by Ethan Cross
He slammed a fist against the railing but quickly quelled his anger and headed back into the auditorium. Inside, the students were still in their seats, but most of them were crying now. That brought a smile to his face. They’d probably thought that the end had come when they felt the tremors from the explosions. He imagined they were probably overjoyed at being alive at that moment.
Crossing the stage, he joined his apprentice, who was still playing the role of the silent and dutiful sentry. He had one last job for his loyal robot. It would cover his escape by making sure that all additional focus would remain solely on this auditorium and not on his exit.
He leaned down to its ear and said, “Count to two hundred and then shoot as many of them as you can.”
He imagined that, with a little luck, it could eliminate at least half of the hostages using the submachine guns. In a quick moment of self-analysis, he tried to determine if he felt anything at ordering the deaths of a group so young and innocent. Even a twinge of regret or guilt. He looked out at their terrified faces. And felt nothing but satisfaction.
Thomas White squeezed his apprentice’s shoulder, the only gesture of affection that he had ever showed the thing. It had done well, and a part of him had grown attached to it. The same way that a person gave their car a name and achieved a level of familiarity and comfort with the vehicle. He could always go to the dealership and pick up another “car,” but this one had served faithfully, and he hated to go to the trouble of acclimating himself to a newer model. But its face was known now, which meant that it had outlived its usefulness.
As he headed away from Helzberg Hall and down a service corridor leading to the front of the building, he peeled away his suit to reveal the black KCPD SWAT tactical gear beneath. From a pocket, he retrieved a black balaclava and slipped it over his face.
He only wished he could have been able to watch the moment when his apprentice opened fire. The hostages’ screams would crescendo and echo throughout the grand auditorium, making beautiful music, the final notes of his very own symphony.
95
ACKERMAN STOPPED THE TRUCK A BLOCK FROM THEIR DESTINATION. Visibility was too low for them to continue in the vehicle. He and Marcus ran the rest of the way. Marcus was moving slowly and seemed extremely out of breath. Ackerman knew that his brother’s body hadn’t even begun to recover from the abuse of the past few months and now he was putting himself through the wringer again.
He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and said, “Hold up. Let’s think this through.”
Marcus didn’t have enough breath left to protest. He bent over with his hands on his knees and looked like he was ready to collapse. Ackerman knew it was a testament to his sibling’s determination that he had been able to keep up the pace this long.
“If you were Father, how would you get out of this mess?” Ackerman asked.
Marcus, still gasping for air, replied, “I’d disguise myself as one of the SWAT team and just walk out.”
Ackerman nodded. “Right, but you couldn’t go out the back or sides. The officers there would, hopefully, remain at their posts even after the explosion.”
“Okay, so he’d go right out the front,” Marcus said. “Through the rubble, maybe along the outer edge, hidden by all this dust. Then he’d just slip down a side street and disappear. Probably has a car and a change of clothes waiting. By the time anyone realizes he’s not still in the building, he’s long gone.”
“And your son will disappear with him.”
Marcus pulled himself back up to his full height, a new determination in his eyes. “So let’s find him before that happens.”
The pair waded into the confusion, trying to spot anyone who was out of place or not trying to regroup with the others. Most of the officers were recovering quickly, either trying to maintain the perimeter and mount a counterattack or helping with the wounded.
Ackerman coughed on the dust still heavy in the air and shoved his way through the crowds. Other medical personnel and uniformed officers who had been stationed nearby had joined the fray in order to help, which made his and Marcus’s job more difficult.
They had almost reached the next cross street when he spotted someone out of place. At first, he couldn’t quite pinpoint what was different about this man. He wore the same tactical gear, and his face was covered. Ackerman had to smile when he realized what had caught his eye. This man’s uniform was too clean. It was still dusty, but nothing compared with that of the officers who had been near the epicenter of the blast. This man had been inside the building when the explosion struck, so his uniform was still a dull shade of black. It gave Ackerman a small measure of satisfaction knowing that his father hadn’t considered every detail. The old man was still fallible.
96
MAGGIE HAD HER GLOCK DRAWN AND READY AS SHE AND THE KCPD TACTICAL RESPONSE TEAM BROKE THROUGH THE FRONT DOORS OF KAUFMAN CENTER. The once-beautiful glass facade of the building now looked like it had been hit by a sandstorm, but Maggie knew it was a credit to the designers that the building’s massive glass-and-cable structure had withstood such trauma. The shock wave from the explosions had set off every alarm system within a mile, and so they didn’t need to worry about the building’s own security system working against them. They swept the lobby first and then converged on Helzberg Hall.
Snipers moved to the second floor in order to slip onto the balconies and hopefully get a clean shot. Maggie and the others gave them a moment to get in position and then entered the lower level.
There was no sign of Thomas White, but Alanna Lewis stood in the center of the stage, aiming two powerful machine pistols at the crowd. She didn’t even seem to acknowledge the arrival of the tactical response team, as if attacking them or defending herself wasn’t part of her mission parameters and was therefore to be ignored.
“Put it down!”
“On the ground, now!”
The SWAT officers screamed at Lewis, but the woman didn’t respond or move. Maggie could see Alanna’s lips moving as if she were whispering something to herself in her head, but it was in a steady rhythm as though she was counting down the seconds. Like a time bomb.
The response team moved closer, but Maggie held up a hand to stop them and pulled herself onto the stage.
“Alanna,” Maggie said to the stone-faced woman, remembering the details of the file she had read. “Your name is Alanna Lewis.” She saw Alanna twitch at the mention of her name. “Your parents are Bob and Ella. You grew up in Springfield, Missouri. You worked with animals. You were a veterinarian.” She saw Alanna’s aim lower just slightly, and the silent movement of her lips halted. “You have a younger brother named Eli. You’re a good person. You don’t have to do this. You’re not his slave. You have a choice. He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re here to protect you from him.”
Maggie closed within arm’s length of Alanna, and then she reached out slowly and pushed the other woman’s arms down. Alanna turned to Maggie and looked deep into her eyes. Maggie saw no malice there. Alanna cocked her head like a curious child and asked, “Am I alive? Is this real?”
97
ACKERMAN GRABBED HIS BROTHER BY THE SHOULDER AND POINTED OUT THE TOO-CLEAN SWAT TEAM MEMBER. Marcus nodded, and fire filled his eyes. A look of understanding passed between the brothers. It was time that their father paid for his sins.
They pushed their way toward their target and watched as their father slipped into the front of a squat red-brick building with an orange and black for-sale sign hanging from its front.
Ackerman took off at a dead sprint, not about to allow his father, the man who had tortured and corrupted him, to escape. Marcus fell behind, but Ackerman didn’t care. He didn’t have a gun, but the Bowie knife was still in the sheath beneath his shirt. He would prefer to use that anyway.
Anger fueled his steps. Years of pain and hatred and guilt pushed him forward.
He ripped the door open and entered a small storefront with whitewashed walls and beige linoleum. A door was at
the back of the room, and he barely slowed as he burst through it and into the empty warehouse beyond. The space was a large concrete room with loading docks along one wall. Another set of doors occupied the back wall, and the black-clad figure ahead of him was running toward them.
Ackerman imagined that they opened into an alleyway where his father had a car waiting, but he didn’t intend to allow this foot pursuit to turn into a car chase.
The black-clad figure was aware of Ackerman’s presence now and fired a few wild shots over his shoulder as he ran. Ackerman didn’t slow his pace. His father had taken away his son’s fear by scarring his brain, and now that lack of fear would be the old man’s undoing.
His father fired again. This time Ackerman felt the bite of the bullet in his left arm. The pain invigorated him, gave him strength, made him run faster and harder.
His hand slipped beneath the back of his shirt, grasping the bone handle of the Bowie knife. Then he pulled the blade free, and with an underhanded throw, he sent the knife spinning through the air.
It twisted and caught the light as it closed the distance between them, faster than any man could run. The blade buried itself deep into his father’s thigh, and the older man screamed and dropped to the concrete. As he landed flat on his chest and slid through the layer of dust that had collected on the floor of the disused warehouse, the black pistol flew from his grasp and skittered off into a corner.
Ackerman slowed his pace now, circling his prey at a distance. His father pulled off the black balaclava and looked up at his son with eyes full of hatred.
“You always did bring nothing but disappointment to me, junior. So what now? You going to kill me?”
“No, I am,” a voice said from behind Ackerman. He looked back to see Marcus pointing his Sig Sauer at the wounded man. “Where’s my son?”
“Marcus, I wish we could have spent more time together. You and Dylan. It could have been beautiful. Three generations of our family, together.”
“You and I are not family.” He kicked the old man in the ribs, but the movement caused Marcus to cough violently.
Ackerman said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Turning back to their father, Marcus screamed, “Where is my son?”
“I’d rather see him die today than live the rest of his life in a world where he’s afraid to follow his true nature.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I could have showed you a world without fear, Marcus.”
Marcus slammed the pistol against the side of the old man’s head. “Do I look afraid? Where is he?”
“Anger is fear,” their father said, wincing in pain. “Dylan will be dead soon. I didn’t use all my PLX in the parking garage. I kept back a tiny bit as my fail-safe in case I didn’t make it back to Dylan. If I don’t disarm the device soon, your son will be set free one way or another. The arms of oblivion will carry him into the darkness.”
Marcus pistol-whipped the old man over and over again, yelling something unintelligible. He only stopped when his muscles seemed to give out, and he collapsed to his knees. Ackerman rushed to his side and steadied him. Marcus fell against his brother’s shoulder.
The old man spat blood onto the floor and laughed. “You have a choice to make. Let me go so I can disarm the bomb—or condemn Dylan to a fiery death.”
Marcus pushed Ackerman away and raised the pistol to their father’s head.
“Do it, Marcus,” the old man said. “Give in to your desire.”
Ackerman saw his brother’s finger tighten against the trigger and surprised himself when he said, “Don’t, Marcus. Don’t kill him.”
Through the tears, Marcus said, “Give me one good reason.”
“Because we’re better than him. He’s just a terrified old man who’s been afraid his whole life and needs to project that fear onto others to cope with the pain of existence. He has nothing. He is nothing. Don’t let him have power over you. Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not.”
“I’ve killed before.”
“And you will again, but that doesn’t mean that you’re a murderer. You have a choice. We all do. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Marcus held the gun on target, his hand trembling and his eyes wild, but then he lowered the weapon and sank to the floor. He looked up at his brother and said, “What now?”
Ackerman turned to their father and placed the bottom of his boot against the bone handle of the Bowie knife that was still embedded in the old man’s leg. He pressed it down, tearing the wound. The old man cried out, and Ackerman kicked him over. Then he searched through his father’s pockets for anything useful. He found a wallet with a fake ID and credit cards matching the false name, a roll of cash, a set of car keys, a scalpel, and a hotel room swipe card with the Crowne Plaza logo on its face.
Ackerman showed the key card to Marcus and said, “This is where he’s keeping your son.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“I don’t know. Have any better ideas?”
Marcus tried to push himself to his feet but fell back down to the dusty concrete. “Help me up. We need to go. We need to get to the Crowne Plaza.”
Ackerman placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder and said, “Someone has to stay here, and you’re in no condition to go anywhere. Guard our prisoner. I’ll save Dylan.”
“No, I—”
Ackerman leaned down close and whispered, “Let me do this. Let me be the hero for once. I’ll bring your son back. I promise.”
Marcus looked deep into his brother’s eyes, and an understanding passed between them. Marcus pulled out his federal credentials and passed them to Ackerman while saying, “If you flash it quickly, most people won’t look at the details.”
With his father’s car keys and the hotel room swipe card in hand, Ackerman sprinted toward the back door of the warehouse where he hoped to find his father’s escape vehicle waiting and ready.
98
THE LOBBY OF THE CROWNE PLAZA HOTEL WAS LINED WITH MODERN ART DECO FURNITURE AND COLORED IN EARTH TONES AND RED ACCENTS. Ackerman rushed up to the front desk and earned a looked of surprise from the short black man behind the counter. Ackerman knew that he looked like he had just been through a war zone, and in a manner of speaking, he had.
He quickly flashed Marcus’s credentials and said to the black man, “I’m a federal agent, and I need your help. I’m sure you’ve heard about the explosion down at Kaufman Center.”
The man barely glanced at the ID. “Yes, I—”
“I just came from there and have reason to believe that there may be another bomb in your hotel.” He slapped the swipe card he had retrieved from his father’s pocket down on the dark wood surface of the desk. “Tell me what room this card is for.”
The man seemed momentarily dumbfounded. He looked at the card as though it was an alien artifact.
“Now!” Ackerman said. “Lives are at stake.”
The attendant snatched up the card and went to work.
A few moments later, Ackerman was in the hallway on the seventh floor. He rushed down the brown and beige corridor, scanning the numbers on each door. When he reached room 717, he swiped the card through the reader and rushed inside.
He knew that his father would have allowed himself only a small margin of error before his failsafe was activated. Any deviation from the plan could have meant his capture, and so Ackerman guessed that after arguing with his father, trying to figure out Dylan’s location, and waiting for the man at the front desk to read the room number from the card key, he had only a matter of seconds before the bomb detonated.
He had no idea what to expect inside. His mind conjured images of Dylan duct-taped to a chair with the bomb on his lap or locked in a closet or wearing a miniature version of a suicide bomber’s vest. Ackerman, thinking of his own experiences as a boy, could easily imagine the kinds of atrocities that the grandfather could have committed against his grandson.
Instead, he
found a healthy-looking little boy wearing a green collared shirt and playing with Legos. The boy looked up with wide eyes. Ackerman was a bit shocked to see Dylan in such a condition, but he shook that off and scanned the room for the bomb.
A briefcase sat on a desk in the corner. “Dylan, don’t be afraid. I’m your Uncle Frank, and I’m here to help you.”
Ackerman moved to the briefcase. He tried to pop the latches but found it locked. He was afraid to try and crack the case open, for fear of prematurely detonating the device. Judging by the size of the bomb, the effects of the explosion would probably be confined to that room, so Ackerman decided that he would just take Dylan to safety and then pull the fire alarm to get everyone clear of the potential blast radius and any residual damage to the building.
From inside the briefcase, he heard a mechanical whir and a sound like air being released from a balloon. His eyes went wide, and he acted on instinct.
Ackerman tossed the case on the floor beside the window and pushed the mattress off the bed, flipping it on its side and covering the bomb. Then he scooped Dylan up into his arms and ran for the hallway.
His hand grasped the handle and twisted. The heavy door swung open, and the bomb went off.
The blast was deafening in the small space. He cradled Dylan, shielding the boy with his own body.
He felt burning shrapnel pierce the flesh of his back and shoulders, and he was blown forward by the heat and concussive wave. He and Dylan slammed against the far wall, drywall crumbling and cracking around them. He felt something break and snap, and then the lights went out on Francis Ackerman Jr.’s world.
99
ONE MONTH LATER
MARCUS DROPPED INTO A CHAIR AT ONE END OF A GRAY METAL TABLE INSIDE A SECURE CONTAINMENT FACILITY LOCATED IN BETHESDA, MD. The building was another black site on loan to the Shepherd Organization from the CIA. Fagan had arranged for Ackerman’s temporary incarceration there while more permanent arrangements could be worked out. The bureaucrat had actually turned out to be a decent guy. He’d felt responsible for the actions of Mr. Craig, and so he’d allowed a bit of leeway to Maggie and Andrew for what they’d done. They were each suspended for three months without pay, and the whole group would remain on a tight leash for an indefinite probationary period, but at least the Shepherd Organization was still alive and kicking.