Feeling the effects of the evening before in every muscle and bone, I stretched, yawned, then decided I had to get my butt in gear. I could give in to the discomfort, or I could work the kinks out of my aching limbs.
When my eyes were able to focus, I scanned the newspaper. The press had given the explosion all the due of a planet-smashing meteor strike. Speculation was the order of the day. Rescue teams were sifting through the wreckage, but as yet no bodies had been discovered. That simple fact gave us a little breathing space. I threw the paper down and accepted the coffee that Rink held towards me.
The coffee was strong, the rich aroma invading my nigh-empty skull. It was the kick I needed. My injuries were superficial, grazes and scratches, the occasional bruise, but thankfully my bones were intact. The bullet graze on my shoulder hurt like a bitch, but it was more burn than open wound. The gash in my scalp had required stitches, and my last memory from the early hours of this morning was Rink coming at me with a tube of super glue, a needle and some cat gut. Probing the wound, I decided Rink was no Florence Nightingale, but he'd pass first level at sewing school.
I'd suffered a ride on an explosion, and a crashing fall through a window, but Rink didn't look to be in much better shape than me. He had dark smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes like he'd been peeping through keyholes all night. Can't have got much sleep, I surmised.
Sometimes Rink seems to read my mind. He nodded me through into his office. His glowing computer monitor cast a cold light on the walls of the otherwise darkened room; it made me feel the chill of the air-conditioning unit. I cupped my mug of coffee in my hands, savouring the steam on my face.
'Been surfing all night, trying to get a handle on who this killer for hire is.' He sat down wearily, his shoulders sinking.
'You look like you could do with some of this.' I held my mug up to him.
'Had a gallon of the stuff already,' he said. He tapped on the keyboard, brought up his email account. 'Been speaking to some people in the know about these kinds of things.'
'Find anything?' I asked. I could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he hadn't.
'Diddlysquat on the shooter. But there's a guy here says there's been a bit of a power struggle going on in the Jorgenson empire. Since Valentin announced his illness, and his impending retirement from the business, people have been jostling for position. Bradley is in pole position for taking over the business, as well as the family fortune. Couple of second runners not too happy with the situation. They don't think that the company is in safe hands with Brad. Apparently he hasn't the head for business his pa and grandpa had.'
'You think one of them would go as far as putting out a contract on Bradley? Bit extreme, isn't it?'
Of course, there maybe wasn't anything extreme about it. Richard Dean had set me on Jorgenson's heels because he was a little too liberal with the amount of contact he was laying on his daughter. Billions of dollars into the equation, I didn't doubt it warranted half-a-dozen hit men sent his way.
Rink said, 'There is any number of members of the 'make-Brad-dead' club. Seems he's pissed off a lot of people. Mainly family.'
'What about?'
'The girl. Marianne Dean.'
'What? The way he's been treating her?'
'Yeah,' Rink said. 'But not how you mean. According to some of his nearest and dearest, he should be shot of her. They don't think she meets the high expectations demanded of one in their social circle. He treats her like a princess and they ain't too happy about it.'
'According to her father, Bradley treats her like shit. Beats her and practically keeps her a prisoner. You saw the police report, Rink.'
'Saw she had a bashed-up face, but nowhere where it said Bradley was responsible.'
'The witnesses denied it, too. But if you remember, the gossip was that Bradley beat her after some bad deal went down.'
'Someone beat her, that's for sure.'
'What're you saying, Rink? That it could've been another one of these disgruntled family members? They beat Marianne so they would get their way with Bradley. Maybe to force him into their line of thinking?'
'Could have been,' he said, dismissive. It wasn't like him. He closed down his emails, not meeting my eyes. There was something wrong with him, that was for sure.
'You should get some sleep, Rink.'
'No time for sleep,' he said, sounding a little like his old self.
'Nothing we can do for now. We don't even know where Jorgenson and Marianne are, let alone the killer.' Getting up and leading the way out of the office, I hoped that Rink would follow me. He didn't.
'Rink?'
He lowered his face. What is it about men that they don't want to show any weakness? He was my best friend, for Christ's sake. His pain was my pain. I moved back towards him.
'What is it, Rink?'
He coughed. Another male thing. His big fingers, capable of throttling a bullock, trembled over the keyboard. Rink was afraid of something. But I doubted that it had anything to do with hired killers or the dysfunctional state of the Jorgenson family. I'd been there when Rink was going into battle. Like the rest of our Special Forces unit, he'd practised the art of compartmentalisation — as had I — and could shove that fear somewhere where it didn't inhibit his ability to function. Like the rest of us he could use that fear to galvanise him. Make him a more efficient soldier. Rink's reticence now, the trembling in his hands, stopped me in my tracks surer than all the bullets ever fired my way.
'I should go to San Francisco, buddy,' Rink said.
Rink's parents currently lived in San Francisco. The wheels of trepidation began to churn in my gut.
'Tell me, Rink. What's happened?'
'My mother.' His eyes closed slowly and it was all the explanation I required.
'She hasn't?…'
'Died? No, not yet. But she is very ill.' Rink started shutting down the open windows on the computer. 'She's had a heart attack. I should go to her.'
Immediately I said, 'I'm coming with you.'
Rink shook his head, looked at me with sparkling eyes. 'We have a job to do here, Hunter. There's a girl out there who needs us. There's a chance we can still save her.' There was a long pause, filled only by Rink's harsh breathing. 'It's maybe too late to save my mom.'
12
Dantalion was on his way to Neptune Island further up the coast. It wasn't really an island, but a long finger of land separated from the mainland by a marshy inlet surrounding the Inter-Coastal Waterway. At the northern end, a causeway gave access to the island, the causeway constructed so that it was a permanent route and not governed by the tides. At the southernmost tip the coastal highway crossed the inlet on a suspended bridge that attracted weekend naturalists and bird watchers who parked on the bridge to view the wildlife on the estuary below.
It wasn't a densely populated region of Florida.
In fact, one family practically owned sole rights to call Neptune its own.
For three generations the Jorgenson estate had claimed much of the land that straddled Neptune's Atlantic shoreline. Since the late 1950s the family had purchased, acquired or built twelve family houses on the land. Each house was distinct in itself, but all were enclosed within a single walled estate that stretched almost three miles down the coast. At intersections every four hundred yards, access was gained by gates that were under twenty- four-hour surveillance. CCTV cameras were mounted on tall poles between each gate, so there was nowhere along the three-mile stretch where an intruder could gain entry without a swift visit from the armed security who patrolled the grounds.
On the coast side, men in boats patrolled night and day, and enforced an exclusion zone of almost a quarter of a mile off shore.
