG and raced away. None of them lifted a weapon, so it seemed they'd seen sense in my words.

  I'd seen something too. Way ahead of me. A pale blur of a face turned my way. A dark-garbed figure loping across the field towards the huge buildings on the horizon.

  41

  The bullet had clipped Dantalion's right shoulder when he was about to shoot Bradley Jorgenson in the face. It had cut away a large chunk of his hide, but had missed anything serious like an artery or bone. The wound was numb, likely very soon screaming in agony, but not totally debilitating. He could still hold his Glock, he could still shoot, and he could still finish his mission.

  The force of the bullet had knocked him off balance, but that might prove a boon. It offered him another chance at killing Jorgenson. Next time it would take much, much longer and involve an infinite amount of pain.

  The bullet had also thrown him headlong into the putrescent stream, providing salvation. If he'd fallen on the dry ground, Hunter would most definitely have killed him. The murky water had given him cover while he swam away. He was able to surface many yards west of where he'd fallen, concealed from the eyes of Hunter by overhanging foliage. There he'd been able to catch his breath and check the two things most important to him. The Glock was wet, but serviceable. After his last plunge into the Inter-Coastal Waterway, he'd taken care to protect his book in cling film, so it was barely damp when he fished it from inside the jumpsuit. Everything was A-OK.

  Then fortune smiled on him again. The FBI helicopters forced Hunter away from the stream, giving him the opportunity to make his own break for freedom. He heard the roar of the choppers, the hard snap of rifles, and knew that the FBI had confused Hunter with him. Maybe they'd kill the bastard and leave the door open for him to get at Bradley a second time. Or maybe not. He couldn't rely on Lady Luck. He had to make his own opportunities.

  He scrambled along the stream bed, found a place to climb out and crawled up on to the far side. Lying on the embankment, he watched as a chopper set down three armed agents and witnessed Hunter dispatching all three in the space of seconds. Impressive. Hunter was proving a dangerous enemy. Time, he decided, to finish him off.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, he scrutinised again the power station he'd intended taking Bradley to. The buildings had a decrepit look, as if they had not known service in some time. They were bordered by a chain-link fence, but here and there he could make out breaches in it as though vandals had broken into the compound many times over the years. One of the nearer buildings had metal sheets over its windows and doors, but he could also see a gaping doorway where the sheet had been prised loose.

  Rising up, he cast a look backwards.

  Hunter met his gaze, and he nodded in the direction of the buildings.

  Come and get it, asshole.

  Then he took off across the field, heedless of the two McDonnell Douglas choppers circling the nearby field. His leg pained him. His arm didn't yet, but it would only be a matter of time. He had to reach the buildings before Hunter could get close enough to shoot. Expose
d as he crossed the open space, Hunter would be easy meat for Dantalion's bullets.

  A chopper came over the top of the power station, rotors buzzing like an angry hornet. It wasn't one of the black gunships, but the liveried Bell Jet Ranger once piloted by the man whose clothes he now wore.

  The sun was behind the chopper, but he could make out a single man on board. One of the agents from back at Eunice Jorgenson's home. Probably the asshole tasked with bringing him down.

  Dantalion came to a standstill and lifted the Glock. He saw a widening of the eyes of the man piloting the chopper. Dantalion fired. Three rapid bursts that cut a zigzag pattern across the windshield. Behind the starred glass the cockpit changed colour, scarlet puffing in the air.

  Then the chopper was dipping towards him and Dantalion was forced to move as the whirling rotors cleaved air above him as if in a decapitating frenzy. He charged to the left and he felt the displacement of air as the chopper hurtled to the ground. Behind him it sounded as if the earth had exploded. Dirt and dust and grass showered around him. There was the screaming of an engine on overload, the bang! bang! bang! of rotors churning into the ground, followed by shrieks as chunks of hot metal were torn loose and thrown into the air.

  He looked back.

  The Bell Jet Ranger was reduced to scrap metal. Oily black smoke rose like a funeral pyre from the burnt-out engine components. The rotors had been reduced to gnarly stumps. Still, the dying helicopter was groaning, but only until sparks jumped from the overheated engine into the spilled fuel and it gave out one final roar as the entire craft exploded.

  The concussion sent Dantalion sprawling to the ground. Searing heat washed over him and for the briefest of moments he felt as though all life was being sucked from his body. An image flashed through his mind of the petrified victims found in the ashes of Pompeii after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, charred and desiccated corpses twisted into foetal balls. He thought that was how he must look. Except now the heat had gone, the in-gust taking the flames back towards the wreckage of the chopper, and he realised that — apart from singed hair and a throat that felt like it burned — he was unharmed.

  He was face down on the ground with his arms over his head. He had no recollection of striking the pose. He quickly snapped to attention, wondering how much time his killing of the chopper pilot had taken, and how much of his advantage had been torn away in doing so.

  Rolling to his feet, he looked for Hunter. He was two hundred yards nearer and gaining. Then smoke from the doomed chopper rolled across the intervening space and Hunter's charging form was lost from view. Dantalion broke into an ungainly lope, hand fumbling for his book. The book was there, but it took him a second to register that the hand he'd used should have been holding a Glock. He ground to a halt, turned round, searching for where the explosion had thrown the gun to.

  He couldn't see it. Smoking debris lay everywhere. Chunks of hot metal and divots of earth obscured the ground all around where he'd fallen.

  'Son of a bitch!'

  Hunter burst through the smoke bank, his seething eyes picking out Dantalion like lasers.

  He wasn't at an advantage any longer and the nearby building offered only a place to hide.

  If he could even get there before Hunter was close enough to use his handgun.

  This time his flight was fuelled by adrenalin and all his hurts were forgotten.

  42

  It seemed my CIA friend, Walter Hayes Conrad, wields only a limited amount of power. He'd pulled enough strings to ensure Kaufman offered me a level amount of leeway that I was allowed along for the ride. But SAC Kaufman had said that I'd only be given free rein until his own men arrived. It had obviously been his plan to take me out of the picture as soon as he had back-up at the scene. I'd been wrong about Kaufman. He was as much a bureaucratic asshole as most others in his position. He was still the Special Agent in Charge, and he wasn't about to allow me — a loose cannon — the glory of bringing down the professional hit man who'd killed his colleague.

  It was bad form taking down Kaufman's men the way I did. I probably hadn't endeared myself to anyone. My only saving grace was that I hadn't left any of them severely injured. I could foresee that Walter was going to have to kiss a few butts before this was over with. Maybe I would have to as well. But I didn't let that concern me. I had Dantalion in my sights.

  The white-faced killer had a good lead on me. I jumped the irrigation channel, raced after him. I could have taken him out with a rifle, but something had made me throw down the FBI agent's gun in favour of my trusty SIG. Things had grown very personal between us and I'd only be happy if I was looking into the bastard's face when I killed him. Using my SIG meant I'd be able to see the whites of his eyes.

  It wasn't hard to see where he was heading — a complex of buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. My best guess was he wanted to find cover and then pick me off while I was in the open and exposed. So I ran harder, taking that option away from him.

  Then a chopper rose into view from behind the buildings.

  Recognising it as the Bell Jet Ranger I'd hitched a ride here in, I realised that SAC Kaufman was on an ass-covering expedition of his own. There was the roll of automatic gunfire and I staggered against the blast as the chopper went supernova.

  SAC Kaufman didn't need to worry about answering awkward questions any longer.

  The air was full with the stench of aviation fuel, as viscous as warm treacle on my skin. Smoke billowed, but I caught a snatch of movement as Dantalion came to his feet. He set off running, and it was more than my approach that lent wings to his heels. The fucker was unarmed. And he was running scared.

  The thunders of judgement and wrath are numbered, you freak!

  I charged after him. Lifted my SIG and fired a quick volley.

  Contrary to popular belief, even a trained gunman like me can't hit targets at a run. Handguns are notoriously poor for killing people unless you are very close to a static target. But that was OK. My only wish was to keep him running and keep him frightened. My bullets kept him moving, and his face when he glanced back at me was a mask of horror.

  Dantalion reached the fence and he launched himself at a rent in the wires. His clothes snagged and he tore at the wire to free himself. All the while I was gaining on him and I fired again. Sparks marked where my bullets cut through the wires.

  Fifty yards or so separated us. But that distance was shortened with each step. So, I told myself, was Dantalion's time left on this earth.

  The phone in my pocket vibrated.

  Without halting my charge I plucked the phone out of my pocket.

  There was only one person it could be.

  'Rink?'

  'Just lost your signal, buddy. Thought I'd check you were still alive.'

  Above my head was a tangle of high-voltage cables. The buildings appeared derelict but I could hear the faint buzz from the wires, felt the hair stirring at the nape of my neck. There was still power surging through the network, so we were lucky to be able to speak at all.

  'Still alive, Rink,' I huffed as I ran. 'Where you at?'

  'Can't be far off. I can see vultures circling in the sky, and if I'm not mistaken they're looking for pickings from some big old barbecue.'

  Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I saw Rink's vultures. The two 'Little Birds' circling the devastation of the Bell Jet Ranger. The barbecue was SAC Kaufman's funeral pyre.

  'Follow the portents,' I told Rink. 'You ain't too far off. The FBI are playing at assholes now. Can you keep them off my back so I can finish Dantalion?'

  'I'll do my best.'

  'Would have liked you with me, Rink, but things are about to come to a head here.'

  'Just kill the frog-giggin' asshole so's I can go back to my mom.'

  The phone cut out.

  I jammed it back in my pocket, then vaulted through the hole in the fence that Dantalion had used. A metal door in the large building directly in front of me had been pulled askew. Dantalion must h
ave rushed through the door and into the darkness inside.

  I was pretty sure that Dantalion had lost his gun. But I would have been an idiot if I'd blundered inside and been cold-cocked if he was waiting just inside the door. I slowed down. Peripherally I was aware of one of the sleek gunships racing my way. Perhaps they blamed me for the death of their leader. Maybe they were coming to shoot me. But I didn't think so. I waved to the pilot, directing him over the building to cover the exits at that side. The chopper had to swing around the high-voltage cables strung above the compound, but it looked like they were complying with my directions. The other chopper headed away, taking Bradley to safety.

  Marianne Dean was safe. So now was Bradley Jorgenson. There was only one thing I wanted: to ensure that Dantalion couldn't threaten either of them again.

  Pressing myself against the wall to the side of the open door, I drew my Ka-bar. Dantalion could be hiding anywhere, and the knife would be a better weapon than my gun if I stumbled into him in the dark. I shoved the SIG into the waistband at the small of my back, then quickly slipped inside the building.

  My first act was to move away from the light seeping in through the door. Randomly choosing to go left, I moved silently through the shadows. Then I came to a standstill. I held my breath, closed my eyes against the darkness. Even in a pitch-black place the eyes can play tricks on the mind. You see movement in the darkness that isn't there, you jump at images conjured by the mind as the brain attempts to make sense of the sudden blindness. Far better is to trust your other senses and shut off the one suffering deprivation. We naturally close our eyes, so the brain does not rebel against the act; rather it heightens your hearing, your senses of smell and taste and touch. I'm also a firm believer in a sixth sense, that extrasensory perception that warns of impending danger. Maybe it is simply all the senses working in complete unison, maybe it's something paranormal, but it's there. I attuned myself to the dark, listening, smelling, tasting the air. A cool but steady draft wafted from deep inside the building. It caressed my face, but there was no flutter in the breeze, nothing to indicate that a human body moved nearby, disturbing the flow.