by Ethan Cross
After laying his trap, he had moved to the bathroom, pulled back the curtain, and stepped into the shower. He stood there in the dark now, waiting for Corin to follow the rest of her nightly routine and take a shower before going to bed.
He listened as she opened drawers and gathered a change of clothes. She entered the bathroom and reached inside the curtain.
He stood at the opposite end of the shower stall, trying not to make a sound, trying not to even breathe. He watched as she rotated the faucet’s handle, tested the water temperature, and pulled the shower release. Water, cold at first, struck his boots and jeans, but still he didn’t make a sound.
~~*~~
Chapter Eleven
Ackerman had just dropped from the back of the modified prison transport when a man in a black suit pushed past him and intercepted Marcus, jamming a handheld radio toward his brother’s face. Breathing hard, the man in the suit said, “There’s been a development.”
Grabbing for the radio, Marcus said, “Special Agent Williams on the line. Someone give me a sitrep.”
A deep voice crackled through. “Agent, this is Warden Polly. I need you and your team at the west gate immediately.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Someone just pulled up and asked to speak with you by name.”
Marcus caught Ackerman’s eye and shrugged, seeming to ask for input. Ackerman responded by snatching the radio from his brother’s hand and saying, “Was this person on foot or in a vehicle?”
“They pulled up in a black stretch limo.”
Ackerman’s heart began to race. It had been a long time since anything had truly surprised him. Even when he saw the back of the empty transport, part of him had expected as much. But this seemed to be uncharted territory, and for Ackerman, greater uncertainty and danger led to greater amusement.
But, in this case, he felt differently somehow. He felt a strange tingling sensation that shook him to his core, and he had no idea what to make of it.
He said, “Tell the driver to get us over there immediately. I would hate to keep our guest waiting.”
“Who’s in the limo?”
Ackerman crawled back into the armored transport and replied, “Let’s go find out.”
Two minutes later, the transport skidded to a halt in front of ADX Florence’s western security checkpoint. Marcus had radioed the rest of the team, including the police officers who aided in the botched prison transfer, to meet them at the gate. Most of those officers had already arrived, positioned their vehicles as cover, and drawn their weapons—good soldiers ready to fend off an assault. Ackerman could almost taste the gun oil and testosterone.
Marcus keyed his procured radio and said, “Open the gate and let them in.”
The large metal gate slid back into a wall of reinforced concrete and a long black limousine pulled inside, the barrier slamming tightly shut behind the luxury vehicle and its occupants.
The driver stepped out first, all guns coming to bear on the man, who was dressed in a formal chauffeur’s uniform. He hesitated a step at the sight of the officers, but apparently having strict instructions, the driver walked back to the limo’s rear door. He pulled it open and unrolled a short velvet carpet.
Ackerman wondered who would step out. Could it be Demon? Perhaps some representative of his? Someone from the government?
With the fanfare complete, a well-built and well-dressed man stepped into the frigid Colorado air. The limo’s passenger wore a black tailored suit over a black dress shirt and silk tie. It was the middle of the night, but the man wore dark designer sunglasses. A styled mane of gray and black hair had been swept back from the passenger’s face, allowing a clear view of the man’s many scars, which were only partially concealed beneath a salt-and-pepper goatee.
Demon said, “Sorry I’m late, but you boys know how I like to make an entrance.”
~~*~~
Chapter Twelve
Marcus had refused to speak to Demon until the killer was in a holding cell with his Italian suit replaced by the standard white-and-gray sweatsuits worn by the inmates at ADX Florence. For good measure, Marcus also had them add a straightjacket and manacles. Now he stood on the observation side of the glass, staring in at a man who had pulled a dramatic David Copperfield-style escape, only to turn himself in a short time later.
“What the hell is his game, Frank? This is why you’re here. Get inside his head.”
From behind him, Ackerman said, “That’s a frightening—yet intriguing—proposition. Can you imagine the nightmarish landscape which occupies his subconscious?”
Marcus looked to Maggie for support, but she merely shrugged. “Sometimes I feel like I have to translate everything for you. Why would he turn himself in? He beat us in a big way. He clearly had the resources in place to slip our nets. He was a free man, and now he thumbs his nose at us like he’s untouchable.”
“Perhaps because he is. Or, at least, he perceives himself to be.”
“I just can’t wrap my head around it. This is where we keep terrorists. Al Qaeda couldn’t break someone out of this place.”
Ackerman said, “Yes, it doesn’t bode well for those working here the day he decides to make his exit.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Remember, when dancing with the Demon, we must consider what someone like me would do with unlimited financial and political resources.”
“At the first sign of trouble, they would lock the place down and call in reinforcements. This is a fortress. And politically, the Director assured me we’ve kept Demon’s incarceration under wraps for now. Only Deputy AG Fagan knows about it. No one over his head. So even if he had political allies, they—”
Ackerman rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he made a few phone calls after he escaped and was picked up in the limousine with his tailored suit at the ready. If I had his means and proclivities, in order to escape, I would kill every person working here at the same time.”
“And how the hell would you accomplish that?”
“Would you like me to make a list?” Ackerman asked.
“Actually, yeah. Make a list. Then we’ll use it to make sure he can’t pull off any of your plans.”
With a wink, he said, “Good thinking, little brother. You’d be well served to put my genius to use.”
Marcus fought the urge to punch the glass partition separating them from Demon as he watched the smug son of a bitch just sitting there like the cat who ate the canary. He said, “The question remains: Why did he turn himself in? If he wanted to play a game with us, it would have been a hell of a lot easier on the other side of the bars. He could have sent us coded messages or something.”
“I’m perfectly aware of all he could have done. He’s obviously playing with us. But to what end? I can’t say I have the slightest idea what he’s up to, but I think it’s time we went in there and asked him.”
~~*~~
A moment later, Marcus and Ackerman occupied two chairs on the other side of the glass. Demon sat in front of them, straightjacketed and seemingly helpless, but the madman’s eyes were as gleeful and wild as ever. The Scottish killer looked as if he was in complete control and loving every moment of it.
Marcus wanted to pound Demon’s face into ground chuck, see if that wiped the smug grin away. Instead of striking, he said, “Did you have a good time?”
In his thick Scottish brogue, Demon replied, “I certainly enjoyed myself. You?”
“We figured out how you did it. It was no magic trick. We’re going to work our way back to whoever modified that transport.”
Demon shrugged. “You are detectives of a sort. I would expect no less, and you certainly have a lot of investigating to do. You see, I want to help you. I want to sing for you like a good little jailbird.”
“We’re not cutting any kind of deal.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what do you want?”
“As you’re well aware, my former apprentice betrayed me. He couldn’t have pulled all of that off without help. And there was only one person in the world who Judas may have considered to be a reasonable facsimile of a friend. His name is Gladiator. I want you to kill him for me.”
Marcus cracked his neck. “We don’t work for you, and we don’t kill for anyone.”
“That’s not what I hear about your Shepherd Organization and its checkered past. I hear you’re a regular pack of dragon slayers. Taking on Gladiator will be right up your alley. We can argue about semantics later.”
Marcus popped his knuckles and was thankful that, for once, Ackerman was keeping his mouth shut. “Fine. Tell us about the Gladiator. Where do we find him?”
Demon laughed. “I’m not going to serve him up for you like a roast pig. Make no mistake, gentlemen, you’re here to work for me while I take a little vacation. I’m not here to do your job for you. One clue, that’s all you get. You work on that one, and maybe, if you get stuck, I’ll throw you boys a bone.”
“So what’s our clue?”
“Two words . . . Mister . . . King.”
Marcus reached up and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Is that Martin Luther or Stephen?”
Demon chuckled and rattled his chains. “This would technically be a second clue, but it’s neither of those fine fellows. I don’t know exactly where Gladiator hangs his hat. That’s why I need some good trackers. But the first step on your path to finding Gladiator is through Mr. King.”
“And where do we find him?” Marcus asked, but Demon didn’t respond. The madman simply closed his eyes and refused to say another word.
~~*~~
Chapter Thirteen
Marcus paced a hole in the floor of the prison conference room. The place had a strange odor, like that of a zoo. Finally, the door opened and Maggie entered with a laptop procured from the warden’s office. It was the only computer they could find that was allowed Internet access. Maggie typed a few keys and then sat the laptop down on the imitation wood laminate of the conference table.
Through the laptop speakers, the team’s technical director said, “You are a go for Stan. What do you need, boss?”
Marcus leaned over into view of the MacBook’s webcam and said, “I need to know everything you can find about ‘Mr. King.’ Maybe it’s the name that some news anchor gave the Gladiator or . . . who knows? We can’t say anything for sure. How long will it take for you to do a full search?”
Marcus watched Stan’s eyes fluttering back and forth as the tech genius did his thing. The tick-tick of Stan’s fingers flying over his keyboard reverberated out of the laptop’s speakers.
Within a couple of seconds, Stan replied, “Already done, boss man. That’s why you pay me the big bucks. I found two interesting entries for the search string of Mr. King—of course, filtering by a lot of other parameters to remove any obvious false positives. The first possibility is a crime lord in San Francisco who has taken gangland brutality to a whole new level. We’re talking reclusive millionaire living in a fortress on a hill kind of thing. The second—”
Marcus interrupted. “Is this first Mr. King believed to be responsible for the wave of flayings and decapitations in San Francisco? I heard about that on the news.”
The case had piqued Marcus’s interest one night as he lay awake and listened to a news broadcast in the neighboring room of a hotel with extremely thin walls. The brutal nature of the murders and the presentation of the bodies had made an impression. Using his eidetic memory, he tried to recall the details of the broadcast and his feelings at the time . . .
The newscaster had taken a moment to warn about the content of the next segment and then said, “Two boys in Golden Gate Park discovered another victim today in a series of gruesome killings, which investigators believe to be gang related. The two boys had planned to throw away the remnants of their lunches in one of the park’s trash receptacles. Instead, they found a mutilated corpse.”
A skinned torso had been all that remained of each of several victims dumped inside a garbage can, just like the one the two boys had discovered. The perpetrator or perpetrators in the series of murders would often leave the garbage can with the lid open in the middle of a spot buzzing with civilians—places like playgrounds, parks, shopping centers, and school buildings.
A female investigator’s voice had taken over the sound of the muffled broadcast, and Marcus recalled her saying, “We believe the victims were left in specific locations to send messages to rival criminal organizations. We have no indication that this is the work of a single serial murderer, but we . . .”
He remembered thinking that it was the kind of message routinely carried out in places like Juarez, but this was one of the first incarnations of such organized brutality to pop up in the United States. Still, it wasn’t his type of case, and so he hadn’t dug any further.
Stan replied, “Yep, that’s the one. The investigators think it’s all gang warfare. King’s group has its hands in most of northern California’s illegal businesses—everything from drugs and guns to human trafficking. King and his crews hit San Francisco like a storm of blood and bullets a few years ago. They took power quickly and ruthlessly, following the examples of the cartels. King has a reputation for brutality and for publicly executing anyone who gets in his way. The second possibility I found on my search is an alleged serial killer who they just captured in Oklahoma City.”
Maggie said, “That sounds promising. Tell us more about him.”
“Harvey King is the guy’s name. He’s charged with the torture and murder of twelve prostitutes.”
Ackerman shook his head. “That doesn’t sound right to me. I get the sense, based on the name of his alter ego, that our Gladiator wants worthy opponents to battle.”
“Sorry, I forgot to mention that they were male prostitutes,” Stan said.
“Ah, I stand corrected, Computer Man. Perhaps Harvey King could be Gladiator’s true identity.”
Maggie said, “I found that little exchange to be pretty offensive and sexist.”
Ackerman cocked an eyebrow. “Apologies, little sister. I was merely considering the fitness levels of the average male and female prostitute, not judging superiority of the genders as a whole. I think it’s safe to assume who would come out on top if we dropped groups of male and female prostitutes into a large pit together and had them fight to the death.”
She merely scowled back in response.
Marcus said, “What about the name Gladiator? Any connection to either the gang leader or serial killer on that.”
After a brief pause, Stan said, “Sorry, boss. No connection with the term Gladiator or anything directly related to fighting or arenas or anything like that in either case.”
Rubbing his eyelids, which felt as if they were made of sandpaper, Marcus said, “Of course not. It couldn’t be that easy. It never is.” Turning to Maggie, he asked, “Where’s Andrew? I’d like to get his opinion on this.”
Still scowling, she said, “He’s updating the Director on everything that’s happened. Not that you care about my opinion, but I think it’s pretty clear that we head to Oklahoma City and pay a visit to the serial killer they have in custody. This turf war case isn’t our kind of thing.”
Ackerman said, “Our expertise is not a valid consideration. The question is whether or not it’s Demon’s ‘kind of thing.’ Ultimately, little brother, it’s your call. Personally, I’ve always wanted to visit San Francisco.”
~~*~~
Chapter Fourteen
Two weeks later…
~~Saturday~~
FBI Special Agent Jerrell Fuller woke in a state of panic. He didn’t know what had happened, where he was, or how he had arrived there. All he knew was that he couldn’t see. The world had beco
me an impenetrable darkness, and it took him a moment to find his bearings and get his breathing under control. He reached out into the darkness but felt nothing. He sat there on the cold concrete floor for a moment while he waited for his eyes to adjust, but after the moment passed, he realized that not a single ray of light penetrated this prison.
He was naked—except for a pair of lightweight sweat pants. They weren’t his own. He had been wearing a suit, last he could remember, at one of Oban’s gatherings.
Jerrell searched his memory for any clues, but his mind was a fog. He felt sluggish. Had he been drugged?
Or was it something worse? Had he been killed somehow? Was this hell?
He hesitated to search out the boundaries of the room, for fear that it would have no end. Just darkness eternal, stretching as far as human eyes could never see.
Jerrell shook his head and slapped his own face. What was he thinking? The drugs must have still been affecting him. He was an FBI agent, undercover in a brutal syndicate built on blood and fear and lorded over by the infamous Mr. King. This being some hitman’s basement was a more likely scenario than darkness eternal.
Still, a memory floated up from the back of his mind. A former foster parent, a kind, elderly lady, who maybe enjoyed showing off her “Afro-American” foster child a bit too much to her group of white friends. But he had been in homes that were much worse. The memory was of her reciting a Bible verse. “In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
Searching for his last tangible memory, a vision of something terrifying floated up from the ether of his hazy recollection. The face of a monster, something that must have sprung forth from a nightmare rather than reality. The image in his mind was that of a metal skull, only the metal looked as though it had been melted and elongated, giving the impression that it was the skull of some kind of demon, rather than that of what had once been human. The image of the thing’s teeth assaulted his dizzy faculties. The fangs had been long, jagged shards, broken and misshapen and curled up into what was almost a sadistic smile.