Taking their confusion as cover for his own upward charge, he gained the upper floor before any of them had the notion to come and investigate the commotion.
Walking along the landing, he saw another young woman step out of a bedroom. Anglo-Saxon this one. Light brown hair, blue-green eyes, nice figure. Dantalion smiled at her.
'Hello, Marianne,' he said.
Then he showed her the gun. The woman immediately yelped and jerked back into the room. Dantalion followed her. He was only a beat in her wake, and he was planning on using her fear against the others.
He blinked, taking in the tableau.
The woman was still running across the room. A young man, reddish hair marking him out, was in mid-pose pulling on a suit jacket. The second man was older, grey hair, slim, distinguished-looking. Sitting at a desk, he had been bending over a laptop computer. More accountant than bodyguard, perhaps, but still a viable threat. Dantalion lifted the Beretta and blew him out of contention.
To the younger man, Dantalion said, 'Bradley, how are you, sir?'
Jorgenson gaped at him. Then he looked down at the dead man slumped over the computer, his fingers arched over the keys as though writing his own eulogy.
'Dad?' Jorgenson croaked. His face collapsed in on itself and he sobbed.
'That was your father? The great Valentin Jorgenson? If it's any consolation, your father would probably thank me for killing him. What was it? Cancer? He was in great pain, was he not?' Dantalion went closer. He lifted the gun so it was aimed at Bradley's heart. 'Do you want a quick and painless death, Bradley? I'm prepared to give you the choice.'
Jorgenson stepped back, bringing up placating hands. 'Look, whoever you are, whoever put you up to this, I will double the price. Don't kill me.'
Dantalion let out a long sigh like an escape of steam. 'I'm not averse to being handed heaps of cash, Bradley. However, a deal is a deal and you must die.' He turned and sought out the woman. Marianne had pressed herself to the far wall as if she could melt through the brick and escape the horror. 'You too, Marianne.'
Marianne whimpered, slipping down the wall and covering her head with both arms.
Dantalion waved Jorgenson over to the woman with the barrel of his gun. 'Go and comfort her, Bradley. She deserves a hug, don't you think?'
Jorgenson pleaded. 'She hasn't done anything wrong. Please don't kill her.'
'The deal has been made, Bradley. I must.'
Jorgenson was fit and strong. Approaching his prime, before the hedonistic ways the affluence afforded him would make him fat and slow. Dantalion saw him clench his fists.
'Don't be silly, Bradley. The hype is just that. They've dubbed you Superman, but, believe me; you're not faster than a speeding bullet.'
'Who sent you?' Jorgenson demanded.
Dantalion tapped the Beretta alongside his nose. 'That would be telling.'
Jorgenson snapped his gaze on Marianne. There was a flash of anger, but then the hardness melted.
'Let her go.'
Dantalion shook his head.
'I will let you choose, Bradley. The woman first?'
'No!'
'Then you first?'
'No!'
Dantalion shook his head. 'You just don't seem to get this, do you?'
'I'm not going to choose who you kill. How can you expect me to do that?'
'Flip a coin if you wish,' Dantalion said. 'But if I kill her first, then we go back to my first offer. Quick and painless or slow and in untold agony.'
Shuddering, Jorgenson looked down at the woman. Her eyes were huge ovals as she looked back at him. 'Mari,' he said, 'I'm sorry I dragged you into this, babe.'
'Not… your… fault,' she whispered back.
'Now that's very touching,' Dantalion said. Unconsciously he wiped his arm over his chin. A pale patch of skin drew Jorgenson's gaze. Realising his error, Dantalion shook his head slowly. 'Bang goes the neighbourhood! Now there's definitely no choice.'
With a lifestyle built on giving commands, Jorgenson wasn't one to give in so easily. The shock of seeing his father gunned down, the weirdness of the man threatening him with death, were beginning to dissipate. He squared his shoulders.
'You touch either of us, you'll be hunted down. They won't stop. You'll be hounded constantly and when they get you they will make you hurt!'
Dantalion raised an eyebrow. 'They? Who are these they you have so much faith in? They will have to find me first. If I don't want them to find me, they never will.'
' They already have,' said a voice from behind him.
8
Not normally one for moving in the kind of circles the people of Baker Island enjoyed, I could be forgiven for missing just another rich man as he took an evening stroll along the dockside. But as one who had spent fourteen years hunting terrorists, and the last four dealing with criminals ranging from moneylenders to a bone-collecting maniac, I recognised a stone killer when I saw him.
An island this wealthy, it was probable that a large portion of the populace was ex-cops, ex-military — and everything in between — employed as executive protectors to those who called Baker Island their home. But something about the sinuous way this man moved told me he wasn't the type who celebrated the sanctity of life. For one, he was too watchful of his surroundings. Even switched-on security men don't act that way when they aren't covering their mark.
The cigar was a prop. Too exaggerated, the way he put it to his mouth, then immediately removed it with a sweeping gesture of his arm. And all the while the other hand didn't move from his pocket. It fiddled with something that extended much lower than the confines of his pocket. He was packing.
He flicked the cigar away, watching it as it pinwheeled away into the ocean. Leaning back on a wall, the man turned and stared directly at me. I'd been expecting that, so I'd already sunk down against the recliner, tilting my head as though dozing. I watched him through the merest slitting of my eyes. The man ghosted a smile. I'd have missed it in the subdued lighting if I hadn't got a flash of saliva on teeth.
Out of his line of sight I was already mid-text to Rink.
' GET HERE FAST. TROUBLE '
I hit the send button just as the man turned away and walked along the coast path. His very black hair picked up highlights from the lamps along the path, so I could make out his progress beyond the wall to Jorgenson's garden. I blinked and the man was suddenly crouching on the wall like some unearthly bat. Next instant he was down in the garden and he paused to check his pockets. When next he moved it was as if a snake had sprung out of a coil, fast but sinuous at the same time. Then I couldn't see him because of the angle and the obscuring foliage.
Keeping low, I moved to the edge of my balcony. The lights above the entrance spilled across Jorgenson's terrace, making for faux-daytime. Then came a noise like a sharp cough and the garden went dark.
As soon as it did, I was on the move.
But not without hearing four rapid shots from a silenced handgun, and the smashing of glass.
Going back through my apartment would take too long. I swung over the edge of the balcony and jumped to the terrace below. Harking back to my parachute days, I tucked and rolled, absorbing the impact, and came up with my SIG levelled towards Jorgenson's house. Then I moved forward. Further down the garden, only the shrubbery marked the boundary, but here close to the entrances a small wall had been erected to offer privacy to occupants sitting on the terrace. I had to shift a terracotta pot containing some fern-type plant. Then I vaulted the wall and
