Matt Hilton: Judgement and Wrath

Another dull thud sounded, then the bang and rattle of something clattering down a staircase. I stepped into the foyer just as the man I'd watched outside raced up the stairs. The big man who'd called Marianne inside earlier was dead. A telephone was still in his hand, but he'd ripped the cord loose as he'd died. Another man sprawled on the floor and his blood decorated the walls and made a crazy pattern on the shattered mirror.

What the hell had I got myself into this time? I couldn't take time to ponder the bad luck that had cast its hand my way. Marianne was up those stairs. Who this killer was I had no idea, but whether or not Marianne was the target she wouldn't get out of this situation alive if I stood there trying to figure out the age-old question.

The killer was already out of sight. Another gunshot, then muffled talking. I swung on to the stairs and saw another corpse. A young woman with half her head gone. This angered me more than any number of slaughtered bodyguards. It also told me the killer wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through Marianne as well.

Silent as possible, I made my way up the stairs. The killer and someone I took to be Jorgenson were conversing in low tones. I wasn't concerned about what was said — the threat in the killer's voice was enough to keep me moving.

On the landing now, I moved along the hall. A thick carpet beneath my rubber soles ensured silence and I was able to move directly to the bedroom door without raising the alarm.

There I readied my gun. Listened.

'They?' the killer was asking. 'Who are these they you have so much faith in? They will have to find me first. If I don't want them to find me, they never will.'

Conceited, overconfident bastard, I thought. I entered the room behind him. 'They already have.'

Should have kept my mouth shut. Conceit and overconfidence can get anyone killed.

The killer spun and fired even before I'd done gloating.

His bullet missed me. Only just. But it made me flinch and my return fire missed him as well.

Sometimes sudden violence can have a strange effect on the senses. As adrenalin spurts through the system, you can experience a startling slowing of reality so that everything around you seems like a slow-motion, hyper-clear shot on a 3D screen. Really it's your mind racing as it seeks the options for flight or fight, overtaking the responses of the machine that the engine of the brain powers.

There was an overriding sense of deja vu even as I pulled the trigger again and saw the material of the man's suit jacket trail on the wake of the bullet's passing. Unfortunately there was no blood. Missed the fucker a second time. Then he was lunging to one side and shooting across his body at me. Throwing myself into the room, I fired off a volley of five rounds. Unlike his silenced pistol, my SIG roared like Thor's battle cry.

I was here on the knight errant's quest to save a damsel in distress. I wouldn't be much good to her if I ended up dead.

Swinging round into a sitting position, I levelled my SIG on the killer.

He must have had an equally important reason to live, because he fired back. Burning cold creased my right shoulder. It wasn't a debilitating hit, in fact the bullet had barely grazed me. It was enough to draw my aim though, and my return fire went over his head and struck the door frame as he vaulted back into the landing. The clatter of his feet down the stairs resounded through the house.

Pretty certain he wasn't going to return in the next second or two, I searched for Marianne. She was unhurt, but still in a state of near collapse. Jorgenson was in a duck's crouch of his own, ass almost touching his heels.

'You OK?' I asked the two of them.

Receiving nods from both, I rolled over on my front, swinging to cover the door. 'Jorgenson,' I said. 'Get over here.'

Jorgenson blinked at me, half rose, then sunk down again. Not sure why, but not wanting to approach me either.

I snapped, 'If you want to get out of here alive, you're gonna have to do what I say. Now get the fuck over here!'

I had started this job with the understanding that I might have to kill Bradley Jorgenson. It's funny how fate plays out sometimes. The arrival of this would-be killer had changed the dynamics of my mission. In my mind, Bradley had been someone to be loathed, someone to be put down with all the regret of shooting a rabid dog. And yet here I was, offering to be his protector.

'Are you armed?'

He shook his head.

'What about him?' I jerked my head towards a man folded over a desk.

Jorgenson's eyes teared up. He shook his head sadly.

'Make sure,' I ordered him. 'He could be carrying.'

'He isn't,' Jorgenson said. 'My father. He abhorred violence. He was a man who only wanted to stop pain.'

Noble, I thought, but misguided. Someone who makes their billions from military contracts can't play the moral card when challenged over their source of income. He could say what he wanted, but Daddy Jorgenson was as much to do with causing pain as curing it.

'Check,' I said.

I crept over to the door. Keeping low, I bobbed my head round the frame, then back inside again. I didn't see the killer, but he was likely still in the house. When I glanced in his direction, Jorgenson was gently patting around inside his father's jacket. He was looking at me, his eyes full of disgust.

'Nothing,' he spat, moving away quickly.

'Get Marianne,' I told him. 'Take her over there.'

Jorgenson helped Marianne up. She looked shaky, but unhurt. On rubber legs, she allowed Jorgenson to lead her past the dead man to the far end of the room. Her eyes swooped, like birds chasing insects at dusk, never still, never in one place.

'Do you know that man?' I demanded. I snuck a look round the door frame, noticing a play of shadows from below.

'No,' Jorgenson said. 'And I don't know you. Who the hell are you?'

It was Marianne who offered an explanation. 'He's Joe. He's here to help.'

'You've no idea why he wants you dead?' I asked.

No reply. When I looked, Jorgenson was holding Marianne to him, his hands cupping her head against his chest. Marianne was sobbing into his shirt. The picture of young love. It didn't look much like Marianne had ever suffered at his hands. Maybe she'd only traded one lesser terror for another.

There'd be time for resolving the Jorgenson problem later. Right now there was a far greater danger to Marianne's welfare. The killer was downstairs and he was up to no good.

'Is there another way out of here?' Studying the windows, I decided that we could smash one of them and climb out. It would be a fair drop to the ground but we were all capable of it. What I didn't like the idea of was the killer waiting for us, picking us off from below as we clambered from the window.

RINK HOW FAR AWAY

My text was hurried. Thankfully I received his reply in seconds, but it wasn't what I wanted to see.

FIFTEEN MINS

Not soon enough. The killer wasn't going to wait that long.

I heard a clatter and dull thump from below us.

'What's he doing?' Marianne asked.

I'd been thinking the same thing. Sounded like he was in the kitchen.

MEET US SOBE, I sent to Rink.

In her schoolgirl guise, Marianne might not have been much help in these circumstances. But as the sleek trophy Jorgenson had made of her, perhaps there was something she could bring into play.

'Marianne, you have perfume in here?'

Marianne stared at me as if I was mad. In all honesty she wasn't so far removed from the truth. 'Perfume?'

'Good stuff. Concentrated.'

She nodded, pulling free from Jorgenson's embrace. She took a wide berth round the dead man and went to a credenza where she pulled open a compartment and grabbed at bottles of scent. Judging by the brands and designs of the bottles, she handed me the makings of a bomb that would cost thousands of dollars.