by Ethan Cross
She could see in his eyes that he knew, that perhaps he had always known. She supposed that being abducted from your family and nearly sold off like a piece of cattle wasn’t something a person easily forgot.
“Shoot her, or I will!”
“Let her speak, Uncle,” Ramirez whispered.
“Your real name is Tommy Carlisle. This man took you from your home when you were a child. You had a sister. Her name was—”
“Maggie…” Ramirez interrupted, his grip on the rifle loosening and his own tears falling.
From behind her, Yazzie chuckled and said, “Little girl, you haven’t changed a bit.”
She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Yazzie snatch up his Peacemaker with a speed that she had never witnessed firsthand. The gun seemed to materialize in his fist from thin air. Then she heard the shots and watched her brother stumble back, his eyes going lifeless and the rifle flying from his grasp.
A scream of primal fury rising in her throat, Maggie spun toward their attacker, reacquiring her target with the Beretta. But before she could even lower her arm, she heard the Peacemaker spit fire once more and felt a terrible pain in her right shoulder.
110
The report of a .45 caliber pistol awakened Ackerman from a dream about the bloodbath that was the Roman Coliseum. It took him a moment to register he was awake. But when he did, he realized that he needed to act as soon as possible. He immediately recognized the necessity of action because he had heard Maggie scream. Unfortunately, he was unable to move his limbs. For a moment, all he could manage was the opening of his eyes, which were filled with sand and grit.
Standing above him somewhere, he heard the voice of Thomas White. His father said, “You need to get up, or you’re going to die. Francis, get up!”
Ackerman mumbled aloud, “Don’t call me, Francis. What’s it to you anyway? You hate me.”
With the shake of his head, his father replied, “I am you!” Then, he reached up, and grabbing his face as if it were a rubber mask, he ripped the skin away to reveal the sinew and bone beneath. Leaning down to Ackerman’s ear, the spectral projection said, “I am you…Frank, if that’s what you prefer. If you don’t act now, Yazzie is going to win. He is going to kill Maggie, make you watch, and then he’s going to kill you. So, if you’re planning something brilliant, now would be the time.”
Ackerman nodded to the hallucination and said, “I’m right, of course. But we have no weapons, nor the means to wield them.”
He no longer knew whether he was awake and speaking aloud or if he was dreaming and merely thinking the words in his head, or any combination of the two. However, he was still certain that action needed to be taken.
Ackerman forced himself to sit up enough to see the commotion near the edge of the small cliff leading away from the ruins. Yazzie, gun in hand, stood over Maggie’s prone form. When Yazzie spoke, it sounded to Ackerman as if they were underwater, Yazzie said, “Are you talking to yourself over there, Frank, or were you speaking to me?”
He didn’t waste the energy in replying.
Ghost eyes filled with madness and malice, Yazzie smiled over at him and said, “Don’t you go dying on me. Not yet. Not until you watch what I do to your friend.”
Yazzie then closed the gap between himself and Maggie and pulled her up by her hair. Maggie screamed and clutched her wounded shoulder. Ackerman had noted the Beretta in the dust behind her, but it was too far out of his reach. He needed to act, but he wasn’t sure what he could do. There was the garrote concealed in his watch, the push daggers, the Beretta, and the Bowie knife that he had left embedded in the ground after severing Yazzie’s trap. But, when he looked for the knife, he was unable to find the spot where it stuck out from the dirt.
He supposed it didn’t really matter. He didn’t have the strength to brandish any of the weapons at his disposal. He barely had the strength left to keep his eyelids from falling.
Yazzie said, “Stay with me a few more moments now, Frank.” Then he dragged Maggie to the edge of the canyon where the stone floor met open air. Yazzie placed his pearl-handled Peacemaker against the side of her head and asked, “Which would be more cruel? To shoot her in the head before tossing her over the edge, or let her enjoy the fall?”
Ackerman raised a shaking arm and proclaimed, “I have a few last words.”
Yazzie pressed the muzzle of the gun deeper into Maggie’s flesh. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her right arm hung lifeless at her side. The right side of her shirt was soaked in blood.
Yazzie said, “I’m curious enough by nature to hear what you have to say, but you had better make it quick.”
Ackerman barely had the strength to speak, and his reasoning was beginning to blur. A rather larger part of himself was still unsure whether he was dreaming or awake. He declared, “I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”
Yazzie looked at him strangely for second and then said, “Is that a quote from your white man’s Bible?”
Ackerman replied, “Yes, I’m having a bit of trouble focusing right now and that was the first thing that came to mind.”
“Are you trying to stall me for some reason, Mr. Ackerman?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am. I’ve always found it best to stall in situations like this.”
“Why is that?”
Frank shrugged. “Because something always happens. Marcus will save the day, or a brilliant idea will come to me at the last moment. Trust me, it will work out just fine. It always does.”
Yazzie laughed. “I’m afraid, my friend, that there is a time when all of our debts come due, and things aren’t going to work out for you this time. But better luck in your next life.” Yazzie cocked back the hammer of his single action revolver and added to Maggie, “What about you, my dear? I suppose I owe you a few last words.”
Maggie seemed to consider this a moment and then locked gazes with Ackerman. She said, “Tell your brother that my answer is yes. One hundred percent, yes. In another life.”
Yazzie laughed and said, “My dear, why are you telling him? He’ll be following you in death a moment later and your boyfriend is probably already on the other side. Now, since I have taken your entire family away from you twice in your life, it’s only fair that I give you the choice. Would you prefer me to shoot you first or would you like to enjoy the ride down? I imagine that the fall wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant.”
Maggie winked at Ackerman, and in her eyes, he saw a cold determination. He knew that she was about to make a move, and based on the finality of her earlier comment, he surmised that it was going to be something drastic.
Now was his time to act.
While they had been conversing, Ackerman had been building up his strength and positioning one of the push daggers in his hand, readying it for a toss directly at Xavier Yazzie’s eye.
He silently prayed, Lord, give me strength for one more moment.
Then, expending his finals reserves, Ackerman launched the push dagger from his fist.
The small blade sliced through the air with speed and precision, and thankfully, enough force to hit its mark. Unfortunately, either his vision or his aim had been slightly off, and instead of puncturing Yazzie’s eye as he had intended, the push dagger sliced a long gash into his adversary’s forehead and fell away. Yazzie instinctively released Maggie’s hair and brought his left hand to his bleeding head as he turned the pistol’s aim toward Ackerman.
This gave Maggie an opening, and from a hiding place that to Ackerman seemed like magic, she produced his bone-handled Bowie knife. With the knife in her left hand, she sliced Yazzie’s forearm to the bone, the razor-sharp knife doing its job well. Yazzie wailed in agony and released his gun.
Ackerman lacked the strength to further join the fight, but perhaps he could crawl to the Beretta.
Digging deep
for more power, he rolled over, but the effort exhausted him and caused the world to slide out of focus. In his dizzied senses, he looked up to see Maggie pounce upon Yazzie with the ferocity of a feral animal. In her left hand, she had some sort of weapon resembling an ice pick. With a savage scream, she stabbed Yazzie in the neck and drove him back over the edge into the open air. Riding him down, stabbing all the way, Maggie disappeared from Ackerman’s view.
He heard her screaming fade in volume and then abruptly stop.
Rolling over and looking up at a stone sky, Ackerman prayed that this had all been a dream, but a strange and overwhelming emotion that cut deep into his soul told him that what had just transpired had been very real. He wondered if this feeling was what the normals experienced when they spoke of pain.
111
Marcus dreamed that he was back in his father’s pit in Leavenworth, Kansas, the one in which he had been held, mostly in darkness, for the better part of a year. When he woke up, he found that reality was a far more frightening prospect. At least in the dream, he knew Maggie was out there somewhere safe. As he came to consciousness and surveyed his surroundings, Marcus’s first thought was that he hadn’t had the chance to ask Maggie to marry him. Now, looking at his bedside and not seeing her there sent a cold chill through the core of his body. He heard the usual beeps and whirs of medical machinery around him, the type that measured heart rate and pumped vital fluids. Even if he had woken up and been unable to see, he would’ve known he was in a hospital purely from the sound and that terrible antiseptic smell, one which was completely unnatural to him and which Maggie adored. The curtains around him were drawn, and so he couldn’t see into the hallway or any of the beds. But he could tell by the ceiling that he was in an average hospital room. As he looked around, he dismissed his earlier fear of Maggie not being there. Now that he remembered the pain and the feeling of being so near to death he had felt after being shot, he supposed that he might’ve been resting for at least a day or two. Which meant that the explanation of her absence could have been as simple as her stepping out for a bite to eat.
Marcus blinked himself awake and wondered how long he had been out. He didn’t intend to call the nurse and ask, at least not before he got his bearings. And there was still a part of him that expected Maggie to walk through that door at any second. Last he had seen of her, she was alive and well. He had no reason to believe that she was in any other state than that now, but he felt more than knew that something wrong. A quiet discomfort that he couldn’t quite explain filled his soul. He pushed himself up a little in bed, which rattled the frame and caused some beeping from a few of the machines.
At the sound, the curtain flew back and his brother appeared wearing his usual long-sleeved skintight black shirt, but he didn’t look himself. Ackerman was always the epitome of confidence. His brother had once told him that he simply assumed he would come out on top in any given situation, and he considered that belief to be the very reason for his success.
The man before him now was disheveled with a hollow look in his eyes. Judging from the beard growth on Ackerman’s face, Marcus quickly deduced that he had been out longer than a couple of days
Ackerman rushed forward and embraced him. Marcus returned the hug. Ackerman said, “I thought I was going to lose you too.”
The words and their implication felt like the cold tip of a dagger piercing Marcus’s heart. He asked, “Where’s Maggie, Frank?”
“You’ve been out for almost three weeks, Marcus. You were in surgery for hours and—”
“Where is she, Frank?”
He could see the answer in Frank’s eyes, but Marcus still wanted to hear it. Ackerman redirected his gaze toward the floor, his face streaked with tears, and said, “I failed you, brother. I failed Maggie. I couldn’t protect her.”
“Are you saying that she’s—”
“She’s gone, Marcus. I’m so sorry.”
Marcus gripped the handrails of the hospital bed for support, although he still felt like he was falling. He had felt grief before. He had felt pain before. He had faced death. He’d experienced the loss of people he loved, people who were friends, family. But he had never felt pain like this. The loss was so crushing, so total and final, that he felt like his heart was in a vice and his brain was on fire. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Nothing seemed real. He wanted to break something. He wanted to hurt someone, to hurt himself. He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know what to feel. He wanted to be angry, and yet the despair kept the rage at bay. He felt himself cycling the stages of grief. Anger, denial, etc. etc. He felt like he was going through a stage with every thought, with every breath. With every moment, the cold dagger twisted deeper into his heart.
Ackerman started to say something more, but Marcus interrupted, “Can I have a minute, please?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, brother. I’m not sure how much time they’ll give you. And if we want to stage a little escape, now would be the time while they still believe you to be in a coma.”
“Escape? What are you talking about?”
Ackerman sighed and pulled up a chair. He said “Where to begin? A lot’s changed while you’ve been sleeping, and I’m afraid that you and I are in a spot of trouble.”
112
Ackerman barely had time to explain the most basic of details to Marcus before the nurses noticed that their coma patient had awakened and the room was flooded with hospital staff. By the time they were done, Andrew Garrison and his new friend from the FBI had joined them.
Garrison had once been a member of Marcus’s team but had recently been groomed by the Director for management. He had also once been Marcus’s best friend, but the pair had grown apart of late. Mainly because of the secrets that Garrison now kept from Ackerman’s brother. Ackerman wasn’t sure how he felt about Garrison. The man had certainly been a good friend to Marcus, and yet Ackerman couldn’t help but be bored to death by the man. The other suit who had followed Garrison into the room was a different story. Ackerman found him intensely interesting. FBI Deputy Director Samuel Carter was a handsome black man, maybe sixty years old, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence that spoke of years of dealing with life and death situations.
As the medical staff did their work, checked their machines, and asked their questions, the first thing that Marcus did was turn to Garrison and ask, “Where the hell was our backup?”
Garrison merely shook his head and replied, “Don’t you dare try to put any of this on me. You knew the risks of going off on your own.”
“There was a time when you would’ve done anything for Maggie as well.”
Ackerman watched as Garrison visibly restrained himself. The man seemed to be an expert at pushing his anger down and also in putting up with his brother. After a few seconds, Garrison said, “I may not have loved Maggie in the same way that you did, but I still loved her like a sister. And I’ve known her a hell of a lot longer than you have.”
Ackerman cleared his throat and said, “If I may interject a moment. This bickering is pointless. Neither of you are to blame. And us cannibalizing each other is not what Maggie would’ve wanted.”
The room was silent a moment, and Ackerman added, “Why don’t you introduce Marcus to our new friend?”
Deputy Director Carter stepped forward and was about to speak when a doctor poked his head in, noticed Marcus’s agitation, and protested the questioning so soon after the patient waking up. Carter motioned with his eyes for Garrison to handle the doctor.
Then Deputy Director Carter smiled at Marcus and said, “I could really go for a cup of coffee. How about you?”
Marcus maintained his typical scowl and replied, “Coming at a man through his addictions is bad form.”
Carter stepped to the doorway, just beyond which Garrison and the doctor were still arguing, and said to the doctor, “Hey Doc, could you round up a couple coffees?” The doctor had a few choice words for Deputy Director Carter and then storm
ed off. Returning to Marcus’s bedside, Carter pulled up a chair, had a seat, and put his feet up on the bed beside Marcus.
Ackerman noted that Carter didn’t ask if he wanted a cup of coffee. The fact that Carter knew that he didn’t often partake and the fact his brother was a caffeine addict unsettled Ackerman.
Carter sighed and said, “You boys are a regular two-man wrecking crew. Within the space of twenty-four hours, you’ve declared war on a sovereign nation that exists inside our borders, killed and injured several people, and burned up millions upon millions of dollars in property damage. That’s not to mention the kidnapping and theft, which don’t seem to be all that bad when looking at the big picture.”
Garrison returned with four cups of coffee, and the gesture toward Ackerman did not go unnoticed. Although, he still declined a cup, his body being a temple he didn’t like to desecrate with highly addictive substances like caffeine. Although, he wasn’t above using the drug on occasion when the situation required, but it wasn’t a habit that he intended to maintain on a regular basis.
Removing the lid from his coffee and blowing the steam from the top, Carter said, “And I suppose you should know that me calling you Agent Williams is a professional courtesy, since you are technically no longer employed by the Department of Justice.”
Marcus closed his eyes and seemed to be slightly shaking, like a volcano before eruption. He said, “I just woke up from a coma and found out the love of my life is dead, and before I can even process that information, you’re gonna come at me with all this?”
Carter, taking a sip of his coffee and gently cursing himself for trying to drink it while it was too hot, said, “I apologize for the abruptness of our questioning, but there is a lot of political heat around this incident.”
Marcus leaned up in bed, and the machines began to beep and whir faster. He said, “I don’t play games, and politics is the most crooked game in town.”