Judgement and Wrath jh-2

by Matt Hilton

  Brush Cut looked at Rink. Then at me. He sniffed once, then turned away, indicating that the others should get back in the car. Only the man at the gate controls waited.

  Back in the Porsche, Rink drove through the gate and past the sedan. He pulled into the turning circle, waited until the gate guard was back in the sedan and it had gone past us. Then we followed.

  'Well, that was easier than we thought,' I said to Rink.

  'Could be taking us somewhere less public to shoot us,' Rink said.

  We followed the sedan along the road, came to a collection of houses, almost a village community in itself. I thought they must be on-site accommodation for the large number of staff that had to be employed on the estate. At its highest point, Neptune Island was only a few yards above sea level. The ground swelled at its centre then quickly dipped down towards the shoreline. The houses built just above the shoreline were large and impressive, more like the stately homes from back in the UK than any I expected to find on the Florida coast. They were set at intervals of perhaps a quarter-mile apart, like the forts the Roman Empire once built to guard their frontiers.

  The sedan angled towards the largest house of all. It would only be about fifty years old, but the architects must have drawn inspiration from Victorian times. A bird's-eye view would have seen an immense sprawl of red slate roof, shaped like a capital 'H'. My angle showed me a three-storey wing at either side, attached by a cross section that had windows extending from the roof-line to a yard or so above the ground. The windows were like those seen in cathedrals, but without the coloured glass. Kind of excessive, however much money you had to waste.

  The silver sedan I assumed had held Bradley Jorgenson was already there, now empty. The driver was sitting on the hood of his vehicle. His arms were crossed, one hand nonchalantly dipping into the folds of his jacket. A second man stood on the far side, and he was a lot more obvious about the way he held an Uzi sub-machine gun braced across his stomach. The second sedan pulled up next to it, leaving room for Rink's Porsche between the two of them.

  Brush Cut and his three companions climbed out of their vehicle, circling the Porsche like sharks. They were all holding sidearms.

  Climbing out ourselves, we were clear on our intentions. Our guns remained out of sight and we showed our empty palms. Brush Cut pointed a Glock 17 at my chest.

  'You can drop the posturing,' I said to Brush Cut. 'We're not here to cause trouble. We're here to help Jorgenson.'

  'We don't need any help.' Brush Cut waved us towards the house with a jerk of his gun. 'We can handle things.'

  Beside me, Rink grumbled to himself. He wasn't the only one bemoaning how amateur these guys were. What kind of bodyguards allow armed men to bring a vehicle directly up to the house where their principal is in residence? We could have a bomb under the hood for all they knew. Despite their guns, I was pretty sure Rink and I could draw and fire and all six of them would be dead or incapacitated in seconds. Any other time, I imagined Rink would have laughed in Brush Cut's face. But Rink wasn't in the best of moods. Neither was I.

  'Where's Jorgenson?'

  'Inside.'

  He made it sound like an order, but that's where we wanted to be at any rate. We walked quickly towards a large wooden door, causing the others to stumble into a ragged skirmish line behind us. They were like children falling in behind the toughest kids in school.

  The door swung open before we reached it and we were greeted by another couple of rent-a-punks. These two were your typical intimidators, men mountains with shaven-heads, broken noses and tattoos on their depressed knuckles. I brushed by them, not intimidated in the least. It's not guys with smashed-up faces that you have to fear, it's the unmarked ones; the ones who win all the fights. Sounds a little arrogant, but neither Rink nor I has the face of a second-rate pug.

  Jorgenson was waiting for us in a huge room shelved floor-to-ceiling with a library of books to rival a university for knowledge. A cursory glance showed me that most of the titles were in northern European languages. Jorgenson was sitting behind a huge mahogany desk, elbows splayed, his chin resting in his hands. He watched our entry with a look of bored resignation.

  'You made it out the house, then? I thought I saw you looking over the wall afterwards.'

  'Yeah, I made it out. With no thanks to you,' I said. 'Didn't help being crowned with a bottle just before the place went up.'

  He sat up a little straighter. His palms fell open. 'I couldn't be sure whose side you were really on.'

  'I wasn't the one shooting at you.'

  'You were about to burn down the house.'

  'I think that's a little academic now,' I pointed out.

  A shadow crossed his face. 'They still haven't found my father.'

  Brush Cut and one other had followed us into the room. The rest all stood in various poses of menace in the hallway.

  'Relax, Jorgenson, will you? If I was going to kill you I'd have done it by now.' I held his gaze and he finally gave a nod in return. He waved the pack away, but indicated that Brush Cut and the other man should stay handy. I said, 'Better if we spoke in private.'

  'You haven't killed me yet,' Jorgenson replied. 'Doesn't mean you won't.'

  Rink laughed sardonically, 'You think these frog-giggin' assholes would stop us?'

  'Hey!' Brush Cut said. He stepped up close, realised just how big Rink was and faltered. Rink turned his head to regard the man as though he was something he'd tracked in on his boots.

  'Try it, buddy,' Rink said. 'Go on. I'm in the right mood for slapping someone down.'

  Jorgenson smiled at the testosterone-charged atmosphere. 'Mr Seagram is a highly regarded executive protector. He came from the Marine Corps with top recommendations.'

  'Hurrah,' Rink grunted. 'What did you do in the service, Seagram? Cook?'

  'West Point,' Seagram stated.

  Rink sniffed, unimpressed. 'Yeah, they have cooks there. Decent cooks, I'll give you that.'

  Seagram looked like he'd been slapped. But I could tell his mind was caught in flux. Rink had insulted him and paid a compliment in the same breath. Rink grinned, showing he was just ragging him. It was one of those forces things where all soldiers put down anyone who wasn't in their own troop. Seagram moved away, at a loss as to how to respond.

  'Are we all finished now?' Jorgenson asked.

  'We haven't started yet,' I told him.

  'That's true. I don't even know who you are.'

  'Where's Marianne?'

  'Why do you want to know?'

  'Because we're here more for her than for you.'

  'Can I ask why?'

  'You can ask.'

  He shook his head. 'And you are?'

  'I'm Joe Hunter.'

  'What about him?' Jorgenson looked at Rink.

  ' He can speak for himself,' Rink said. 'My friends call me Rink. But you can call me Jared Rington.' He turned and shot a wink at Seagram. 'Mr Rington to you.'

  Seagram hissed something under his breath. He turned his back on us and went to lean against the bookshelves. The other man, who'd remained silent throughout, blinked rapidly, looking from Seagram to Jorgenson. He was a whip-thin man with spiky, sandy-coloured hair and freckled face. He wasn't long out of high school, judging by his fresh face. Looked like he wished he was back there.

  'What's your interest in me?' Jorgenson asked.

  'Zero. It's Marianne we've come about.'

  Jorgenson's lips twitched down. 'Marianne doesn't know you either. She told me about speaking to you in the garden. But she says that she'd never seen you before that. Is that true?'

  'Do you doubt her?'

  'No.' Jorgenson stared into my eyes. 'I love her.'

  'Tough love,' Rink muttered.

  Jorgenson snapped his gaze on Rink. Colour flushed up from his throat, making his cheeks a dapple of red blotches.

  'What does that mean?' he demanded.

  I leaned one fist on his desk. Time to interject, I thought. Rink wasn't in the best fram
e of mind to lead the negotiations. 'Forget it,' I told him. 'What I'm concerned with is what happened last night. The man at your house was there to kill the two of you. We're committed to protecting Marianne. Now, you say you love her. If that's the case, you will want Marianne to be protected. Seems to me that we're on the same agenda.'

  'We don't need you,' Seagram said from the far side of the room.

  'You don't?'

  Jorgenson said, 'I trust my staff to protect us.'

  'You shouldn't. They opened the gate to men who they know nothing about, allowed us to carry guns inside. We parked a car outside that could be packed with Semtex for all they knew.'

  Jorgenson nodded along with my reasoning. But then his finger came up and wagged in my direction. 'But that was after I'd viewed you on the security system. I recognised you. Like you said earlier, if you were going to kill me, you'd have done so by now.'

  'Fair enough.'

  'I take it you have some kind of offer in mind?'

  'Not interested in working for you, if that's what you're thinking.'

  Jorgenson shrugged. He acknowledged Seagram. 'I'm happy with who I have already.'

  'But I do want to speak to Marianne. If she wants us, then we will work for her.'

  'And if I don't allow that?'

  'Then we're going to have a problem.'

  16

  Back in his truck, Dantalion headed north. Following the boundary wall of the estate, he scouted out other entry points should his first plan fail. The wall was twelve feet tall in most places. Nothing as obvious as razor wire had been installed, but he had the feeling that pressure pads would be laid along the top and numerous more sown inside the perimeter. They could prove a problem, but not insurmountable to someone with his skills. The CCTV cameras weren't too much of a concern either. A well-aimed shot would put a camera out of commission. A system with so many cameras would be prone to occasional malfunction; by the time a maintenance crew had come out to investigate, he'd have been in and out again, his business done.

  He had more to worry about than cameras and pressure pads. He could hear distant barking. The estate was guarded by patrol dogs. It would take a master magician to spirit himself in and out of an enemy stronghold where trained attack dogs were running loose. Sometimes he wished his assumed identity came with all the trappings of the original Dantalion. Dark angels have nothing to fear from dogs. Being a mere mortal still, he'd have to come up with a contingency.

  He took out his BlackBerry, checked for messages. Nothing new. Just the same old message from his associate about the non-arrival of his fee. One hand on the wheel, he thumbed in a request, then sent the email spinning through cyberspace.

  Eyes off the road for a split second, he almost missed the occupants of the car passing him on the other side of the road. However, something subliminal grabbed at his mind, made him glance at the Porsche Boxster in a moment's admiration for the vehicle. The small, sleek beauty was the black of glistening tar. The driver was of no concern; he was a muscular brute with straight black hair and tawny skin. There was a livid scar across his chin that was as white as Dantalion's entire body. No, it was the passenger who caught his attention.

  He wasn't as big as the driver, rangy of build rather than muscular, with the broad shoulders of a swimmer or gymnast. His short brown hair had only the faintest hint of grey at the temples. It was the kind of face that could blend in with a crowd, but the intensity of his eyes would set him apart. Women would love those eyes, men would fear them.

  Dantalion cursed under his breath.

  The gunman from last night.

  'How the fuck did you survive that explosion?'

  But then the Porsche was by him and he was left wondering if perhaps he'd been wrong. He hadn't got a good look; maybe the man in the passenger seat merely bore a passing resemblance to the man who'd almost killed him.

  His hand crept to his thigh. The bullet wound was a constant ache radiating through the entire muscle, up his hip to his spine. He'd cleaned and dressed the wound, but it obviously hadn't been enough. It was a worry, but nothing that would stop him. Conversely, he'd been fortunate: If he'd been standing another few inches to the right, the gunman's bullets would have found a more fatal target than his leg.

  Whoever that man had been, he couldn't possibly have escaped the exploding building. Dantalion had heard him retreat into the bedroom just as he had brought flame to the lighter. There had been only seconds before detonation.

  No. The would-be assassin was as dead as everyone else in the house. He was already numbered in Dantalion's book. Just below Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean. The numbers never lied.

  Still, he looked for a place to turn, and then spun the vehicle around and pushed the truck after the Porsche. The man had the eyes of a killer. Even if he happened to be an unfortunate doppelganger, Dantalion had to find out. Perhaps he'd even have to kill the man.

  Almost a mile later, Dantalion drove by the main entrance to the Jorgenson estate. He was intent on catching up with the Porsche and almost missed the vehicle parked outside the entrance gate. The two from the Porsche were talking to some of Jorgenson's security men who were standing on the far side. He only got a fleeting glance and couldn't be sure if it was the same man from yesterday. He had his back to Dantalion and his clothing was different. One thing he did notice though; Dantalion recognised one of the security men. The one with the brush cut. He'd been one of the men with Petre Jorgenson yesterday. One of those who'd feigned interest in the statue of Christopher Columbus at Bayside Park in Miami.

  Doing the math in his head, there was only one answer. Brush Cut had been with Petre. His client had asked him to kill Bradley and Marianne Dean. A mystery man had turned up, almost killing Dantalion. A mystery man who bore more than a passing resemblance to the hired killer who was now talking to Brush Cut. Ergo, Dantalion had definitely been set up to die by Petre.

  He turned the truck round.

  Sped back northward.

  He pressed the button to lower the window. Pulled free his Beretta, hanging it out of the window.

  It didn't take a talented assassin to drive by a victim, poke a gun out of a window and shoot a man dead as he stepped down from his front porch. Any half-assed idiot with a gun could do that. Dantalion murdered in a fashion that was more thoughtful than that, planned to create impact. But every now and again a good old drive-by shooting was just what was required.

  He slowed down and held the gun steady against the window ledge.

  But he was too late.

  The Porsche was already inside the compound, following a silver sedan. Other men were climbing into a second silver sedan. One of them was Brush Cut. A single guard was standing next to a control box, and the gate was swinging shut. Dantalion pulled the Beretta back inside, just as the guard glanced his way. Dantalion gave the man a nod, a tourist enjoying the drive. The guard didn't even notice.

  Opportunities like that one didn't present themselves too often. He'd missed it. But this evening he'd make his own opportunities and this time he would not miss.

  17

  'Who are you?'

  The same question kept being asked of me. I suppose this time I owed more explanation than simply giving my name and that I was there to help. Marianne deserved as much.

  'My name is Joe Hunter.'

  'So you weren't lying.' I didn't quite catch her meaning, and she went on. 'Yesterday when you introduced yourself, you told me you were called Joe.'

  'I wasn't lying about the rest, either.'

  'That you were there to help?'

  We were in a room adjacent to the library. Rink was keeping Bradley, Seagram and the third man company. I only hoped his surliness didn't provoke a confrontation before I could reassure Marianne of our good intentions.

  She'd changed since I saw her last.

  She had on black trousers and pumps, a pale cream blouse. But that's not what I meant.

  She looked different.

  Her light b
rown hair was loose, full of body as though recently washed. Her skin was pink and she wafted a scent that was more delicate fragrance of soap than expensive perfume. I guessed her shower had been long and very hot. Her flight from the house on Baker Island would have meant her clothes were tinged with the reek of smoke and dust and debris. But that wasn't what she was trying to scrub away. You could wash all you wanted, but you also had to expunge the memories from your mind. It sometimes took that to remove the stench after witnessing violent death.

  She was perched on the edge of a desk, her feet swinging in space. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts. Her body language was in conflict. The swinging feet were those of a young innocent girl, but the folded arms said she was now much wiser than her years, and understood the need to protect herself. She'd experienced something that most adults never have to go through, never mind a child. She had survived where she should have died, and she was suddenly feeling her mortality weighing on her as heavy as the collapsed house she'd so narrowly escaped.

  'How did you know that… that monster was coming?'

  'I didn't,' I said. 'I was there for another reason.'

  She stared down at her feet. They were still now.

  'My father?'

  'Yes. Your father asked me to bring you home.'

  'I don't want to go home.'

  'I understand. You're an adult now. You want to live your own life.'

  She shook her head slowly. 'That's not what I meant. I don't want to leave. My life is here now. With Bradley.'

  'You don't have to be afraid of him. If you want, I'll take you away from here now.'

  Marianne gave a small laugh. It wasn't humour, though. Not relief. 'Afraid of him. Yes, you could say that.'

  'I won't let him hurt you again,' I promised.

  'If you take me home, there will be no way to stop him. You couldn't be there all the time. He'd get to me sooner or later.'

  'What has he done to you, Marianne? To make you so afraid? I saw the police photographs of your assault. Why didn't you go through with an official complaint then? This would all be over now. You'd be free of him.'