by Ethan Cross
Over his shoulder, his father’s voice said, She’s yours. Take her.
Ackerman had no fear. He didn’t worry that she would reject him. During the dark years, he lived by simply taking what he wanted. And who he wanted. His had been a world of endless possibilities and zero restrictions. And he had once planned to take what he wanted until someone worthy could kill him and take it all back.
In those days, he would have seen no reason not to give in to his desire at that very moment.
But from analysis of past experiences, he understood that the rest of the family may frown upon such actions. In the dark years, he had no greater purpose beyond the joy of the moment. Now, he felt something greater than himself guiding his path. And he had a sense that the something greater would also frown upon choices like rape and murder.
And although Ackerman couldn’t find a way to fear any deity, he had great respect for the Creator and his plans. In accordance with the grand scheme, he wished to find his own unique purpose, the reason he had felt so much pain and tasted so much death.
Emily said, “The gym idea sounds good. I’ll call Andrew and run it past him. Now, your dog needs to go potty. Take him over to the grass.”
“If I take that thing, it will be only for the purposes of killing and eating it. How did you even capture one of those so quickly after our flight landing?” The info center for the Golden Gate bridge had been their first stop after the FBI’s Gulfstream hit the ground in San Francisco.
She frowned and eyed him angrily over the top of her sunglasses. “Capture? Do you think Shih Tzus are running wild in the hills around San Francisco?”
“I was thinking more like a group of inbred strays banding together in the sewer systems.”
With a roll of her eyes, she said, “I called ahead and had this arranged. Shih Tzus are wonderful animals. My grandparents had three of them. They don’t even shed.”
“I was unaware that any canines shed their skin.”
“Their hair. Never mind. This is non-negotiable. A direct order.”
Ackerman growled and looked down at the furry, flat-faced vermin. The dog tilted its black-and-white head to the other side, its ears perking up. The creature seemed to be looking at him with some type of expectant energy. “What does it want? It’s eying me strangely.”
“I think he wants you to pet him.”
“I already find it annoying and repulsive.”
“He’ll grow on you.”
“Why is it so small and ugly? Is it deformed?”
When Ackerman looked back at Emily, he found her hiding a small smile. It looked nice on her, an expression she didn’t often share with him. She said, “He’s a Shih Tzu. This is what they look like. And he’s still young, but this is about as big as he gets.”
“If you insist on this madness, I think a larger dog would be more suited to my needs. Perhaps a Doberman?”
“This isn’t about your needs. You’re not supposed to train it to attack. You just need to take care of his needs and show him love.”
Ackerman picked up the animal and held it out like a baby with a soiled diaper. He wanted to protest further, but he knew how strong willed and unyielding Emily could be. He said, “This is absurd. What do I call it?”
“I figured you could name him.”
“How about Annoying Bag of Useless Flesh?”
“I think you’d get tired of saying that name all the time.”
“I’ll call him Douchebag for short.”
“Be serious. You might as well get used to him. He’s going to be with you for the next decade or so.”
“I doubt that. I’m sure animals like this die of natural causes all the time. Or run out into traffic, fall off a bridge, leap out a five-story window. These things happen. I’m sure the numbers would support the possibilities.”
“None of those things better ever happen to this dog, or I will make sure you share his fate.”
He reluctantly took the leash and asked, “What now?”
“Take him for a walk over in that grassy area. He needs to go potty.”
“Please don’t refer to his defecation as going ‘potty.’”
She pulled out a clear cellophane glove from her purse and replied, “Fine. When he defecates, pick it up with this.”
“If I take that bag from you right now, I will slip it over this creature’s head and suffocate it to death. I do not want to be responsible for this thing’s droppings and maintenance. I consider this cruel and unusual punishment, and I have too much self-respect to allow such a waste of my time and energies to stand.”
“Fine. But you will no longer be able to see Dylan.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“If you can’t show me that you’re capable of caring about the needs of another living being over your own needs, then you don’t deserve to be in Dylan’s life.”
“My brother—”
“Is on my side about this.”
Ackerman gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. He imagined jamming the mutt into a microwave and serving the ground remains to Emily as paté.
Then he opened his eyes, took the plastic glove, and dragged the small vermin toward a grassy knoll along the edge of the parking lot.
~~*~~
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stefan Granger finished his reps with the two-hundred-pound dumbbells and tossed them to the mat. One entire wall of his apartment was a giant mirror, like they have in the nice gyms. But Stefan didn’t work his body to show off or have a bunch of people staring at him. He kept fit because that was the right thing to do. The right way to live, the only way, was to be the strongest and the smartest.
This was the third apartment he had rented in the city. The other two had become a problem because he had neighbors beneath and to the side of him. His new place was over the top of a garage. A nice young couple had rented it to him. It was originally built to be a nurse’s quarters for an old couple that had lived there, but after they passed away and a younger family moved in, they didn’t know what to do with the nurse’s quarters. So they decided to make some extra rental income.
Granger had become quite close with the young couple. The wife was pregnant. Due any day now. He had dinner with them at least once a week and had already volunteered to paint the baby’s room for them.
The situation suited him perfectly. It was a mansion compared to his dad’s place at the cemetery. He was able to work out whenever he wanted. He could make as much noise as he wanted. And it was perfect camouflage for a man in his profession.
He stretched and stood up and then went down into the splits, stretching out his legs and arms.
Falling into a state of meditation, he heard the cell phone ringing. But he didn’t answer. He tried to tell himself it was only a telemarketer or scammer. The only people who ever called him were telemarketers and a select few who actually had the number. But thinking of those who did have the number, he couldn’t concentrate. Knowing that anyone who did possess the number would only use it for an important reason.
He rolled to his feet, ending the movement in a powerful haymaker to his punching bag. Then he stepped over to the kitchen and picked up his phone. As he had feared, it was one of the important calls.
Granger started to hit redial while reaching over to turn off the stereo—which was pumping out AC/DC’s greatest hits—but then he realized that simply calling that same number would do no good. That number had already been erased. The protocol for the client was to wait fifteen minutes and call back.
He checked the time of the call. Fourteen minutes to go. He considered getting in some more reps before the call but then decided against it. He didn’t want to sound out of breath when Mr. Demon called back.
~~*~~
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The building looked nothing like the old
gym in which Rocky had trained, the kind of place that reeked of testosterone and poor grooming habits. Ackerman had actually viewed part of the film in a theater at one of those retro film festivals. When the fire started to spread, the cinema enthusiasts had forced their way to the exits like pigs fighting over a morsel of food. Ackerman had sat in the center of the theater as the fire raged around him, eating popcorn and becoming genuinely interested in the film. He hadn’t feared the fire, but it was still a force to be respected, and so he had missed the last third of the movie. Ackerman assumed that Rocky must have proven victorious and become the champion, considering the Italian Stallion became the protagonist of a franchise spawning seven sequels.
The gym he and Emily were now entering had walls lined with mirrors. One section in the back was filled with exercise bikes and elliptical machines. The floors were a cedar hardwood, and the walls were gray brick. The air smelled vaguely of sweat, but the odor was nearly camouflaged by the strong scent of vanilla and cinnamon. The place reminded Ackerman more of an upscale coffee shop than a setting where warriors were born. He wondered if the waters here were served with slices of cucumber.
Looking around at the pristine equipment and the trailer-park champions staring at themselves in the mirror, Ackerman felt acutely disappointed. Where was the grit and fire of the Mickeys, and the underdog hunger of the Rocky Balboas? It seemed to have been replaced with a bunch of wannabe tough guys slash pretty boys who cared more about how swollen they looked in their selfies than the fire of competition and the drive to be a champion. Ackerman could plainly see that none of these men possessed the eye of the tiger.
The atmosphere and clientele made him feel sick to his stomach.
His disappointment turned to anger, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to hurt these men. Which was difficult to do without touching them. Still, Ackerman didn’t believe in impossibility.
Emily asked the young woman at the reception desk where they could find Leland Unser. She directed them to a thick-necked black man dancing around the main sparring ring. Large padded gloves covered Unser’s hands. He bobbed and weaved as he yelled instructions at some kid punching the pads.
To Ackerman’s trained eye, he could tell that Unser was one of the only true fighters in the place. And even the tough-looking trainer seemed about twenty years past his prime.
Approaching the sparring ring, Emily called out, “Mr. Unser, can we have a word, please?”
Unser screamed at the trainee, “You’re still dropping your elbow! You do that tonight and that monster will put you on your ass.”
Emily said again, “Mr. Unser, we just need a few minutes of your—”
In a gravelly baritone, Unser said, “As you can see, little girl, I’m busy. The kid here has a big fight tonight, and we have a lot of mental work to do before then. You’ll just have to come back another time.”
Ackerman climbed to the side of the ring and ducked under the ropes. He wore a black, long-sleeve shirt made of a skin-hugging, dry-fit material. He had selected the shirt for the purpose of displaying the thick cords of muscle stretched across his body. Not out of vanity, but as a type of psychological warfare.
The trainee had stopped throwing punches and stood beside his master, breathing hard. Leland Unser was a short, muscular black man with tattoos crawling up his neck, horn-rimmed glasses, and a perfectly shaved head. The muscles in Unser’s jaw and neck were rigid and his nostrils flared.
Ackerman walked toward Unser and said, “Do I look like the kind of person who comes back later?”
Unser snorted in derision. “What are you supposed to be? Whatever it is, I’m not impressed, pretty boy. I get a lot of guys like you coming in here thinking they’re big stuff, but any one of these other guys would eat you alive. They’re real fighters. And you ain’t got what it takes. Save us both some time and energy and get the hell out of my gym.”
Ackerman laughed. “You’re adorable, and I didn’t know this was a training gym. I thought perhaps it was some sort of dance studio.”
“You’re about to have a very bad day. Now, last chance. Take your girl and your cocky attitude and get the hell off my property.”
Emily had followed him into the ring and said, “Mr. Unser, I think you have the wrong idea. We really just need a few moments of your time.”
Ackerman said, “We’ve been asking around about the city’s underground fighting scene. I hear there’s a lot of money getting thrown around. Our sources told us you were the guy to see about getting an invitation.”
“You heard wrong. I have no idea what you’re even talking about. I’m a legitimate fight promoter. I don’t associate with anything illegal.”
Ackerman shrugged. “I know, I know. ‘The first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club,’ but you’re going to have to make an exception. All I need is a time and a location, and I’ll handle the rest. No introductions or invitations necessary.”
Other thickly muscled selfie-takers gathered around the perimeter of the sparring ring, obviously ready to jump in and defend Unser against the apparent interloper. Unser said, “I don’t have anything to say. Now go.”
Ackerman looked toward Emily, who had backed to the corner of the ring. She gestured to the door. She was angry about his handling of the situation and wanted to cut their losses. But she knew him better than that. Ackerman never backed down from a fight.
He smiled. “I know you don’t know me. I’m merely some guy who walked in here off the street. You wouldn’t risk exposing your less than legal income sources to a stranger. I completely understand. So why don’t we do this . . . I’ll prove myself and help your fighter prepare at the same time. A little sparring match. No offensive moves on my part. See this gorgeous face. If he’s able to land even a single punch or kick to this face, then I’ll leave your baby-oil factory and never return. You can even tie my hands behind my back.”
Unser’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze locked with Ackerman’s. “Why are you asking about underground fighting anyway? What kind of game you playing here?”
Emily said, “We could make it worth your while, Mr. Unser.”
Ackerman cocked his head to the side but maintained the focus of his unblinking gaze on the washed-up brawler staring him down. He let the smile build onto his face like a slow tide sliding over the sand. He allowed the madness, the bloodlust, the darkness to swell up in him. He could almost taste the moment when Unser saw the insanity in his eyes.
Ackerman had always found that you can win a battle before it begins by merely asserting your dominance. After all, the whole point of the battle was to prove one’s superiority over the opponent. If he could make his opponent fear that he or she had already lost, then his victory was assured.
One of the quickest ways to accomplish this was with a simple look. The gaze of something primal and wild that dwelled in him would reach into the other person’s soul, triggering what he imagined to be some sort of biochemical reaction that informed his adversary that it’s life was in clear and present danger. The instinctive part of his victim’s body would then send out all kinds of signals, neurons firing, adrenaline pumping, all manner of subconscious warnings, all screaming to the soon-to-be victim that he or she was in the presence of an alpha predator.
He said, “You wouldn’t much like the games I play, Mr. Unser.”
As he spoke, Ackerman could almost taste the cold chill as it fell like rain down the trainer’s spine. The words didn’t matter, it was the way they were spoken. Like a hungry wolf growling at its prey.
Unser shivered and asked, “You look like a guy who’s done time in the Ding Wing.”
With all too intimate understanding, Ackerman knew that Unser referred to the psychiatric wing of a prison. Using another common prison term, he replied, “I’m actually out on jackrabbit parole right now.”
Unser looked from his trainee to Ackerman
and then back again, as if he were a chess master considering the sacrifice of one of his pawns. “All defense and no offense,” Unser said. “And all he has to do is land one punch, and you’ll let me get back to work?”
“That’s right.”
“And we can tie your arms behind your back?”
Ackerman bowed his head in acceptance of the terms.
“Somebody grab a jump rope and get up here. Tie this fool up.”
The man Unser had been training—a Latin gentlemen with a head shaved into a mohawk—had kept his mouth shut during the entire exchange, deferring to his superior. But now the young fighter seemed hesitant. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Unser? He can’t defend himself.”
Unser squeezed the fighter’s shoulder and, through clenched teeth, said, “I want you to knock this crazy bastard’s head off with one swing. Can I count on you to do that, or should I have one of these other guys in the octagon tonight instead of you?”
The fighter shrugged his shoulders, looked at Ackerman, and said, “Sorry, player, but you ‘bout to get knocked out.”
It would have been simple enough for Ackerman to slip free of the rope, but he had no intention of doing so. The objective here was not to demonstrate his skills of escape, but to establish his dominance to every other alpha male in the room.
The young fighter rushed forward, preparing to deliver the knockout blow but still half expecting Ackerman to kick or dodge the attack. The kid’s fear made him hesitate.
Unfortunately for the hungry young fighter, Ackerman had catalogued every flaw in the kid’s technique as he had watched him train earlier. The kid always shifted his weight and raised his left arm before throwing his right, and when throwing a left, his right shoulder tensed up.
Since the fighter’s unconscious muscle movements choreographed his every attack, Ackerman was easily able to dodge a long series of punches. With every unconnected blow, the fighter’s frustration grew. With anger and embarrassment clouding his judgment, the young Latino’s technique became even sloppier.