by Ethan Cross
“Hey!” he yelled.
He was rushing her blitzkrieg-style. He had underestimated her, which wasn’t surprising. Even her fiancé called her “Mouse,” and sometimes she truly hated him for it. Corin was petite, with bronze skin and dark hair inherited from her Brazilian mother, but being five foot four hardly meant she was defenseless.
Although, she supposed that was the image she had chosen to portray. Just a normal girl. Just like any other college student. Only Corin and her sister, Samantha, knew the truth.
Again, the man shouted, “Hey!” just as the footsteps reached her.
Not waiting for the rest of the sentence, Corin spun on her attacker, pulled her blade, and kicked out at groin level. Her foot collided with the man’s crotch, doubling him over in pain and dropping him to his knees. She stepped forward, jamming the knife against his throat as he wheezed in agony.
Corin fought to calm her breathing as she stared down at her pursuer’s face.
His name was Michael.
She recognized him from the accounting class she had just completed. Her phone lay on the ground beside Michael’s feet, where he had apparently just dropped it.
She felt like a complete idiot. The poor guy was simply trying to return her property, and she had gone all Jason Bourne on him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, closing the knife against her thigh and slipping it back into her pocket.
“Phone,” Michael wheezed as she helped him to his feet.
“I saw that. Thanks. But hey, a girl can’t be too careful these days, right?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
She winced. “Yeah. How are your nuts? They didn’t, like, go back up in there or anything, did they?”
4
About an hour into their journey, the helicopter passed over an affluent suburb. Looking at the expensive dwellings, which were barely used—most sitting empty during the day and half the night—Ackerman pondered: If the Creator were to look down upon the poverty-stricken lands of the third world and what some called “civilized” society, would Elohim judge prosperity in the same way that humankind did? Or would the world be seen in reverse?
Over his radio headset, Maggie’s muffled voice said, “Anything interesting in those files I gave you?”
Ackerman had wondered how long it would be before Maggie asked him about his review of the files regarding her brother’s abduction at the hands of a serial offender known as the Taker. He had wanted to wait until Demon was safely stowed away before broaching a subject that could become a distraction.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me what later?” She leaned forward and grabbed his arm, meeting his gaze. “Did you find something?”
“Perhaps, but I know how easily distracted you normals can become and—”
She squeezed his arm, her nostrils flaring and her eyes going wild.
With a roll of his own eyes, Ackerman said, “If you insist. How silly of me to think that the current assignment takes precedence over a twenty-year-old cold case, but regardless, as I was reviewing some of the police reports I discovered that your father consistently said things like ‘They took my son’ and ‘Why aren’t you out finding them?’ He always referred to the abductors in the plural.”
“My father’s not a reliable witness. He was probably too out of it to have seen anything.”
“Yes, it seems the local police felt the same. They focused so heavily on him as a suspect that it tainted their entire view of the case. And, of course, we know for certain that your father was not the culprit, don’t we, little sister?”
“What’s your point?”
“Their view of your father’s story subconsciously biased their questioning of the neighbors. One of the investigators was kind enough to record his interviews on cassette. Do you know how hard it is to locate a Walkman these days?”
She grabbed his arm again, this time digging in with her nails. The pain shot sweet tendrils of ecstasy through his body. He pulled his arm away and said, “I will kindly ask you to refrain from showing me your appreciation. I feel it’s strangely inappropriate given the nature of our common-law sibling relationship.”
Maggie sat back, gritted her teeth, and closed her eyes. Her lips mouthed the numbers from one to ten as stray strands of her blonde hair blew across her face. He assumed he must have somehow inadvertently angered her. The encounter warranted further study during a quiet moment.
Finally, she said, “Will you please just tell me?”
“See. Was that so hard? You lived at the end of a dead-end street just off a county highway, with well-traveled roads to the north and south. People probably turned onto your road accidentally and wheeled back around all the time. The abduction occurred on a Saturday, and all but one of your neighbors were home. It was a nice day. Chances are some of them could have been outside and seen the vehicle.”
“Okay, great. Get on with it!”
Ackerman whispered, “If you’d shut your mouth long enough to listen to what I’m saying, perhaps you could use your brain to make the same deductions I have. Alternatively, you could allow me to finish explaining this nonsense. Maybe even soon enough to get back to the task at hand before we miss the whole escape. We’re supposed to be on Overwatch not Overlook.”
“Fine. I’m sorry. Please go on,” she said, eyes closed.
Ackerman doubted her sincerity but soldiered on nonetheless. “The investigators asked your neighbors if they’d seen anything ‘suspicious’ or ‘out of the ordinary.’ They didn’t ask if they had seen any cars drive past at the time of the abduction, which could have corroborated your father’s story.”
He finally saw the wheels turning in Maggie’s eyes. She sat back and turned her eyes to the convoy. He did the same, happy to retrain his focus on things of more pressing significance.
5
From above, ADX Florence looked like a Martian colony viewed through a telescope. The buildings seemed to hunker low to the ground, as if hiding from the unhindered attacks of the wind. Ackerman watched out the chopper’s side window as the convoy pulled through the facility’s front gates and wound its way to the concrete bunker that would be Demon’s new home. The vehicles came to a stop in waves like the curling humps of a caterpillar. The officers in the lead cars fanned out to cover the transport. Marcus had told them all several times that they were not to let their guard down until they were driving home. The armored vehicle came to a stop in front of a set of large metal doors in the side of one of the squat structures. The trailing cars flowed in behind it, and with armed prison guards opening the doors through which Demon would be wheeled inside, the officers stacked up and opened the rear of the armored transport.
Even from hundreds of feet in the air, Ackerman could tell something was wrong.
The tiny forms of men stood absolutely still for a few seconds and then turned their attention outward. Another small dot ran over to the transport. Ackerman guessed that to be his brother.
Thinking of his younger brother, Ackerman caught himself rubbing at the base of his skull. The powers that be had deemed him too much of a risk to let loose on the world without a leash, and so they had surgically fastened a satellite-controlled chip onto the base of his spine, loaded with a small charge adequate to blow a hole in his spinal column. They explained that the chip couldn’t be removed by anyone but their doctors without also removing his ability to walk, and if he tried to block the signal, the chip would detonate after a certain amount of time.
He hadn’t liked the idea of the chip, but he also wasn’t afraid of a challenge. And he still wasn’t completely convinced that they had even inserted a tracking chip, or that they had the power to remotely terminate his life.
After a moment, Marcus’s voice came over the radio, crackling inside Ackerman’s headset like an angry blowfly. Marcus said, “It’s empty. Demon’s gone. He just disappeared from a moving vehicle.”
Turning to the pilot, Ackerman said, “Get me on
the ground.”
“We don’t have clearance for that.”
“It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Now, put this thing on the ground, or I’ll toss you out and do it myself. And I’m not just saying that to sound tough. I will literally throw you out and land the chopper myself.”
The pilot’s brow furrowed. “Do you even have a pilot’s license?”
“I have five thousand hours.”
From the rear of the cabin, Maggie said, “Just do as he says. Now. Or I’ll let my colleague here be all that he can be.”
6
The Gladiator most enjoyed watching the women in the days right before he took them. He regarded this period as the haunting of the victim because he was always there in the background, watching and waiting, like a hungry poltergeist. It was all about the anticipation, that pregnant joy before the main event. In many ways, he approached martial arts in the same way he did hunting. He reacted to an opponent if necessary, but, whenever possible, he would set a trap and wait.
Although she wasn’t his normal type of prey, Corin Campbell was his adversary on this evening. Typically, his victims were more physically imposing than the petite college student. Still, he had no moral objection to harming a weaker creature. He didn’t believe in morality. As Nietzsche had said, “Fear is the mother of morality,” and the Gladiator had yet to find an opponent worthy of his fear.
Corin wouldn’t put up much of a fight, unlike his preferred victims, but she was very special for other reasons, which was why she had been chosen.
Now, standing in the closet of her spare bedroom, wearing the skull mask—which he considered his true face—the Gladiator’s excitement grew.
He wondered if Corin could taste the anticipation as well. He had been following her for the past few days and giving her glimpses of Skullface, an Internet-born nomenclature which he didn’t particularly care for. He wanted her to feel him coming closer, a mythical urban legend haunting her every step.
The Gladiator had worked hard to nurture that legend, at least within a one-hundred-mile radius of San Francisco.
He had begun by hacking the Facebook accounts of several women throughout his hunting zone. He would then doctor their photos, adding the face of death somewhere in the background. But photos weren’t enough to build a legend and infect the subconscious minds of a populace. It had made him a trending topic among young women between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, but it was just a silly prank. At least, that’s what they told themselves. The kind of thing that was as inevitable as getting the flu in the digital age: a simple hacked account.
Things became a little more real for the ladies when the digital lines of communication sparked with strange tales of hacking victims going missing, simply vanishing into thin air as if the boogeyman had carried them off to his dark realm. And, in truth, that wasn’t far from what had actually happened to those other missing women—the same thing that was about to happen to Corin Campbell.
7
Marcus closed his eyes against the onslaught of dust and chips of gravel kicked up by the chopper’s rotor wash. Tiny splinters of rock stung his skin like a pissed-off hive of hornets. He was always a little surprised at the strength of those blades, even from a good distance away.
His brother and Maggie dropped from the chopper’s cab, hunched against the power of the rotors, and hustled toward him. Ackerman yelled, “Show me the transport.”
“We’ve been over it. He’s gone. Don’t worry about where he was. I need to know where he’s at right now or where he’s headed.”
“If he isn’t in that transport, then he’s beyond your reach.”
“Then why do you need to see the truck?” Marcus yelled over the thumping of the blades.
“Because he could still be in there,” Ackerman said as he reached the transport and looked inside. He added, “Has anyone actually stepped up inside?”
“Of course we have. I had guys crawling all over this thing. He’s not hiding in there, but we’ll tear it apart to be sure.”
“Have you verified the identities of the guards who were driving?”
“Yes, before they left with the prisoner and then double-checked here. This is definitely their vehicle. It hasn’t been switched out or anything like that. It’s secure.”
One of the officers ran up and asked Marcus, “Sir, we’re moving the transport inside. Should we have the drivers go ahead and take it in there?”
“No, have someone else drive it. And keep those two in custody and under guard until we figure this thing out.”
Maggie cursed under her breath and asked, “What about the camera in the back? Weren’t the guards checking on him during the drive?”
“According to the camera, he’s still in there,” Marcus said. “The video feed has been compromised. Not sure how yet.”
Cocking his head to the side like a curious puppy, Ackerman stared into the empty vehicle. The rear of the transport was all gray metal, with the world’s most uncomfortable benches along each side. But there was no way out except for the rear doors. Not so much as a window. Considering that Marcus and the officers with him hadn’t noticed the rear doors opening up and their prisoner jumping to the ladder of an awaiting helicopter, how did he escape, leaving nothing behind but his empty shackles?
Marcus felt the weight of guilt pressing down. He had dozed off a few times during the drive. Maybe he had missed the whole escape as it took place right in front of him. He balled his fists until his nails penetrated the skin of his palms.
Abruptly, Ackerman started laughing. A small giggle grew and swelled into a coughing belly laugh. It took a moment for him to stop and collect himself. Finally, he said, “It’s a locked-room mystery. That. Is. Awesome.”
Doing all he could to keep from choking his brother, Marcus slammed the rear door of the transport four times in quick succession, each impact shaking the armored vehicle with four clangs of metal on metal.
“Nothing about this is funny!” Marcus screamed.
“You seem to be taking this rather personally.”
“We may never know how much innocent blood is on that bastard’s hands. Putting him away could be the one good thing that you and I are meant to do, the whole reason we exist.”
Ackerman shook his head. “Hardly. Merely one episode in a grand saga.”
“Just tell me where he is. Come on, Frank. You’re the escape artist. Where should we be looking?”
Ackerman seemed to consider this for a long moment and then replied, “I have no idea.”
Marcus leaned in close and, through clenched teeth, whispered, “You’re always looking for a chance to show off. Here’s a golden opportunity.”
“Don’t try and play on my vanity, little brother. It’s bad form. And it doesn’t really matter at this point. I’m afraid our Scottish friend is long gone.”
“If you have any idea how he did this, I need you to tell me now. Please. Besides, you want to know how just as much as I do.”
Ackerman rolled his eyes. “Touché. If you insist, we’ll need to start by going for a little ride.”
8
Corin could tell something was wrong. Her home had an energy. An aura. It was as if she could sense a disturbance in some type of force. She never understood why some people laughed in her face when she shared such feelings. A friend had once explained that it was in reference to some popular film, but Corin had never been interested in stories or games.
All she cared about was increasing her quality of life and furthering her own knowledge. At least, those were the only two things she could allow herself to care about right now.
Her fiancé, Blake, had been boring her to tears lately, and she didn’t fully understand why. But that was an issue to contemplate at a later date. All her brain power had been used up for today.
She slowed the Subaru in front of their jointly owned condo and whipped into their single reserved parking space, which Blake had insisted she use. He was always making ni
ce little gestures like that. It made him hard to hate. And she didn’t really want to hate him. She simply wondered if Blake, soon-to-be doctor, was truly the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Her doubt about him was hard to quantify. Blake looked great on paper. But there was something missing. Some spark that had either burned out or was never there to begin with.
Thoughts of Blake and their eventual nuptials filled her attention for the rest of the walk inside and up the stairs to her condo. It was a two-bedroom unit, but all the dimensions had been shrunken down. It made her feel claustrophobic, as if it was one step above a cardboard box.
She pulled out her knife and released the spring-assisted blade before placing her key in the lock and going inside. She shut the front door behind her without turning on the lights. Then she stood in the threshold, waiting, the knife up in a fighter’s stance.
She listened for sounds of an intruder, but the constant murmurs of the city around her made it hard to distinguish between the yuppies cackling at the bar around the corner and the slow, deliberate steps of a stalker.
Thirty seconds passed.
Forty-five.
She flipped on the lights.
One good thing about living in a shoebox was that you could look from left to right and pretty much see the whole place. It made searching for an intruder easy. She scanned both bedrooms, checked the tiny kitchen and eating area. All clear.
But should she take it a step farther?
A voice that sounded an awful lot like her sister Samantha whispered, Don’t be an idiot. You’re just being paranoid over some stupid prank and a fake article. The whole thing was probably a trick to drive in ad revenue for a fake website. The same trick that all of those faux celebrity death articles capitalize on.
But still, Corin didn’t move.
Should she check the closets?
Samantha’s voice in her head replied, And then what? Under the kitchen table?