Spectrum

by Ethan Cross

  “The nice one … sir.”

  “Good. Now get out of my sight.”

  The officer staggered away and blended in with the other uniforms forming the perimeter.

  Taz sighed and then slapped Nic on the back of his head. “You can take the kid out of New York …”

  “I grew up in Jersey. And just because I chose a legitimate career, doesn’t mean I went soft.”

  “I would call you a lot of things, Nic,” Taz said. “Soft isn’t one of them.”

  Chapter 13

  Kruger had worked hard at building a legacy of fear. His name wasn’t publicly notorious; nor would it ever be. Politicians would never denounce him and call him a terrorist or a madman. He was a shadow. An invisible force of nature that could be hired to work for your cause if the price was right.

  He was Kruger.

  He was not Idris Madeira.

  He was Kruger.

  Standing in the GoBox employee restroom, he splashed water into his face and stared at himself in the mirror.

  The seconds passed, his eyes transfixed on his own reflection.

  He considered the irony that he had become so good at making people fear and hate him that he had succeeded in both fearing and hating himself.

  He took a deep breath and counted to ten, but he still couldn’t tear his eyes off the man in the mirror. He felt his heart rate quicken, and then he couldn’t breathe. It was like Kruger was choking him, but he was Kruger, which meant that he could never escape his adversary. The cycle would just begin again.

  He felt dizzy and nauseated.

  He splashed more water in his face.

  “Kruger,” he whispered out loud, half expecting the figure in the mirror to answer back. “I am Kruger.”

  Idris Madeira tried to convince himself to put back on the mask of Kruger that had kept his sanity intact over the years. But for some reason, he could no longer separate the things that Idris had done with the things Kruger had done.

  He had thought Kruger was invincible, that the ruthless mercenary had no limits. Unfortunately, he had learned of his own fallibility the hard way as the walls to the mental fortress protecting his true self crumbled and fell.

  It had been one month since Kruger had entered the small squatter camp of white South Africans outside of Johannesburg. And he supposed that Kruger had never truly left. That part of him had died there with all the others, all those poor innocent souls, women and children cut down indiscriminately.

  The death of Kruger was a major issue for Idris Madeira because he didn’t have a career of his own. In reality, Idris was just a lamprey riding the back of the shark. With Kruger gone, his family would starve. He needed one more job. One last job to make enough money so that Idris would never need Kruger again.

  Unfortunately, the beginning of the next phase of his plan for early retirement hinged entirely on the Doc’s efforts to break into the security system, which the Doc had ensured him would not be a problem and less than an hour’s worth of work. And until the security system was completely down, the armored cameras inset into the ceilings of the secure areas would still be recording, and Kruger couldn’t have his face appearing on any recordings. That was crucial.

  He splashed more water on his face and said, “I am Kruger. I am the spirit of the lion. I am the Ghost of Timbavati.”

  Idris Madeira reluctantly slipped the black ski mask back over his face. He would, unfortunately, have to perform a worthy imitation of his former ruthless and untouchable self—at least for a few more hours—because things were about to get very bloody.

  Chapter 14

  ASAC Sam Carter took a sharp left and guided his vehicle up to the nice suburban home of the Burke family. August, the family’s youngest son, stood at the curb, cigarette in his mouth.

  The first time Carter had laid eyes on August Burke, he thought him to be just another punk kid—a slacker, content to wander through life. He had been shocked to learn that Burke held two masters degrees and a doctorate in criminal psychology. But the part of the story that Carter found most interesting was that August Burke had received the degrees online while still attending high school, and he had done so under a false identity.

  Burke’s college scores were near perfect. His high school grades were mediocre.

  The kid now wore a black one hundred percent cotton polo shirt with the letters FBI stenciled in white on its breast. Carter had special ordered the shirt for Burke as a compromise over the kid not wearing a suit. Burke had explained that he didn’t like his arms or neck being restricted and materials other than cotton against his torso and arms felt like sandpaper rubbing his skin.

  Still, they would need to find a compromise on the baggy jeans and bright white tennis shoes. And the mop of stick-straight, dirty-blond hair that crept down and over the kid’s ears.

  As Carter pulled up to the curb, Burke leaned into the car, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. The kid had bright baby blue eyes and that rebel-without-a-cause thing going for him. Carter had heard from Burke’s father that, although Burke had issues in many social arenas, the kid was quite proficient when it came to attracting the fairer sex. But so far, all of those relationships had only lasted a couple of weeks.

  Burke glanced around the inside of Carter’s Lincoln MKZ and said, “How about I just follow you in my car?”

  “What? My ride not sweet enough for you?”

  “I don’t like riding in cars when I’m not used to the driver.”

  “I’m a good driver.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I’ve never seen you in action. I don’t know your capabilities. Your reaction times. How well do you follow the rules of the road?”

  “I haven’t had a ticket for over twenty years.”

  “That’s not the same thing as being a good driver.”

  “I was trained in advanced defensive and offensive driving techniques by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Okay, that makes you a great guy to have on the team in a high-speed chase, but that doesn’t correlate to your lane usage and observance of speed limits. Thirty percent of accidents that result in death are due to speeding.”

  Carter sighed, questioning his decision to bring Burke into the field, and said, “Fine. Let’s take your car, and I’ll ride with you.”

  The kid’s eyes went wide, but before he could say anything, Carter added, “I’ll give you a minute to clean it out.”

  Five minutes later, they were on the road inside Burke’s 1967 Firebird two-door coupe. The paint looked new—a deep and dark metallic red, almost burgundy or maroon, which reminded Carter of a glass of French wine—and the motor rumbled so loudly Carter could barely hear his own thoughts.

  “What kind of engine is in this thing?” he asked.

  “I replaced the original Pontiac 400 with a crate LSX454R.”

  Carted nodded, having no idea what Burke was talking about. “What kind of horsepower?”

  “776.”

  “I had a good friend who had this 1969 Mustang that was fastest thing on the road when we were kids. He told me it had 320 horsepower.”

  “Then my Firebird has 242.5 percent more horsepower than your friend’s car.”

  “I’ll take your word on it.”

  “I did some research about you online,” Burke said.

  “Oh, really. Why exactly did you do that?”

  “The more I know about a person, the more I can understand and predict their behavior.”

  “Find anything juicy that I should know about?”

  “Define juicy.”

  “Did you learn anything about me that you didn’t already know?”

  “I didn’t know that your wife is deceased. Or that she was a white woman.”

  “Do you have a problem with a black man and a white woman getting married?”

  “Absolutely not. You just asked if I learned anything about you. That’s what I learned. I actually think that racial mixing should be encouraged. People have enough th
ings that divide them and cause them to be persecuted or bullied; the world would be a better place if we were all mixed race. Think of how much more we could accomplish as a society if we didn’t have to worry about the color of our skin or our outward appearances.”

  Carter shrugged. “We would just find another way to divide ourselves. That’s a terrible misconception we’ve created in our world today. We want to eliminate our differences because we think that everyone should be treated fairly. But eliminating diversity and miscegenation or mixing of races, that diluting down of our cultural heritage, is not the answer to combatting racism and bigotry.”

  “Then what is the answer?”

  “Ubuntu.”

  Burke pulled out onto the highway, traveling at precisely the speed limit. “Like the Linux-based operating system?”

  “No, the philosophy. And why do you have such a fast car with all that horsepower if you always drive the speed limit?”

  “I take it to a closed track. Plus, it’s the condom principle.”

  “Excuse me?” Carter said.

  “You know, I’d prefer to have all that speed and not need it, than need it and not have it. The condom principle. What’s Ubuntu?”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain. We’re all different, and it’s human nature for us to divide ourselves into groups. It’s a conditioned response because there’s strength in numbers. It makes us feel at home and secure. I’m a Yankees fan, which means that I hate the Red Sox. That doesn’t mean that I feel the need to ram my fist through the face of every person I see wearing a Red Sox T-shirt. When I was a kid, I always dreamed of playing for the Yankees.”

  “Did you play? Baseball, I mean. Not for the Yankees.”

  “I learned that I had no talent for it in about junior high, but I still love the game. If I was a Yankees player now, I would be extremely proud of the heritage and the legacy that comes along with my team and slipping on that uniform. Some of the greatest players to ever live have worn a uniform that wasn’t all that different. Same colors, same team. Babe Ruth. Gehrig. Mantle. Reggie Jackson. If I was a player wearing that uniform now, I would be damn delighted of being part of that cultural legacy. I would never want to lose it or erase it. I would be proud of it.”

  “Just like you’re proud to be a black man.”

  “Damn right. From Martin Luther King Jr. and Booker T. Washington to Harriet Tubman or even Michael Jordan and Morgan Freeman and too many to list in a lifetime. I’m proud of that cultural heritage.”

  “Then why did you marry someone with a different heritage?”

  “A very simple reason. Because I loved her.”

  “But wouldn’t it have been easier if—”

  “First of all, kid, love doesn’t see color. Just like God doesn’t. But I suppose, we had some moments of difficulty because of it. People are a lot more tolerant nowadays than they were when we were first married, but I wouldn’t necessarily say we were persecuted. Although, I’m sure we were a conversation topic at more than one dinner party.”

  “But isn’t it hard enough for two people to get along in a marriage without having those extra inherent hurdles?”

  “What would be the fun if we were all the same? A society without diversity will shrivel up and die. Diversity is at the core of societal and cultural growth. But that’s where we need Ubuntu.”

  “Which you still haven’t really explained.”

  “Ubuntu is a lot like the Golden Rule or the greatest commandment, if you’re a Christian. It’s just about taking care of each other. It’s the concept that we don’t exist in a vacuum. In Western society, we have this idea that we are independent of one another, and that we should do only what’s best for us and our immediate circle of community. But the concept of Ubuntu would have us reject that individualist thinking, and do unto others as if their well-being really does benefit us. To help the stranger and people who are different or less fortunate than ourselves. To embrace them because of those differences. Desmond Tutu said that we’re made for togetherness, family, fellowship, and to exist in a tender network of interdependence. If we could all do a bit more of that, the world be a hell of a lot better place. And we could make racism and bigotry a thing of the past.”

  “So how do we get people to embrace Ubuntu and stop hating each other?”

  Carter laughed. “I just catch bad guys and try to be a decent human being, kid. I only act smart. But if you have any theories about how to convince people to stop despising one another or any ideas on eliminating ignorance and intolerance, you be sure to let me know.”

  Burke pulled the Firebird into the parking lot of a large shopping plaza that boasted a Walmart and several other smaller chain stores. But on the outskirts of the shopping center, beside a large open field of scrub brush and weeds, sat their destination—the Henderson branch of GoBox.

  The parking lot was a buzzing swarm of activity. Reporters and onlookers on the perimeter, and police officers as they pulled closer.

  “We can walk from here,” Carter said.

  Burke turned off the supercharged engine, and the powerful rumble, which had been giving Carter a headache for the past several minutes, finally fell silent.

  As Carter stepped from the car, he said, “If you want some homework, read the book The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss and google Ubuntu Philosophy. Then we’ll talk more about it. But right now, kid, it’s time to go to work. Are you nervous?”

  “Should I be?”

  Carter smiled. “Only if you are not really as smart as I think you are.”

  “I never claimed to be anything special.”

  “Most exceptional people don’t.”

  Chapter 15

  Kruger stood in the center of GoBox’s private lounge. The modern art furniture had been scraped and scooted into a tight circle with all of the hostages now seated around him like campers encircling a fire. But, since they’d been gathered, Kruger had yet to say a word to the hostages.

  He would let the tension rise. The calmer he remained and the tenser they became, the more he was in control of the situation and of them.

  In a very calm voice—still muffled by the scratchy and fever-inducing material of the ski mask—Kruger said, “Doc, how are we coming along?”

  “Just give me like ten seconds. I mean, like a minute. I mean, I almost have it.”

  Kruger kept his eyes closed, directing his own personal symphony in his head. He liked the classics. Mozart. Tchaikovsky.

  Quentin Yarborough, the stuffy British GoBox manager, said, “You’re wasting your time.”

  Kruger didn’t raise his voice or strike the man. He didn’t even open his eyes. He simply raised the .44 Magnum revolver and cocked back the hammer. It was his baby. Well-oiled and well-kept. The sound was loud and crisp, the cylinder locking in place on a fresh life-ending projectile. He had learned in the bush to always have his gun cocked and ready when hunting, so that he didn’t startle his prey. But when hunting men, sometimes he wanted his quarry to be a little spooked.

  And just like a gazelle, the instincts of every person in that room kicked into fight or flight mode with the sound of Kruger’s .44 Magnum cycling a round.

  Kruger didn’t speak.

  And neither did anyone else until the Doc finally said, “That’s it. We’re in. We have control of their computers.”

  “You know what to do,” Kruger said. “Are the cameras disabled?”

  “It’s done.”

  He ripped off the sweat-soaked ski mask, opened his eyes, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, since you’ve already been checked for weapons, you may keep all of your personal items including your cell phones. We are employing signal blocking that will not allow them to connect to anything or get any kind of signal inside these walls. But you are welcome to play whatever mindless game that is currently rotting your brain as long as it doesn’t require an internet connection. But if anyone disrespects me or my friends or does anything to interfere with our business, you will be killed immediately. A
m I understood?”

  No one spoke.

  He waited.

  “Yes, you are understood,” Quentin said.

  “Good.”

  He walked to the outside of the circle and paced the perimeter. He stopped beside a thirty-something white woman with bleached blonde hair and a tanned body. She was gorgeous except for the mass of scar tissue that coiled its way around her neck. She had a tiny keyboard mounted to one wrist and what looked like a speaker mounted to the other. Kruger reached down and stroked the blonde’s hair. She tried to pull away, but he jerked her back into place atop the bright white leather couch.

  He was proud of her for not wearing a scarf or covering her scars. It showed character and strength.

  As he stroked the blonde’s hair, he said, “Now, to all of you kind patrons and employees of GoBox, you are merely collateral damage in this mission. You are not important to me. Stay quiet and out of our way.”

  The blonde woman raised her hand to one wrist and pressed a flurry of keys. From the speaker on her right arm, an electronic women’s voice said, “You’re a disgusting creep.”

  “What an interesting device,” Kruger said. “Are you nonverbal?”

  The blonde typed, and the electronic voice said, “Yes.”

  “Do you not appreciate how I’m treating you?” Kruger asked.

  “I hate bullies,” she typed.

  He leaned down to eye level with her. She matched his gaze. There was fire in her eyes.

  He slapped her hard across the face, grabbed the small keyboard from her wrist, and threw it across the room. She covered her face and began to sob.

  “Stay quiet and out of my way, and we’ll all walk out of here alive,” he continued. “Cross me in the smallest manner, and you will die. Disobey me? You will die. And let me make this clear. I am not here to steal your money. Why I’m here has nothing to do with any of you or your assets. No one tries anything, then no one dies. Am I understood?”

  They all gave some sort of frightened affirmation, and he said, “Good. Now, I’m done with all of you. Except for you, Mr. Yarborough. You, I’m afraid, are going to have a very bad day.”