“Demetrius?” A man wearing a Marshals uniform came up to us.
“Dominic!” Lazar reached for his identical twin.
“I did not realize that your brother was inside the Fortress,” I told Demetrius Lazar.
“You didn’t ask,” Lazar told me.
“That is very true.” I nodded. “You’ve been stabbed,” I told Eric.
“I know.”
“Someone I can kill?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Eric pointed. Alejandro Gui lay on a table. His breathing was shallow, rapid, labored. “But I think he’s going to die regardless of whether you hurry things along or not.”
“What did you do to him?” I asked.
“Took out some of his intestines with a spoon,” Eric said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, you are not the only one who can wield a spoon in this family.”
“Okay.”
“Done?” Gabriel asked.
“I do not know,” I looked at Eric. “Did you know Patterson is running around the prison in the air ducts?”
“No,” Eric answered.
“Well, he is. I had this bright idea to release the worst of the worst and sent someone to do it and before he got there, Patterson freaking dropped out of the ceiling and did it. The man is over seventy!”
“No, Aislinn, he’s over eighty. Mom is in her sixties, Dad would be in his sixties, so that means Patterson has to be in his eighties.”
“Good grief,” I groaned.
“Done now?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Good,” he turned to look at the group of serial killers, mass murderers, FBI agents, and US Marshals. “For the time being, we are staying put. This is the safest location for us. There’s only one entrance and it is defensible. Once we have some control over the inmates running amok, we will move as groups to secure the rest of the prison. Does everyone understand?”
“Why do we expect the killers to help?” Someone asked.
“Because we’re in here with you instead of out there,” Eric answered. “Every killer in this room will make sure that none of these other assholes get control.”
“We call them loyalists for a reason,” Dominic Lazar shrugged. “If Eric says they’ll help, they’ll help.”
“Anyone who has a problem with assisting the US Marshals and FBI in taking back this prison should step forward now,” I said. No one did. Everyone stared at me. “No, I’m not giving any of you weapons. You are big enough to help without them.”
“Then why do you have a weapon?” Brent Timmons snarked.
“Because I’m a girl,” I told him.
“Are we really just going…” a Marshal who worked as a guard started to ask, but stopped. Our Amish serial killer had entered the hallway. He was dragging someone behind him that was screaming. I checked to make sure it wasn’t Caleb and when I was sure it wasn’t, I did nothing. It looked like the bigger, crazier man had broken all the smaller man’s limbs. The Amish kid, whose first name was Jeremiah, threw the broken man at the Plexiglas. He thudded against it and fell to the floor. He was crying.
“Not sure I can watch this,” one of the Marshals that had come in with us said.
“Then turn around,” Malachi told him.
“Jesus Christ,” someone else yelled.
“Wrong side,” Malachi responded. He was intently watching Jeremiah.
“Eric, help me,” I gave him my shoulder. There was a moment of pressure and then my brother hyper extended my arm while pushing on my shoulder. It popped back into place. My fingers had feeling again.
“We can’t seriously just watch this happen,” Eric said to me. I sighed. He was right. I knew it.
“Fine, Malachi, Gabriel, Demetrius, Dominic, and Eric, let’s stop Jeremiah,” I told them.
“Without killing him,” Fiona said over the PA.
“You heard the lady, without killing him,” I announced. “If he kills us, send out a bigger group, let Brent lead them.” Brent looked overjoyed to be put in charge of the backup party.
Our only encounter with Jeremiah had left us all bleeding. He had powerful arms, powerful legs, and a wicked head butt. He was tall and working the land had made him incredibly fit. Coupled with his giant status, it made him a force to be reckoned with. Gigantism already came with physical differences from the normal homo sapien, adding psychopathology to it, was an evolutionary step that seemed unnecessary. I was not the only person that Xavier and Caleb Green ran tests on and I had learned long ago that a psychopath suffering from gigantism was kind of like dealing with a polar bear on steroids.
Malachi handed my dropped baton to Eric. If it had been anyone else, the entire group might have protested, but we all trusted Eric. Even wounded he would do his best to keep Jeremiah from killing a cop. His time on the inside had not changed him much.
This did mean I was down a baton. I checked my Taser, found the cartridge missing, and loaded a replacement. Gabriel was talking in a soothing voice, trying to calm the serial killer that liked to kill pretty twenty-somethings and keep them in his barn. He’d been discovered when a tornado destroyed his barn, strewing the dead bodies over most of the county. Even his community had been appalled and given us his location the moment we hit town. I steeled myself for another such epic battle.
“Aim for the knees!” Malachi shouted. Psychopath or not, if you destroy the knee or hip joints, the psychopath isn’t going anywhere. It was about physical damage, not pain. It didn’t matter whether it hurt or not, you destroyed or dislocated a knee and the psychopath wasn’t standing up. Simple matter of anatomy and physics.
He swiped at Gabriel, the closest to him, and the battle began. I fired the Taser, one prong attaching to his shoulder, the other sticking out of his head. Part of me was amazed. The prongs of a Taser didn’t normally stick when the bone was close to the surface. It took about two seconds for Jeremiah to fall.
“What the hell?” Demetrius Lazar said.
“Oh, the charge only lasts about 10 seconds. There might be another fifteen seconds of discord while he tries to put himself back together again, but after that, he is going to be pissed,” Malachi told him. Jeremiah was already struggling to his feet. Unimportant parts seemed to be made of rubber. His legs got under him just fine and he stood. His attention turned to me. His gaze left a physical impression. I ejected the cartridge and immediately began loading another. I wasn’t fast enough. His fist slammed into my face and sent me sprawling. I was a little beaten up. I was really wondering about Malachi. Why wasn’t he taking any of the blows? Was he still beat and banged up enough that he couldn’t? He was at least a full psychopath. Some vague memory surfaced. It sounded like Xavier telling me not to get hit in the head. That was easy for him to say.
Gabriel took a hit and ended up on the floor next to me.
“Having fun?” I asked.
“Yes, this was a great idea.” He frowned. I stood up and helped him to his feet. My goal was to ignore the fact that Patterson and I had both had this idea or that it really wasn’t completely working out as expected. Later, I would analyze if I had really believed it was going to work out to begin with. Right now, I had a rampaging gigantic psychopath on my hands. We both ran back in.
The problem with non-lethal force is that most police are not trained for it. The knee, even on a giant, is an awkward target. If we’d been using sniper’s rifles, no problem, but with handguns, the dynamics were different. Those firing guns were standing too far back to get a good, clean, through the knee shot. They were also using a lot of bullets.
They were hitting him in the leg mostly, but contrary to popular belief, the knee has to be hit a certain way in a certain spot. A simple gunshot wound to it wasn’t a guarantee that it would destroy the joint and make the giant fall.
The firing stopped as Eric rushed in, my baton in his hand. He didn’t hold it like a baseball bat. He had it in one hand, drawn behind his back, ready to unleash, like throwing a baseball
. This was the most effective way to use the weapon and could inflict a massive amount of trauma to the impacted area. The baton hit ribs as Jeremiah reached out to grab him. The sound of metal hitting bone was deafening. Eric’s arm shook with the impact, but his fist stayed firmly clenched around the handle of the baton. He drew back and swung a second time. The baton recoiled against the impact. The bigger man lost his ability to breathe for precious seconds. Jeremiah’s arm instinctively shot back to protect the area.
I moved in, running at him. I drew one of the Berettas and started to fire within just a few feet of him. His knee gave as blood spattered from the wound, soaking Eric, me, and the floor around us. My feet slipped and Eric reached out, grabbing me to keep me from falling. Jeremiah bellowed as he attempted to push himself back up. The knee didn’t hold and slammed against the floor, causing more blood to splatter out. The wound began to gush.
Malachi was moving. He moved behind the fallen serial killer and shot him with a tranquilizer dart. The needle entered Jeremiah’s carotid artery. The powerful drug surged through his veins. His eyes fluttered closed and he started to fall forward. Malachi shot him with a second one. His eyes finally closed and he crashed to the floor. His back heaved with his heavy, but peaceful breathing. Dominic Lazar already had his cuffs out. Demetrius was with him and they used two sets to get enough length to cuff the big man’s arms behind his back.
“What do you think?” Malachi looked at me.
“Well, when he comes too, he is going to be royally enraged, but he is not getting back up. If we leave him out here, he is wounded prey,” I told Malachi.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Gabriel sighed. “Let’s hoist him in with us.” This got some shouts of disapproval from inside. However, they really couldn’t do anything to stop us. We began tugging, all of us. Thankfully, Eric and Malachi were stronger than most and did their share of the heavy hoisting.
They were dragging him inside when I felt something connect with my back. It glanced off my skull and shoulders. I spun and found myself staring into pretty blue eyes that were dead. Some psychopaths and sociopaths live in the never-never, and it caused them to have dead eyes. The man staring down at me was one of those. I reached for my gun and Taser, but felt my arm being wrenched. Someone behind me yelled my name as the man produced a long knife.
“It is good. We are just going to have a talk, right?” I looked into that face, already plotting how I was going to kill him and if I wanted witnesses.
“A talk, yeah, sure.” He yanked the guns out one by one and dropped them on the ground. The Taser went next. The knives on my arms were last.
“Aislinn!” Eric shouted my name again.
“Get in there and lock those doors,” I told my brother. “Keep everyone safe, especially the federal officers that have to deal with this disaster.” The man smiled at me, baring his teeth. His nostrils flared. I was going to take his face and break every bone in it. When I was done, I was going to force feed him his goddamn teeth. Then, there was an exceptionally great chance that I was going to cut open his stomach just to watch the teeth fall back out. He jerked my head, forcing the knife to pierce the skin. I might remove his head too.
Nine
Deacon Priest was not a bad looking man, especially for a serial killer. A little life in his eyes might have made him attractive. As it was, he just looked like a pretty face with nothing going on upstairs, which was exactly what was happening with Deacon Priest. When we’d caught him over a year ago, I had emasculated him by accident. I had intended to stab him in the thigh, but he had jerked and I had plunged the knife into his crotch instead. His penis had been split in two and a testicle had fallen out. The doctors eventually had to amputate the genitalia due to an infection. Men were very sensitive about that sort of thing. So whatever the mastermind had planned for me was lost on Deacon Priest. He only had revenge on his mind.
“How do you think this ends, Priest? You kill me and ride off into some mythical sunset, a complete man for getting revenge?” I asked, needling the sore spot that I knew existed.
“Shut up, bitch, you’re in my world now.” He shoved me into a cell that was obviously not his. Deacon Priest had been a man who liked hospital corners. This cell looked like Xavier lived in it. The artwork on the walls was another giveaway. Deacon didn’t draw. He also didn’t torture young boys. He preferred the rape and mutilation of women who were in good physical condition. I found my footing and turned to look at him. He was trying to be menacing, blade in one hand, the other balled into a fist, a snarl on his face. I shrugged at the bravado. It was completely lost on me.
I felt fear, but not in the calm and certainly not from men like Deacon Priest. Having a conversation with my niece was scary. She was into boys and weird music by artists I’d never heard of and sang with a twang in their voice. She was also into jewelry. I was into none of those things. Trying to talk to her was difficult. It could make me break a sweat, as I worried about saying something that might give her nightmares, or gave away the fact that as she talked, I got bored. I was trying to build a relationship with her and the boy. With her, it was sort of working, but the boy, not so much. It didn’t help that I could never remember his name, but he had some eerie hallmarks that made me think he had inherited his daddy’s genes. He knew about the darkness and the calm a little more than he should have. He’d also taken a baseball to the arm at little league over the summer and never flinched, despite it breaking his arm right above the wrist.
The problem in front of me moved, regaining my attention. The problem was that Deacon Priest wasn’t just a psychopath. He also suffered from hallucinations of an unknown cause. He didn’t have schizophrenia or any other psychiatric conditions that would cause them and he didn’t seem to have a neurological reason for them, but he still had them. His hallucinations were rarely people. They were objects and strangely, animals. During the fight between us, he had attempted to have a purple alligator eat me. Unfortunately, only he had been able to see the purple alligator, but he kept insisting it was there. In fact, he had been so insistent that Gabriel and Michael had begun looking for a real alligator to make sure it didn’t eat me. Delusions of grandeur I understood, seeing purple alligators I did not. I suddenly realized why his other fist was balled.
“What is in your other hand?” I asked.
“Surely, you’ve seen a stun baton before,” he told me. I had, on many occasions, but he wasn’t holding one. It explained why he had tossed my guns and Tasers. Between the real knife and the imaginary stun baton, he thought he was ready for me.
“Ah, not like that one,” I answered.
“I’m going to make this hurt,” he told me. I shrugged, unsure what to say to that. We could argue about the stun baton, but that would be more frustrating for me more than for him. I could bait him, make him rush before he was ready, but the knife was a long, thick, serrated edge that in no way, shape, or form should have been in a prison. It was a couple of inches longer than a K-bar, but of a similar style. The imaginary stun baton I could sort of ignore. The extended K-bar would do serious damage as it entered and exited. “Nothing to say before you die?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Most people beg for their lives,” he told me.
“I have no desire to beg for such a trivial thing,” I responded. “I would not mind a knife to make this a fair fight,” I told him.
“I’m not giving you a knife. You’re too unpredictable with them,” he spat the word unpredictable at me. I could not entirely argue with him. I had stabbed him in the genitals. Of course, if he hadn’t attacked us, I wouldn’t have stabbed him, so it was not entirely my fault. Nothing was in the room that I could use as a weapon, unless I learned how to fold deadly origami weapons in the next few minutes. I thought the chances of that were slim. However, in the Fortress, the inmates were allowed crayons. Pens, pencils, markers, and even chalk could only be accessed during certain times and under strict supervision. Some inmate ad
vocacy group had fought this restriction for several years, even meeting with inmates on a few occasions. It might have worked if one of the inmates hadn’t decided to gouge out the eyes of the group leader with a Sharpie and then jabbing said implement through his ear drum and into his brain. The advocacy agent had lived, but switched sides. I had once killed a person with a plastic spoon, but I didn’t think I could manage with a crayon or even a whole box of them. They weren’t allowed to sharpen the crayons and the soft, round, blunted tips weren’t going to do much damage unless I shoved a handful down Deacon Priest’s windpipe.
That was an idea though. I wasn’t sure if I could kill him doing it, but it was something I could try. Doing it and staying away from the very real knife was going to be an issue, but this was like Everest and had to be done one step at a time. If I jumped ahead, I’d lose my footing. It would have been better for him to have been hallucinating the knife than the stun baton. I should have brought Badger. He could have peed on him and given me a distraction.
Deacon Priest wasn’t stupid or crazy enough to lunge at me. He entered the cell slowly, stalking, his body erect, his arm in front of him, holding the knife at the correct angle. It was one of the few things movies got right. In a knife fight, you held it so that the blade was parallel to the arm. The blade was pointed outwards ensuring that as you curved your wrist in, the point flicked out, taking the sharpened edge with it. Also, it was held on the outside of the arm so that you couldn’t accidentally stab yourself or have someone else push the blade into your torso. It seemed like a little thing, but it was a costly mistake to make.
Most people believed this hindered the movement of the blade, but knife fighting was up close and personal. It was not meant for distances. It was also why people with knives were more likely to kill than people with guns. Guns were supposed to scare victims into compliance. People willing to kill them used knives. The exceptions were people trying to protect their homes and it wasn’t the best option, it was usually the last. Even baseball bats were better for home protection than knives.
Fortified Dreams Page 7