Matt Hilton - Judgement and Wrath

'The man's name is Joe Hunter. He's freelance.'

'So you hired outside the network.' Dantalion directed his comment at Petre, who lifted his shoulders in a 'so what?' gesture. Dantalion wasn't in Petre Jorgenson's network either, so this was no major surprise.

Seagram said, 'He wasn't hired by us.'

'Don't lie to me,' Dantalion said. 'I saw you talking to this Hunter earlier. At the front gate.'

Seagram made an apologetic nod towards Petre. 'No offence, sir. My allegiance lies here, but officially I work for Bradley Jorgenson. I was with Bradley when Hunter and his partner turned up at the front gate. Unannounced, I may add.'

'So it was Bradley who hired him?' Despite his misgivings, Dantalion could see how that could work.

'No.'

'No? Then who?'

'Like I said, Hunter is a freelance. Our best guess is that it was Marianne Dean's father. Hunter's there to protect Marianne.'

'How would her father know I was coming?'

'He wouldn't,' Petre put in. 'Hunter turning up was a coincidence, that's all. He has come here for reasons of his own.'

Dantalion gently stroked the book beneath the material of his sweater.

Seagram went on; 'There is no love lost between Bradley and Hunter. However, Bradley's doing what he is told. Hunter's moved in and practically taken over the security arrangements in the house. Him and his partner, some asshole who goes by the name of Rink.'

'Two of them. Is that all?'

'I'm still in charge of security, whatever Hunter thinks,' Seagram said, his face rigid. 'I command all the others in Bradley's house. I can ensure that there is just the two of them.'

Dantalion looked away from the man. He was a disgrace, a turncoat with no honour. Check Gabe Wellborn into the same box. He returned his attention to his client. This was a man who desired his own cousin dead. He was no better than Gabe or Seagram. But for one important fact. He was the man with the money.

Petre Jorgenson spoke now, 'Thanks for your input, Mr Seagram. Best you get back to Bradley before you are missed.'

After he was gone, Petre said, 'So how does this play out, Dantalion? Now that you know we are not enemies.'

'I'd be dead by now if you weren't considering some new arrangement,' Dantalion said. 'Double the money. Half up front for services already rendered. The remainder when I kill Bradley, Marianne and Rink. I'll kill Hunter for free.'

Petre nodded. Satisfied in part. 'How do we know that we won't be in this self-same position after you are done with Bradley and the others?'

'It wouldn't be good for business if I went around killing my clients, would it?' He gave a slow smile that would have curdled milk. 'Now, I see Gabe has his laptop with him. He can patch into your system, transfer the money across to my account. Once that's done, you can count me in. Deal?'

'Deal,' Petre said.

They didn't shake hands. Petre recalled the scaly touch of Dantalion's fingers.

'Five hundred thousand, now, Gabe. Five hundred on completion,' Petre ordered. Double again the price just requested. 'Call it a token of my sincerity.'

Gabe flipped open the laptop, and set to it with a speed that belied his bulk. Dantalion smiled inwardly. Not too bad a resolution when all was said and done.

'That's it!' Gabe said with a final flourish. 'The money has been transferred to your offshore account.'

Pointing to the man who held his Beretta, Dantalion said, 'I'll need my gun.'

The man looked across at his boss for assurance. Petre gestured assent, sitting back in his seat.

'Relax,' Dantalion told the guard as he accepted the Beretta into his hand. 'We're on the same side again.'

Then he shot the guard point blank in the face.

Hollywood glamourises gun battles. On screen there are bunches of men loosing bullets while remaining cool and objective throughout. Every bullet finds a mark in the bad guys, while the hero dodges and whirls and avoids injury. Dantalion didn't mind that scenario. He was the hero. The only man of honour in this pit of filth. But he was also a realist.

Gun battles are down and dirty. No getting away from it.

He would accept the risk of debilitating injury — even death — to get the job done.

One guard dead. Three with guns in their hands. Petre Jorgenson already reaching for his. Gabe just a fat useless lump in the corner.

Dantalion fired again. Not at anyone. He shot out the light bulb above his head. There remained enough light-spill from the hall that he could still be seen, but that was OK. He slammed shut the door.

The Cuban guard brought up his gun and fired. The bullet made a hole in the door that sent a shaft of light across the room. It was as good as a laser guide back to the man who'd fired the gun. Dantalion fired twice, both bullets striking the man's body. Droplets of blood rained through the narrow beam of light.

Bullets punched the wall next to Dantalion, but he was already moving, dodging and whirling and avoiding injury like the best that Hollywood could offer. Snapping the night-vision goggles over his face. Firing 9 mm ammunition at the guards. One he got in the head, the other in the chest. Then, with no more than five seconds gone since he'd killed the first guard, he moved across the room towards his client.

Petre Jorgenson fired.

Dantalion felt the displacement of air by his left ear, realised how close the bullet had come to taking his head off. He shot back and his bullet didn't miss. Petre slumped back into his seat, the Glock 19 falling across the desk and on to the floor at Dantalion's feet.

Petre Jorgenson wasn't dead. Not yet. Dantalion had deliberately shot him in the gut. The man would last, but his final minutes on earth would be in extreme torment. Petre screamed.

So did Gabe Wellborn.

He knew exactly what was coming.

'You betrayed me, Gabe.'

'No. I didn't betray you. I got you the money, Dan. You would have blown everything if it wasn't for me!'

'You're right, Gabe. I thank you for that. But don't call me Dan.'

He shot Gabe between the eyes.

Turning back to Petre Jorgenson, he levelled the gun on the man's face. Petre couldn't possibly see him in the dark, but he would know how close death hovered over him.

'We made a deal,' Petre croaked.

'I made a deal to kill the original targets. You can rest assured that I will do that. I did not make a deal not to kill you.'

'Bastard…' Jorgenson hissed. 'Not… good… business?…'

'To kill my client?' Dantalion exhaled. 'You're right, Petre. Except I haven't killed my client, have I? I made a choice. This was personal. I am the client.'

He shot Petre Jorgenson in the heart.

By now the suppressor was almost useless. The sound was very loud. An exclamation mark to this latest chapter recorded in Dantalion's book.

Seagram came in the room yelling.

We were in the downstairs library again. Me, Rink, Marianne and Bradley. I almost shot the security man as he burst in. I thought he'd lost it and had gambled his lot on a mad charge into the room. But then I saw the terror on his face and the blood on his hands.

Some professional, I thought scornfully. Ex-West Point? Made me wonder if Rink's estimation of the man had been about right, except cooks aren't normally upset by the sight of blood.

Marianne had been against the idea of splitting up from Bradley, but the combined effort of the three of us had convinced her that it was in her best interests. Probably more persuasive was my argument that Bradley would be safer without the added worry that she could come to harm or — worse still — be used against him. She was just gathering up the last few possessions she couldn't do without when Seagram burst in.

'What the hell?' Rink intercepted the older man, barring his way with one hand. Seagram twisted, tried to get by and Rink grabbed him round the neck, spinning him into the crook of his elbow and giving his throat a squeeze. The pressure of Rink's corded muscles could easily have throttled the security man within seconds, but that wasn't the intent. Rink only held him, hissing into his ear, 'Calm down, Seagram. You're good to nobody like this.'