'Put the finger down, Bradley, or I'll break it,' I snapped. He dropped his hand to his side, but the challenge remained in the set of his shoulders. I shook my head at him. Pathetic bastard didn't frighten me. 'Marianne will only tell me what you've ordered her to say.'
He exhaled. 'Believe what you want. But you'll learn the truth in the end.'
'Yes, Bradley, I will.'
22
Dantalion is a great and mighty duke of Hell. He knows the thoughts of all men and women, and can change them at will. Nothing can stand in his way. Or so it was written in the fabled Book of Enoch.
After sedating the dogs, he'd walked through the rear entrance unchallenged. In a vestibule he'd come across a man sitting reading a newspaper and had shot him in the throat. Then he'd moved on. At the front of the house was another man in a small room that was in darkness but for the glow from numerous CCTV monitors. He seemed to be dozing, and Dantalion killed him without his victim even coming awake. Next he'd checked the opposite wing of the house where he shot two guards in the back. The plush carpets had absorbed the shock of their landing.
And then he was moving up the stairs, intent on the task he'd set himself. The numbers in his book required correction and there was only one way to achieve that.
Numbers are the building blocks of equations, he reminded himself. Equations are formulae with a strict resolution. They gave him the answers to his existence.
Answers. That was why he was there. He wanted answers.
At the head of the stairs he heard the murmur of voices from within a room to his left. He took a spare magazine out of his pocket, ejected the one from his gun that was half depleted, and fed in the fresh one. He racked the slide. Continued up the stairs with new resolve. He moved along the hall towards the bedroom. The tugging sensation in his wounded thigh was a reminder of what mistakes can cost. There would be no mistakes this time. He entered the room, the gun levelled at chest height.
And found himself staring down the barrels of five guns pointed directly at him.
'Ah, Dantalion. We've been expecting you. Please come in,' said a familiar voice.
He didn't look at Petre Jorgenson, instead he looked at the fat man sitting behind the armed men. The fat man wouldn't return his gaze.
'You betrayed me, Gabe?'
Gabe Wellborn shifted in his chair, looked to Petre for support.
Petre took a step forwards, his gun pointed at Dantalion's midriff. 'Best you drop the weapon.'
Dantalion kept his gun exactly where it was.
'If that's your choice,' he said. Then he allowed the gun to lower to his side.
'Put the gun on the floor and kick it away,' Petre ordered.
'No,' said Dantalion.
'Then we'll shoot you and you'll never know why you had to die.'
Dantalion dropped the Beretta, kicked it from him with the side of his foot. 'Explain.'
Petre approached Gabe and placed a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed reassuringly.
'Mr Wellborn has done us all a great service.'
'He has?' Dantalion twisted the corner of his mouth into a sneer.
'Yes.' Petre looked at him oddly. Nodded at the night-vision goggles. 'Are you going to take off that ridiculous contraption?'
Dantalion made do with flicking up the dual tubes so that they stood up from his forehead like a ram's horns. Symbolic in its own way, but lost on all the others in the room. Petre waved a hand. 'Take a seat. We may as well be comfortable.'
'I'll stand.'
'OK, but I insist that you are searched for weapons. You can lose the dart gun, for a start.'
Dantalion allowed two of the armed men to strip the gun from him, then the backpack. His Beretta was scooped off the floor. One of them, a tall, thin Cuban, brushed the book concealed beneath his sweatshirt. Dantalion grasped his wrist. 'You don't touch that! Nobody touches that.'
The man pulled his wrist free, but it was an effort. Dantalion's spindly fingers held more strength than his emaciated frame would suggest. The man looked at his boss for direction.
Petre said, 'Leave it.' Then to Dantalion, 'I take it that's the book you showed me at Bayside Park. Mr Wellborn has already explained to me how important it is to you. You may keep it, Dantalion.'
'I was going to.'
The armed men moved away, giving him space so they could hold him in their line of fire without blocking the other two guards. Petre sat down behind a desk. He laid his Glock 19 on its top within easy reach of his hand.
Normally, the position of power is held by the standing person. It forces those seated to look up at them, see them as the dominant figure. It didn't seem to perturb Petre Jorgenson, he appeared at ease. But then again, the illusion of Dantalion's dominance was severely compromised by having four automatic weapons aimed at him.
Dantalion looked from Petre to Gabe. He blinked very slowly. 'You betrayed me, Gabe. How could that be a great service?'
Gabe swallowed.
But it was Petre who answered. 'Mr Wellborn was concerned about your intentions. He believed that your decision to come here was not based upon professional logic, but on some misguided notion of revenge. Revenge is never good for business.'
'My decisions are never misguided,' Dantalion said.
Petre folded his hands, tapped his little fingers on the desk top. 'OK. So let's call it misinformed.'
Dantalion didn't reply. The tapping set off a tic on his jaw line.
Petre continued, 'Mr Wellborn — as you know — is an asset to both of us. He brokers deals, organises payment, supplies necessary equipment and intelligence. After he spoke to you earlier, he contacted me. He feared that you were acting irrationally. When you heard that your targets had survived last night, he believed that you might do something to rectify the situation. I applaud that; you have pride in your work. But he also gained the impression that there was an underlying problem.'
'You could say that,' Dantalion grunted.
'You thought I'd reneged on the deal?' Petre steepled his hands against his lips. 'I can see how you might have come to that conclusion. But it wasn't the case, I was merely awaiting confirmation.'
'Yes,' Dantalion said. 'Confirmation that I was dead.'
The skin on Petre's brow creased. 'Why would you think that?'
'My words when we spoke at Bayside Park.'
Petre sat back in the chair. He shook his head, a smile on his tanned face. 'I took them as the words of someone bolstering his negotiating position, not as a direct threat. I hear similar comments day in and day out at all levels of my business.'
'It's one thing receiving veiled threats from ordinary business associates,' Dantalion pointed out. 'Quite different when dealing with a professional killer, wouldn't you agree?'
Petre put up a hand, as though waving away Dantalion's words. 'Nevertheless, I did not take them seriously. Your credentials are superb; I had no doubt that you would deliver. I never perceived you as a threat to me.'
'So why send a man to kill me?'
Petre rested his hands in his lap. At ease. Nothing to hide. 'I didn't.'
Dantalion glanced round the room, taking in the positions of the other armed men. They too had visibly relaxed. Their guns were still aimed at him, but only loosely.
'How do you explain this man turning up, then? He was prepared for me, almost got me. Only I happened to be better than him.'
'Mr Seagram. Please come in now,' said Petre. Dantalion made a quarter turn, watching as the man with the brush-cut hair walked into the room. He skirted Dantalion so that he was standing next to Petre's desk. Petre raised his palm, giving him the go-ahead. 'Explain, Mr Seagram.'
