shouted. ‘I should have you …’ His voice faltered, and his gaze nervously searched for unseen watchers. His dark eyes flicked my way, but I’d already moved back out of sight. His next words were whispered and I couldn’t hear what was said. But I heard the snap of his phone as he closed it. Then followed the clop of leather heels as he hurried inside. More shouting ensued but it was muffled, then there was a crash, and – I’m pretty sure – a woman’s voice crying out.
I’d made up my mind already, but the man’s words and actions only served to confirm that. Jorgenson was a bully. And anyone who knows Joe Hunter knows I can’t abide bullies.
My plan didn’t extend to walking up to his front door and ringing the bell, but at that moment I felt the urge to get on the move. It was the stirring of anger that always drove me to violent conclusions. Rink has accused me of getting a kick out of the violence. But I don’t. I only want peace. The problem is, I want that peace to extend to everyone, so if it means cracking the skulls of those causing the rot in the world, then so be it. As a counterterrorism soldier my career was dictated and channelled towards specific targets. Now, free to roam, I could pick and choose who needed sorting. And I’d decided: Bradley Jorgenson required setting right on a point or two.
Despite the glitz and riches, Marianne Dean had to be very unhappy. I’d seen it many, many times before: a woman giving up everything for the man she loves. She will take the beatings and humiliation, won’t reach out for help, because, underneath it all, he loves her . It must be her own fault.
Domestic violence is a curse on society. Most times it stays hidden, but even when a woman is brave enough to come forward and report what is happening behind closed doors, the finger of blame can be pointed back at her. What was she doing to push her man to hurting her? Likely she got exactly what she deserved!
But I wasn’t from that school of thought.
The way I look at it, men who hurt women are only a step lower on the ladder of shame than those who hurt children. Sometimes there is no distinction between the two. Marianne had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but she still remained the shy child captured in that school portrait less than a year ago. Likely she wouldn’t thank me for saying so, but to me, Marianne was still a baby. Suddenly I could understand her father’s vitriol, his desire to see Jorgenson dead.
In the past I’ve been accused of many things. Some have called me a vigilante. Fair enough, I can live with that. But I don’t see things the same way. I prefer to be seen as someone who can help. When the full weight of the law can’t do anything, well then, that’s where I step up. I don’t take the law into my own hands. Not as such, not when the law doesn’t extend to what is occasionally required.
The thing that stopped me approaching Jorgenson right that instant was one undeniable truth. I still hadn’t seen Marianne. I’d no way of knowing if she was even inside the house. Introducing myself to her violent beau at this stage could mean that I never saw her again.
Better to wait, then.
There would be a time for entering that house, but it would be later, under the cover of darkness and with Rink watching my back.
Jorgenson – notwithstanding his sudden rise to prominence as one of Florida’s social elite – was third-generation money. His grandfather had come over from Europe in the late 1950s. He brought with him a pharmaceutical supply company that rocketed along with the post-World War II financial boom. The Korean and Vietnamese conflicts didn’t do any harm either, and set Jorgenson’s father, Valentin, at the helm of an industry driven by military contracts that were fed by Desert Storm and the more recent campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. With his father ailing, Bradley was now poised to step up and take the reins. He was the face of twenty-first