by Matt Hilton
Rink stood up. Walked along the hall. He checked the door to the secondary stairwell. Still locked. He walked back to the head of the main stairs. Peered down them. Turned and came back. It made sense to stay vigilant, but Rink was conducting a patrol just to be doing something. It wasn't like him. Rink could sit in the same position for hours on end without giving any signs that he was anything but an inanimate feature of the landscape. On seek and destroy missions we'd often be dropped miles from our targets. We'd make our way in, find an observation point, then sit tight while gauging enemy strengths and weaknesses. Once we were conducting surveillance on a terrorist training camp in the deserts of Libya. Rink took point and dug himself in less than twenty yards from the enemy base. He was there undetected for seventy-three hours before we launched our assault and wiped the bastards out.
His unease had nothing to do with our current mission.
'You shouldn't be here, Rink.'
He looked down at me. 'None of us should.'
'You know what I mean, buddy. You should be in San Francisco with your family.'
He nodded slowly, his gaze staring off to somewhere very distant. 'You're family, too.'
'OK.'
I didn't say another word on the subject. The decision was Rink's.
'Maybe we should draw on a few contacts, see if we can find out who this hit man is. We know him, we know his MO. We'll have a better idea of how to stop him.'
'I'll get Harvey on to it.'
Harvey Lucas was our friend out in the Midwest. He was an ex-Army Ranger who now ran his own private investigations outfit in Arkansas. He'd been an invaluable ally during a case we'd been involved with last year. He'd backed us up when the bullets were flying, and he'd got the job done. He was also damn good when it came to gathering the kind of information not generally in the public arena.
'I'll leave you to it. I'll go and speak to Marianne again.'
Rink brought out his mobile phone and hit a hot key.
I knocked on Marianne's door.
She answered it immediately. Almost as if she'd had her ear to the door. Her hair was pinned up again, and she'd changed her clothes. Tight blue jeans and a pale yellow sweater that bared her shoulders and the upper swell of her breasts. Her neck made a long sweeping curve towards the cream skin of her chest. I couldn't help a quick glance.
Marianne caught my look and she stirred uncomfortably.
'Come in.' Her arms folded, and I couldn't help but notice they went above her breasts this time.
'Mind if I ask you something?' I said as I followed her into the room. It was a well-appointed room, but I was more conscious of the delicate perfume that hovered in the space. The scent of her shampooed hair and freshly scrubbed skin. She'd been showering again. I felt a little awkward. A little like a father who is used to walking into his young daughter's room unannounced, until that day when suddenly he realises that this isn't a child any more. She's a woman that I don't recognise! After that he always knocks and hesitates in the doorway, shucking off the offer to enter.
'What would you like to know?'
'Your necklace,' I pointed out. 'I noticed it was missing.'
Her hand crept up to her throat, fluttered there like the beating wings of a butterfly.
'In the photographs you were wearing a small cross on a chain.'
'My mother's necklace,' she offered. I saw a shadow flit behind her eyes.
'You aren't wearing it now.'
'No,' she said. Her voice went to a whisper. 'It got broken.'
'It couldn't be fixed?'
'I… I don't have it any more.'
She didn't want to speak about it. I guessed it had been torn from her throat during the assault. A sore subject that she didn't want to acknowledge, let alone revisit. Quickly, I changed tack. 'It's not safe to stay here, you do realise that?'
'I'm not leaving without Bradley.'
'Bradley can come with us, but I think that it would be safer to take you somewhere that isn't associated with the Jorgenson family.'
'Not home.'
'No, Marianne, not home. Somewhere that can't be connected to you.'
'Why is this man after us?'
'Truthfully? I don't know.' I wondered how much of my suspicions I should lay on her. Decided that she had a right to know. 'There's been a suggestion that some of Bradley's family resent the fact that he's been named as sole heir to the business.'
'He has the right,' Marianne said. 'His father handed it on when he was too ill to continue, just as his father did before him.'
'I've no problem with that. But from what we've been able to gather, his father had two brothers. They also have children. They believe that they have been as instrumental in building the family business as Bradley has. They think that it should have been shared equally among them.'
'I know all of his cousins. Jack and Simon are brothers. Then there is Petre. He's the eldest. I can't believe that they would have anything to do with harming either Bradley or me.'
'Petre would stand to inherit the business if anything happened to Bradley?'
'Yes… but…' She shivered involuntarily.
'Envy among family members is nothing new,' I told her. 'Under the surface even the closest of siblings can be concealing a deep-seated hatred. It can stay hidden for life and taken to the grave. Sometimes it erupts into anger and violence. Especially where huge amounts of money are concerned.'
'And you think Petre may be responsible?'
'Petre doesn't like you, does he?'
'No.' I saw her fiddle again with the non-existent cross. Wondered why she wouldn't just come out with it. She asked, 'Do you think Petre would really go that far?'
'Could be any one of the cousins. Or all,' I said. 'Maybe I'm wrong and it's none of them. Regardless, there is a man who has tried, and will try again, to kill you and Bradley.'
'When he came to the house last night, he shot Bradley's father. He didn't know who Valentin was. That doesn't sound like someone working for any member of the family.'
'Maybe he knew,' I pointed out. 'But he just didn't care.'
'But why kill the man whose wealth is the bone of contention? Surely that only speeds up the process of dropping it into Bradley's lap?'
'Good point,' I conceded. 'Perhaps the killer has nothing to do with any of Bradley's family. Maybe it's got nothing at all to do with the business. Can you think of anyone else who would want the two of you dead?'
'No,' she said, but I could tell she wasn't being truthful. Something about the way her fingers again went to her throat, seeking solace from the missing crucifix, told me so.
20
Dantalion was under the same bridge on the same beach, but the family with the crabby kid had long gone. The sun was a bloody slash on the western horizon. Out to the east, the first stars were twinkling in the purple evening. Above him the sky was a brown-yellow colour where day fought night, but was rapidly losing ground. Dantalion wished that night would get on with it, sucker-punch day, and then stamp it into surrender. He needed the darkness. It was his greatest ally.
He was sitting on a hummock of grass, his feet sunk in sand. Around him lay the flotsam cast up by the sea, sun-bleached twigs and the cast-off shells of crustaceans. There was also the ubiquitous plastic bag, dropped by someone careless. A soda can, ferrous-red around its lip, was buried to the shoulders in the sand. Between Dantalion's splayed feet was the backpack delivered to him by Gabe Wellborn.
From the bag he pulled out the sound suppressor. The one he had used last night was useless now. Suppressors didn't have an infinite lifespan, each successive shot robbing them of their effectiveness. He screwed this fresh one into place on his specially adapted Beretta. He disengaged the magazine from his gun, inserted a new one, slid the loading mechanism to place a round into the firing chamber. He then fed a round into the magazine so that he had the full seventeen-round load ready to go.
Placing the gun across his left thigh, he reached back into the bag and took out a
second gun. This wasn't nearly as effective a man-killer as the Beretta, but as he'd said to his associate, ' Don't worry, Gabe, I won't be using it on humans.' The gun looked like something patched together from a plumber's offcuts. A pipe and valve and a canister. A simple trigger mechanism was the only item that looked as though it had been gleaned from a genuine firearm. It was a dart gun powered by compressed gas and could deliver the ketamine cartridges over a space of fifty yards.
Next came the night-vision goggles. They were advanced Generation Three goggles, military grade with image intensifier capacity, bright source protection and wide exit pupil design. They came with a fully adjustable, padded head rig to allow hands-free operation. With these in place he would have the ability to move through the darkness as though it was high noon. His enemies would be blind to his presence even when he was standing in front of them.
Last out of the bag was the EMF meter, a device for measuring electrical and magnetic fields. This particular device was distinct in its very wide frequency response and sensitivity. Any pressure pads or trip wires hidden in the grounds of the compound would set off an audio sounder not unlike the Geiger counter, increasing in intensity the closer he approached the hidden alarms.
The sun was almost down now. Under the bridge the shadows had thickened and swarmed around him like furtive confederates. He slipped out of his coat, bundled it and placed it into the backpack. In went his hat and sunglasses and he strapped the goggles on to his head, flipping up the dual-tubular-optics so that he could still use his own vision for now. He was dressed in close-fitting sweatshirt and cargo pants — the type with numerous deep pockets — tucked into laced-up boots. In the daytime Dantalion dressed in white or cream clothing, but his current garb was as black as the night folding around him. He holstered the Beretta on his hip; the wound in his thigh made it too uncomfortable to carry the gun in its normal position. Extra magazines were fed into the deep pockets on his left thigh. The EMF meter had a clip and he fixed it to his belt. He swung the backpack across his shoulders and cinched the straps tight. Lastly he picked up the compressed-gas gun and inserted a ketamine-charged dart into it, then thumbed the canister control.
He straightened, took a couple of steps so he could peer from under the bridge towards the gate he'd reconnoitred earlier. He couldn't make it out in the dark, not until he slipped the goggles in place. Twinkling green light played on the interior of the goggles. Now he could clearly see the dark bulk of the boundary wall on the horizon to his left.
Ready now, he set off, keeping low so that he was nothing but an amorphous shape against the swaying grasses. Earlier he'd picked his way painfully through the tall grass, but now he went more swiftly. The sunlight on his delicate skin was no longer an issue, and the cargo pants staved off the prickling edges of the grass stems.
Cars moved along the coastal highway, their lights streaking across the elevated bridge like a flight of UFOs. The sound was hushed by the fall of night; even the Atlantic made only the faintest of whispers where it caressed the shoreline.
Dantalion made his way through the grasslands, coming to the wall slightly east of the gate. Using the magnifying capacity of the goggles, he studied the CCTV camera mounted over the gate. It was angled away from him. Seemingly static, as though the controller within the grounds was taking a nap. The likelihood was that with a system of a large number of cameras, the controller rarely used this one. Wasn't much to look at during the dark hours. He'd probably be concentrating on the traffic outside the estate, or taking voyeuristic peeks into the bedchambers of the Jorgenson women.
Dantalion decided against shooting out the camera. Whereas a malfunctioning camera along the wall near to the road wouldn't be of immediate concern, a broken camera at this remote corner of the grounds could call for immediate investigation. He scanned to the right towards the beach end of the wall, saw that the wall ended in a right angle, but that a tall fence extended out across the sand and disappeared into the Atlantic. The gate remained his best choice for entry unless he wanted to swim a couple hundred yards.
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 th
roes 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.