Some would think that the security measures were extreme. But the Jorgensons were implicitly tied to the military, and their secrets were protected almost as though they were a principality that the US military depended upon for its survival.
Dantalion had no worries about getting in. He was too good at his job to doubt himself.
Last night hadn't gone to plan, but he wouldn't let that dent his self-belief. At the end of the day, he'd successfully completed his mission. Killed the targets and then some. It was just a pity he hadn't been able to look into Bradley Jorgenson's face at the end. He always liked to watch the final grains of life sift away like sand in an hour glass.
He would have preferred to see the gunman dead, too. His unwelcome arrival had spoiled his plans for torturing Jorgenson. He'd been looking forward to killing the girl in front of him, then putting a bullet into each of Jorgenson's limbs. Lastly he'd have gut-shot him, made him squirm in his own spilled innards while Dantalion revealed who it was that wanted him dead. It would have been beautiful.
He was driving a truck. Blacked-out windows helped keep the sun off his exposed limbs, but there was another motive. CCTV observation would be kept to the minimum. The truck would be spotted, yes, but not the driver. He could drive by; scout the perimeter without alerting anyone to his identity. Unconcerned, they wouldn't be ready for the visit he'd pay them this evening.
Before arriving at the Jorgenson estate, he pulled into a layover, parking the truck beneath a copse of trees. Afforded shade, he lowered the window and peered across the marshlands that stretched towards the Atlantic. A flight of birds streaked through the pale blue sky, heading south, as if they had a premonition of what was to come.
On the passenger seat next to him, Dantalion laid his book of lists. He was tempted to look at it. Go over the numbers in his head, try to match them to the people he had killed over the twenty-two years he'd been engaged in the murder trade. The first few numbers were easy to recall. First, his abusive uncle. Second, his school friend Tyler. After that things grew a little foggy. The faces tended to meld and swirl in his mind. A week ago he'd murdered Caitlin Moore, her husband and child. That one stuck in his mind. He regretted having to kill the little girl, but she'd woken from the mild dose of sodium amatol he'd injected into her. Couldn't leave a witness who could describe his appearance, could he? Shame really; after he'd promised Caitlin that her daughter would be safe.
Then there were those he'd killed on yesterday's mission.
The boat owner was collateral damage, but he was still given a number. Two bodyguards, a maid, Valentin and Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean. Last, but not least, the assassin sent to kill him after the job was done. Dantalion touched his thigh where the gunman's bullet had nicked him. The guy had been good, but not as good as he was.
He would show his client the folly of sending someone second-rate after a master killer.
From his deep pockets he pulled out his BlackBerry. Bringing up the internet, he deftly keyed in numbers that would put him in touch with an associate of his. In coded message Dantalion enquired as to successful completion of payment for his services. Was not happy when informed that the client had reneged on the arrangement. Positive confirmation of death had not been announced.
'What is wrong with these people?' he asked out loud.
After he'd fled the scene of destruction he had to use all his cunning to avoid the police and fire department personnel who had arrived en masse. The fire wouldn't have taken that much damping down — once the propane tanks were secured and isolated in the adjoining properties the task of sifting through the rubble would have began. They'd be pulling out charred corpses by now.
OK, give them a little time. Florida's bravest had a difficult job to do.
Charred corpses often took time to identify.
But it was annoying that the client hadn't the belief in him to accept that he'd done exactly what he agreed. Just in a more dramatic fashion.
There was, of course, another reason why the fee had not been delivered to his account.
The client had sent a killer after Dantalion. Why pay money to languish in an account as dead as the man with the codes to access it?
Dantalion would show Petre Jorgenson the error of such thinking.
13
What surprised me most was that Bradley Jorgenson didn't run directly to the police. He was a man of power and could have demanded that the weight of the entire force be thrown into finding who had been responsible for the attack on his home. Instead, he seemed reluctant to cooperate with the officers on the case, stonewalling and throwing up barriers in the form of highly paid legal advisers to allow him immunity from the ensuing investigation.
It wouldn't last, but for now Jorgenson and Marianne Dean were in hiding and refusing to answer any questions.
In some respects their refusal to talk was a relief. I didn't want to spend half the day answering questions and denying allegations that I was anything other than a concerned citizen who had tried to intervene during a murder spree. Marianne could easily have dropped me in it by talking about our meeting in the garden before the killer's arrival. That would have shown that I had more than chance involvement. Some could even read into my presence at the scene something that wasn't true: foreknowledge of what was about to happen. In some schools of thought, that would make me an accessory to the crime, and I'd be seeing much more of the inside of police stations. At the very least my movements would be curtailed, and I would be useless to Marianne. There'd be no way I could save her if I was locked up in Dade County Penitentiary awaiting trial.
Not that the police would immediately link me to the Joseph Evans who'd taken out the lease on the adjoining property, but once the federal government became involved — and for a case of this magnitude it would — my fingerprints would throw up an interesting connection to certain military records. With my background, my proximity to the scene, my name would raise more than a few eyebrows. There'd be no talk of coincidence. Christ, I'd be lucky if the entire shit storm wasn't blamed on me.
Rink shut down his office, and we travelled across country in his Porsche Boxster. The Ford Explorer would have been more comfortable for two big guys, but I'd had to abandon it last night at Miami Beach. Could be that by now the vehicle was in some chop shop in SoBe and I'd never see the SUV again.
We cut across country and skirted Bartow, then a series of low-lying lakes and open grasslands with the occasional outcropping of pine, ending up at Fort Pierce where we picked up Route 1 south. On our left was a peninsula that hugged the coastline, separated from the mainland by an open stretch of tidal sands.
Another hour or so would get us to the gated community on Neptune Island.
We were on our way to confront Bradley Jorgenson.
The decision had been made to lay all our cards on the table. Speak to Jorgenson. Brush the punk off if he stood in the way of freedom for Marianne, if in fact that was what she wanted.
I'd begun with the doubts after seeing how she'd clung to him when she thought they were about to die. Her words in response to the killer's demand that Jorgenson chose who died first.
'Mari,' Jorgenson had said to her, 'I'm sorry I dragged you into this, babe.'
'Not… your… fault,' she'd whispered back.
At first I hadn't taken much notice. I was more concerned with what the killer had to say for himself, but thinking back I remembered the softness of her voice. No hint of vehemence or even resignation. She'd meant what she said. They sounded like the words of someone deeply in love. Certainly not someone fearful of the person she spoke to.
Then there was Rink's hint that everything might not be as clear-cut as it seemed, that perhaps Marianne's injuries were down to another person with a reason to hurt her. Witnesses said that Jorgenson had been arguing with someone. A family member perhaps? Shortly afterwards Marianne had been taken to an accident and emergency unit for treatment for her injuries. Two and two were put together. Maybe the witnesses weren't so great at counting.
Then there was the small matter of the hit man.
