Matt Hilton - Judgement and Wrath

Might as well make the most of the situation.

'Bradley, you're going to help us get Marianne to safety,' I told him.

Then I related the rest of my plan.

By the end, everyone was in agreement.

Seagram returned with the Kevlar vest.

I gestured to Marianne.

'Put it on her,' I said.

Seagram reared up. 'But that's for Mr Jorgenson.'

'Shut up, Seagram, you asshole!' Bradley said, and the man just took a step up in my estimation. Bradley snatched the bulletproof vest, turned and held it out to Marianne. She accepted it like he'd just gone down on one knee and presented her with a diamond ring.

The vest was designed for a man, not a young woman, so was rather big and clumsy-looking on her. But it had adjustable Velcro straps. I stepped in close and cinched them tight.

'I can barely breathe,' Marianne said.

'You'll breathe less if a stray round makes its way between the vest and your body,' I pointed out.

She turned back to Bradley and he smiled at her. Touched her chin. She tilted her head and kissed his palm. Sweet.

'Let's get moving,' I grunted.

'Sheesh! Thank fuck for that,' Rink said.

The night-vision goggles were an encumbrance now that Dantalion was close to Bradley Jorgenson's house. Lights had come on all over. Floodlights spilling out from the building like it was the finale of a rock concert. Bugs swarmed in the beams, making swirling patterns around the floodlight housings.

'Good move,' he whispered. The people inside knew he was there, and what he'd come equipped with. They were trying to take away the advantage of his goggles by making the area as bright as day.

With old-type goggles a sudden intrusion of light could strike the lenses and momentarily blind the wearer. These Generation Three goggles didn't have that problem. They had integrated flare protection to combat such a thing. Still, with the bright lights surrounding the building, the contraption did feel a little redundant. He took it off. Dropped it on the ground next to him. Moved towards the house.

His Beretta was in his right hand; Petre Jorgenson's appropriated Glock 19 in his left. The extra firepower wouldn't go amiss.

Dantalion had still been outside Petre's house when Seagram had come running out. The man looked ready to vomit. His face was white. He'd jumped into a silver sedan and streaked off towards Bradley's house. He should have shot the man when the opportunity was there, but he'd decided to wait. He regretted that decision now. With Petre gone, Seagram would be Bradley's boy again. He would spill everything. That meant they knew Dantalion was coming, and were setting themselves up to defend the house.

Hunter and Rink.

He hadn't heard the names before. Not associated with his line of business. They had to come from some other discipline. The only yard stick he had to measure their ability with was how Hunter had fared the night before. He'd done well — credit where credit was due. The man had stopped him killing his targets, had shot him in the leg, and then survived an explosion that should have put anyone in a casket. He had to assume Rink would be as good.

He'd better be very careful here on in.

Careful but not cautious.

Caution breeds fear; fear builds an inability to act. Lack of action would kill him.

He crept forwards.

This house was very similar in design to that owned by Petre Jorgenson, in the form of a sideways 'H'. Dantalion had decided on the same approach as before: from the beach to the front of the house. To hell with the EMF meter, he didn't need it. They knew he was coming anyway. This time his advantage wasn't in stealth, but in full-on assault. Movement and noise. Shock and awe.

He came out of his crouch and ran.

From inside the front door a gun opened up in his direction. Dantalion swerved right, then left, bullets punching turf from the ground behind him. He kept moving, bringing up the two guns and firing as rapidly as he could pull the triggers. Three shots from each gun. A half-dozen high-velocity rounds into the partly open doorway.

Unaware if he'd hit the shooter or not, he continued to zigzag his way across the lawn, until he had the corner of the left wing between himself and the gunman. There he didn't stop. His painful leg wasn't a hindrance now. Adrenalin was a good anaesthetic, better than all the ketamine in the world.

He ran along the front of the building, stooped, but peering sideways through the windows. The rooms were deserted. He kept going. Came to the corner. The camera above him was swinging wildly, trying to get a bead on him, but he was below its arc of movement. The camera swung along the side of the building, just as he'd thought it might, and he immediately spun round, running back the way he'd come.

Alerted by whoever was controlling the cameras, the people inside the house had expected him to rush to the back of the building. But here he was approaching the front door again. The lack of bullets fired his way suggested he'd hit the person who'd been guarding the door earlier, or that his ploy had worked and the guard was even now rushing to the rear of the house to add reinforcement to the troops there.

Fortune favours the bold. Sometimes a full-on assault can achieve more than any amount of sneaking around. Bravery, or downright recklessness, had the ability to disarm the enemy.

Dantalion had never been of a timid disposition. He ran at the front door, lifted a boot and kicked the partially open door back on its hinges. He was through in an instant, moving sideways with his back to the wall as he probed the entrance hall for movement. Nobody. But there was blood on the floor, a trail of drops leading further inside the house. Stepping forward, he lifted his guns, one to the front, one to the side, exchanging positions as he moved along the hall, passing doorways.

Further back in the house he could hear voices and the thump of feet. The sound of a vehicle roaring to life. Dantalion was spurred on. He passed through a doorway and into the kitchen. The sounds were now further to his right, and he charged through the kitchen, seeking the far door. A shadow lurched into view and Dantalion fired. No time for differentiating one target from another when everyone in the building was a viable kill. If the man falling across the threshold was Hunter or Rink or Bradley Jorgenson, then so be it. In the event that it turned out to be none of them, well, that was all right, too. He'd get them soon enough.

When he gained the doorway he saw that his bullet had struck the man in the throat, and he was gagging on his own blood. The gun had fallen from his hand, but Dantalion wasn't of a mind to leave behind an enemy who might yet have the capacity to put a bullet in his spine. He shot him a second time, and the man's skull and brain matter spilled across the floor.

Another vehicle started. A lower roar, as the vehicle was driven away at speed. Dantalion cursed under his breath. He stepped into a second vestibule beyond the kitchen. There were three men blocking his exit. They turned on him even as he ran at them. He fired. They fired. A bullet tugged at his left arm — a searing pain — but he ignored it. His arm was still up and his hand was still pulling the trigger of the Glock 19. His mind processed these things without inhibiting his ability to perform. He continued towards the men, and they scattered, seeking cover. He shot one of them in the side and the man went to his knees. The other two had the sense to put the door frame between them. One on each side of the opening.

Bottleneck.

He couldn't go through the doorway without being cut down by the crossfire of the two guns. But it didn't stop his forward dash. He merely swerved, going left towards the window. He jumped, crashing through it, taking shards of glass and wood with him. He landed on his feet — his injured leg protesting but not giving in — and he spun, already firing both guns.