the emblem embroidered on Dantalion's shirt. Behind the visor of his flight helmet, Dantalion saw the man's eyes narrow to slivers. He opened his mouth to speak.
That was when Dantalion swung his right hand as though he was holding a hammer. The bottom of his fist struck the man flush on the left side of his neck. The blow in itself could prove fatal if delivered with enough power and precision. Coupled with the hypodermic piercing his carotid artery and pumping in a lethal dose of ketamine, the man was guaranteed a rapid death.
The punch itself stunned him, the drug raced immediately to his heart, and he was dead within seconds. He didn't have the chance to shout or even to lift his hands in defence. Dantalion accepted his sinking weight, catching the man under each armpit, and dragged him bodily from the helicopter. Then he slid open the side door and bundled the man into the rear compartment. He followed him inside and closed the door behind him.
Minutes later Dantalion emerged a new man.
Wearing the pilot's jumpsuit and helmet, he crossed the lawn towards the house. As he got to the window of the kitchen he saw that the tableau had not changed in the couple of minutes he'd been gone. Boldly he rapped a knuckle on the window, even as he turned aside, gesturing to those within with a gloved hand. All they would see was the familiar figure of the chopper pilot. They wouldn't be alarmed, but one of them would come to the door to see what he wanted. He walked towards the door, watching in his peripheral vision as someone — Seagram from the shape of the brush cut — moved towards the door to intercept him.
He stood very close to the door. It was solid wood, so the person inside would have to open it fully before realising that there was something familiar about the bogus pilot's face. He readied himself. He preferred giving his victims a choice of how they would die, but he didn't have that luxury. This death had to be conducted in silence too.
'Yeah, what is it?' Seagram's voice.
'I need to give my colleague a message,' Dantalion said, purposely speaking a couple of octaves lower than normal.
'What is it? I'll tell him.'
'Can't do that, sir,' Dantalion said. 'Official FBI business, I'm afraid. You do not have clearance. I have to tell him myself.'
Seagram muttered a curse under his breath. He tugged open the door, which squealed on seldom-used hinges.
Seagram stood looking at him for the briefest of moments. Then it was there, the subtle movement of his jaw, the dilating of his pupils. He'd recognised the lie.
'Hello, Seagram,' Dantalion said as he stepped forward. The knife he'd brought from the dead warden's house went under Seagram's ribcage. All eight glistening inches of it. Dantalion's other hand covered Seagram's gaping mouth. As the man's knees buckled under him, Dantalion supported him on the blade. He leaned close, placing his lips close to Seagram's ear. 'I've come to tell the FBI that the killer is here.'
Seagram knew he was dying, and that it was his greed that had brought him to this point. His eyes went large above Dantalion's cupped hand. He tried to shout, but the knife seemed to suck the words down into his throat as Dantalion pulled the blade out of his abdomen.
Dantalion placed Seagram on the floor just inside the vestibule, and swiped the blade across his trachea. His mouth still opened and closed like a fish on dry land, but no noises beyond the bubbling blood in his sliced trachea issued forth. Groping under Seagram's jacket, Dantalion pulled out a Glock 17. Not the model 19 he was used to, but still better than the five-shot Taurus.
He fitted his hands round both guns' stocks. The two-gunned assault had a decidedly intimidating quality to it that worked for him.
He strode along the hall.
The kitchen door was open and he could see the old lady sitting with her back to him. That would put the FBI agent on his right, Bradley on his left. The FBI agent was the most dangerous enemy in the room. By rights he should die first. Dantalion, however, had different ideas about rights and wrongs. He fired a single round through the old lady's back even before he was in the room. The Glock punched a 9 mm round directly through her and shattered something on the far wall. The woman toppled towards the table. As she did so her face twisted to one side, and Dantalion would have sworn that she was still smiling.
'Hello,' he called in his usual fashion. 'I'm Dantalion.'
Bradley and the FBI agent were too busy to take note of his words. They were half risen from their seats, Bradley turning away, the agent grabbing for the H amp;K inside his jacket.
Dantalion fired one shot from the Taurus, one shot from the Glock. Neither of them at Bradley. The.38 calibre bullet hit the agent above his right hip. A split second later the 9 mm struck him directly between the eyes. The opposing forces of the bullets made him jig in place like a disjointed puppet. Then he dropped straight to the floor, knocking over the chair he'd so recently been sitting upon.
Bradley was lurching around the far end of the table, seeking a way out. He had both arms over his head and was yelling something reminiscent of the defeated bellow of a bull as the matador serves the coup de grace.
Aiming left-handedly, Dantalion fired the Taurus. The bullet struck the wall directly in front of Bradley who responded by dropping down and covering his head with his two hands. He shouted something but Dantalion's ears were ringing to the echo of his own guns.
'Surprised to see me, Bradley? Thought I was dead, eh? Must piss you off that the big bold Hunter failed to stop me? Stand up.'
Terror kept Bradley exactly where he was.
'I said ' stand up',' Dantalion yelled. 'Or I will shoot you where you are. Cowering on the ground like a dog!'
Bradley came partly to his feet, but couldn't prevent his knees dipping again. Dantalion stalked over, kicking aside the dead FBI agent to get at him. He pushed the hot muzzle of the Taurus under Bradley's ear. 'Stand up. That's the only choice I'm giving you right now.'
Cringing like a wounded animal, Bradley came to his feet. He tried to protect himself with his arms but Dantalion struck at the meat of his forearms, forcing the hands away. Then he pushed Bradley back against the kitchen counter and forced him to bend backwards away from the pressure of the gun.
'Now, Bradley, it's choices time again. Do you die instantly, or would you rather I kept you alive as bait to bring Marianne to me?' Dantalion pushed the muzzle of the Glock under Bradley's chin. 'Come on, speak up. I'm giving you the opportunity of living a little longer.'
'Please,' Bradley croaked. His plea never came to a conclusion, and Dantalion was left wondering what decision Bradley had reached.
Dantalion heard a car pull up outside the front of the house.
So he made the choice himself.
He slipped the Glock in his pocket, pulled out a hypodermic syringe. Given in the same dosage, ketamine would kill Bradley as instantly as it had the pilot, but this syringe didn't contain ketamine. He'd brought this ampoule from the truck: sodium amatol left over from the hit on the Moore household. In small doses it caused the drugged person to become compliant. A higher dose caused unconsciousness. Too much and the person would die. Dantalion administered just enough to leave Bradley with no will of his own but with the use of his legs. He didn't want to have to carry him out of there.
36
Special Agent in Charge Taylor Kaufman wasn't exactly pleased to see me. He extended his hand, but his shake was abrupt and his words dry. 'Walter Conrad says you're the best in the business.'
'Depends what business he's referring to,' I answered.
The silver-haired SAC studied me with eyes the colour of tarnished brass. He didn't appear impressed. Something about my accent seemed to irk him as well. I guessed it was because he'd already fought a jurisdiction war with the Miami PD and Martin County Sheriff's Department, which he'd indubitably won, only now to be faced with a Brit with carte blanche to take over his position of power. He straightened his grey suit. Nodded towards the
