by Ethan Cross
Canyon’s ranch consisted of thousands of acres of grazing lands leading up to production buildings, grain silos, and structures that Marcus guessed to house livestock. Maggie could have been locked up in any one of them. With his brother distracting Canyon and his men, Marcus hoped that the ranch would be virtually unguarded. Possibly only a few sentries, and with Mrs. Canyon living at the casino, John Canyon might not have even seen the need to leave any men behind to guard his home.
Moving in the shadows for concealment, he methodically checked the farm’s production buildings first, before making his way in a circular progression toward the main house. The sprawling pueblo-style structure that was Canyon’s home was a mansion by most standards. Two stories of tans and whites topped with a reddish orange ceramic tile roof and much of its face covered with oversized windows.
Marcus looked from the house to the buildings housing the sheep. He had already searched those to no avail, but one of them had to contain the equipment used to affix drugs to fake skin and wool for transport. Before they showed up, Canyon had quite an operation going. Although they had no hard evidence beyond the drugs they had unlawfully seized, Marcus surmised that Canyon’s men received the drugs from just across the border or the Cartels transported it across the border to Canyon. Either way, the ranchers would then strap it to the backs of the livestock. From there, after only crossing one border, the drugs would be insulated and protected for their trips to any prospective US city.
Marcus admired the ex-soldier’s ingenuity and his desire to rise above the circumstances into which he was born. And he very much sympathized with the plight of John Canyon and his people—whom the American government had driven out of their homes and basically forced into concentration camps. A people only a couple of generations removed from those living today. That same government had then proceeded to systematically remove that people’s culture in an attempt to assimilate them into what they considered civilized society. The thought of it all made Marcus sick. It was an issue that had never really received the attention it deserved.
But he wasn’t there to discuss social injustice. He only had one goal. He considered heading straight for the house, but he knew that he should remain cautious and scope things out for a few minutes before jumping in head first. As he watched, he tried to keep his thoughts from Maggie, and so he considered his brother and all the atrocities and injustices that Ackerman had faced down and risen above.
Marcus had been held captive in darkness for months by Thomas White, tortured both physically and psychologically, and had endured many things far worse. Despite all that, he knew that he had never suffered anything close to what his brother had faced. Marcus had tasted pain and fear and death many times, but he had never experienced it in a way that could take away all he knew of fear.
Through his own crucible, he had discovered that enduring something terrible and life-changing had a way of adjusting a person’s sensitivity levels. A garden snake wasn’t something that scared you after nearly being eaten by an anaconda. Although anacondas may still vividly scare you—in fact, those anacondas might haunt your thoughts and your dreams and your every waking moment—anything short off that level of fear and pain and death suddenly became manageable.
Marcus had once believed that he needed to see all the threats coming. If he could see them, he could fight them. He had been obsessed by the idea. He would sit in restaurants and watch the exits and entrances; the comings and goings, checking each person, watching their eyes, their mannerisms, their ticks. Analyzing, predicting behavior. For fear that a wolf would creep in from the shadows to attack the sheep. But then experience taught him that people who stood in the light were often more dangerous than those who crept from the shadows, and any kind of true protection or security was an illusion. If the wolves wanted you, then they would get you.
Monitoring the main house for several minutes, becoming a fly on the wall, a shadow among shadows, Marcus focused on every detail, searching for signs of movement that might reveal a camera or guard. From what he could see, the ranch had very little in terms of high-tech security measures. But that was the thing about cutting edge security; the best systems were invisible. With as much money as Canyon was pulling down, as many people as he employed, Marcus suspected that John Canyon’s home, sitting in this remote area of the Navajo Nation, boasted a security system that would rival any of the mansions out in Greenwich village.
The question he had to ask himself wasn’t whether or not the house had cameras and alarms, but whether or not there was anyone watching.
Under normal circumstances, Marcus’s instincts would have been to wait and watch a bit longer. Learn the routines a little better. But under the present circumstance, he felt he was showing restraint by not driving his little collapsible motorcycle straight through the front window of John Canyon’s house. He had to know if Maggie was inside that building, but getting himself killed wouldn’t do Maggie any good. So he waited a few seconds longer. And then a few seconds longer. He knew very well that just because he didn’t see any guards didn’t mean that there weren’t any present or that they didn’t see him. In fact, the most deadly opponents were ones that seemed to blend right in.
When his anger and anticipation built to the point that he could contain it no longer, Marcus stepped from cover and headed for the pueblo mansion. Staying low in a tactical shooter’s stance, he kept the MP5, to which he had attached a sound suppressor, tight to his shoulder as he scanned for potential targets.
He moved directly toward the house. His brother often said that the shortest distance between two points is always a straight line. It was the kind of statement that Ackerman often made, impossible to argue with because it was true but also typically a vague generalization. In Ackerman’s case, it was usually a justification for having cut someone or bloodied someone’s nose.
The closer Marcus came to the house, the faster he moved. The momentum built something up in him. He tapped into that well of righteous rage. He was tired of watching and waiting. He was ready to act. He was ready to find out if Maggie was in this building, if John Canyon had truly been the one who had stolen her, and if she was alive or dead. Those thoughts spurred his determination. When he reached the front door of Canyon’s desert mansion, he kicked full force at a spot beside the knob, breaking the door from the frame and causing it to swing inwards. He didn’t hear an alarm sounding, at least not yet. And he didn’t really care anymore. He was past the point of caring. He was past the point of being afraid.
He swept through the first floor of the massive house like a dark wind. He was feeling his aggression rise and a part of him was hoping that a sentry would dare to show their face.
The first floor held a massive foyer, a two-story great room, a dining room, a breakfast room, a fully-stocked bar, a kitchen, multiple bathrooms, and a study. They were all decorated with what appeared to be genuine American Indian artifacts and the memorabilia of Canyon’s people.
As he moved from room to room, Marcus kept checking for a set of stairs that would lead to the basement. He wanted to check the lowest levels of the structure first. Although it wasn’t completely unheard of for a killer to have his murder room on an upper floor, there was just something about a basement. Something about already being underground and close to your grave, to your final resting place. There was also a sense of insulation and isolation.
It wasn’t until the end of his sweep that he located the entrance to the subterranean depths of Canyon’s estate. He flipped on the light, stepped down a few steps, closed the door behind him, and steeled his nerves for whatever he might find.
His adrenaline raged, but he fought to keep his body and his emotions under control. He willed his legs to move slowly and calmly. He listened. He reached out with his ears, searching for any kind of disturbance or movement, any indication of something strange or out of place. Most importantly, he listened for a sound to give away an adversary waiting in ambush.
He heard nothi
ng.
The momentary caution now receding, he descended several more steps until his still-focused hearing registered a small but heart-stopping sound, one he had heard before, one that was hard to forget.
It was the sound of stepping down on an active land mine.
40
The past…
Marcus gently pulled his arm out from beneath Maggie Carlisle’s naked form. She stirred, rolled her shoulders, and said with a moan, “It’s time for you got a real bed.”
“This is a real bed.”
“It’s a futon. Death Row inmates have nicer beds than this.”
“What can I say? I know how to treat a girl right.”
He pulled himself up from the futon, the thin metal frame creaking beneath his shifting weight, “Where you going?” Maggie asked, yawning.
“Nowhere. Go back to sleep. I just need some Tylenol.”
Maggie rolled over, exposing the long tanned curve of her back and her golden blonde hair.
41
With every tick of the clock, Ackerman felt his lifeblood pumping away. He felt like a mighty war ship with an oil leak. No matter how hard he could push, no matter how tough we was, how smart he was, or how strong he was, without blood, his gears and pistons would stop turning. In the end, he recognized his body as a miraculous machine, one that needed lubrication and vital fluids same as any mechanical marvel.
But before he could deal with that problem, he needed to handle John Canyon and his caravan of soldiers. A defense against the enemy at the gates needed to mounted before he could allow himself the time to bleed.
With that in mind, Ackerman bent down to the same level as Tobias Canyon, whom he had just restrained to an old wooden chair using high-tension fishing line. Ackerman said, “Now, you’re going to be a good boy and tell Daddy that everything is just fine and that you are unharmed.”
Tobias Canyon stared back at him defiantly.
With his right arm, Ackerman held out the small walkie-talkie. With a nod, he indicated for the Canyon boy to speak.
Tobias, maintaining his scowl, leaned toward the small black communicator and said, “Father, I’m sorry. I’m alive. I overheard where they have the truck and—”
Ackerman pulled the radio away from Tobias’s mouth, and then he struck the boy hard across the jaw, causing the young man to spit a mouthful of blood in his direction.
The blood splattered across his black shirt. He didn’t mind. He expected there to be plenty more blood coming soon. The boy proceeded to curse at him in an unknown tongue, the tone and inflection sounding to Ackerman like a form of witchcraft. After waiting a moment for Tobias to finish, Ackerman asked, “Are you done? Go ahead, get it all out of your system. And when you’re ready, I’ll actually push the transmit button on this communicator and you can tell your father exactly what I told you.”
Ackerman punctuated his statement by pushing the tip of his bone-handled Bowie knife against the soft spot beneath Tobias Canyon’s chin. He added, “Now, this time, please play by the rules of the game. I have to say it makes me go a little crazy when people don’t play by the rules. My rules, anyway.”
42
Marcus had mistaken the small click as he stepped down the stairs as the activation of a land mine. That idea dissolved when the sound was followed by the man hiding beneath the uncarpeted set of stairs saying, “Don’t move. Take your hand off the gun and put your arms towards the sky.”
Marcus cursed under his breath. He didn’t have time for this. He focused on the sound he had heard. He recognized now that it had been the click of a hammer being cocked. But it didn’t match up with a sawed-off shotgun or semi-automatic pistol. No, as he thought back on the sound, the reason he had mistaken it for the activation of some kind of explosive had been due to the oiled and rhythmic turning of a cylinder as the hammer was pulled back. That click belonged to an old-fashioned wheel gun. Marcus knew that his MP5 had an advantage over the six-shooter in almost every arena. The trigger pull of his weapon, even with the wheel gun’s hammer back, would be much lighter in pounds of pressure. The man under the stairs also had the disadvantage of having to shoot through the slats. All Marcus had to do was to move down the stairs quickly enough and the man’s aim would be completely thrown off. The MP5 however, with its automatic firing capabilities, could stitch holes in the entire set of stairs.
Marcus said, “Okay. I’m surrendering. Don’t do anything crazy. I’m going to raise—”
Then he dove forward into open air and jerked his right arm up, grabbing the MP5 and pulling the trigger all the way back as he directed the barrage toward his adversary. Splinters of the bare wood exploded into the air to mix with the smoke of burning gunpowder and spent shell casings. Marcus tried to land as gracefully as possible but ended up smashing his shoulder into the concrete hard enough to shoot a bolt of electric pain down his spine. But he didn’t have time for pain now. He immediately rolled toward a point of cover while ejecting the magazine and reaching for a fresh load from a pouch on his tactical vest.
But he was stopped short when a shaky voice said, “Mister, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. Navajo Nation Police. Do not move.”
Marcus found himself staring down the barrel of a police-issue twelve gauge shotgun operated by a man he recognized as Ernie Pitka, one of the deputies they had learned worked at the local substation of the Navajo Nation Police.
Still fuming with adrenaline and rage, he started thinking of ways he could overtake the kid, but they all had a risk of either himself getting killed or him grievously injuring Officer Pitka. He knew that if Maggie were there now, she would quote his own words back at him and tell him not to lose sight of what it was that they did. They saved people. They didn’t hurt people. They didn’t kill people. Although it was sometimes necessary to fight back, they always did so with the goal of protecting life, not taking it.
Still, Marcus couldn’t merely surrender. He couldn’t allow himself to be captured. It wasn’t just his own life on the line. Maggie. Ackerman. Who knew how many other lives the Taker would steal if they didn’t put an end to his trail of tears, broken families, and unquenchable pain.
But he also had a code to live by, and that code didn’t involve hurting an innocent police officer who seemed to be trying to do his job as best he could under a corrupt regime.
He thought of how easy it would be to grab the barrel of the shotgun and direct it toward the ceiling while simultaneously pulling a knife from his tactical utility vest.
Officer Pitka repeated, “Hands up, now!”
Marcus did as he was told and said, “Okay, let’s take it easy. We’re on the same side here. I know about you, Pitka. I know you’re a good cop.”
“Slowly get up on your knees.”
“Okay, okay. I’m moving slowly.”
Stepping from behind Marcus to join his subordinate, Captain Yazzie undid his shirt as he fought for breath. Pulling back the layers of uniform revealed a trio of nine millimeter slugs that had embedded themselves in Yazzie’s body armor. In a rasp, the captain said, “Well, goodness gracious, we’re all having fun now. This is just like paintball, only it hurts a hell of a lot more.” Yazzie ended his statement by pistol-whipping Marcus across the temple with his silver and gold Colt .45 Peacemaker. The last thing Marcus saw before blacking out was a flash of metal and the look of rage in the captain’s eyes.
43
Three weeks earlier…
Maggie glanced down at the address Baxter Kincaid had provided for the third time. She trusted the private detective’s skills, and yet, this couldn’t be the right place. Her father, a deadbeat drunk who had abandoned his family, could never afford a house like this. The yard was professionally manicured, not quite as extravagant as to possess shrubbery formed into the shapes of animals or dotted by fountains of marble, but the bushes were perfectly symmetrical and the flowers blooming and beautiful in perfect aesthetic balance. It was one of those houses where shiny plastic families lived. The two-st
ory brick home wasn’t quite a mansion, but it was definitely upper class. While her father was most definitely lower class.
Something about the house made Maggie’s skin crawl, despite the fact that everything was in perfect order, just as she would have designed it. The little voices that tugged at the back of her mind when things were out of place were quiet now. But still, she felt like this was a place far out of balance. This couldn’t be her father’s true address. Her childhood home had never been like this. Her home had been absolute chaos.
Maggie’s parents’ marriage barely lasted a year after her brother’s abduction. Her mother fell into a dark abyss of despair, retreating inward, while her dad tried to drink himself to death. Whenever one of them climbed from their perspective pits of self destruction, they took their rage out on one another, which left her alone and afraid with nothing to think about except how she had failed to protect her little brother. And how she was to blame for the chaos that had poisoned her family.
The day her father left was forever etched into her memory. She had heard him scream many times, but she’d never witnessed him raise a hand against her mother. Having learned to tune out their arguments, she hadn’t even registered the ferocity of the hate they were spitting at one another until she heard the “thwap” sound of an open-handed slap and her mother shriek.
Maggie had quickly looked up from the kitchen table to see her mother stumble backward, tripping over a chair and falling. She remembered her dad quickly apologizing and pleading with his mother to calm down, but she was beyond reasoning and immediately called the police.