Father of Fear (24 page)

The door of the cell opened again, light flooded in, and Marcus fought the urge to weep. He could endure his own physical pain. He could persevere through torture, starvation, and psychological torment. But he could not stand to watch helpless as another human being suffered at his father’s hands, and he knew that was what was coming: another of his father’s “lessons.”

Ackerman Sr. tossed a long black robe over to Marcus and said, “Put that on.”

Knowing that disobedience was futile, Marcus slipped the robe over his shoulders and cinched the belt around his waist. The material was soft and silky against his skin. It was the first pleasant sensation that his body had felt in months. His father led him to the adjacent cell as he had done previously. This time, however, no other victim sat at the metal table. Still, that fact didn’t fill him with any measure of hope; he knew better than to expect anything but malice from an interaction with his father.

Ackerman Sr. gestured toward Marcus’s usual chair but then surprised him by saying, “Dylan has been asking about you, and so I figured that now was as good a time as any for you to meet your son.”

“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what? Kill me? Please, let’s dispense with the drama. I created you and Dylan. You wouldn’t exist without me. I own you both, and I’ll do with either of you what I please. However, I haven’t harmed your son. Not yet, at least. I’m trying a different tactic with him. He’s not really old enough to have much of a will of his own to break, and so I’m going to mold his pliable young mind in my own image. He’s going to be my greatest apprentice. A true heir to our family’s legacy.”

“You don’t need him. You can let him go. You have me. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

His father laughed. “I’m going to break you of that self-sacrificial nature, but I have to say that it
is
rather amusing watching you play the martyr card time and time again.” Ackerman Sr. pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table and continued, “I’m going to bring Dylan in now. He’s been told that you are very sick and that’s why you can’t be with him yet. He knows that his mother has been killed and thinks that the bad men who did the deed are also after him. He believes that he’s here for his own protection. If I have to hurt you in front of him, it would be very traumatic for the boy. Right now, he trusts me, and his current line of treatment hinges on that trust. If you try anything stupid, it may force me to re-evaluate the method of Dylan’s education. Do we understand each other?”

As with every other time he was with his father, Marcus’s mind searched for a solution, an escape, a plan of attack. And just like every other time, he could think of none, and so he simply replied, “Yes.”

His father led Dylan through the metal door of the cell and directed him toward the chair at the opposite end of the table. The boy seemed nervous and afraid. He refused to make eye contact. Marcus was also afraid, but more than that, he experienced a warmth that he had never felt before. The boy was a stranger, and yet he seemed familiar, as though Marcus was looking at an old friend who had changed and aged but was still the same person whom he loved and trusted. He had Marcus’s hair color, complexion, and eyes, but there were also undeniable traces of Claire. This was his son, a small human being who had come from him, who was part Marcus and part his mother and wholly his own person, a new creation. The joy Marcus felt was surreal, but he also felt ashamed and regretful. He hated the fact that his and Dylan’s first meeting was tainted by these horrible circumstances. He hated the fact that his son would see him for the first time in this condition. He mourned all the years and experiences that he had missed.

The air seemed to brim with tension and potential. Marcus realized that he had been holding his breath and blurted, “Hello, Dylan.”

“Hi,” the boy whispered, still not taking his eyes off the floor. Then, with what seemed like great effort, his young eyes slowly traveled up to meet his father’s. Dylan seemed to shrink away when their gazes met. Marcus hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for months, but he could imagine what he looked like. “Grandpa says that you’re sick.”

Marcus couldn’t resist a quick glance of hatred at his father, but he quickly recovered by saying, “That’s right, but hopefully I’ll be better soon.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Marcus wasn’t sure how to respond, and so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “It’s my heart. There’s a dead spot inside it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“Grandpa says that you’re my real dad.”

“I’m your
biological
father, Dylan.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your mother and I came together and each gave a piece of ourselves to make you. But your
real
dad is the man who’s there for you. Who loves you and takes care of you and protects you. The one who teaches you to be a good person and how to be a man. Your grandfather here is my biological father, but my real dad was a man named John Williams. He raised me. Everything that’s good about me came from him.”

“So why didn’t you want to be my real dad?”

Tears rolled down Marcus’s cheeks. He reached across the metal table and placed his hand over his son’s. “I wish I had been there for you. I wish that I was your real dad. And someday soon, we’re going to get out of all this, and I’m going to make it up to you.”

But even as he spoke the words, Marcus couldn’t help but feel that he was making promises he could never keep and that neither one of them would ever see the light of day again.

Estimating the hour from his own internal clock, Ackerman concluded that he had waited long enough. It was time for the games to begin.

Luckily, Maggie had parked far enough away from the house for him to be able to crawl up beside the rear bumper of the Malibu without being seen. Tearing off a piece of his undershirt and flipping open the fuel door, he stuffed the cloth into the gas tank of the vehicle.

He checked the house for any sign that he had been spotted and analyzed his path away from the car for any obstacles. Once he set things in motion, he would need to be quick, and mental preparation could save valuable seconds.

Once he was satisfied, he struck the lighter he had taken from the fallen mercenary and lit the piece of his shirt, which he had converted into the makeshift fuse of a very large bomb designed by General Motors.

Then Ackerman bolted into the trees, skirting the yard and staying hidden within the foliage. Circling to the opposite side of the yard which he had exited from earlier, he reached the far side of the plantation house, the one closest to the water. He scanned the back porch, which slanted down at an angle due to structural decay, and examined the space below the house for watchers.

He saw a vague humanoid form among the shadows and waited for his distraction to kick in.

The wait was only a matter of seconds. The sound of the explosion echoed through the bayou, causing a stirring of animals in the undergrowth and birds to take flight from all the surrounding trees. From his position, Ackerman saw the fireball and smoke and heard the roar of flame and the screech of metal.

Any doubt he had about the vague form that he’d seen faded when the sentry stepped forward into the yard and aimed his assault rifle back toward the front of the house. As Ackerman had planned, the explosion caused a split second’s curiosity accompanied by a split second’s vulnerability.

Ackerman rushed from the trees without hesitation and closed the distance to his opponent in the blink of an eye. The man still had his back to him. Ackerman leaped forward with the Bowie knife gripped in his right hand.

His weight and momentum struck the mercenary in the back at full force, driving the man toward the ground. But before they had even reached the moist soil of the yard, Ackerman had plunged the knife into the sweet spot at the back of the sentry’s neck, severing his spinal cord. The man was dead before he landed.

Having no time to savor the kill, Ackerman dragged the body into the deep shadows beneath the house and collected the sentry’s dropped M4A1 assault rifle. As he was about to head back to the trees, he noticed a bag of concrete mix leaning beside one of the pillars. His grandfather had probably planned to use the concrete to shore up his home’s foundation. But Ackerman had another idea of how to put the bag of powdery material to use. He went back to the dead man and pulled off one of the mercenary’s black tactical boots, deciding he would need that as well. With the M4A1 slung over one shoulder and the concrete mix over the other, Ackerman headed back into the swamp.

It had begun now. The time for waiting and caution was over. Now was the time to strike again while his enemy was still off balance.

Craig stepped onto the front porch and looked out at the flaming wreckage of the car. Landry crouched at one corner of the porch, scanning the area surrounding the ruined vehicle. Craig keyed his radio and said, “It’s started. Eyes open. Everyone check in now.”

Each man rattled off his status. Craig waited a moment and then said, “Fitzpatrick, check in.”

No answer came, and Craig swore under his breath.

Ackerman was reminded of the words of Miyamoto Musashi, a great swordsman and tactician.
If the opponent expects the sea, give him the mountains. If he expects the mountains, give him the sea.

Craig would expect a quick attack followed by a swift retreat. Ackerman intended to attack multiple times on multiple fronts in short order. Craig would expect him to use stealth and silence. He planned to make a lot of noise.

Only a moment after taking down the sentry, acquiring his assault rifle, and finding the bag of concrete mix, Ackerman had found a spot ten feet within the tree line that would be the perfect point from which to stage his next distraction. He propped up the bag of concrete mix in the crook of a water elm. Then he positioned the M4A1 assault rifle against the tree beneath the corner of the bag. Next, he took the dead mercenary’s boot and wrapped one of the laces tightly around the trigger of the assault rifle.

Ackerman knew that the typical trigger pull on a rifle like this would be between five and a half and eight and a half pounds. Which meant that, if he did this right, he would have several seconds to get in position before the necessary weight was reached.

He checked that the safety on the rifle was off, and then he made a small puncture in the corner of the bag of concrete mix. The powdery material started raining down, and he adjusted the bag and the stolen piece of footwear so that the grainy stream landed directly inside the mercenary’s boot. Eventually—hopefully once he was in position—the boot’s weight would increase enough to pull the trigger of the rifle. The fully automatic weapon would discharge its full clip into the air, causing his enemies to think that he was in one spot firing at them, when in reality, he would be somewhere else entirely.

Craig turned to Landry and was about to tell him to go cover Fitzpatrick’s position—since the other man was probably dead—when the sound of rapid-fire shots from one of the assault rifles interrupted his orders. Landry’s gaze shifted toward the source of the shots as well, and upon Craig’s command, the remaining three mercenaries took up new positions in order to flank the shooter.

By the time the boot had filled with enough of the powdery concrete mix to pull the assault rifle’s trigger, Ackerman had darted across the backyard, staying low and hugging the water’s edge, and had reached the trees on the opposite side of the house.

The wild shots pierced the air, and Ackerman watched as the mercenaries did as he had hoped and adjusted their positions to defend against what they thought was a new attack.

The shadows seemed less substantial with every moment, and Ackerman knew that the sun would be rising soon. He planned to have the situation resolved before that occurred.

The sentry who had been positioned beneath the front corner of the house had slowly rounded the porch, making himself a clear target. He was a big man with hair so blond it was nearly white. He held a tactical shotgun against his shoulder, aiming it toward the distraction.

Ackerman moved up behind the big man as noiselessly as if he were just another shadow stretching out from the darkness and invading the light. He slashed low with the Bowie knife, severing the muscles of the big man’s knees, and then, as the mercenary fell, Ackerman caught his head and jammed the blade down into the side of his neck. The man’s last words were nothing more than a wet gurgling sound.

Ackerman didn’t bother to hide the body. They were approaching the end of this little dance, and the time for subterfuge was past. He simply dropped the corpse onto the ground and moved to the very back of the house where the old boathouse hung over the water.

He went inside and started planning how to finish off his next victim. What he saw sitting in the water at the end of the dock caused a wide grin to spread across his face.

Craig and Landry watched the trees from the cover of the house, but nothing happened. What had caused someone to expend a whole magazine like that? Was it Ackerman or one of his guys firing at Ackerman? Why hadn’t anyone reported in?

He keyed his mic and asked for a status report.

This time, no one answered.

Landry looked over at him and shook his head in disbelief. The big black man said, “I say we get the hell out of Dodge while we’re still breathing.”

“He’s one guy.”

“One guy who’s taken down four of us already.”

“I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. Pull yourself together. Here’s the plan. We—”

The loud hum of a boat engine echoed out from the backyard. Landry shook his head and asked, “What now?”

Craig replied, “It’s just another distraction. But it’s about time we stopped dancing to his tune. Let’s change the rules of this little game.”

Ackerman waited in the rafters of the boathouse for his prey to answer his call. He had a little trap rigged up, and he really hoped that only one of the two remaining mercenaries entered the building. If that happened, he had something very exciting planned.

Although, if they decided to stick together and rush him in force, he would be forced to use the pistol he had taken from the Hispanic man he had killed. That scenario wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, but sometimes business had to take precedence over pleasure.

There were other possible outcomes and ways in which the mercenaries might react, but he felt that he had adequately accounted for the most likely results. And even if Craig went all out and tried to burn the boathouse to the ground, Ackerman knew that he could easily escape into the water and swim to safety.

Ackerman was running through the scenarios and mentally practicing his reactions—so that he could move instinctively and without thought when the moment came—when he heard Craig’s voice call out to him from the backyard.

Craig dragged Maggie down the steps of the back porch by her hair. Her hands and feet were bound, but she fought him every inch of the way. He was glad that she was fighting back. He liked it when they struggled.

Landry took cover beside him, his assault rifle trained on the boathouse.

Maggie said, “You look scared, Craig. Guess Ackerman lives up to the hype after all.”

He kicked her in the side and said, “Shut up.” Then he called out, “Ackerman! It’s over. If you don’t come out now, I’ll put a bullet in Maggie’s head.”

There was no answer, and Craig added, “I’ll give you ten seconds to surrender, and then she’s dead.”

Maggie said, “You think he gives a crap? He’s not some hero. If you think—”

He kicked her again. “Quiet.” He started counting out loud, waiting for Ackerman to emerge. When he reached three, his countdown slowed to a crawl. When he hit two, he stopped speaking altogether and just stood there, watching the boathouse.

Maggie laughed. “Guess he called your bluff.”

Craig shook his head and cursed. He ran a hand through his blond hair and then looked over at Landry and pointed toward the boathouse.

Landry said, “Hell no.”

“That’s an order. Go check it out.”

“If it’s a distraction, then he’s not even in there. Otherwise it’s definitely a trap.”

“I’m getting real sick of you questioning me. When I give an order, you follow it.”

Landry’s gaze went cold, and his lips curled back in a snarl like a junkyard dog’s. “Maybe that would be true if we were soldiers. But we’re not. We’re contractors. Mercenaries. And mercs get paid. Nobody’s paying me to go out there and get my ass killed because some psycho stepped on your toes and bruised your ego. I’m tired of—”

Craig shot Landry in the face. The big black man crumpled to the porch, his blood pooling and flowing down through the floor’s cracks. Craig ripped off his tactical gear and tossed his guns onto the floor. He pulled off his black body armor and stripped down to the black tank top beneath. Stepping down into the yard, he yelled out, “It’s just you and me now, Ackerman. You want a shot at the title? Think you’re King Badass? Think you’re so much better than me? Let’s find out. Just you and me. To the death.”

Ackerman had watched through a crack in the boathouse wall as Craig threatened Maggie and killed his own man. He had known that Craig wouldn’t kill Maggie—at least, he didn’t think that he would—but he had been surprised to see that the mercenaries had turned on one another already. He assumed such reactions would have taken at least another day of psychological warfare. They must have been more unstable than he had thought.

Craig stepping down from the porch and challenging him to fight it out, on the other hand, hadn’t been a surprise to him. He had hoped for such a result when the numbers dwindled to this point. He would, of course, accept the challenge, but it still made him sad that he hadn’t been given the opportunity to kill anyone with his last trap.

It would have been glorious.

He stared back at the dock and the airboat idling beside it. He had used a cordless drill he had found among the boathouse tools to remove the back cover of the airboat’s fan. The massive blades were now exposed and fully able to swallow up an entire person. That would have been a delicious sight, but with a sad heart, Ackerman accepted that one couldn’t have it all. It would have been too perfect for him to get the opportunity to toss Craig into the blades of an airboat. He supposed that he would just have to take care of Craig the old-fashioned way, which would be almost as much fun.
Almost
.