Free Judgement and Wrath by Matt Hilton Page A

armed security who patrolled the grounds.
    On the coast side, men in boats patrolled night and day, and enforced an exclusion zone of almost a quarter of a mile off shore.
    Some would think that the security measures were extreme. But the Jorgensons were implicitly tied to the military, and their secrets were protected almost as though they were a principality that the US military depended upon for its survival.
    Dantalion had no worries about getting in. He was too good at his job to doubt himself.
    Last night hadn’t gone to plan, but he wouldn’t let that dent his self-belief. At the end of the day, he’d successfully completed his mission. Killed the targets and then some. It was just a pity he hadn’t been able to look into Bradley Jorgenson’s face at the end. He always liked to watch the final grains of life sift away like sand in an hour glass.
    He would have preferred to see the gunman dead, too. His unwelcome arrival had spoiled his plans for torturing Jorgenson. He’d been looking forward to killing the girl in front of him, then putting a bullet into each of Jorgenson’s limbs. Lastly he’d have gut-shot him, made him squirm in his own spilled innards while Dantalion revealed who it was that wanted him dead. It would have been beautiful.
    He was driving a truck. Blacked-out windows helped keep the sun off his exposed limbs, but there was another motive. CCTV observation would be kept to the minimum. The truck would be spotted, yes, but not the driver. He could drive by; scout the perimeter without alerting anyone to his identity. Unconcerned, they wouldn’t be ready for the visit he’d pay them this evening.
    Before arriving at the Jorgenson estate, he pulled into a layover, parking the truck beneath a copse of trees. Afforded shade, he lowered the window and peered across the marshlands that stretched towards the Atlantic. A flight of birds streaked through the pale blue sky, heading south, as if they had a premonition of what was to come.
    On the passenger seat next to him, Dantalion laid his book of lists. He was tempted to look at it. Go over the numbers in his head, try to match them to the people he had killed over the twenty-two years he’d been engaged in the murder trade. The first few numbers were easy to recall. First, his abusive uncle. Second, his school friend Tyler. After that things grew a little foggy. The faces tended to meld and swirl in his mind. A week ago he’d murdered Caitlin Moore, her husband and child. That one stuck in his mind. He regretted having to kill the little girl, but she’d woken from the mild dose of sodium amatol he’d injected into her. Couldn’t leave a witness who could describe his appearance, could he? Shame really; after he’d promised Caitlin that her daughter would be safe.
    Then there were those he’d killed on yesterday’s mission.
    The boat owner was collateral damage, but he was still given a number. Two bodyguards, a maid, Valentin and Bradley Jorgenson and Marianne Dean. Last, but not least, the assassin sent to kill him after the job was done. Dantalion touched his thigh where the gunman’s bullet had nicked him. The guy had been good, but not as good as he was.
    He would show his client the folly of sending someone second-rate after a master killer.
    From his deep pockets he pulled out his BlackBerry. Bringing up the internet, he deftly keyed in numbers that would put him in touch with an associate of his. In coded message Dantalion enquired as to successful completion of payment for his services. Was not happy when informed that the client had reneged on the arrangement. Positive confirmation of death had not been announced.
    ‘What is wrong with these people?’ he asked out loud.
    After he’d fled the scene of destruction he had to use all his cunning to avoid the police and fire department personnel who had arrived en masse. The fire wouldn’t have taken that much damping down – once the propane tanks were secured and isolated in