by Matt Hilton
He tested the rusty chain and lock, found that they were still very strong in spite of the corrosion. Taking out his Beretta, he aimed at the lock. Fired once. Fired again. The lock shattered, but it was a task to twist it out of the links and unwind the chain from the metal bars. All the while he kept a discreet eye on the CCTV camera, anticipating it swinging his way. It never did.
Hauling one side of the gate towards him, he slipped through the gap. Then he tugged the gate shut. Immediately he took out the EMF meter and switched it on. Lights danced across the top of the device as it ran through a calibration sequence. He cupped a hand over it to smother the lights. It made a soft beep! Then a green pinpoint held steady. Ready to go.
Beretta back in its holster, he held the dart gun in his right hand, the EMF meter in his left, sweeping the ground as he advanced. Through the enhanced lenses of his night-vision goggles the nearest houses were black-green hulks, but lights from within the rooms were exaggerated, causing flare that looked like cold flames. The heavens above were afire with twinkling stars. Mist off the Atlantic swirled like translucent phantoms.
‘Planning on a ghost hunt?’
Gabe Wellborn’s attempt at humour came back to him. Dantalion smiled. It was as if he was traversing a haunted landscape. He recalled his own words: ‘There might be a few ghosts around after I’m done.’ Everything going to plan, his lists would be corrected, and there’d be further numbers to add.
Keeping close to the beach where the tall grass was left to nature, he continued past the first few structures. He needed to walk the best part of a mile to reach his destination. He had plenty of time, so he wasn’t frustrated by his slow pace. Just because he hadn’t yet come across hidden security devices didn’t mean that they weren’t there. He was vigilant with the EMF meter, and scanned with the goggles in continuous arcs of vision.
Almost twenty minutes later he ducked down among the reeds. A motor launch was creeping through the shallow water, a searchlight sweeping the beach for interlopers. The boat continued to the south, and Dantalion came out of his crouch, moving inland now. The long grass gave way to a low wall, behind which was a manicured lawn, and beyond that a statue-dotted garden.
The EMF meter finally warranted the effort of bringing it. The clicking started the moment he approached the low wall. Dantalion searched for the source of electrical disturbance: a motion detector mounted on the wall itself. Further along would be a second motion detector. A laser beam was fired between both contraptions, and anything breaking the beam would set off an alarm inside the house. It was a sneaky alarm, designed to catch out anyone stepping over the wall. Wouldn’t stop him if he vaulted over the top of it. Which was exactly what he did.
If the security-conscious Jorgensons were clever they’d have placed pressure pads just inside the wall where a person jumping over the motion detector beam would be caught out by the secondary appliance. But Dantalion knew that dogs roamed the grounds after dark, so any pressure pads weren’t practical. Being pragmatic though, he swept the lawn in front of him. The EMF meter remained silent. He moved forwards, looking for cameras. The house in front of him was huge. Cameras stood out from the roof line, but the two he could see scanned the areas at the sides of the building. Other cameras were mounted above the grand entrance door, but these were trained on the threshold itself, and he wouldn’t be going in that way.
Staying out of the visual arcs of the cameras, he moved close to the building; its left wing extended out from the entrance portal. He crept up to it, keeping below the line of the windows, and then used the angle of the building to move directly beneath the CCTV camera. It would have a wide lens, but he doubted that he’d be visible when pressed directly to the wall; the cameras were positioned to spot anyone moving towards the building, not actually against it. He drew the Beretta, stretched upwards and fired a single shot into the camera housing. Sparks showered and the camera swung lazily to one side, then dipped in the final throes of its mechanical life.
Dantalion sped along the side of the building. At the far corner, he paused, peeking around the back of the house. Glad that he’d brought the ketamine, he lifted the gas-powered gun.
The dogs were penned in a compound. It was too early for their handlers to start their patrols and the two German Shepherds were lying with their heads on their paws, staring back at the house with a patience that had to be seen as virtuous. Dantalion took aim, vectoring in the slight breeze, the loss of velocity of the dart over the intervening space. He checked the gas pressure, flicked it higher. Aimed again. He squeezed the trigger and the gun gave a soft bark. In response both dogs’ ears twitched. One of them yelped, swinging up from its crouch, inspecting the tasselled object embedded in its rump. Within the next second the dog dropped to the ground, one paw scrabbling uselessly at the earth. Dantalion had charged the dart with enough ketamine to fell a buffalo, or to give a dozen crackheads the trip of a lifetime.
The second German Shepherd was confused by the conflicting stimuli. It had heard the gun discharge and duty bade it set off a racket, but it also watched its pack mate fall to the ground and moved to inspect it. Dantalion shot the second dog. The dart struck it just below its left shoulder. Angrily the dog turned on the stinging missile, trying futilely to pull the barbed dart from its flesh. It collapsed mid-snap.
Dantalion hurriedly slung the gun over his shoulder, came forwards drawing his Beretta. Beyond the dogs was a space where cars were parked. He moved among them, tempted to shoot out the tyres, but deciding not to. He would need the ammunition for something more important.
21
Bradley Jorgenson returned from Miami looking worn and harassed. Immaculately presented when I’d seen him earlier, he now looked as unkempt as if he’d spent the night on a park bench. He was pale, his reddish hair dark with perspiration and standing up at weird angles as though he’d been pushing his sweating palms through it. His trousers were rumpled and moisture dampened his shirt beneath his armpits and at his lower back. His tie was askew, and the top button of his shirt was open.
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 p
atterns 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.’
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 wi
thout 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.’