Judgement and Wrath (4 page)

‘So you choose me?’ Dantalion nodded slowly. He placed a hand on the man’s wrist. He saw the cringe worm its way up the man’s arm and into his face. Dantalion smiled faintly and slowly drew back his fingers. His touch caused that reaction in most; they were repulsed by the scaly look of his skin, the thick yellowing nails.

‘You know my terms?’ Dantalion asked.

‘You will be paid half the sum up front. The remainder on confirmation that the targets are dead. You are trusted to do the job … I have no problem with that.’

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 Café. 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.

4

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?’

Whoever he was speaking to must have pleaded their case. As he listened, Jorgenson chewed his lips, and even from my high vantage above him I could hear the rasp of his breath.

‘You know what I should do to you?’ Jorgenson suddenly shouted. ‘I should have you …’ His voice faltered, and his gaze nervously searched for unseen watchers. His dark eyes flicked my way, but I’d already moved back out of sight. His next words were whispered and I couldn’t hear what was said. But I heard the snap of his phone as he closed it. Then followed the clop of leather heels as he hurried inside. More shouting ensued but it was muffled, then there was a crash, and – I’m pretty sure – a woman’s voice crying out.

I’d made up my mind already, but the man’s words and actions only served to confirm that. Jorgenson was a bully. And anyone who knows Joe Hunter knows I can’t abide bullies.

My plan didn’t extend to walking up to his front door and ringing the bell, but at that moment I felt the urge to get on the move. It was the stirring of anger that always drove me to violent conclusions. Rink has accused me of getting a kick out of the violence. But I don’t. I only want peace. The problem is, I want that peace to extend to everyone, so if it means cracking the skulls of those causing the rot in the world, then so be it. As a counterterrorism soldier my career was dictated and channelled towards specific targets. Now, free to roam, I could pick and choose who needed sorting. And I’d decided: Bradley Jorgenson required setting right on a point or two.

Despite the glitz and riches, Marianne Dean had to be very unhappy. I’d seen it many, many times before: a woman giving up everything for the man she loves. She will take the beatings and humiliation, won’t reach out for help, because, underneath it all,
he loves her
. It must be her own fault.

Domestic violence is a curse on society. Most times it stays hidden, but even when a woman is brave enough to come forward and report what is happening behind closed doors, the finger of blame can be pointed back at her. What was she doing to push her man to hurting her? Likely she got exactly what she deserved!

But I wasn’t from that school of thought.

The way I look at it, men who hurt women are only a step lower on the ladder of shame than those who hurt children. Sometimes there is no distinction between the two. Marianne had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but she still remained the shy child captured in that school portrait less than a year ago. Likely she wouldn’t thank me for saying so, but to me, Marianne was still a baby. Suddenly I could understand her father’s vitriol, his desire to see Jorgenson dead.

In the past I’ve been accused of many things. Some have called me a vigilante. Fair enough, I can live with that. But I don’t see things the same way. I prefer to be seen as someone who can help. When the full weight of the law can’t do anything, well then, that’s where I step up. I don’t take the law into my own hands. Not as such, not when the law doesn’t extend to what is occasionally required.

The thing that stopped me approaching Jorgenson right that instant was one undeniable truth. I still hadn’t seen Marianne. I’d no way of knowing if she was even inside the house. Introducing myself to her violent beau at this stage could mean that I never saw her again.

Better to wait, then.

There would be a time for entering that house, but it would be later, under the cover of darkness and with Rink watching my back.

Jorgenson – notwithstanding his sudden rise to prominence as one of Florida’s social elite – was third-generation money. His grandfather had come over from Europe in the late 1950s. He brought with him a pharmaceutical supply company that rocketed along with the post-World War II financial boom. The Korean and Vietnamese conflicts didn’t do any harm either, and set Jorgenson’s father, Valentin, at the helm of an industry driven by military contracts that were fed by Desert Storm and the more recent campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. With his father ailing, Bradley was now poised to step up and take the reins. He was the face of twenty-first century consumerism.

My worry, and this was possibly due to my doubts regarding the man’s character, was that he was living a lifestyle usually associated with another kind of pharmaceutical. Those that don’t come with a prescription.