Father of Fear (23 page)

Marcus had spent the hours after Audrey’s death lying against the cold stone floor and sobbing. He prayed for death. He thought about committing suicide by biting into his own wrists. His first attempt at that had been thwarted by his father’s intervention, but the older Ackerman couldn’t be watching at all moments. Maybe this time his efforts would be more successful?

The light once again burned his retinas, and the implication made his stomach harden into knots and the tears to fall anew. He couldn’t watch helplessly as another innocent person died. He couldn’t go on like this.

His father stepped into his cell and said, “Same drill as before, Marcus.”

“No. If you want me to move, you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming.”

“Okay,” his father said. Then he initiated a shock so strong that Marcus’s muscles were useless for several minutes. Ackerman Sr. dragged him into the next chamber, but Marcus didn’t have the ability to do any kicking or screaming. After replacing the apparently expended battery in Marcus’s large collar, Ackerman Sr. propped him up in another chair, but this time a metal table rested in front of him instead of the previous torture device.

Once his paralysis had worn off, Marcus saw a woman sitting across from him. She was apparently a very recent addition. She still wore a coat and an elegant pants suit. Marcus could still smell her perfume. It reminded him of an ocean breeze and was the first pleasant scent that had reached his nostrils in months. She had been crying, and her face was bruised and bloody. A thick gag covered her mouth. Her hands were bound, but they rested on the table in front of her.

“Marcus, meet Heather. You may exchange greetings if you wish, but neither of you should get too attached. At least one of you will be dead in a few moments.”

Heather’s terrified gaze darted toward her captor and then back to Marcus. Those beautiful green eyes pleaded with him, but he could offer her no comfort.

Ackerman Sr. then placed the .357 revolver he had used to kill Audrey on the table in front of Heather and pulled out a black Beretta Px4 Storm pistol, which he kept for himself. “Here’s the game, Heather. All you have to do to win your freedom is to kill my son here. Pick up that gun and shoot him. Otherwise, I’ll shoot you both. Simple enough, right? The best games always are.” His father laid the pruning shears he had used previously on the table. “And before I kill you, Heather, I will separate all your little digits from your body. Starting with your left pinky. If I reach your right trigger finger, then you won’t be able to pull the trigger, and I’ll go ahead and shoot you.”

Marcus could see the abject horror in Heather’s eyes. His mind fought for something he could do to help her. Some way to escape. Some way to reason with his father. A way to save Heather. Anything at all.

He could devise no method of escape or way to stop what he was beginning to see as the inevitable. He could find no words to offer her comfort. He debated whether or not to speak at all. Maybe that was just playing into his father’s hands. Maybe the best course of action was to do nothing. But he couldn’t just sit idly by. It wasn’t his nature.

“Don’t do anything, Heather,” Marcus said. “Neither one of us can escape this. But we don’t have to play his game. We don’t have to give him the satisfaction.”

“He’s trying to save himself, my dear. But you have the power here. If you choose to seize it. I picked you because you are a powerful person. A strong woman with a bright future. Don’t throw that away. You can make it out of this. If you reach out and take hold of your own destiny. Shoot him. It doesn’t make you a killer. I’m forcing your hand. I’m giving you no other choice. Back in the parking garage, I watched as you spun around with that can of pepper-spray. Upon hearing a noise in that situation, most women would have started walking faster and tried to run from the problem. But not you. You turned to face it. You can do this. Shoot him.”

Heather snatched up the gun and aimed at Marcus, sighting down the gun’s barrel through the tears in her eyes.

“Don’t give in to him, Heather,” Marcus said, but he could see in her gaze that he had already lost her.

Her eyes seemed to say she was sorry, and Marcus closed his, making it easier for her and hoping that she was actually able to kill him. He heard the mechanisms of the gun as she pulled the trigger and the hammer fell. Then he heard a small explosion. He felt a wave of heat on his face, and some shrapnel struck his cheek.

He opened his eyes in time to see Heather gaping in horrified disbelief at a pair of bloody and charred stumps where her hands had been. She screamed beneath the gag. Thankfully, her suffering was short-lived as Ackerman Sr. used his gun on her and ended her shrieks.

Violent weeping shook Marcus’s body, and he laid his face on the metal table. Whimpering, he said, “Why are you doing this? What the hell’s the point?”

Ackerman Sr. laughed. “The point is that there is no point, Marcus. There’s no reason for anything. There’s no meaning to our lives. Heather’s death was just as meaningful as anyone else’s, in that it meant nothing. Thousands of women and children are being slaughtered over in some foreign land. Somewhere, right now, a mother is drowning her children. Is that part of a grand design? There is no higher power. There is no point to any of it. There’s only right here and right now. And we can’t waste the only precious moments that we have by being something that we’re not. The only way to give meaning to our lives is by giving in to our desires and living a life without fear.”

“I will never be like you. You can’t make me become a killer. If that’s what you’re trying to do, then just put a bullet in me now. It won’t work.”

Ackerman Sr. laughed and shook his head. “You’re still not getting it. I don’t want to turn you into anything. I want to take away your fear so that your true self can shine through. A great sculptor once said that his creation was always there inside the rock, he just chipped away the extra pieces, the excess, to expose what was beneath. I’m not trying to
turn
you into a killer. I want you to be what your heart desires. But I also know that a killer
is
what you are. And I’m trying to chip away the excess, so that the beautiful murderer inside you can finally be set free.”

The bright white light flooded his eyes, the shrill explosion filled his ears with an all-encompassing ringing, and the smell of burned explosive assaulted his nostrils. Ackerman instantly knew the source of the attack on his senses—a flashbang grenade, probably multiple flashbangs. He cursed himself. He had allowed the story of his father’s upbringing and the finding of his grandfather to temporarily break down his normal state of hyper-vigilance. He should have seen this coming. He should have been better prepared. But he had no contingency plans, no tricks up his sleeve. It made him feel naked and ignorant.

Within a few seconds, the mercenaries had stormed the room and had its three occupants on their knees near the back wall with their hands upon their heads. Ackerman’s senses were slowly returning, and he saw the blurry form of Craig enter and pull up one of the chairs from the table. One of the other mercenaries, a wiry Hispanic man dressed in black tactical gear like all the others, searched them for weapons and confiscated what he found. The man specifically seemed to admire the Bowie knife he discovered on Ackerman and stuffed it into his own belt. Ackerman growled at the sight of it hanging at the man’s side. In Ackerman’s mind, stealing another man’s knife was akin to groping his woman.

Craig waited a few moments for them to regain their faculties, probably reveling in his victory. Then he said, “I expected you to put up more of a fight, Ackerman. Further evidence that the stories about you are wild exaggerations. You just don’t live up to the hype.”

“How did you find us?” Maggie asked.

“Your friend Andrew told us where you were headed. After that, it was easy.”

Maggie gritted her teeth. “Is Andrew okay?”

“He screamed like a little girl. But he didn’t get anything compared with what I have in store for the two of you.”

Maggie tried to get to her feet and make a lunge for Craig, but one of his men walking back and forth behind the prisoners pushed her back down. She spat at Craig, and then she rotated her head to face Ackerman. She said, “You know what I said about not killing anyone? These bastards might be an exception to that rule.”

A grin spread across Ackerman’s face, and he felt as though a terrible weight had been lifted. He felt light as air, almost exuberant. He moaned as if he had just tasted something exquisite and whispered, “Finally.”

Then he twisted his foot to press the button on the switchblade concealed in his boot.

The six-inch blade slid out from the boot’s toe. At the same time, he dropped his left palm to the floor, pivoted his weight on his arm, and spun his whole body up and toward the mercenary behind them. He drove the exposed switchblade into the man’s crotch, doubling him over as the knife penetrated his flesh.

Using the momentum he had already built up, Ackerman rolled behind the injured mercenary and shot to his feet. The others raised their guns and opened fire.

Ackerman grabbed the injured man, using him as a shield, and back-pedaled toward the window behind them. The mercenary’s body shook with the impacts of his comrades’ bullets, but Ackerman kept pulling back, allowing his body to strike the window and fall through it into the yard.

He dropped to the ground on his back, the impact expelling the air from his lungs. The mercenary’s now-lifeless body was still stuck in the window, half inside the house and half out. The others were scrambling to pull their dead friend out of the way to get a clear shot at their quarry.

Ackerman rolled quickly to his feet, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He half-stumbled, half-ran toward the waiting shelter of the swamp.

Bullets tore into the yard at his feet. He felt the burn of one graze his thigh, but he kept his legs pumping and didn’t stop as he entered the trees. Bullets slammed into the cypress and water elms that surrounded him, but he didn’t look back. He needed to put distance between himself and his attackers.

He kept pushing—his muscles burning, but the pain feeling wonderful and refreshing—until he was a few hundred yards into the swamp. Then, in the moonlight, he spotted a large oak with easy handholds and a top hidden behind the foliage of the surrounding trees. He quickly scaled it to a height of twenty feet and waited. He pulled off his boot and retrieved the switchblade from inside, crouching high in the tree with the blade extending from his fist like a set of talons, a bird of prey waiting for a mouse to scurry beneath its perch.

Craig yelled for Landry to stay with the prisoners and then followed the others out into the yard. He found them at the edge of the swamp, shining their flashlights into the darkness beyond. He joined them at the edge of the trees and noticed immediately that something was wrong.

“Where the hell is Morales?” he asked the others.

Washburn, a thickly muscled former marine, replied, “The dumbass was first out. He ran into the swamp after Ackerman.”

Craig shook his head and yelled Morales’s name, not really expecting to hear a reply, which didn’t mean that Morales was necessarily out of commission, just that he wouldn’t want to give away his position.

Washburn asked, “Should we go after them?”

“Quiet,” Craig said.

Then he heard what he was waiting for. A lone shot rang out in the distance, followed by a stifled yelp, and then nothing. Craig shook his head. Morales had walked right into Ackerman’s hands. He didn’t intend to make a similar mistake, and he refused to underestimate Ackerman again. They had the tactical advantage. They had the high ground and the numbers, even though Ackerman had already reduced his six-man fireteam to only four. Craig wasn’t about to let Ackerman gain the upper hand by using guerrilla warfare.

“Everyone fall back to the house.”

“What about Morales?”

“Morales is dead because he was stupid and didn’t follow orders. I’m not about to go out there running around in a dark swamp so Ackerman can go Viet Cong on our asses. We take up defensive positions at the house and let him come to us. We control the engagement.”

Washburn asked, “How do you know he won’t just keep running?”

“He won’t leave Agent Carlisle behind. Besides, this is what Ackerman lives for. He’s a predator, and he loves a challenge. You don’t follow a lion into the tall grass. You stake out a gazelle and let the lion come to you.”

Ackerman had trained himself long ago how to move silently through most environments by utilizing different techniques, including the ninjutsu concepts of balance and foot placement. He did this almost instinctively as he moved swiftly through the swamp, flitting among the dark shapes of the trees with eel grass and widgeon grass gently licking against his legs. He was hyper-aware of all the sounds of the swamp—the movement of animals, the chirping and buzzing of insects, the way the breeze moved through the vegetation. He studied these sounds for a disturbance in the natural order, an unknown and intrusive presence.

Falling comfortably into the role of predator, Ackerman cautiously made a wide circle around his prey. He suspected that Craig would hole up at the plantation house. It was the smart move, what he would have done if the roles had been reversed. After all, Craig had the numbers and the tactical advantage. That was, of course, only a temporary problem. One which Ackerman intended to rectify quickly.

As he moved among the shadows, his plan began to take form. If these men had been normal citizens or even local law enforcement, he would have relied heavily on fear and intimidation. He would have forced them into reckless actions and used their own natural instincts of self-preservation against them.

But these men were different and required a different approach. His opponents were well trained but lacked discipline. They were overzealous and overconfident. They were also heavily armed, but they would have to see him in order to shoot him.

The choice was obvious to him. He couldn’t attack them head on, and so he would divide and conquer. A little misdirection, a little stealth. And it didn’t hurt that the Hispanic man who had brazenly run after him into the darkness had provided him with a pistol, a flashlight, a lighter, and most importantly, his own Bowie knife.

Ackerman couldn’t resist a smile. He hadn’t felt this alive in months. It felt so good to be on the hunt again. This was going to be fun, and he intended to savor every moment.

It didn’t take Ackerman long to reach the dirt lane which led up from the main road. He followed it back to the plantation house, staying within the safety of the trees and thick foliage. Then he watched the house for signs of movement. The home’s design made it an easily defensible position with its wrap-around porches and exposed basement.

He caught sight of one sentry on the front porch, assault rifle at the ready. A slight stirring of the shadows beside one of the exposed basement’s pillars caused him to believe that another enemy lay in wait there.

He found a comfortable spot hidden beneath some groundsel trees and alligator weed and waited. Blending in with the natural landscape, he ignored the insects that crawled over his body and pierced his flesh for nourishment. He could have stayed in that spot without moving for days if the situation had warranted it. Fortunately, he would only have to wait a few hours.

The timing was important. He needed to wait long enough for the mercenaries to get into a rhythm and grow moderately complacent, yet not long enough for the sun to rise and steal the concealment of shadow. If he hadn’t been concerned that Craig might have called in reinforcements, he would have watched the house for a day or two and let the mercenaries grow frustrated and angry.

As Ackerman waited and felt the tiny legs of the swamp’s smallest residents dance across his flesh, the memory of his father locking him in a small concrete cell came back to him. Between the experiments and torture and pain, he would often be left alone for days in total darkness. He was never allowed friends, so he conjured some of his own. Some of them imaginary. He supposed the shrinks would call them delusions or hallucinations. He simply called it imagination. But other friends he made were the insects that not even his father could keep away from him.

A cockroach. A spider. Even a ladybug once. They all had names and stories to tell. He remembered them fondly, his childhood friends. To that day, he hesitated to squash an insect beneath his foot, even though taking a human life held great appeal.

There was no sport in taking a life so small and helpless. Plus, Ackerman admired their simplicity and their beauty. A spider didn’t lie, cheat, or steal. It had no delusions of grandeur. It didn’t judge him. It simply formed a symbiotic co-existence with its environment and fulfilled its small purpose without complaint.

Ackerman found nature to be beautiful, and people to be unnatural.