credenza where she pulled open a compartment and grabbed at bottles of scent. Judging by the brands and designs of the bottles, she handed me the makings of a bomb that would cost thousands of dollars.
Checking that the killer wasn't sneaking 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 would be demanding the immediate arrival of Miami P.D. The cops didn't have a station house on the island, but there'd be plenty of rent-a-cops en route. The police wouldn't be far behind.
There were two possible ways for this to play out. He could get the hell away now and take a second shot at his targets later, or he could try and kill them now and take his chances with the swarm of uniforms bearing down on him.
He wasn't worried about security guards or cops. They'd never been capable of stopping him before.
He made his choice.
He exited the kitchen and looked up. He saw a head glance over the balcony. Quickly, Dantalion lifted his Beretta and fired. The man had seen him, though, and ducked back out of sight. Then Dantalion had to dance to avoid the bullets blasting holes through the balcony above his head. Splinters of wood rained down on him, but miraculously none of the bullets hit their mark.
Dantalion fired back.
Then he was back in the kitchen. His mind made up. Choice made.
The island wasn't supplied with a gas main. Electricity was the overriding source of power to these houses. However there were secondary sources, too. Oil tanks. Propane gas. Jorgenson's house was equipped with a full cooking range.
Reaching down alongside the range he found a rubber pipe attached to a valve on the wall. Dantalion grabbed a knife from a nearby cutting block and swiped it through the rubber pipe. He heard the hiss of escaping gas. Then he moved back across the room to the door. Listened. A mutter of voices from above. Good, they were still in the room.
Dantalion looked back at the range. He imagined that there was a haze over the cooker now, but knew that was only fancy. The gas was invisible. But it was there, the cloud growing exponentially by the second.
The scorching flames of hell would scour this house, do his work for him. How appropriate for one who fancied himself as one of the Fallen. It would be just like home.
Above him he heard smashing glass. Not a window, more a dull thud followed by tinkling. A second more solid thump and he almost believed that he saw the balcony above him shift under the weight.
He went into the foyer, training his gun on the bedroom door. Two forms raced out, bent low as they charged along the balcony towards the rear of the house. Startled by the direction they'd taken, he was a split second behind them as he fired. His bullets found only plaster, then the two were out of sight behind a turn in the hall above.
A gun poked over the balcony. Firing blind. One of the bullets snicked a bleeding chunk from Dantalion's right thigh and he was forced to swerve away. Back towards the kitchen. In the doorway he searched for the front door. Should have opened it first. But never mind. He'd take his chances. He took out the lighter he'd used to ignite his cigar earlier. Back out under the balcony, using the wall as a shield, he flipped the lid open and spun the wheel of the lighter. A flame guttered, went out. He hissed, spun the wheel again and this time the flame stood an inch tall.
As he slid the lighter across the floor towards the cooking range, he was already running.
The gas caught with an imploding cough, then expanded as the flames raced through the kitchen.
Two feet from the front door, Dantalion held his breath in anticipation. He grabbed at the handle, tugged open the door, was through it. That was when the flames backed fully down the exposed rubber pipe, found the reserve tank and exploded like Hiroshima.
The impact knocked Dantalion sprawling. His ability to hear deserted him. His vision was full of raining debris and flames and smoke. His body was pummelled by flying dust and fragments of wood.
But he was happy.
No way the people inside could survive that explosion.
Back on his feet, his first concern was for his book. He felt in his pockets while his ears whooshed and squealed as they sought to regain normal function. His book was there, attached to his belt by the ever-present chain.
