Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  Ackerman intentionally backed himself into the corner and then read the twitches of the boy’s muscles like a shaman seeing the future in smoke and fire. When the kid was about to throw a huge right cross, Ackerman ducked under the blow and spun away from his opponent.

  The fighter’s momentum carried him forward, off balance, his fist striking the corner post of the ring. But then confusion turned to anger, and the kid rushed him with the intention of taking him to the ground.

  Up to this point, the young fighter had been relying on his fists, but this wasn’t boxing. It was mixed martial arts, and kicking and grappling were all on the table.

  As the boy rushed forward, Ackerman waited until the last moment and then dropped low and spun, sticking his foot into the boy’s path. Already out of control, the impetuous young fighter ran right into the trap, lost his balance, and ended up with his face planted into the mat.

  Ackerman couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He looked out at Emily, hoping to see some admiration and respect in her eyes. But her face was emotionless except for a few tight lines of concentration and concern. She reminded Ackerman of a zoologist watching a lion devour his evening meal.

  Amid the chuckles and jeers of onlookers, the young fighter slapped the mat. It seemed the entire gym had taken time away from flexing in front of the mirrors to watch the show.

  Pushing himself to his feet, the kid took a second to collect himself and control his breathing.

  Ackerman said, “There’s still time to forfeit.”

  Changing tactics, the kid feigned a right cross and then kicked Ackerman in the thigh with his right leg. Landing a blow for the first time, the kid seemed rejuvenated. He followed with a flurry of kicks, both low and high. The low kicks Ackerman caught with his thigh, enjoying the jolts of pain. When the kick came high, he deflected the blow with his shoulders.

  Much like his punches, every one of the young fighter’s kicks had a nearly imperceptible giveaway, allowing Ackerman to easily deflect the blows.

  The fighter’s right leg shot toward Ackerman’s face with the speed and strength of a knockout. But before launching his attack, the kid had shifted his weight and pulled his right foot back two inches. Knowing exactly where the kick was headed, Ackerman offered a kick of his own. This was designed to intercept the incoming blow at the ball of the fighter’s ankle. Crying out in pain, the kid stumbled backward.

  Ackerman tilted his head and said, “‘The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.’”

  Breathing hard, the fighter said, “Did you memorize that from a fortune cookie?”

  Ackerman grinned. “Close. It comes from an ancient Chinese military treatise dating from the fifth century BC. Sun Tzu, The Art of War.”

  The kid squared up again, but Ackerman had grown bored with the display. It was time to put an end to the sparring match. The next kick from the impetuous young man was an all-in type of move that seemed to work better in movies than in real life. It was a knockout move, a full round-house kick aimed at Ackerman’s head. The kid didn’t even try to feign another attack or hide his intentions, as if he were daring Ackerman to stop this blow from connecting.

  As soon as the boy’s muscles betrayed his intentions, Ackerman turned to the side the kick would be coming from and launched a hard straight forward kick of his own. No spin. No fancy technique. Merely a jackhammer blow aimed directly inside the fighter’s calf.

  The blow connected with a crunch, spinning the boy around and dropping him to the mat. The young man rolled in pain.

  When he saw the blood on the mat, when he smelled its sweetness, he heard his father’s voice: Kill them all and the pain will stop. You are the night, Francis. No fear of death. No purpose in life but to cause pain and kill.

  Ackerman clenched his fists until the nails broke the flesh of his palms. He concentrated on the pain, centering himself. Using the pain as a compass to guide him to serenity.

  Unser, his rage returning, said, “That was an offensive move. You cheated!”

  Ackerman replied by slipping free from the rope and dropping it to the mat. Then he removed his shirt, exposing the roadmap of pain and suffering that covered his body. There wasn’t an inch of his torso and arms that wasn’t covered in scar tissue. Burns covered huge portions. Multiple bullet holes. Countless knife slashes. His back even showed the marks of a scourging, similar to what Jesus Christ experienced before his crucifixion. Father had tried to be historically accurate and fashioned his whip from several leather thongs with sheep bones and sharp metal balls grouped at intervals along the ends of each thong. Ackerman vividly remembered the whip embedding itself into his back and ripping out whole sections of flesh as the flagellum was pulled free.

  Many of the onlookers gasped at the exposed scars, but Ackerman’s eyes didn’t move from Unser’s. He said, “As you can see, many have attempted to kill me over the years. Care to venture a guess at how many succeeded? Now, I know you’re a tough bunch and you probably think you could overwhelm me by your shear numerical advantage. But let me remind you that this time my hands won’t be tied behind my back, and I won’t be playing nice.”

  Unser ran his eyes over Ackerman’s scars a moment and then pulled out a business card from a wallet in his back pocket, whispering, “Somebody give me a damn pen.” One of the onlookers tossed him one, and Unser wrote on the back of the business card. Then he said, “There are a few different underground circuits in the city. I put the times and addresses of the two best on the card. Now get out.”

  Unser looked to Emily and added, “The places you’re headed, baby doll, I once saw a guy get punched so hard that his eye flew out. His opponent picked it up and ate it. The crowd cheered him on.”

  Ackerman chuckled. “You know eyeballs have a very rich and buttery consistency. They sort of melt in your mouth. But there’s this hard sphere in the center. It’s best to just spit that part out.”

  Unser’s face curled up in disgust. He held out the card and said, “Please leave.”

  Taking the business card, Ackerman stared at the two addresses and debated about whether to press his luck. “The real reason I’m in town, Mr. Unser, is because I’ve come to bet on the next fight in the Diamond Room. Do you have any connections there?”

  Upon hearing the words “Diamond Room,” Unser’s demeanor instantly changed, his eyes darting around from his men to the newcomers. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “I’m just a man with provocative proclivities and money to burn.”

  Ackerman saw two trainees creeping up behind Emily, but he also recognized that Unser possessed information vital to their case. He had often found that the easiest way to extract information was to simply allow your target to tell you themselves.

  The two goons grabbed Emily from behind, searching her pockets and placing the edge of a knife to her throat. Ackerman felt a strange, protective rage fill him. He wanted to rip out the two men’s tracheas for laying their probing hands on his partner.

  In his mind, Father said, Kill them all.

  Lip curled in a snarl, Unser said, “I think maybe it’s time we start asking the questions. And if I don’t like your answers, then I’m going to kill you both and have your bodies burned down to nothing but ashes.”

  Ackerman’s gaze remained locked on Unser. It took every ounce of his hard-earned self-control to keep from listening to Father’s instructions. He wanted their blood, their pain, their fear.

  One of the two trainees pawing at Emily said, “She’s packing, and she’s got a government badge! Department of Justice.”

  Unser’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. To Ackerman, the barrel-chested trainer said, “You don’t seem like a fed.”

  “I’m a special consultant.”

  “Why didn’t you two just tell me you were cops?”

  Ackerman was tired of
playing with these men. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Your men will remove their hands from my colleague, or I will detach their hands from their bodies. Then you will tell me all you know about the Diamond Room.”

  Unser was silent, transfixed by Ackerman’s cold stare. With a nod to his men, Unser said, “Everybody get back to work. These two are leaving.” The two trainees released Emily, returning her weapon and ID. His glasses were becoming fogged up from his erratic breathing, and so Unser removed the horned-rims and wiped them on his shirt. Then he removed another business card from his pocket, wrote an address on the back, and said, “All I can tell you is that if you’re wanting to find the Diamond Room, this is a good place to start.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Get them before they get you.

  That had been one of her mother’s favorites. She used to impart that wisdom to her daughters regularly. At least, she did before that day when she hung herself in the bathroom.

  Corin Campbell could still see her mother’s feet spasming and searching for a foothold. The kicks slowly died down as her mother’s face turned purple and her eyes rolled back in her head. Corin had been four years old, but she still remembered the event in vivid detail. She supposed it wasn’t the kind of thing a person easily forgot.

  She had tried to kill her mother’s memory many times, but her current ordeal had exposed how alive and well that pain truly was, how closely it lay below the surface. Although, even her worst memories of her previous life were preferable to this hell.

  The door creaked open, which was strange. She normally heard his heavy footfalls echoing off the concrete walls long before he opened the door. This time, she heard nothing.

  Light blinded her. She held up an arm as her eyes adjusted. Instead of the man in the skull mask, a young woman about her age or a little older emerged angelically from the light. The angel laid a tray in front of her. It held a bowl of water, some wash cloths, and a pile of white silk, which looked to be some sort of house dress.

  As her vision cleared, Corin saw that the Angel had dark skin and curly black hair pulled up into a utilitarian bun. She wore a white dress and a pair of fuzzy brown house slippers. When the figure from the light spoke, she didn’t sound at all like an angel.

  Her voice was hoarse and dry, as if she had been screaming or crying or perhaps hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time.

  The woman standing over her said, “Wash up. Change your clothes.” Then the angelic figure turned to leave.

  Corin said, “Wait. Are you . . . Who are you?”

  The woman’s gaze fell to the floor. “Just get cleaned up, and then we’ll talk.”

  Watching her leave, Corin wasn’t sure how to react. She stared at the bowl of water and the clothes. When the woman left the cell, she neglected to shut the door. Corin twitched with anticipation. She waited a couple of seconds and then crawled over to the opening. She was growing accustomed to the pain of her broken shins.

  Corin peaked around the corner of the door. It opened into a concrete service corridor. Conduits and pipes ran along the ceiling. A single bare bulb lit the barren space that smelled of mold and rot. The dark-skinned woman in the white dress was ten feet down the concrete corridor, smoking a cigarette.

  Her dress shimmered in the sparse light. The woman shook her head and said, “Get yo ass cleaned up. I’ll bring down a wheel chair when you’re ready. You don’t want to hurt the baby crawling around on the damn floor.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty

  Marcus seethed when he saw that his old friend, Eddie Caruso, had sent a limo to pick them up, but refusing the ride would have drawn more attention than accepting it. He had noticed the curiosity in Maggie’s eyes when she learned that he had an old friend now involved in organized crime. An interrogation would be coming soon. She had a way of rooting out all of his insecurities and secrets and calling him out on them, and he definitely didn’t want Maggie digging into his relationship with Eddie Caruso.

  As they descended the escalators and saw the limo driver holding a sign for “Emma Williams,” he realized how difficult it was going to be to protect his secrets on this one. He closed his eyes and cringed as he motioned to the driver, hoping Maggie hadn’t seen the sign.

  “Who’s Emma Williams?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s a really bad joke.”

  “What does it mean? Is she an old girlfriend or something?”

  “Nothing like that. It’s my initials. M.A. Marcus A. Williams. M.A. Williams. Only pronounce it ‘em-ah.’ It’s pretty childish, but in Eddie’s defense, we were like ten when he came up with that.”

  “This was your friend who would call you by a girl’s name?”

  “It’s the kind of thing guys do.”

  She gave him a guys-are-stupid look but said nothing. He shook hands with the driver, a white man with a round face and the beginnings of a neck beard. The man’s suit was well tailored, neat, and unwrinkled. He analyzed the driver’s appearance, cataloging the visual data for further reference.

  He said, “We just need to grab our duffles,” and received a smile and a nod from the driver. Unfortunately, they had been forced to check their bags because of the weapons carried in each, but it was worth the extra time. He didn’t plan to visit Eddie Caruso unarmed.

  After they had retrieved their bags, the driver led them through the airport and outside to a long, black stretch limousine. As Maggie slipped inside, she said, “This Eddie must have been some friend. He sent a car for you and thirty of your closest friends. Did you travel with an entourage back in the day?”

  Marcus didn’t reply. He just fell into the seat beside her. She was already playing with buttons and digging through the liquor cabinets like a kid with a new toy. He wondered if she’d ever ridden in a limo before. She certainly hadn’t done so in the time he’d known her, and she’d never mentioned being a bridesmaid or attending prom or any other instance where limo rides were common. Being a solitary person himself, he had never noticed before, but in that moment, he realized he’d never heard Maggie mention any of her old friends. There were a few women they’d met on cases with whom Maggie kept in contact—such as Lisa Spinelli, the lead tech person from Foxbury Prison, and Eleanor Schofield, the former wife of a serial killer the Chicago Tribune had dubbed the Anarchist—but she’d never talked about anyone from her life before joining the SO.

  He felt a little hurt that she didn’t trust him with that part of herself, but then he felt a pang of guilt for always doing the same to her.

  As she poured a glass of champagne and flipped buttons that changed the pattern of the lighting in the vehicle’s interior, she said, “Tell me about Eddie.”

  Marcus felt like a swimmer who saw the shark fin heading his way but could do nothing to escape. Maggie was moving in for the kill. “What do you want to know?”

  She downed the champagne from her glass, pulled out a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch, and poured herself two fingers. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

  “He was my best friend in junior high. What was I supposed to say?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Guess I just have some tough memories from the last time someone from your past popped back into your life,” she said—referring to Dylan’s mother, Claire Cassidy, who had revealed that Marcus had a son.

  He hoped Eddie wouldn’t be divulging any such life-changing revelations. “I can make you a one-hundred-percent promise that Eddie did not have my baby.”

  She downed the scotch and said, “That’s hilarious. Who moved away? You or him? Which one of you moved away after junior high?”

  “Neither. Why do you ask?”

  “It seems strange to me that this guy was your best friend in junior high, and then your friendship was just over. If neither of you moved away, then why didn’t you remain friends?”

  Marcus conside
red his words carefully. His Brooklyn accent bubbled to the surface as he fought to stay calm. “Life happens. We drifted apart. His dad was a made man. Mine was an officer of the law. It was only a matter of time before the ways of the world stood in the way of friendship.”

  Refilling her scotch, she asked, “Did something happen?”

  “I’d rather not talk about this. Can we just drop it?”

  “Fine.”

  “There was some strange emphasis on that ‘fine.’”

  “I just wonder what secrets you’re keeping from me this time.”

  He shook his head and growled deep in his throat. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s not like you don’t have your fair share of secrets, darling.”

  Maggie took a long swig from her second glass of scotch. “Well, aren’t we a pair.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The past…

  Every bedroom was a suite with its own sitting area and bathroom. And each bathroom had some crazy deal that shot water back up at you. It was like nothing Marcus had ever seen before. But that wasn’t the cool thing Junior wanted to show them.

  “You see the strip of color here in the marble,” Junior said, referring to a two inch line of emerald green which traced the walls. “If it’s green, that means you’re in an area of the house open to the public. If it’s red, then that means it’s restricted access.”

  “That’s so cool,” Eddie said.

  “It’s just something my Grandpa Angelo came up with. This was originally his house, before my pop inherited it.”

  Marcus said, “Your grandpa must’ve been some guy. I can’t imagine how much money it would take to build a house like this. What did your grandpa do for his job?”

  Eddie quickly said, “Don’t worry about him, Junior. He don’t know nothing.”

  “What did I say?” Marcus asked.