Matt Hilton - Judgement and Wrath

The grass tunnel went on for the best part of a mile. Claustrophobia wormed at the base of his stomach, making him nauseous and out of breath. He was relieved when the Lincoln emerged into open space once more. A lake came into view on his right-hand side. Thousands of birds, myriad species he could not name, made the lake their home. Something splashed beneath the surface and moved away through the lake, leaving a wide wake on the surface.

There were trees ahead, then another one of those damn grass tunnels. Dantalion slowed the vehicle down and brought it to a halt. He'd seen something to his liking across the marshy field on his left. A collection of large red cubes surrounded by metal masts that glinted gold in the sunlight. Huge pylons made a forest of steel in the background. Power cables streaked away into the distant haze, and also towards him and over the Lincoln and across the lake. He could see another pylon on the far bank, standing tall above the slowly undulating marsh grass.

Dantalion nodded to himself, pushed the vehicle into drive and headed for the next grass tunnel. He had barely entered the green twilight when he nosed the Lincoln off the road and down the slight incline to the field of tall grasses. A flimsy wire fence was crushed under the tyres as he pushed the sedan into the grass's embrace. He didn't get far, feeling the car settling down almost immediately in the boggy earth. But he made it far enough into the tall grass so that the car wouldn't be immediately evident to anyone passing along the road. To make sure, he clambered out, wading through twisted stalks towards the road. His feet sank into the loam and were snagged by the tough grass, but he made it back to where he'd pushed over the fence. He righted the fence, even though it sagged from the nearby posts. Then he grabbed armfuls of grass and stood them upright against the wire. It wouldn't fool a determined tracker, but was good enough.

When he got back to the car, Bradley was gone.

Back in the day, I'd frequently been a passenger on various helicopters: primarily Sea Kings and Chinooks, AH-6 Defenders and Huey Cobras. On those occasions I'd been on missions, usually in hot zones where I'd rappel from the guts of the choppers alongside Rink and the rest of my team on reconnaissance or seek and destroy. I'd never been in a Jet Ranger before, and this helicopter was the equivalent of a sleek limousine next to some of the cramped flying buses I'd experienced.

The FBI chopper was a five-seater, two up front and three in the back. When we'd clambered inside, with Kaufman reaching for the controls, we'd discovered the pilot dead across the back seats. His undressed state explained where Dantalion had got his disguise from. I couldn't find any obvious injury on the man's body, but located a small puncture wound in his neck.

Kaufman had once been familiar with helicopters, but — like his on-the-street days — it had been some time ago.

'Don't worry,' he told me. 'It's like riding a bicycle — you never forget.'

'Don't mind falling off a bike,' I replied as I settled into the passenger position next to him, 'only not from hundreds of feet in the air.'

Kaufman laughed.

Then he was flicking buttons and pulling levers and I heard a whine that grew rapidly to a shriek. Over our heads, the rotors began to turn lazily, scything the air as though cutting through molasses. Then the engine noise changed and the rotors became a blur before our eyes, then they were above us and we were lifting off the floor. I experienced a moment of weightlessness before I felt my stomach press down into my pelvis, and we were going straight up.

Kaufman banked to the right, and the world tilted on its axis. The sea was a blue wall over his shoulder, while the Florida sky stretched away into the hazy west over mine. Then we banked left and the view was reversed. Next moment we were past the house and the bird righted itself and we were streaking towards the highway about fifty feet up in the air.

'See, I told you. Piece of cake,' Kaufman crowed.

'I'll take your word for it.'

We flew past the village, then used the exit drive as a locator for the gate. Before we even got there I knew which way Dantalion had taken Bradley. The traffic was backed up on both sides of the highway, but I could see a broad smear of blood where some hapless cop had been hit by the fleeing car. People were crowding round the dead officer. The TV crews encamped on the layover opposite the gate were charging across the road pointing their cameras at the victim. He'd been dragged about ten yards along the carriageway to our right.

'North,' I told Kaufman.

He was already turning the Jet Ranger in pursuit of the Lincoln. The nose of the chopper dipped, and then we were scooting along at top speed in pursuit of Dantalion. He had a good lead on us, but not for long.

When first we'd boarded the chopper, Kaufman had grabbed the co-pilot headphones. It left me without ear protection, and the sound was terrific. But I was fine; my head was ringing loudly with a jumble of chaotic thoughts anyway. Rather than recording Bradley's testimony on paper, the dead FBI agent, Leighton Knowles, had been conducting a taped interview with Bradley Jorgenson. When Dantalion had burst in on them, the recorder bore witness to the murders. Dantalion had neglected to turn off the recording device. Probably deliberately, as he'd spoken directly into it and said, 'The thunders of judgement and wrath are numbered. As are you, Bradley. Pretty Marianne Dean as well. All numbered. The same goes for your turncoat bodyguard. Hunter and Rink too. Do you hear me? Come to me, bring Marianne. Let's get this over with.'

When I'd first heard the recording I'd been taken aback. Dantalion had called me by name earlier, but I didn't at first understand how he could have known either my or Rink's name. It didn't take too long to draw conclusions. Your turncoat bodyguard, Dantalion had said. Seagram had obviously been involved with the plot to kill Bradley and Marianne. It explained why he had been at Petre's house when Dantalion had gone off on his initial killing spree. I'd known the man couldn't be trusted, that I should have had him cut loose the first time I saw him. It was apparent then that he was bitter about us usurping his status in the Jorgenson household. Worst, I'd missed taking Dantalion down because of his arrival, and maybe he hadn't been so blinded by impending death when he'd started shooting at me. The only thing I regretted now was that it was Dantalion and not me who'd put a bullet through the asshole's head.

Dantalion's words were a direct challenge. He was inviting me to try and take him down. He was confident. No bad thing.

He saw his escape with Bradley as a minor victory. He'd beaten me, yes. But minor victories never win the war. They breed self-confidence, which leads to complacency. And as any soldier will remind you, complacency will bring on your destruction.

Before boarding the chopper, I'd called Harvey. Now I used my mobile phone to call Rink. Shouting over the whine of the exhaust vents, I asked him if Harvey had done as I'd asked earlier.

'Yeah,' he told me. 'You know Harvey; he loves all that technical stuff.'

It was a ruse we'd employed once before to track the Harvestman. On that occasion, it had been doubtful if our idea would even work. But it had — until Tubal Cain discovered the mobile phone that we were tracking via satellite technology. Pretty soon after that I'd rammed a broken bone from his collection of skeletal parts through the monster's windpipe. Had Cain recognised the ploy earlier, maybe we would never have found him. Not until it was too late to save my brother John.

This time there was no concern about the killer spotting our makeshift tracking device. It was the phone in my hand that Harvey and Rink were vectoring in on. All I had to do was locate Dantalion, and if I failed to stop him at least Rink would get the opportunity to avenge me.