Judgement and Wrath (30 page)

The Audi was no good to me a half-mile away.

‘Prefer it if you came with us,’ SAC Kaufman said slowly. ‘I’ll also have to ask you to hand over your sidearm.’

‘Isn’t going to happen.’ I challenged him with my stare.

‘I’ve got a man down there who has already survived two attempts on his life. Don’t want to risk that again,’ he said.

‘I’m here to protect him, not harm him.’

‘I don’t know that.’

‘Walter Conrad vouched for me,’ I reminded him.

‘Walter is CIA,’ Kaufman said in reply, ‘and we all know what
they
are famous for.’

‘I’m not CIA,’ I said.

‘No. But that’s the problem … I’m not sure what you are.’ Then he turned his back on me and walked towards the sheriff’s car.

‘Kaufman.’

He turned.

‘I’m not here to usurp you. We’re on the same side.’

His mouth made a thin line, and he turned away again. I shook my head and then climbed into the Audi. The cop at the gate gave me room to bring the car in and I followed the police vehicle back on to the Jorgenson estate.

Approaching the village made up of estate staff lodgings, I was surprised when we took a left, skirted the village and approached a lone wooden house standing on the Atlantic shore. This house wasn’t like the others; it was older, more homely. Less forbidding than the brick monstrosities that the younger Jorgensons had erected.

Why we were headed there instead of directly towards Bradley’s house I didn’t quite get, but then I saw the silver Lincoln parked adjacent to the back of the house and it made sense. Bradley had gone somewhere he felt safe.

SAC Kaufman climbed out of the police car. He leaned in and said something to the uniformed driver. The driver shook his head, then peeled away, heading back along the road towards Bradley’s house. I parked the Audi next to the Lincoln Seagram had been driving the day before. Climbing from my car, I felt the phone vibrate in my pocket. I answered it and Rink said, ‘I’m back from San Francisco. Harvey’s got Mari tucked up safe and sound. I’m on my way back to you now.’

‘Pleased to hear it, Rink,’ I said. ‘Your mom?’

‘On the mend. She smacked me round the head for leaving you alone and told me to get my ass back here. How could I argue with that?’

‘You know better than that.’

‘You ain’t kidding,’ he laughed. Then his tone grew more serious. Back to business. ‘The punk survived, huh?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m back at the estate,’ I told him. ‘Had to pull a few strings via Walter Conrad, but I should be with Bradley in a minute or two.’

‘Walter came through, huh?’

‘He had no option, did he? He owes us big time.’

‘No,’ Rink rumbled. I imagined him touching the scar on his chin. Like the knife wound in my chest, Rink’s scar was courtesy of Tubal Cain.

‘I’ll wait here until you arrive, then we’ll move Bradley between us.’

‘Give me an hour or two, OK?’

‘Should take that long to sort things out at this end,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got a fed here with a stick up his ass.’

‘Nothing new there then,’ Rink said.

I hung up.

‘I heard that,’ SAC Kaufman said.

‘You were meant to, Kaufman,’ I said. ‘We started out on the wrong foot back there. Can we try this again? We’re both here for the same reason, so let’s agree to work together, huh? Truth is, I’m not going anywhere, so we may as well be civil to each other.’

Kaufman nodded. He swept the surroundings with one look. ‘Would be a whole lot easier without
this
stick up my ass.’

We shook hands again, this time with meaning.

‘Walter Conrad told me what you’d managed to piece together about the shooter. I’ve passed the information along to my people. Got someone on the skin-complaint angle, another on this demon stuff. Hopefully we’ll have something useful before long.’

‘He’s unorthodox. I don’t think he’s been trained through the usual channels.’

Kaufman paused mid-step. ‘That in itself could point us towards him. Maybe one of these private CQB courses or something?’

‘Nah, close quarter battle’s about protection. This guy comes from a different school. Maybe he has roots with one of those paramilitary Home Defence groups or something similar.’

Kaufman continued walking.

My step after him turned into a lunge.

I grabbed him by the shoulders, and powered my chest against him, taking us both down hard on the pavement.

Through the space we’d just vacated whistled two high-velocity rounds.

For all he was wearing an expensive suit, Kaufman was no slouch at crawling. He was off, scurrying for the cover of a low wall. He reached it within seconds and went over, landing on his back.

I had gone the other direction, rolling sideways. Another round chipped concrete from the paving stones, throwing splinters towards my face. Blinking to clear my vision, I continued rolling and got myself under a parked station wagon. Somewhere along the way, I’d drawn my SIG and was looking for targets.

My first reaction was to aim for the window where the shooter had fired from. It was the subtle shifting of his shadow, the pale face looming above it that had warned me of his presence. If my mind hadn’t been tuned to recognise the danger of his ghoulish face, Dantalion would have got us cold.

The window had been smashed by his bullets, but I saw no movement there. He’d moved, possibly to get a clearer angle on me.

Just as I had that thought a round struck the front tyre next to my head and the hiss of air sounded like an angry snake. The car dipped slowly towards me, and I wormed further away from the collapsing corner of the chassis.

‘FBI,’ Kaufman shouted. He had one arm propped on the low wall, his service revolver aiming towards the empty window. ‘Drop your weapon and come out.’

The FBI SAC wasn’t a stranger to action. But it looked like it was some years since he’d engaged in a gun battle. His face was as pale as that of the man who was trying to kill us.

‘Keep your head down, Kaufman,’ I shouted across the intervening space. His gaze jumped to me, back to the house. I knew he was going to shout again even before his mouth opened.

‘Come out with your hands in the air and you will not be harmed.’

Bullets smacked the wall beside him and I saw his gun arm drop. He cursed loudly and I wasn’t sure if he’d been wounded or not.

My position was not the best for shooting back. I could only see a small portion of the house, and most of that was blank wall. On my belly, I used my feet to push me towards the station wagon’s engine. That was a slightly better position, but most of my view remained obscured by the sunken front end of the car. It took me about a nanosecond to decide I wasn’t staying there. All the shooter had to do was fire under the car and the ricochets would probably kill me. I scooted away, rolled out from under the car and came up on the far side.

In the movies, you will often see a cop hunkered behind an open car door. 9 mm Parabellums will pass through the shell of a car with no problem. Some more enlightened movie makers have their good guy place the engine block between themselves and the shooter, but again there are too many open spaces and fragile components to stop most bullets. The reality is, a car isn’t safe to hide behind. Neither are trees or concrete walls. The only thing that will stop a high-calibre bullet is about six inches of solid brick or steel. Kaufman had the best hiding place. My own, other than offering enough cover so the shooter couldn’t get a bead on me, was third rate.

As if he had read my mind, the man in the house fired again. He unloaded an entire clip from a semi-automatic. Not randomly either: he began at the front of the car, fired, moved his hand a fraction, fired, moved his hand a fraction and so on. Some of the rounds did flatten inside the engine, but for as many that were stopped, at least one got through. The hood buckled as rounds ricocheted under it. Holes appeared in the wing close by my body. I had no choice but run backwards, keeping my head down as bullets cut through the car and struck lumps from the ground beyond me.

Kaufman – jurisdiction battle or not – wasn’t about to let me die. He bopped up, firing back at the house. He couldn’t see his target, only hoped to offer covering fire while I raced for cover behind my Audi. I did so, sliding like I was headed for first base.

The retort of the shooter’s gun changed. A lighter bore, but still enough to kill. I’d got myself all the way to the rear of the Audi and with its nose pointed towards the shooter it gave me much more cover than the other car had. Nonetheless, bullets punched through the galvanised steel body and lifted padding from the seats within. There was a loud pop – a tyre going. The semi-automatic was firing again and I had to drop as low as I could to the ground.

Then there was a lull. I quickly snapped a glance over the trunk. The door was opening and my first instinct was to shoot through it. Nevertheless I held my fire, waving over to Kaufman to do the same. Only someone with no sense would put themselves behind that door during a gun battle. Dantalion was as crazy as any other psycho out there, but he did appear to be knowledgeable about guns and their effects.

The door swung open, and there stood Bradley Jorgenson.

He swayed like he’d been out on a particularly heavy night’s partying. His mouth hung open, a string of saliva knitting together his splayed teeth. His heavy-lidded eyes were unfocused. Drugged.

Bradley was a fair-sized guy. Maybe my height, but heavier. He was ample cover for the slim man crouching behind him. I could only catch a glimpse of white hair, an ear, one gloved hand that was under Bradley’s arm and jammed into his armpit. Room under there for a .38 special. Over Bradley’s shoulder the muzzle of a Glock.

‘Anyone moves and I kill Bradley,’ shouted the shooter.

‘Put down the gun and move away slowly,’ Kaufman shouted in return. He was again propped over the wall. No way could he take a shot, though.

The shooter twisted Bradley towards him. Fired once from the Glock. The bullet missed Kaufman but was enough motivation for him to drop down out of sight.

I watched, waiting for my opportunity.

‘There are only two choices here,’ the shooter yelled again. ‘Drop your weapons or Bradley dies.’

There were actually three choices. I could shoot straight through Bradley and kill the fucker as well. Yesterday, before I knew the truth, I might have done. And, heaven forbid, if he did shoot Bradley, that was exactly what I was going to do.

‘What’s it going to be, FBI man? Do you want me to kill this innocent boy?’

Kaufman didn’t reply. That put the ball back in my court.

‘You aren’t going to do that, Dantalion,’ I said. I stood up. It meant putting myself at risk, but also gave me a clear shot through Bradley and into the shooter’s central mass.

‘So, you know my name?’ Dantalion swung a fraction back my way. Still no clear shot though. ‘Touché, Mr Hunter.’

‘I know the pussy name you hide behind,’ I told him. ‘What is it with all you deadbeats, huh? Why the stupid name? All you sick-in-the-head motherfuckers do that.’

Instead of riling him like I’d intended, Dantalion seemed pleased with my words. He chuckled to himself, even as he pressed Bradley to take a slow step forwards. I matched his step, moving away from the Audi.

‘You’re looking for an opportunity to shoot,’ Dantalion pointed out. ‘Go on. Shoot, then.’ he dropped the barrel of his Glock so he could pull aside Bradley’s jacket. Under it was a bullet-proof vest. Something Seagram had demanded his mark wear after it was too late. I wondered where the bodyguard had got to. Hell, probably. Dantalion went on. ‘See the only problem now is you will have to shoot through Bradley’s head. Are you prepared to do that?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

For effect I allowed my knees to bend slightly, exaggerating my shooter’s stance. It was a gamble, a big one. But Dantalion didn’t shove Bradley to one side and come out shooting as I’d hoped. If anything he took a tighter hold on the younger man. His face was barely visible beyond Bradley’s lolling head.

‘This is what’s going to happen.’ His Glock was steady as it pointed my way, but I got the impression that he’d turned his head to one side. As he did, I took a step back towards the Audi. His gun was now pointing a yard to the right of my shoulder. He didn’t note the subtle shift of my body, calling instead to Kaufman. ‘FBI man, throw your gun over the wall. You have three seconds to comply or Bradley here will be as dead as your buddy inside.’