Matt Hilton: Judgement and Wrath

Dantalion's chuckle was like the whisper of bats' wings through the night. 'Those are not the terms I'm referring to.'

A pale flush crept over the man's features. He looked across at the two men keeping Columbus company. 'Along with the targets you have the right to choose how many others die. Yes, I understand. That's up to you.'

'Yes,' Dantalion agreed. 'It's up to me. But, worry not, I don't charge extra for a high body count. I'm just happy with the job satisfaction.'

'Just make sure nothing can be connected to me. You do realise what's at stake here, don't you? How much is at stake?'

'I thought you trusted me to do the job?'

'I do. Your record is impeccable. Only…' he coughed. 'You can't blame me for being nervous.'

'No need to be nervous.' Dantalion smiled, showing his caramel-coloured teeth. He shifted his sunglasses so that he could lock gazes with the man. 'It's not as if I'm coming after you.'

The man stood up fast. He swayed, looking down at the killer on the bench. His face said it all.

'Please,' Dantalion laughed. 'Sit down. I'm only funning with you.'

'You don't look like the type to make jokes.' The client didn't sit down again. His gaze sought Dantalion's hand where it disappeared below his coat.

With a flourish the killer swept his hand out. The man flinched, but then saw what Dantalion was holding. A book, attached to his body by a silver chain. With a thumb, he flicked open the book. He rifled through the pages, displaying rows of numbers.

'They're all listed,' Dantalion said. 'The names numbered. Each correspond to a different person I have killed. Do you know how many there are in this book?'

The man shook his head.

Dantalion neglected to enlighten him. The plethora of handwritten pages should be evidence enough.

'I am still walking free,' Dantalion said. 'None of my clients has ever been tied to my work. Does that make you happy?'

'I'm happy.' The man stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen jacket, scrunching the cloth between his sweating palms. He took a discreet step away. He glanced around at the men near the statue.

'The alternative is I walk away,' offered Dantalion. 'The downside of that is, well, you've seen me. You can identify me. If you aren't happy, you'd best set your dogs on me now.'

Out on Biscayne Bay a speed boat swept by, throwing out a phosphorescent spray in its wake. Music drifted on the air from the nearby Hard Rock Cafe. Strolling couples talked in low murmurs. The fountain danced to life amidst a chorus of wonder from the gathered tourists. It was a strange setting for the stand-off that Dantalion had just offered.

Finally the man turned and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, 'I understand your terms, and I trust you. I'm happy, OK?'

Deal done, Dantalion stood up. He straightened his long coat over his lean frame, adjusted his hat. The two men over by the amphitheatre were watching him with their jaws set. Dantalion flicked the brim of his hat at them — just to let them know.

It was hot in Miami. But that was OK. I was enjoying the sun on my face and making the most of the sightseeing opportunity. Other times I'd been in Miami, I'd got off a plane, then hightailed it elsewhere. Breezing along the causeway in my Ford Explorer, I had the AC on high, and a John Lee Hooker CD belting out of the surround speakers. My idea of cool.

Interstate I-95 connects Miami Beach with the mainland. Straddling Biscayne Bay, it's the main route on to the island, and at this time of the day it was relatively free of traffic in both directions. Sometimes people refer to Miami and Miami Beach in the same breath, but Miami Beach is a city in its own right, a distinct municipality of Dade County. I was heading for the South Beach area — again not just a beach, but an urban sprawl — which was regarded as an affluent area these days. Considered one of the richest commercial areas now, it had suffered from urban blight prior to the fame lavished on it by the TV show Miami Vice. I knew it was just a veneer: in SoBe, as it was known, poverty and crime were still rife, just a kick in the ass away.

Cutting across the city, I picked up Washington Avenue and followed it south until I saw the Portofino Tower, a huge terracotta-coloured edifice that Rink had told me about. Here I swung west, back towards the marina overlooking Baker Island. There's no road across to Baker Island; the rich and famous demand privacy. The only way across was by boat or helicopter.

Once the Vanderbilts owned exclusive rights to the island, but after it was sold for development in the 1960s more than two hundred homes had been erected on the man-made land. It still remained exclusive to the super-rich set, and once had equalled nearby Fisher Island as one of the richest per-capita locations in the USA. Maybe it still did. The northern portion of the island was barely settled, but in the south-west it was well developed with mega-homes. That was where I hoped to locate Marianne Dean.

Jumping a ride over on a water taxi, I arrived at the island among a group of giggling teenagers. It was handy, because there were a couple of bodyguards within the group, and I blended in with the stern-faced men who watched me as though I was a challenge to their employment. Once I was back on dry land, I hired what looked like a beach buggy and drove the short way over to yet another marina on the south-west shore. There, Tiffany, my real estate agent, passed over the keys to the condominium I'd leased. The week-long rental had already snatched a significant portion of the twenty K Richard Dean had supplied, but I wasn't there because of the money.

My prime concern was getting Marianne Dean to a safe place. Richard Dean had painted a pretty ugly picture of Bradley Jorgenson and the way he treated the girl, but there was something about the man's motivation that was giving me cause to question how I'd complete my task. Dean wanted Bradley stopped — no longer a threat to him or any of his family — and I knew exactly what he meant by that. He didn't strike me as the overly affectionate type of father and he seemed more concerned with punishing Bradley than with getting Marianne home.

From the balcony of the condo, I looked over a circular swimming pool, which in turn looked over a palm-fringed garden and down on to the marina. Yachts and motor cruisers seemed to be the preferred mode of transport here.

To my left was the house that Jorgenson had leased for the summer. He had his permanent place of residence up the coast at Neptune Island and a boat moored at Puerto Banus, in Spain, but this was my best chance for getting Marianne away from him.

I was there on a scouting mission. Rink would join me later after he'd finished a little business of his own in Tampa. Dressed in shades, a short-sleeved cotton shirt and Bermuda shorts, I set myself up on the private balcony. A glance over the rail and I could see beautiful bikini-clad women frolicking in next door's pool. The deckchair was comfortable and the beer cold; it was mind-numbingly boring on stakeout, but someone had to do it.

By the time the sun started to set, the bathers had disappeared inside and my beer had grown warm. Even the executive-class sun lounger was beginning to feel like a torture device. The sunset made up for some of my chagrin, though. It was spectacular, setting Miami city and Biscayne Bay aflame with bronze and gold highlights.

Also, as if he was a vampire out of lore, Jorgenson made his first appearance.

In a cream linen suit, his reddish hair slicked back, and a mobile phone to his ear, he wandered out on the tiled area next to his pool. The water was like a mirror, reflecting his downcast face. Bradley didn't seem very happy.

'I've told you,' he grunted into his phone. 'Over and over again. No! When is that going to sink into your stupid fucking head?'