by Ethan Cross
He noticed her swallow hard, and when she spoke, her voice sounded brittle and dry. “Umm . . .” The scent of her perfume drifted across the table, and he recognized the touch of oleander. She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes. He wanted to smile but knew that he needed to maintain a look of pain and sincerity.
“I’m a steak and potatoes girl. Got that from my dad.” The look in her eyes indicated that she had shocked herself with that last oddly personal statement. It was something a person would say to a date, not a notorious serial killer.
“How do you like your steak prepared?” he said.
“Medium rare. My father always told me that you lose the flavor if you cook it too long.” Again she seemed surprised by her own candor. He also noticed that when she shared this, she leaned much closer, as if she didn’t want the cameraman to hear.
This was the moment he had been waiting for. He hardened his eyes and let a bit of cruel menace seep in. “She likes it bloody. A girl after my own heart.”
In a blur of movement, Ackerman’s hands flew from behind his back as he lunged over the table and grabbed the reporter by her hair. He dragged her small frame over the table that separated them, pulling her onto his lap. As her screams filled the room and the smell of intense fear mixed with perfume filled his nostrils, he placed one hand behind her head and one on her chin. With a quick twist, he could easily snap her neck and sever her spinal cord.
The guards reacted quickly. They screamed their orders and lifted their shotguns. Ackerman knew that a new form of shotgun shell known as a Taser XREP that contained a miniature stun device instead of buckshot filled the guards’ weapons. Taser XREP rounds had been designed as a less-than-lethal alternative to conventional shells, which meant that the guards could fire upon him without worrying about hitting his hostage.
Although they would assume that this unexpected act was an attempt at escape, he knew that breaking from a cage with such advanced security measures would be nearly impossible, especially since his legs were still shackled to the chair. He had no intention of trying to escape. He simply wanted to give the audience a show to remember.
“Let her go now!” one of the guards said as he sighted down the barrel of his shotgun.
Ackerman looked at the guard calmly and replied, “If you come any closer, I’ll break her neck.”
“Give it up. No way you leave this room.”
Ackerman tightened his hold on the reporter, inducing a small cry of pain from her. “I don’t intend to escape. I simply wanted to give a small message to my lady friend here.”
He leaned in close to the reporter’s ear and whispered, “I want you to remember from this day forth that the only reason you are still alive is that I’ve chosen to give you life. I own every breath you take. Every smile. Every tear. Every moment is one that I’ve given to you. It’s a debt that you owe to me. And someday, I may come to collect upon that debt.”
Ackerman shoved the reporter away and welcomed the sting of the Taser round. He had accomplished his mission. Neither the reporter nor her audience would ever forget the name Ackerman. He closed his eyes, heard the blast of the shotgun, and felt the concussion of the dart as its barbs penetrated his skin. His body convulsed, and then the guards overtook him.
