Judgement and Wrath by Matt Hilton Page A

back along the landing, I snatched a look. The sounds from below reassured me he was still being industrious in the kitchen. For a second I considered leading Marianne and Jorgenson out of the bedroom, taking our chances on getting out while he was busy with whatever the hell he was doing. He’d hear us, though, and would pick us off as we came down the stairs.
    When I turned back to the bedroom, Jorgenson had joined Marianne beside me.
    ‘This better not be what I’m thinking,’ Jorgenson said. His head shake was pure denial.
    ‘We have to make a diversion; otherwise we aren’t going to get out of here alive.’ I began unscrewing tops off the perfume bottles. ‘Find me something larger than these. That wine bottle over there will do.’
    ‘But my father …’ Jorgenson croaked.
    ‘Your father is already dead,’ I pointed out. ‘But I’m pretty sure he’d want you to live. Now go and fetch me the fucking bottle.’
    I stepped out on to the landing and peered over the railing. The killer immediately shot at me, and I ducked back. I unloaded five bullets directly through the floor. Not really an attempt to hit him – the wooden joists would probably sap much of the velocity of the rounds – but it was enough to force him back into the kitchen.
    Two could play at the same game. The killer’s bullets drilled upwards, lifting tatters of carpet in front of my eyes. I jumped back into the room. Good enough, I thought, I’d got his attention. Plus he was using the kitchen for cover.
    ‘Empty the perfume into the wine bottle, and get me some sort of rag for a fuse,’ I whispered to Marianne. She understood my train of thought and nodded. She turned to the bottles I’d set on the floor.
    Jorgenson brought the wine bottle. He walked slowly, and his eyes never left the still form of his father. His father was a sick man, dying from cancer as I recalled, but I don’t think that Jorgenson expected to be cremating him so soon.
    ‘If there was any other way,’ I said, by way of apology. His face was set in stone. There’d be no consoling him. It’d be pointless trying, so I turned away, concentrating on keeping the killer at bay.
    Behind my back Jorgenson sobbed for his murdered father. It was enough to make him step over a precipice.
    The stupid son of a bitch swung the bottle and smashed it over my skull.
     

9

    The appearance of the mystery gunman was an unfortunate – and unforeseen – complication. Dantalion recognised the man who’d been dozing on the balcony next door, but couldn’t at first understand his reasons for intervening. Dantalion didn’t think the man was in the employ of Jorgenson. The targets had been as surprised by his appearance as Dantalion had been. Plus, however much cash you could throw around, you didn’t hire a condominium adjacent to the one you’re living in and set the guard up as sole occupant. This man had another reason for being here.
    Recalling the meeting with his client back in Bayside Park, Dantalion thought of the subtle threat he’d levelled at the man. Bad idea in hindsight. Maybe his employer had set this man up to kill him after the hit had been completed on his targets. Insurance that Dantalion wouldn’t come after he’d been paid for his services. Or that Dantalion didn’t become a liability: someone who could lead back to the client, implicating him in the murders.
    Fucker! Well, if that was the case, the client better watch his ass. He was numbered now.
    But first he had to finish what he’d started here.
    Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean must die. So must the gunman. In fact, the gunman took priority because he was stopping Dantalion getting the primary job done.
    Time was against him.
    He’d come with a silenced gun but the other man hadn’t been so discerning a killer. He’d been shooting off a barrage of loud volleys. Place like this where the populace of the island lived on tightly wound nerves for fear of robbery or kidnap, dozens of people