7
As a killer for hire, Dantalion had certain limitations. His looks — the paleness of his skin and hair, the limpidness of his eyes — made him stand out in a crowd. It was never good for one who prized anonymity to be seen and to be remembered. It was one reason why he rarely left anyone alive in his wake. There couldn't be so many angels wandering around in the flesh that he could get away with his trade if anyone should witness his comings and goings.
But because of his individuality he had schooled himself in the art of concealment. He knew how to get in and out of places without alerting even the most vigilant of watchers. He was adept at disguises, could administer theatrical make-up as though born to the movie industry. But sometimes, he knew, boldness and confidence could win the day where all that sneaking around would achieve was raised eyebrows and pointed fingers.
Arriving at the Baker Island marina, he did so in style. He made sure that to any observer he was yet another man of the uber-rich set. The boat — a $2.5 million cabin cruiser — might not be the most expensive in the marina, but it certainly didn't look out of place. He was dressed in the finest silk suit and his face and hands were a light tan, his hair concealed under a sleek black wig. Even his eyes, his greatest giveaway, were disguised by tinted contact lenses. To all intents and purposes, he looked at home on the island. The real boat owner wouldn't mind that Dantalion had stolen his identity; he was currently bleeding out through the hole in his head back at Miami Beach.
He purposely didn't moor the boat anywhere near the target's home; that could alert any minders prowling in the area. Better that he stroll in, a man arrived from the sea catching his balance now that he was back on dry land. As he walked he lit a cigar. He didn't regularly smoke, but it was all part of the look. He walked with his free hand tucked into his jacket pocket, where a slit had been cut in the seam so he could reach the sound-suppressed 90-two Beretta strapped to his thigh.
Lights positioned along the dockside attracted swarms of gnats: even mega-money couldn't eradicate the presence of pests. Dantalion ignored them. He was too intent on the row of luxury houses ahead. The buildings looked pink in the yellow haze of the lights, almost semi-circular in construction as they hugged the curve of the land where the marina spilled back into Biscayne Bay. Off to his right was the sprawling length of Dodge Island and beyond it the blazing nightscape that was Miami itself.
The house he was looking for was the one to the extreme right of the three comprising the half-moon shape. The houses, making the most of the view and the afternoon sun, were built so that the gardens and pools faced towards the sea. Entrance to the buildings could be gained from the gardens, but the main doors were at the far side of the buildings.
Taking in the nightscape of the metropolis across Biscayne Bay, he stood leaning his elbows on a low wall overlooking the promontory that gave private mooring to these three properties. A $10-million plus craft bobbed on the swells there, making Dantalion consider the fee he'd set to get this job done; maybe he should have doubled it. Perhaps he still would.
Putting the cigar to his lips, he took smoke into his mouth but no further. Then, exhaling slowly, he turned and leaned his elbows on the wall so that he was looking back towards the houses. It was nonchalant enough that to any observer he would appear simply as a man at peace with the world and enjoying the privileges afforded him. In that brief moment he scanned all three upper balconies of the properties he could see. The building furthest to the left appeared deserted. There was a man, apparently asleep on a reclining chair on building two. Lights blazed throughout the target house but he could not immediately detect any movement from within.
His eyes strayed back to the central balcony. He couldn't see much of the man, but he appeared relaxed enough to be genuinely asleep. He watched for long seconds but got no reaction. He dismissed the presence of the man: he was probably drunk or sleeping off a long flight. He could always pay him a visit after he was done, make sure that a potential witness was no longer around. Jamming the cigar between his teeth, he pushed off from the wall and walked along the pathway overlooking the sea. Tiny waves made crystalline splashes on the rocks below. He flicked the cigar away, watching it spiral end-over-end like a tiny meteor before it fizzed out in the ocean.
He then moved inland towards the high wall bordering the garden. To look at him, he wouldn't have the strength to catch the top of the wall and swing up as nimbly as a cat, but that was what he did. There he crouched, peering over the top of shrubbery towards the house. He held the pose, gargoyle-like, as though he was an evil sprite fleeing a European cathedral. Pretty apt, considering.
When he was sure he'd gone undetected, he hopped down into the garden, landing surefooted amid a stand of palm. Crouching again, he felt for the necessary tools of his trade. Beretta. Check. Book. Check. That was all he needed. He moved forward, staying within the shadows of the trees. Nothing stirred around him; even the endemic bugs had fallen silent.
The bushes ended at a paved terrace, then came an open space he had to traverse to get to the door. From this vantage point he could see through the doorway to a well-appointed lobby area. An overweight man in a dark suit was sitting on a couch, using a telephone on an adjacent stand. He was giving someone quite express orders judging by the snapping motion of his free hand. Dantalion followed the man's gesture. Another big man, the shoulder holster immediately obvious against his shirt. Two minders at the very least. Could be more on the upper floors.
Calculating figures, Dantalion moved forwards. He lifted the silenced Beretta, took aim. There was a noise like someone slapping a catcher's mitt. The light above the entrance went out. Within the house neither of the bodyguards noticed the sudden darkness outside. Dantalion was immediately on the move.
He was across the terrace in seconds. He didn't pause, pulling open the door in one swift motion. The fat man on the couch was the nearest target, but he was sitting down and had his gun hand full of telephone. Dantalion shot the standing man. The 9 mm bullet hit him centre mass, going through-and-through, putting a hole in the mirror behind him. Blood spray misted the crazy-paved glass.
It was a heart shot, but experience told Dantalion that sometimes that wasn't enough. Even as the target crumpled, he shot the same man a second time, taking off a sizeable portion of his skull.
Barely two seconds had passed, but it was the length of mortality for at least one of the men. The heavy man had hardly registered what was happening. He swung his gaze from his dead companion to the mystery man in the lobby, his mouth hanging open. The Beretta was now aimed his way. The second victim was more show than substance, his real weapons his size and his fists. Not much good against an expert with a semi-automatic handgun. His response was to sink back on the couch, bringing up his hands. Dantalion shot him twice. Once in the throat to stop his shout of alarm, once in his tremulous gut, just for good measure.
Both men out of the picture in less time than it took to stalk the length of the lobby. The suppressor — though not as effective as Hollywood would have it — deadened the sounds of the gunshots, but there'd still been the sequence of thuds. Most noise had come from the smashing of the mirror. Still, Dantalion wasn't concerned that the people upstairs had been alerted; they weren't familiar with the sounds of death.
Moving to the foot of a staircase, Dantalion swept the remainder of the lobby with his gun. A closed door on his right, possibly an entrance to a kitchen area. He twisted the handle. Didn't want to be going up the stairs only for the door to swing open and disgorge more minders. But the kitchen was in darkness, empty of armed guards. He quickly pulled the door shut.
The door out into the parking area was closed. No movement beyond it. He returned his attention to the stairs.
There was a young woman coming down, a step at a time, as she hefted a heavy suitcase. She saw the dead man on the couch, jerked her stupefied gaze towards Dantalion. Her eyes widened. A scream began to swell. Dantalion shot her in the mouth. No need of a second shot this time, not with half her skull decorating the stairway. She slipped to the stairs, boneless, making hardly a sound. Not the suitcase, though; it rattled and thumped and banged its way over the steps before Dantalion could reach it and halt its fall.
Quizzical voices were raised from above him. One female, two male. He glanced at the dead woman on the stairs. Slim and petite with a Hispanic look. She was wearing a white blouse, black skirt and sensible black shoes. Housemaid, he determined. That would mean the three upstairs were his targets, plus one more probable guard.
