Judgement and Wrath (19 page)

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.

These were anonymous men. Not ones he recognised. But he killed them anyway, without discrimination. The man furthest away, who didn’t have to turn round to fire, got off a shot, but it zinged away into the bug-filled night.

Dantalion ignored them; he was more intent on seeking out the two vehicles speeding away from him along the drive. The workers’ village was a jumble of silhouettes on the near horizon, but neither car was headed in that direction. They were going for the exit gate out on to the coastal highway. Even if his leg hadn’t been paining him he wasn’t about to catch them on foot. He required transport.

A silver sedan was still parked in the area at the back of the house. The two making off were a second sedan and a Porsche. The three cars he’d seen at the gate earlier in the day. Dantalion approached the vehicle, wary that others might be lurking about. He stuffed the Glock 19 into his waistband, but kept the Beretta ready should anyone try to take him as he opened the car door. He leaned in, checking the rear seat, not wanting to be caught out by a silent assassin popping up and putting a bullet in the nape of his neck. No one there. He reached under the steering column, feeling around. It wouldn’t be the first car he’d hotwired during his eventful life. Then he forgot that idea, reached instead for the sun visor and flipped it down. A bunch of keys dropped into his palm, one of them the new card-key type. Fate was on his side.

Getting in, he placed the Beretta on the seat beside him. He fired the engine, pulled away, swung the car in a tight circle and headed up the exit drive after the tail lights of the Porsche.

The car was this year’s Lincoln Town Car, with V8 engine capable of 289 hp and complete with electronic traction control and an automatic rear suspension levelling facility. The vehicle was built with comfort in mind, but it was also built for speed and manoeuvrability. Dantalion could have done far worse.

Pushing the car up to seventy miles an hour, he felt the Lincoln respond beneath him. He floored the gas pedal and the car continued to pick up speed. The Porsche had a lead on him that he couldn’t hope to close on this straight, but the electronic gate at the exit would slow them. He’d catch them there.

Behind him, pulling out from the blind corner of Jorgenson’s house, came a fourth vehicle. It was driven without lights, and joined the procession of speeding vehicles without Dantalion noticing.

25

Rink’s Boxster was not as fast as the similar 911 Turbo Coupe model Porsche that I’d once had the pleasure of driving, but I couldn’t complain. Not when it accelerated from nought to sixty miles an hour in under six seconds and had a top speed approaching 160. Ten seconds later I was up to a hundred and gaining on the sedan in front of me. I flashed my headlights, exhorting Seagram to greater speed, but he held steady and I had to slow down and follow at a moderate speed of ninety-five.

Passing the cluster of buildings that made up the homes of the estate staff, we kept going on our pre-planned route towards the highway. Glancing in my mirrors, I saw another car peel round in a circle and take up the chase. That would be the killer, then.

Beside me Marianne had her eyes closed and she was gripping the seat belt across her chest as she might once have gripped her crucifix at times of stress. It made me recall her words.

‘My mother’s necklace. I … I don’t have it any more.’

I wondered who did.

One thing I was pretty sure of now. It wasn’t Bradley Jorgenson.

When I’d been putting the fear of God into him earlier, he had explicitly denied ever harming Marianne and he’d been oddly convincing.

I’d originally accepted this job with the intention of taking Marianne away from Bradley. If that meant killing him, I’d even prepared myself for that. I’d been led to believe that Marianne was in a violent relationship – which the police photographs proved – but I now believed that it wasn’t Bradley who’d done that to her. Domestic violence often hides behind lies and deceit, but in Bradley and Marianne I’d only witnessed genuine tenderness. He loved her the way she deserved to be loved. He hadn’t hurt her. Her abuser was the person who now had her cross. Marianne hadn’t confirmed who that was, but I had an idea. And if my suspicions proved true, he’d be made to pay.

First, though, I had to get her to safety. There was a far greater threat to her than the person who’d blacked her eyes and slapped her around – the crazy fucker who was third in line of this cavalcade.

We still didn’t know who the killer was. But I had to pay him his due: the son of a bitch was good. He must have gone through Seagram’s security team like a dose of salts. Otherwise he wouldn’t be chasing us now.

Approaching the highway, I saw the brake lights flare on the vehicle I was following. Seagram decelerating rapidly. I braked as well, cursing under my breath.

Marianne’s eyes snapped open. Full of terror.

‘It’s OK,’ I lied. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

We’d a good lead on the sedan racing after us, but for one thing. The gate that gave exit on to the highway was closed. We should have thought ahead, had it opened from the control room back at the house. As it was, I saw Seagram jump out of the car in front and race to the control panel in the grounds. He stabbed buttons and was running back to the sedan even as the gate began its slow crawl outwards.

A noise like an angry hornet buzzed by my right shoulder and the windscreen starred. From somewhere behind me I heard the retort of a gun as the sound finally caught up with the supersonic bullet.

Out of the window, I roared at Seagram, ‘Get that fucking car moving!’

Another bullet swept through the interior of Rink’s Porsche and lodged itself in the fancy console. Rink was going to be royally pissed off, but that would teach him. He should have taken more time in selecting his wheels of choice, considering the business he was in. The Porsche’s soft top was no defence against a hard-flung knife, let alone high-velocity rounds.

Back in the sedan, Seagram booted the throttle and pushed the heavy car through the opening gate. He blasted the front fender against the gate, knocking it flying, but also tearing loose a good portion of the wing. Half a million dollars’ worth of car was nothing when the alternative was a swift and violent death.

As we’d agreed, Seagram swung the sedan to the right. Seconds later I went left, straight along the four-lane highway on the wrong side of the road. Two hundred yards on – and immensely thankful that no one had been heading along the road at that time – I powered the Porsche across the gravel bed separating the two carriageways and on to the correct side of the road. The Porsche spat gravel and sand as I accelerated away. On our right was the Inter-Coastal Waterway, and beyond it the lights of the mainland.

‘Is he still following us?’

Marianne’s words caused me to glance in the rear mirror.

‘Yeah.’

‘Dear God,’ she whispered.

The killer had been given two options, right or left. He’d chosen to continue left. I’d have preferred it if he’d gone after Seagram and his passenger rather than me and mine. I was better fixed to protect my charge than Seagram was, but I’d rather have got Marianne well away from harm before turning on the bastard and showing him just who he was messing with.

Speed was my best weapon.

I pushed the Porsche up to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Just a little way behind, I saw that the Lincoln matched me for speed. Maybe it even gained a little. The driver hung his hand out the window. I saw the muzzle flash, but the bark of the gun was lost as we sped on.

I pressed Marianne down. ‘Unclip your belt,’ I told her. ‘Get down in the footwell. Undo your vest and pull it over your head if you can.’

The trunk and seats wouldn’t stop the bullets, but I guessed that the shooter would aim that little bit higher, shooting where he’d expect a hit. Comparatively safer than I was, Marianne would be very unlucky if a bullet found her. But that possibility wasn’t out of the question.

The gun fired again, and sparks jumped along the door frame next to my elbow. I couldn’t return fire, didn’t have the angle. All trying to twist round and firing would achieve was a deceleration, possibly a high-speed collision with the bollards on my right, then a flipping, rolling, body-tearing wreck that would do more harm than the killer’s bullets ever could.

I concentrated instead on pushing the car to the limits of performance. Technical specification of the Porsche Boxster boasts a top speed edging 160 mph, but I saw the odometer register 165, then 170, then 175. But the RPM needle was hovering dangerously in the red zone. Pushing the vehicle to these extremes could wreck the engine, but then again, so could the killer’s bullets.

The road was preformed concrete, and every so often a seam projected above the surface, causing a bumping noise to sound from the tyres. Rocketing along at high speed, the bumping rattled like a drum roll. The accompanying ting of bullets off metal and Marianne’s yowls of fear made for an ungodly timpani.

Approaching the southern extremes of Neptune Island, I made out the sweep of the bridge that took the road across the Waterway. It looked like a humpbacked whale had breached the depths and would at any second flip up its gargantuan tail and send us flying into space. I pressed the Porsche on.

The Lincoln couldn’t match the Porsche for acceleration, but the heavier sedan was gaining along the straight. There was a slight sway on, the way it went from one side of the carriageway to the other, but that was more to do with the killer driving with only one hand on the wheel. He continued to shoot. This time he sent a volley of five bullets. Two of them lifted concrete shards from the road ahead, but three of them impacted the Porsche. None hit me, but I snatched a glance at Marianne. She looked up at me from beneath her Kevlar shield with big, round eyes.