Matt Hilton - Judgement and Wrath

'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 frame 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.'

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.