Matt Hilton - Judgement and Wrath

If Seagram had been telling the truth earlier, Hunter would be Marianne Dean's chaperone, so it was probable that the woman was in the Porsche with him. She was most likely hunkered down in the footwell so she made a smaller target. He didn't mind killing Marianne first. That had always been the plan, what he'd almost forced Jorgenson into agreeing to yesterday on Baker Island. And he definitely didn't mind killing Hunter.

It had been an exhilarating chase up until now. But it was time to end it. Dantalion saw his opportunity. Hunter was a damn good defensive driver to have controlled the Porsche after he'd rammed it into a sidelong skid, but in doing so he'd lost some of his forward volition. Plus he must have dropped the gun. Dantalion swerved round the Porsche and came parallel with the driver's door, smiling as his theory was proven.

Both Hunter's hands were back on the wheel, the gun out of sight. Dantalion lifted the Beretta. Aimed it directly at Hunter's face as it swung to look at him. The man didn't look alarmed, he just had a grim set to his jaw.

'Hello, Hunter,' Dantalion said. 'And goodbye!'

Hunter made a token attempt at saving himself, but a bullet would always be faster than human reaction.

He pulled the trigger.

And heard only an empty click.

'Shit!'

He was a man governed by numbers, yet he had to have miscounted. He was positive that there had been one last bullet in the gun. Seventeen rounds. But then he remembered. When he'd reloaded, shoved in the fresh magazine, he hadn't racked one into the firing chamber as he had when first loading the gun. He hadn't miscounted. He'd made an error of gun craft.

A bigger error would be to dwell on the fact. He quickly traded the Beretta for the Glock 19. It was a matter of no more than two seconds, but as he tracked his vision on Hunter the man was no longer in sight. Neither was the Porsche!

Hunter had braked, and the Lincoln had sailed on by.

Worse than that, Hunter was now behind him lifting his own gun. Through the gaping hole in the windshield Hunter fired. The flash of the gun was like a strobe light. Bullets zinged through the Lincoln. Three missed, lifting padding from the headrest on the passenger seat. One of them scored a hot line along the flesh of his jaw just below his left ear.

It was like someone had hit him with a hammer and his mind flashed with scarlet agony. The pain was excruciating, sense-numbing. Darkness descended for the briefest of moments, and his hands slipped from the steering wheel.

And that was all it took.

In the next instant his mind was full of flashes and bangs, and he was rocked sideways, jerked upright, then slammed back in his seat. The volume of noise was horrendous and seemed to go on and on and on. Around him the Lincoln shuddered like a dying behemoth. Finally, he blinked, and silence surrounded him.

Stunned, he was only vaguely aware that the Porsche was now passing him, then in front of him, moving away at speed over the arch of the bridge and out of sight.

He was sitting in the driver's seat and both his hands were in his lap. He'd lost his grip on the Glock, and it was now somewhere out of view in the footwell. The partly inflated airbag that had erupted from the steering column didn't help. He wasn't concerned about the Glock. He could soon pick it up again. As with the Beretta. First he had to check that he was uninjured. Both arms were all right. His hands responded to the messages sent from his brain, fluttering up his midriff to find the comforting bulge made by his book beneath his sweater. His toes wiggled at command. His legs ached, primarily the one that was already injured, but he detected no broken bones. His jaw hurt more than anything. Tremulously, he lifted his fingers to check the wound. Part of his mind expected a gaping wound through which would project shattered teeth, but his fingers found only a groove in the meat itself. It oozed blood, but it wasn't going to kill him.

He looked out of the open window.

He had lost control and the Lincoln had collided with the barrier at the edge of the bridge. The metal barrier was mangled into a twisted heap. But it had done its job. It had stopped the Lincoln from sailing out unchecked into the Inter-Coastal Waterway. The front of the Lincoln hung a precarious two feet over space, only one loose portion of the barrier holding the sedan in place.

He laughed. There was a slight manic edge to the sound: realisation at how close the car had come to going right through the barrier and into the sea a long way below him.

But that was when he heard the roar of an approaching engine.

Swinging round to stare at the vehicle barrelling towards him, he had only a second or so to register the face of the driver. It was enough.

Rink, Seagram had called him.

Black hair, hooded eyes, livid scar across his chin.

Rink made no attempt at shooting him. Neither did he stop the car. He kept on coming and rammed the car into the side of the Lincoln.

Dantalion was rocked and slammed yet again. There was the rending of metal all around him. The front wheels went through the barrier and the car abruptly dipped forwards. Rink continued to force his vehicle against the Lincoln. Then the world tilted as the back wheels of the Lincoln were forced over the demolished barrier.

He barely registered what had happened.

All he saw was the solid black wall that reared into his field of vision. It approached him at speed and it was only when it was a few yards away that Dantalion made out sparkling highlights on the wall. A second after that he recognised the highlights for undulating waves casting back the reflections of his own headlights as the Lincoln hurtled down towards the sea.

'Son of a bitch,' Rink sighed. 'There goes my no claims discount.'

We were in a beauty spot, but he wasn't interested. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying what remained of his Porsche.

We'd stopped at a parking lot on the northern side of the Jupiter Inlet, near to a terracotta tower over one hundred feet tall that served as a lighthouse to steer boats into Loxahatchee River. The beacon itself stood on a mound almost fifty feet tall, so it was a definite landmark that I'd been able to pick out. Rink arrived minutes after Marianne and me.

While Rink bemoaned the death of his pride and joy, we stood shoulder to shoulder. On the shoreline, we looked south, watching traffic zoom by on the Federal Bridge, and even more traffic on the A1a highway bridge beyond that. Across the water I noticed yet another marina, and found myself thinking that you couldn't live in Florida without owning a boat. I saw my first mangroves, but in the darkness they just looked like a bundle of twisted branches dumped on the water. Which, I supposed, was exactly what they were.

The lot was next to a visitor centre that served the lighthouse. Through the day the place would be a jumble of vehicles and bustling tourists snapping photographs. At this hour we were the only ones there. I'd parked the Porsche beneath a stand of palm trees so that it was hidden from the nearby road. Rink had parked adjacent to us. The big grey Ford Crown Victoria he had brought wasn't as bashed up as the Porsche, and hadn't been the target of numerous bullets. Nevertheless it did have a crumpled fender and one of the headlights was smashed. Any cop snooping around would immediately associate the two cars with the high-speed gun battle at nearby Neptune Island.

'What happens now?' Marianne asked.

'We take you somewhere safe.'

'But that madman is dead, isn't he? Didn't your friend say he rammed him right off the bridge and into the sea?'

'I did just that,' Rink said, coming over to join us. 'But he's not the only danger we have to contend with.'