Dantalion was angry now. But it wasn't the senseless anger that I wanted to force him into. His rage was controlled. More dangerous. He jammed the revolver hard into Bradley's armpit.
'I'm done playing games. Hunter, get your ass out of my way or — so help me, God! — I'm going to shoot this punk and then you.'
'I don't think God is on your side,' I didn't move an inch. 'You're forgetting that He chose to elevate man above His angels. Whose side do you think He's gonna pick today?'
'Think I believe all that stupidity?' Dantalion snapped.
'Yeah,' I said slowly. 'I think you do.'
'Think again!'
Dantalion fired at me.
I didn't have a shot, so I had to leap away.
His first shot missed by a mile, but he was turning, following me, vectoring in on my running form.
Now I fired. Not at him. Despite my threat, there was no way I could shoot Bradley through the head. I fired so that my bullet passed over their heads. But it was enough to make him flinch and his second shot missed its mark too.
Then I was back behind the station wagon and twisting round for a shot. Point. Shoot. That was what had been ingrained into my psyche during the hundreds of hours training at Arrowsake. My bullet went true, hit dead centre. Only it wasn't Dantalion I'd hit, but Bradley. The Kevlar vest absorbed the killing power, but it was still like he'd been kicked by a mule. His body collided with Dantalion's, knocking his third shot astray.
It was one of those do or die moments when everything can play out on the basis of a snap decision. He was off kilter now, and if I charged him he wouldn't waste time shooting Bradley, he'd turn all his attention on me. I would blast the fucker's face off the second he lifted it above Bradley's shoulder.
But before I could move, Seagram stumbled out of the house looking like the victim from a slasher movie. His shirt front was dark with blood; a mass of it had pooled round his waistband and was even now seeping into the front of his trousers. He had taken a serious wound to his abdomen. He had one hand cupped around his throat, and there was blood there too. Not as much as was coming from his guts, but I knew that this was going to prove fatal. In his other hand he held a Heckler amp; Koch semi-automatic pistol. His face was ashen and fixed into a mask-like rictus. There was no recognition when he looked first at Bradley and Dantalion, then at me.
He lifted the H amp;K.
Pointed at me.
He fired but I was already on the move. The problem was I had to dodge away, so could no longer rush at Dantalion.
Seagram didn't see me. Not as Joe Hunter. He was looking into a gulf into which he was about to fall on a one-way trip. The human body is miraculous. It can take horrendous wounds and survive and learn to function in new ways. Pity our minds aren't as resilient. Seagram was gone from inside his own head, and whether it was terror or hatred or sheer instinct to come out shooting, that was all he was capable of. He pulled the trigger again and again.
I was loath to shoot the man, but I wasn't about to take a blind shot. I lifted my SIG and squared it on his forehead. I paused for a fraction of a second, then watched as a tiny rosebud blossomed in the centre of his face while the back of his head exploded in a welter of blood, skull and brain matter.
Dantalion had his arm extended over Bradley's shoulder, and there was smoke coming from the barrel of the Glock.
Then he was swinging it towards me, and I had no option but to look for cover. I got to the front of the station wagon and hoped that the engine block would be enough to save me.
In the few seconds I'd kept my head down, Dantalion had moved backwards and I saw then what he was aiming for. The silver Lincoln was the only car in a driveable condition. He opened the driver's door and shoved Bradley inside, encouraging him to move faster with slaps to the face. Bradley scooted over into the passenger seat and then Dantalion was starting the car. He must have taken the car keys from Seagram.
I rose up from my crouch.
I could fire, but I was afraid that I'd hit Bradley.
So I had no recourse but to watch the Lincoln screeching away up the road.
'Knowles? Knowles!' Kaufman came over the wall like an Olympic hurdler. He lunged forwards to pick up his service revolver and raced towards the house. I took a last look at the Lincoln powering towards the exit drive, then at my Audi and the station wagon. Both had deflated tyres. No way was I going to catch Dantalion now.
I followed Kaufman inside. The trail of blood led us into the kitchen and what I saw broke my heart. A man was on his back, eyes fixed in a cataract stare. The agent — Knowles — that Kaufman had been concerned about. Bad enough that this man had died, but he was a professional and death was sometimes a downside of the job. What made my heart shrivel was the elderly lady lying across her table. Her mouth was crooked in an eternal bow. She had been no threat to anyone. Dantalion had done it from a thirst for blood.
Earlier, I'd told Walter that it wasn't personal. Well, I was wrong. When Dantalion killed that old lady he'd ensured that I wouldn't give up until I tore the last breath from his throat.
Kaufman was gingerly probing through the dead agent's clothing. Looking for his cell phone to call for back- up, no doubt. I took out my own phone and called all the back-up I required.
'Rink.'
'I'm here, Hunter.'
'Change of plan, buddy.'
I told him what had gone down and he swore. I stood by the window, staring out across the lawn towards the bright sea. A dark silhouette hunkered on the lawn.
When I was done giving my instructions to Rink, I looked back at Kaufman. He was still yelling animatedly into Knowles's phone.
'Kaufman,' I said loudly.
It was as if he'd forgotten I was there.
My finger pointed out the window.
'Can you fly that thing?'
37
Jean-Paul St Pierre — despite what everyone said — wasn't a sickly child. His vitiligo condition was purely external, and though it earned him cruel taunts from other children, even the occasional beating, it had never affected his physical boundaries. So long as he was careful under the Louisiana sun and took his medication at the dosage prescribed he could live a normal life. His mother loved him dearly, cherished him. Her little angel boy. She gave him all the kindness and support he needed. And he loved his mother in return.
He never knew his father. In a drunken stupor he'd been flattened under the wheels of an express train when his alcohol-addled brain told him he had right of way at a rail crossing. It wasn't much of a loss. He'd got on fine without him.
He blamed his father for his condition. It was his father's seed that had cursed him. But his father's curse was also responsible for making him the man that he would become.
He wasn't a sickly child. No.
He was strong and resilient and he looked after his mother as a good son should. When it came time to grant his mother her greatest wish he'd had the fortitude to do so, willingly and without an ounce of selfishness or self- pity. She had longed for it, asked for it, begged her uncaring god for it. So he couldn't understand why he'd been taken away and placed under guard at Juvenile Hall. They called him a monster. They did not understand him. He'd only been doing what his mother had begged for whenever he'd found her crying. His mother had been sad since the day of his father's death, and Jean-Paul had only wished to make her happy. He was even mindful to cause her as little pain as possible when he shot her in the back of her head with his grandpapa's old 'coon rifle.
Sociopathic, his doctors had called him. Psychopathic. Others called him worse names. More personal and hurtful. But he wasn't any of those things. He wasn't sick. Physically or mentally. Couldn't understand why they'd
