by Ethan Cross
Through squinting eyes, Ackerman saw a reject from a 1950s robot movie. Based on stature, he assumed the mechanized intruder to actually be Willoughby wearing a face-shield and protective acrylic clothing. The flamethrower in his hands was a long vented tube with a pistol grip and hoses running back to a metal tank on his back. The end of the weapon held a lit flame in front of the barrel.
Willoughby cursed and pulled back his protective mask. He said, “They’re gone.”
In order to hear the conversation above, Ackerman had turned his head so that one ear poked out of the sludge in the bottom of the pit. Emily had been correct. They hadn’t the time to dislodge the hinges from the metal door over their heads. But he did have ample time to pick the lock in the cage floor, allowing them to drop into the sludge pit of chemicals and human remains. They had then pulled themselves back into one corner and waited, their heads just above the surface. The strange-smelling soup was lumpy and blackened, and the cage didn’t offer much of a view of the liquid resting three feet below. To all appearances, they had disappeared.
The big man who had bested him earlier while wearing the gas mask stepped forward. Now some type of surgical mask covered his face. Cocking his head, the expert fighter stared into the empty pit and said, “Oh well. Oban said to let them go anyway. You’re just lucky I was dropping off a package and was halfway here when you triggered that silent alarm.”
“But how in the hell did they …”
The man in the mask said, “Not our problem. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. King wanted me to give you a message.”
He punctuated the sentence with a perfectly placed blow to Willoughby’s Adam’s apple. The tiny marmoset man was caught completely by surprise. Clawing at the air, Willoughby struggled to breathe as he choked to death on his own dislodged body part.
The big man in the mask calmly but forcefully pulled the flamethrower from Willoughby’s grasp, slipped the tank from the choking man’s back, and shoved him into his own pit. The marmoset man was still fighting for air when the man in the mask aimed the flamethrower downward.
Ackerman quickly looked at Emily, took a deep breath, and ducked under the surface. He felt her following suit beside him shortly before the flames scorched the air above their heads.
Waiting for the heat to subside, Ackerman wondered how long Emily could hold her breath.
He received his answer when he felt her start to move toward the surface, but the heat was still pushing down on them, and there would be no air to find above. He grabbed hold of Emily and held her underneath the surface until the fire stopped.
Finally, the flames relented, and they both tried to gasp in the hot air without alerting the man standing high above them with the flamethrower. Ackerman had to admit that he somewhat enjoyed the smell of Willoughby’s blackened flesh.
The man in the mask said, “I assume you can hear me down there. If so, Mr. Oban has you on his calendar for tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
The overhead doors closed, and he and Emily waited in the darkness for several minutes. Finally, judging that it was safe to make their escape, Ackerman said, “All in all, I would say we had a productive evening.”
61
~~Sunday~~
Special Agent Jerrell Fuller couldn’t find his way to the sleep his mind so desired. It wasn’t that he was tired. He had slept more than enough over the past couple of days, waiting for whatever trials his captor had prepared for him. It was just easier to sleep, easier to dream, than to stare into complete darkness.
For a while, he had searched and plotted escape, but there was nothing to help him. He was basically inside a concrete shower stall with a smooth steel door on one side. One weak point might have been the window in the center of the door, but he was sure that the Gladiator or whatever his tormentor called himself would have paid the extra cash for reinforced glass, which pretty much meant he would break his hand before he could punch through it.
As he lay in the darkness, coveting a dream, Jerrell went over the cell’s design again for what might have been the millionth time. There was a speaker in the wall by the door, but it was flat and smooth and dotted with pencil-sized holes. He couldn’t get any leverage on it. The only other possible flaw he could find was the drain in the center of the floor. It was smooth, no screws, which meant that it was probably glued down. The holes in the drain were large enough that he could slip his figures inside and pull up on the circular metal grating.
Under normal circumstances, Jerrell conditioned his body as if fitness was a religion. Not because he wanted to impress anyone. He worked his body so hard in his down time because he knew that a few extra muscle fibers could be all the difference when wrestling with a murderer.
But the glue was apparently stronger than his workout regimen. He had twisted and pulled, but there was no give in the drain’s housing. After a few seconds, he had given up on the idea.
When he had first awoken in this nightmare, he had suspected the drain was there to rinse away his blood. As time ticked on, he realized it was actually his toilet.
He slapped a fist down on the concrete floor, again for what was probably the millionth time. He stood and paced the cell. Then he did some pushups and sit-ups. Then he lay back down.
As he fought for breath from working his body, he again considered the drain in the floor. If he could pull it free, he could perhaps sharpen it down to a cutting edge. Or, at the very least, it would act as a set of brass knuckles. Perhaps giving him a chance at shattering the glass in the door.
Pulling himself to his feet, he walked around the drain for a moment. He did the same thing while maxing out when lifting weights. He needed to get his adrenaline going a bit, work up some anger at the obstacle.
After a few seconds, Jerrell squatted over the drain and wrapped his fingers through the cover. He intended to use the muscles in his legs and arms in tandem, putting all his strength and conditioning to work.
He counted to three and then pulled up with everything he had. His skull shook as every muscle tensed. After a moment with no give, he relaxed, adjusted his grip, and changed tactics. This time, he pulled up and twisted the cover at the same time, wrenching against the glue from every angle.
And this time, he was rewarded with some movement. He continued pulling and twisting, throwing the last of his energy into removing the possible instrument of his salvation.
Jerrell stumbled backward from his own built-up momentum when the drain cover finally came free.
He leaned his left hand on the concrete wall and smiled to himself, his right fist gripping the sturdy metal grate. He tested the weapon with a few shadow punches and smiled some more. Then he set to work at sharpening the front edge of his new best friend.
62
The little dog jumped as Marcus stormed in and slammed the door. The panels of frosted plastic covering the conference room’s fluorescent lighting rattled, and the dog issued a sound between a growl and a whimper.
Ackerman and Emily occupied two of the conference room’s faux-leather desk chairs, the little dog in another chair between them. They both still carried a putrefying chemical aroma even after showering. Their complexions were ruddy from irritation caused by the exposure to Willoughby’s magic soup.
Marcus could feel his anger level rising, and he urged himself to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the oblong Formica table. Then he sat and leaned back, trying to find the words. His brother wouldn’t respond to anger, which was one of the only emotions Marcus seemed able to muster these days. How do you explain the world to a man who is addicted to pain and has no fear?
Finally, Marcus whispered, “Do you have anything you want to say to me?”
Ackerman quickly replied, “I find the situation with this canine vermin to be completely unacceptable. Time is man’s most precious commodity. Benjamin Franklin said, ‘You may delay, but time will not.’”
With a roll of his eyes, Marcus sai
d, “And Einstein said, ‘Time is an illusion.’ You can’t win the famous quotes game with me. You don’t have the memory for it.”
“I do feel that my recollection isn’t what it once was. I find myself forgetting a great many things.”
“Unfortunately, my memory is as clear as ever. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Why would I tell you something else when we haven’t adequately explored the first issue of this dog?”
Marcus closed his eyes and imagined his fist pummeling Eddie’s face. He said, “Fine, let’s talk about it. What did you name your pet?”
The dog, sitting in its own chair, seemed enthralled by the whole conversation.
“I don’t want to name it. I want it to go away.”
“He’s not going anywhere, which is honestly more than I can say about you. You should pick a name for him.”
“How about Dropkick? Please, return this thing to the puppy penitentiary where she found it.”
“It’s a full-blooded Shih Tzu. It came from a pet store, and Emily paid a lot of money out of her own pocket to get it for you.”
She said, “It’s really not a big deal. I just looked in his eyes and had a sense that he would be a good companion for you. If the burden is too much, then I’m sure I can still return him.”
Ackerman actually seemed to be at a loss for words. “No, it’s fine. I think we’ve reached a level of mutual understanding. Perhaps we could just get some sort of cage for it. And some diapers.”
“The way I see things going right now,” Marcus said, “you’re going back into a cage before that dog does. Do you understand?”
Ackerman said, “What makes you think I would allow that?”
“Someday—maybe a year from now, maybe tomorrow—your overconfidence will be your downfall.”
“I don’t start fights I can’t win.”
“The problem is that you aren’t afraid to lose, so you believe you can win any fight. Just because you aren’t afraid to die doesn’t mean you won’t.”
Ackerman shrugged. “Of course not. Everything dies. Such is the way of the flesh. The cost of our mortal coils. Most would say that a life well-lived is the goal. To live, not merely to avoid death. But what does it mean to live well? Efficient management of the precious seconds of one’s life certainly comes to mind.”
Marcus growled and rubbed his temples. “Are you still talking about the damn dog?”
“What else would we be talking about?”
Marcus snatched up a ceramic coffee cup from the table and threw it against the wall. It didn’t shatter, since the conference room walls were padded with sound-absorbing material. The dark liquid stained the beige cloth, and the cup fell to the floor with a crunch.
Ackerman said, “That was Emily’s mug.”
“You almost got Emily and yourself killed last night. You basically forced her to go in the first place.”
Emily said, “That’s not true, sir. I could have—”
Ackerman interrupted, “What does it matter? I could have gone on my own, but I thought involving her would be the politically correct maneuver.”
“You should have sat tight and waited for me. First, you convince her to go to some gym, and you pick a fight there. Then, you endangered both your lives at Willoughby’s.”
“Some would say I saved her life.”
“You should have followed orders. You’re not here to get your hands dirty.”
“Then why am I here, little brother? Dirty is pretty much all I do well.”
“Not anymore. Now, you just consult. You let me do the dangerous stuff.”
“I don’t need your protection, baby brother. In fact, I feel the opposite to be true. And I don’t ever want to see anything happen to you. I won’t allow it. You, Dylan, and this team are all I have.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “I know, Frank, and I don’t want to lose you either. I don’t want you to get killed, and I also don’t want you to lose control.”
“It seems to me that my grip upon the darkness within exceeds your own, as of late.”
With a shake of his head, Marcus replied, “When I lose control, coffee cups are the only ones in any real danger. Nobody gets killed.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve let my own personal demons see the light. And if you want to discuss putting this team in danger, then let’s talk about your handling of the Demon situation. I told you that we should have walked away from anything to do with him. We should have handed the case off or let him go or anything other than kick that hornet’s nest. But you’re too stubborn to see when you’ve hooked a fish big enough to pull the whole boat under with it.”
“Damnit, Frank, you’ve always said that destiny or fate or God brought us together. What if this is why? What if stopping Demon and burning his sick little empire to the ground is that one thing that you and I were meant to do together? What if this is our destiny?”
The little dog hopped onto Ackerman’s lap, and he scowled down at it for a long moment. Marcus hoped Ackerman was pondering the question and not thinking of snapping the dog’s neck. Finally, his lip curled in disgust, Ackerman picked up the dog as if it was a piece of roadkill and dropped it back onto the neighboring chair.
To the dog, Ackerman said, “What have we discussed regarding personal space?” Then, looking back to Marcus, he added, “Good talk, brother. Now, can we get on with the day’s activities? Destiny doesn’t fulfill itself, and we have dragons in need of slaying.”
63
Corin Campbell sat with her broken legs criss-crossed atop the silk sheets. She thought of escape and tried to recall every detail of the compound. Sonnequa, whom Corin had mentally started referring to as “The Good Wife,” had shown her to a private, four-poster bed of her very own. All of them were oversized, probably two California king beds shoved together under a custom-made canopy. Her entire world had been concrete for the past weeks. Now it was all soft and white, an ocean of silk. The veils even provided a sense of privacy, as if she had her own tent, along with her own set of white silk dresses hanging on a rack beside her new bed.
Still, she had a strange sense that this silk existence would end up being much worse than her previous life of concrete and nakedness.
The Good Wife had told her to rest and be ready for breakfast with the Master in the morning, but Corin couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept searching for ways to kill a man during breakfast. At times, she could hear other girls sobbing into their pillows, but she refused to cry, refused to let self-pity overcome her.
Before now, she had also refused to believe her tormentor’s proclamation of a pregnancy. That hope had crumbled when she had seen one of the other girls with a swollen stomach. She needed to accept that a child was growing inside her. His child.
But that was a decision and a worry for later.
Right now, she had more pressing concerns. Like figuring out how to open a man’s jugular with a plastic spoon.
She was surprised when Sonnequa parted the veil. Corin hadn’t heard the other women’s footsteps. The Good Wife said, “Breakfast is ready. Follow me to the dining hall. And—this is important—no one speaks before the Master does. He likes to eat in silence, and you had better not be the one to break that peace, or he’ll break you.”
Corin nodded and said, “I understand. I’m ready.”
64
Marcus knocked on the hotel room door in a coded sequence, for security purposes. Two knocks followed by three would signal the agent to open the door. Two knocks alone would alert her to danger. And the five other FBI agents on loan from Valdas now patrolled the perimeter and had the entire floor blocked off, so there was no chance of a maid bumbling in and getting shot.
Within a couple of seconds, Agent Lee was at the door, opening it cautiously, her gun at the ready. The beautiful young black woman had short-cropped curly hair and bright-green eyes. She gave Marcus a nod and then let the door swing open. Walking back to a small table wh
ere a Subway sandwich sat half eaten, she said, “Let me just grab this, and I’ll take it down the hall. Give you guys some alone time.”
“You’re fine. Don’t worry about it. Finish your sandwich,” he said.
Dylan didn’t even look up as Marcus entered the room. The boy was too engrossed in his own little world. He wore a black ninja costume with Apple earbuds attached to his skull. Dylan sat atop the bed, but all the hotel’s comforters and blankets had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the bare sheets. All manner of Lego vehicles, fortresses, and play-sets covered the bed. Heroes and villains of all kinds were represented in Lego form, from Star Wars to Robin Hood.
There was just enough room on the bed behind Dylan for Marcus to slip in and take a seat, looking over his son’s shoulder. He pulled out Dylan’s earbuds and said, “Do I even get a hello?”
Dylan looked back at him with a smile and said, “Hola, Padre. That means: Hello, Father. Agent Lee has been teaching me some Spanish.”
“That’s awesome, buddy. It’s a good skill to have. What are you doing here? You got what looks like SpongeBob on the TV. Then you’re listening to your iPhone. And all while you’re building this magnificent fortress here.”
“I wasn’t actually watching SpongeBob. Agent Lee turned that on. She told me I needed to watch some cartoons instead of the History Channel.”
With her mouth full of sandwich, Agent Lee said, “A boy your age should only watch so many World War II documentaries in one day.”
Marcus ran a hand through the boy’s hair. It was the same color as his own. He said, “She’s right, buddy. It’s great to learn, but sometimes you need to let your brain rest.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Dylan said, going back to his work on the Lego kingdom.
“What were you listening to?” Marcus asked.
“The MythBusters podcast.”
Marcus didn’t know how to respond to that. It didn’t really seem appropriate for a boy who wasn’t even double digits yet, but he also didn’t know what kids were into these days. Maybe watching World War II documentaries and listening to podcasts was perfectly normal. When he was a kid, he had spent hours memorizing encyclopedias, so he had no room to judge.