The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  But the one tool he had yet to choose for this job was his weapon. Granger had an arsenal in the trunk of the old Buick, but he didn’t want someone to see him staring into a trunk full of guns, and so he took a moment to consider the options.

  There was his trustee Walther PPK, threaded for a top-of-the-line suppressor. It was chambered for the 380 auto, a small caliber which, combined with subsonic ammunition, could be virtually silent. Then there was his father’s old shotgun, which he had sawed off and retrofitted into a weapon of mass destruction. It had originally been an over-under hunting gun, and he enjoyed the frequent reloads that the two shot capacity required. It made the game fairer for his opponent. Like a handicap in golf.

  But neither of those seemed to check the boxes for this evening’s contract. He wanted this to look gang related. So he decided on the Mac 10—a fully automatic machine pistol with a long magazine filled with hollow-point 9-mm rounds. It was brutal, effective, and easily concealable. And unlike those used in drive-by shootings, his Mac 10 had been customized and upgraded for reliability and accuracy.

  His hooded sweatshirt was two sizes too large, which left ample room to conceal the machine pistol.

  The last thing Stefan Granger did before exiting the vehicle was to stick in his wireless earbuds and direct his phone to play AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” He’d started the practice of listening to music while killing a few months back, in an effort to heighten his other senses and to give another handicap to his prey.

  After retrieving the Mac 10 from the trunk of the Buick, he walked toward the target’s apartment building, which had been converted to an inner city bordello. As he moved, he kept his head down and made eye contact with no one. He cleared his mind and visualized what was to come.

  When Stefan Granger was a boy, his favorite games had been the Mortal Kombat series. He still remembered the first time he had visited a friend’s house, one who could actually afford a Sega Genesis. It was there that he saw a digital cartoon character tear out the spinal column of another cartoon character. He was instantly hooked. Not because of the violence, although that didn’t hurt; but for him, it was the thrill and strategy of the gameplay. He found it to be much like real life. In the game, when a character performed a certain move against you, one needed to be able to counter and return the attack. This was done by pressing a certain combination of buttons. And Granger had become an expert at responding to his opponents’ attacks with the perfect combination.

  He smiled beneath the antiviral mask, thinking of the day that his father brought him home his very own Sega Genesis. It was a little used and abused, but his dad had picked it up at a yard sale with extra controllers and over twenty games, including some bloody fighting games like Mortal Kombat and Eternal Champions.

  Still musing over childhood memories, he reached the front stoop of Faraz Tarkani’s whorehouse. A large, bald white man in a black T-shirt stood beside the entrance, smoking a cigarette. The apelike sentry was laughing and joking with another man, a big black fellow wearing a sleeveless shirt and a stocking cap. Granger couldn’t hear what they were conversing about because of the earbuds, but he read their lips and ascertained that the discussion centered upon the anatomy of a new employee.

  He tapped a button on his earbuds to pause the sounds of classic rock. Then he said to the two thugs, “I’ll make a deal with the two of you. The first one of you to tell me where I can find Samantha Campbell gets to live.”

  The overly muscled ape man flicked away his cigarette and said, “Get lost, freak.”

  Stefan Granger smiled, but then he realized they couldn’t see him beneath the mask. Rolling his shoulders and warming his muscles up to pump on all cylinders, he tapped the earbud and the tiny speakers began to pump with AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill.”

  The bouncer seemed to register that something was wrong, some primordial alarm system dating back to the early days of man. Granger had the gun out and was squeezing the trigger before the sentry knew what had happened. He aimed low, the bullets shredding the ape man’s legs and dropping him to the concrete.

  As the bald bouncer shrieked in pain, Granger turned his machine pistol on the man in the stocking cap. The large black gentleman was smarter than his comrade. He raised his hands and said, “Sammy’s upstairs with the boss. She’s showing him her appreciation.”

  “Appreciation for what?”

  “I don’t know, man. Something to do with her sister who went missing.”

  The first man flailed about on his hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood on the pavement as he tried to crawl toward his fallen weapon. Granger raised the Mac 10 and squeezed off another line of projectiles. This time, he aimed for the man’s large, bald head. It reminded Granger of a giant egg, and it cracked just like one.

  The other man kept his arms raised and trembled with fear. Granger took aim and said, “Thank you,” before ending the informant’s life. On his earbuds, Brian Johnson sang about pulling the trigger.

  After performing a tactical reload, Granger headed for the top floor. He wasn’t here to kill the girls or their clients, but he also had a rule about witnesses: never leave any. The mask and glasses were camouflage against video surveillance, but he didn’t trust them or take chances. He mowed down three of the girls and two of the clients before he reached the pimp’s penthouse suite.

  Granger approached the top of the stairs cautiously, knowing what would await him on the other side. While on the floor below, he had heard the footfalls of at least two other gunmen. They would be waiting somewhere in that hallway.

  He reached the top of the stairs and placed his back against the wall, keeping himself concealed from the point of view of the hallway. Then he grabbed one of his empty magazines and tossed it back down the stairs. It thudded and clanked. He listened and waited.

  Back in his video game days, Granger had faced numerous opponents who found success through button mashing, essentially just going crazy and getting lucky. But in every instance, he had found that button mashing was no match for proper technique and strategy. Even then, he knew that the most patient of two opponents always had the upper hand.

  Just as he expected, he saw the barrel of the man’s Glock pistol before he saw the man himself.

  Granger grabbed the guard by the wrist, jerked him forward, and unleashed his weapon into the man’s abdomen. His victim screamed in pain and discharged his own weapon. Granger slapped the Glock pistol away and spun the dying guard around to use as a human shield.

  With his arm around the first guard’s neck, holding him up like a rag doll, Granger rushed into the hallway. The other sentry had his gun raised and ready, but Granger was concealed behind the man’s partner. His Mac 10 roared and spit hot shell casings toward the ceiling. The controlled burst caught the second guard in the chest, driving him back and painting the walls with red.

  His human shield had yet to die like a good boy and was even trying to wriggle free of his grasp. In his ears, AC/DC still thumped along with his heartbeat. Granger wasted no time in turning the gun on his human body armor and squeezing the trigger against the man’s temple.

  An empty forty-five round magazine fell to the floor, and Granger slammed a fresh mag in place. Then he jacked back the slide and headed toward Faraz’s penthouse.

  Over the earbuds, “Shoot to Thrill” ended, and “What Do You Do for Money Honey” began.

  35

  The dark-skinned woman in the house slippers pushed Corin up to a concrete landing as she unlocked a door with two deadbolts. Corin asked again, “Where are we?”

  Without responding, the woman propped open the door and returned to the wheelchair’s handles.

  Corin felt a strange sense of vertigo as they crossed the threshold. They moved from what was bare and utilitarian to something finished with expensive flare. The carpet was dark red, like old blood stains. The hallway looked as if it could have been inside an overpriced hotel, if not for the unkempt and deteriorating look of it all. Corin’s m
ind flashed back to a scene from some movie, creepy twin girls standing at the end of a similar hallway.

  Doors marked with large consecutive numbers lined each side of the endlessly long hallway. She had no way of knowing whether the doors opened into more concrete service corridors or lavish guest suites. Trying to get a feel for the layout made the whole place seem surreal and menacing, as if each door opened into someone else’s personal hell.

  Finally reaching the end of the hall, the woman in the slippers unlocked a set of double doors. The contents of the room beyond also caused Corin’s head to spin. Her mind fought to find solid ground, any anchor to orient herself with respect to where in the land of the living she could be.

  The woman pushed her into a massive ballroom lined with lacquered cedar planks. She guessed the space to be a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide with cathedral ceilings reaching to at least twenty-five feet at their pinnacle. The far wall was mostly glass, containing rows of custom windows formed into a pyramid. Beyond the wall of windows, Corin saw the sandy shore of a small lake or pond, surrounded by the dense green of a forest.

  She guessed by the type of trees that she was still somewhere in northern California. That was good. She knew the area. And she wasn’t in hell. At least, she didn’t imagine they had trees in hell.

  Eight beds had been arranged into neat rows in the center of the ballroom. But they weren’t simple cots or mattresses on the floor. They were like something found in the bedchambers of a princess. Each intricately carved four-poster bed was wrapped in a translucent white curtain, giving the impression of individual tents. Beside each bed stood metal clothes racks, several different white garments hanging from the rods.

  The woman in the slippers rolled her past the beds, toward the wall of windows, where a circle of leather couches formed a sitting area around a bearskin rug. Two other women in the same white dresses lounged on the couches, both reading old hardcover books. One girl had Asian features, and the other was a petite blonde with short hair. The Asian girl looked to be a few months pregnant.

  Corin didn’t allow herself to think about the alleged baby growing inside her own stomach.

  Over her shoulder, the woman said, “This is Sherry and Tia. And I’m Sonnequa. This is Corin, girls. The Master’s newest addition.”

  When Corin spoke, the words exploded out breathlessly and forcefully, as though she was spitting daggers at each woman. “What the hell is going on here? Why are you all just sitting around? We need to escape? Who are you? How long have you been here? Does anyone know—”

  The slap across her face silenced all her questions. Her hand reflexively went to her cheek where the warm sting still resonated over her skin. Sonnequa’s hand hung in the air, trembling.

  Corin didn’t say a word. She had always found that the best defense mechanism was to keep your mouth shut and play dead.

  Sonnequa’s voice shook as she whispered, “We’re not allowed to converse with each other when the Master isn’t present.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Tia,” Sonnequa said, “show Corin what happens when we don’t obey the rules.”

  The Asian girl sat up, leaned closer to Corin, and opened her mouth. It took a few seconds for Corin to realize what she was seeing, what was missing from the picture.

  When she understood, Corin started to shake uncontrollably. She wanted to run, but her legs were broken. She wanted to vomit, but she had nothing in her stomach. She wanted to cry, but dared not make a sound.

  Tia, the pregnant Asian girl, was missing her tongue.

  36

  Marcus wasn’t at all surprised by the name of Eddie’s nightclub. It was just the kind of thing his former friend would come up with: both self-aggrandizing and egomaniacal. He and Maggie pulled up to The Great Caruso at ten after nine, but already the party was in full swing. All manner of Italian sport and German luxury automobiles lined the mansion’s massive parking lot.

  As they reached a security gate, a muscular man in a black tuxedo and white gloves stood at attention. The guard approached the driver, said a few words, and then, approaching their descending side window, said, “Identification, please?” Marcus recognized the bulge of a pistol beneath the guard’s jacket.

  Maggie held up her DOJ credentials. The guard smiled back and said, “Mr. Caruso welcomes you to the party.” The attendant bowed cordially, and the security gate parted.

  The whole place made Marcus want to puke.

  The guy had acted off a script and had clearly been trained to allow entry to the “party” in a very specific manner. Marcus wondered if his former friend had choreographed the employees personally on how they should speak and behave. Eddie always was a control freak, down to every last detail.

  The element that disturbed Marcus most was the syntax the attendant had been instructed to use. It wasn’t “I welcome you” or “We welcome you.” It was, “Mr. Caruso welcomes you to the party.” As if Eddie had downgraded the guard from human being to robotic slave, as if the kid wasn’t even allowed to have his own identity. He was merely an extension of “The Great Caruso.”

  The guard followed the limo through the gate and then up to the mansion’s porte cochère. He opened the door for them and said, “Mr. Caruso awaits you in the grand ballroom.”

  As he stepped out, Marcus said, “Buddy, Mr. Caruso is a douchebag, and your life will turn out a lot better if you quit this job and get yourself a respectable one. Maybe apply at Burger King.”

  The guard looked dumbfounded, as if he were searching for a scripted response to such a statement.

  Marcus didn’t wait for the canned retort. He started up the marble stairs toward a pair of French doors—twelve feet tall, white with gold accents. The entrance made Marcus feel as if he was walking up to the pearly gates.

  Inside was a grand foyer with a coat check and several small sitting areas around a giant rotunda. Men and women sat in some old leather chairs surrounding the periphery of the foyer. Some laughing, some kissing, others smoking cigars or fluted cigarettes.

  The doors to the “Grand Ballroom” were just as large as the entry doors, but these were made of a dark mahogany. Two more men in tuxedos stood on each side, ready to allow entry farther into Eddie’s little kingdom.

  It wasn’t until the doors parted that Marcus finally realized that Eddie’s club was a themed hangout. The entire show had been designed to make people feel as if they were in The Great Gatsby, or at least some cellular generation equivalent. Most of the women wore lace flapper dresses. They spun on the dance floor, their many-colored sequins glittering like a sea of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and sapphires. The men wore tuxedos and stylish formal suits. The outfits, the decorations, the atmosphere screamed 1920s New York, but the music was some kind of bastardized amalgam of techno, hip-hop, jazz, and blues.

  The pulsing beat hurt Marcus’s chest, and the lights made his world throb. But it seemed successful in pushing the wannabe gangsters and flappers to grind closer and lower.

  A sprawling staircase climbed each side of the long, rectangular ballroom. Eddie Caruso was descending the closest staircase with the swagger of a film icon. And, Marcus had to admit, Eddie looked the part. He wore a simple black tuxedo and a bow tie. His hair was slicked back and looked to be professionally styled. He even had the boyish good looks, but the suave persona crumbled a bit when Eddie opened his mouth.

  His voice was soft with a thick Brooklyn accent, but it was also low and scratchy like an old man who couldn’t catch his breath. During their sixth-grade year, Eddie’s house had burned to the ground. Eddie and his younger sister had been trapped in the fire, and Eddie came away with scarred lungs and scorched vocal cords. Marcus recalled that Eddie didn’t really mind his new voice. In fact, Eddie had used it to his own advantage, letting it add to his tough-guy reputation.

  Eddie spread his arms and, in his sandpaper voice, said, “What do you think of the place?”

  Marcus glanced around at the extravagance
and excess for a few seconds and then said, “It reminds me of a low-budget musical at a community rec center. Do people have to pay to get in here?”

  Eddie smiled and said, “So you’re still an epic prick. That’s good to know.”

  “And you’re still a flaming narcissist. In my experience, when someone keeps telling you about how ‘great’ they are, that usually means the opposite is true.”

  “It’s a themed club, jackass, and it makes money like we have the printing press in the basement. Whole thing was my idea. I noticed that a lot of rich kids and suburbanites were having these Gatsby-themed parties. It started as a tax write-off, but apparently there was something to it, and The Great Caruso was born. But it’s all for show.”

  “If it’s just a show, then why not make it legitimately ‘Gatsby’ themed and hire someone to play Gatsby instead of inserting yourself into the role.”

  “Then we’d have to pay for the rights. As it stands, our theme is just the 1920s, and using my real name adds to the mystique.”

  “Or you just like to stroke your own ego.”

  Eddie smiled. “I have people lined up to stroke it for me, Old Sport.”

  Maggie intervened, saying, “Mr. Caruso, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us. Your place here really is something. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”

  “Sure, it’s beautiful, Eddie, and not creepy at all. Just like if Robert Redford had a baby with Lady Gaga.”

  Eddie laughed, but his eyes showed his annoyance. “Don’t hold back, Marcus. Tell me what you really think.”

  Maggie said, “Do you have somewhere private that we can talk, Mr. Caruso?”

  “Of course, come on up to my office. And beautiful women call me Eddie. And you, Marcus, I’d prefer you call me Mr. Caruso.”

  37

  The past…

  Once Eddie and Junior were out of sight, Marcus took off in a full sprint down the massive, marble-floored hallways. He flew down the stairs, rounded the corner, and followed the sounds of voices. The party was out back on the patio. The kids’ parents had gone all out on the festivities, with bounce houses, ball pits, and magic shows. The place reminded Marcus of Coney Island. More than once, he considered just staying down there and stuffing his face with cake. But whatever it was Eddie and Junior didn’t want him to see was too good to miss.