by Ethan Cross
It had changed Emily as well. She wasn’t the same woman he had held captive and forced to play one of his games. Although, he wasn’t sure if her changes had been for the better. It seemed that she had grown harder over time. He had once thought her to be fragile, something he would never accuse her of now.
Emily added, “Sometimes I can’t decide if you’re actually starting to think like a person or if you’re only trying to manipulate me. Make no mistake, Frank, I’ll kill you before they can ever activate that implant if you step out of line. I don’t want to, but if I have to choose between your life and the life of some innocent person, I’m going to save the someone else every time.”
“Fair enough. But you should know that if it comes down to my life over yours, I will choose your life, every time.”
She was quiet a moment, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. Finally, with tears forming in her eyes, she said, “Well, let’s just try to make it so we never have to face either circumstance.”
Willoughby’s Exotic Gunsmithing and Firing Range sat at the end of a long, dead-end lane with mountains in the background, nothing but dry dirt surrounding it, no wind breaks. The main building was made of corrugated metal, weather beaten and worn. The paint had long since faded and chipped, and the proprietor hadn’t bothered with repairs. Ackerman imagined that, like many small businesses these days, the majority of the man’s sales were done online, which didn’t facilitate the need for a beautiful storefront.
Emily said, “So what’s your plan?”
“I was thinking a simple knock and kick.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where you knock, and when they answer the door, you kick it in on them.”
“This guy is the owner of a gun shop and firing range, and you want to just kick his door down?”
“Shortest distance between two points is always a straight line.”
“Let’s at least try the diplomatic approach. And I told you not to touch anyone. Kicking a door into someone’s face would classify as physical contact.”
“Fine. You can kick the door in.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Listen, I’ll get us inside and then you do your thing with him to send a message. Just make sure that whatever you do at that point is all bark and no bite.”
~~*~~
Chapter Fifty-Three
Emily repeatedly rang the bell at the delivery entrance. Hearing movement inside, Ackerman stepped to the side of the door and turned his head away. She gave him a look of confusion, and he said, “I’ll bet you a dog that he comes to the door with a shotgun.”
“He has a camera. You’re probably making him think that we’re bandits from the way you’re acting.”
“Bandits? I kind of like the sound of that. I’m Bonnie, and you’re Clyde.”
“I think you mean that I would be Bonnie and you would be Clyde,” Emily said.
“If you prefer. I was just trying to mix things up a bit.”
The door flew open, and someone yelled, “Don’t move!” A man Ackerman presumed to be the business’s proprietor stood a few feet inside the doorway with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun in one hand, and a small remote control in the other. He was a short man with stubby arms and a face that reminded Ackerman of a species of small monkey known as the common marmoset. Like the small primate, Willoughby was flat nosed and wide faced, with tufts of unkempt hair sticking out each side of his head.
The man said, “There’s a shaped charge of C4 beneath your feet, and this shotgun is loaded with the latest in home security shells. If one doesn’t get you, the other will. Now, you better have a damn good reason for waking me up.”
Emily looked down at the shotgun and hesitated. “Uh . . . We’re . . .”
Ackerman said, “We’re part of Mr. King’s crew. He said you were the man to see about getting some clean and effective long-ranged weaponry.”
The marmoset narrowed his eyes and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you two cops? I’ve told you guys before—”
“Do I look like a cop?” Ackerman said, giving him a predator’s stare. “I assume you’re Mr. Willoughby?”
“That’s right. You make any sudden movements and your tombstone will read, ‘Shot to Death by Mr. Willoughby.’”
Ackerman replied, “We were told that you run guns from King to the cartels. And that you have recently received a shipment of products that would be perfectly suited for a particular task we need to accomplish.”
“What shipment are you talking about? What are you looking for?”
“Let’s step into your office and discuss the details like gentlemen.”
“And you say you heard this from Mr. King?”
“No, I said we work for King. Oban told us about you. Nobody sees Mr. King.”
Eyes narrowed, Willoughby said, “Come inside, but keep your hands up and no funny stuff. No sudden movements.”
As he stepped inside, Ackerman saw that the owner had left only a token amount of ammo on the shelves. The gun wall behind the register and display case, however, was fully stocked with all manner of rifles and pistols, ranging from the mediocrity of the Glock to the exotic enticement of the 8-mm Nambu.
“So what are you after?” the stubby man said. “You said it’s part of a shipment of guns I’m supposedly smuggling from King to the cartels?”
“Can we cut the bravado? Do you sell guns or not?”
“Oh, I sell guns. But I don’t sell guns for King.”
“Whatever, friend,” Emily said, hands raised and voice trembling. “If you’re not our guy, we’ll head on down the road.”
“No, you see, you misunderstand me. I do run a smuggling operation for Mr. King. But just because I run a gun shop doesn’t mean that I smuggle guns. I know nobody would have sent you here for a gun. I have a strict policy of keeping my legitimate business, this shop, which my father founded in 1971, separate from my other dealings. That tells me that this doesn’t have a squirt of piss to do with Mr. King. So why are you really here?”
“I’m looking for a hunting knife,” Ackerman said. Emily shot him a scathing glance, but he ignored her.
Willoughby said, “Get down on your knees.”
Ackerman saw a display of cheap pocket knives on a shelf within arm’s reach. He said, “I’m getting very tired of people telling me what to do. May I share a secret with you, Mr. Willoughby?”
“Talk.”
“I don’t wish to purchase your wares. I’m here for two reasons, actually. One, I need information. And two, I need to send a message.”
“The only thing you need to do, pal, is shut your hole. I’m calling King’s real guys. They’ll deal with the two of you.”
Ackerman said, “Look into my eyes. Do you honestly think I would allow you to reach a phone?”
“I’m the one with the shotgun.”
“I don’t see your point. May I show you something. I think you’ll find it very interesting. I’m just going to pick up one of these little pocket knives.”
“You aren’t picking up a damn thing. I told you—”
With a flash of calculated and non-threatening movements, Ackerman snatched up one of the blades, flipped it open, and sliced through his shirt and across his massively scarred forearm. The blood burst forth and trickled down onto the concrete floor.
Willoughby raised the shotgun and said, “What the hell!”
The shop owner was a good ten feet away, but Ackerman had no doubt he could kill the man with the small pocket knife at this distance, shotgun or not.
“Just look into my eyes,” Ackerman said as he ran another bloody slice across his forearm. He pulled up his left sleeve to expose the wounds and show the shop owner his scars, his small smile never wavering. In fact, the pain was a welcome distraction. He sliced another gash across his for
earm, just for the fun of it.
Willoughby’s sunken eyes were wide with shock.
Ackerman slashed another line of blood. “I enjoy pain, Mr. Willoughby. I only feel truly alive when I’m inflicting or experiencing it. But, I have to admit, I prefer the administration of suffering. The fear and agony in the recipient’s eyes is indescribably glorious.”
“Is that supposed to scare me? You have a little pocket knife, and I have a shotgun.”
Ackerman’s smile widened, and he gave Willoughby a wink. “Once upon a time—in my opinion, how every good story should begin—I extracted information from this ghastly pedophile by placing him naked atop a wooden structure that came to a sharp point. I then added weights to his feet, and the pressure slowly eviscerated him, starting at the groin.”
Willoughby didn’t respond. He was statue still. Ackerman hadn’t even noticed the man breathe.
He said, “I love that story. But I also feel that if you want the story to be a good one, you need to tell it yourself, in the moment. So, with that in mind, I’d love to try something with you, Wallaby, that I’ve been dreaming about.”
He very slowly ran another slice across his forearm and licked the blood from the knife. Willoughby scowled defiantly, but even the little man’s facial movements had become increasingly erratic.
Ackerman continued, “In another life, I think that I was likely a member of a barbarian horde. Perhaps riding alongside Genghis Khan or someone like Cyrus the Great, the first emperor of Persia. You see, it is the Persians who devised the method of torture I would like to inflict upon you this evening, Mr. Marmoset.”
Willoughby cocked his head to the side and whispered, “You’re batshit crazy, mister. I tell you what . . . If you leave now, I won’t call anyone. I’ll forget this ever happened.”
Ackerman chuckled as he stuck the knife into his arm again. “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘scaphism,’ my dear Mr. Marmoset?”
The stubby man said nothing, but took a cautious step backward.
Ackerman said, “The ancient Persians developed a most insidious method of torture, which they deemed ‘scaphism.’ The way it commonly worked was to have the victim tied down in a small boat and force-fed milk and honey, with a portion of the honey spread across the victim’s naked body. The excessive ingestion of milk and honey caused the poor soul to defecate furiously into the boat. All the while, insects of many varieties, drawn by both the sweet and putrid, feasted upon the victim’s honey-and-feces-covered flesh. There’s a small lake just up the road. I saw some john boats tied up by the water as we drove past.”
Fear and sweat covered the stubby man’s features like a burial shroud, but he remained defiant. He said, “This is your last chance—”
“It wouldn’t take long before you were assaulted by several different species. Arachnids, bees and hornets, carrion beetles, flies of every kind. They would burrow inside you and lay their eggs in your flesh. And every day, I would return to shove more milk and honey down your gullet.”
Ackerman could see the doubt slowly creeping over Willoughby’s face as the man with the shotgun tried to understand why the man with the pocket knife was unafraid.
“Some historical records indicate that certain individuals of a strong constitution would survive up to three weeks. Although, I wouldn’t let that number trouble you. I’m sure the onset of delirium mercifully came within a week. The smell of your own rotting feces and gangrenous limbs would be quite overwhelming. But, to me, smells aren’t good or bad, they are just . . . intriguing. And some of the most fascinating smells overwhelm the senses in a way that I can only describe as pleasure. I would kill a thousand of you just to experience that smell once.”
“If you move another muscle, I will—”
“You will what? You honestly haven’t figured this out yet, have you?”
“Figured out what?”
“Ask yourself this question . . . If we were professionals, perhaps sent here by a competitor looking for information on Mr. King, would we knock on your door in the middle of the night?”
Willoughby’s grip tightened around the wood of the double-barreled shotgun, but he said nothing.
“Think about it. If we were going to use some kind of ruse, would we come in the middle of the night—putting you on guard and coming to the door with a shotgun—or would we come during business hours, where we could walk right up to the counter and have you at a disadvantage? Obviously, we would come during the day.”
“That’s enough. I’m going to use the phone. Don’t you move.”
“Or you’ll what, Mr. Marmoset? You’re still not getting the picture. When someone comes in the night like this, they don’t ring the bell. They slip in like a shadow and attack you while you’re most vulnerable.”
“But you didn’t do that.”
“No, we came to your door in the middle of the night, rousing you with your shotgun. But you see, we paid your errand boy, Tyson, to remove the firing pins from the loaded shotgun you keep at your bedside.”
Willoughby’s eyes went so wide that Ackerman thought they may slip from his skull.
Ackerman had noticed the employee’s name beside the door when they came in, on a cheap plaque proclaiming “Employee of the Month.” He had known at the time that Tyson would serve as a perfect distraction. The betrayal and the seemingly inside information would combine to put Willoughby over the top.
“Tyson would never do that.”
“You know the two of you look a bit alike. Don’t be too hard on the little hobbit. He’s not disloyal. He’s just gullible and ignorant. Much like his mentor. We came to him with a wonderful story about a television show called Scaredy Cat where we scare people and then film it. We told him that we needed his help with safety concerns, like your loaded weapons and security systems. He’s probably waiting on his front porch as we speak. I told him we would pick him up and let him join in the fun. Maybe we’ll pick him up later. Maybe have some fun with him too.”
The shop owner looked to Emily Morgan for rescue, but to her credit, she maintained an unsympathetic and impenetrable mask. Tears formed in the man’s eyes. “Please. Leave him out of this. He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know what? That you’re a criminal?”
“No, he knows about that, but he doesn’t know that I’m his biological father. It was a college thing that started at a party, and I think she put me down on the birth certificate. Not sure, but I know the info is out there somewhere, since Oban threatened me the same way. That’s why I gave Tyson this job and . . .”
Ackerman glanced at Emily, confusion causing him to break character. “And he doesn’t know you’re his father?”
Willoughby, his grip on the shotgun loosening, said, “Please. I can’t tell you anything. Mr. King would kill me and my son. That’s the way he works. Vengeance is swift and absolute.”
“Look into my eyes. Do you think that whatever they did to you could approach the horrors which my imagination could devise?”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably. Many have said so. But it’s a very vague term based purely on your perspective of what is sane and normal. And where’s the fun in being just like everyone else?”
Willoughby licked his lips, his breathing labored and short, his eyes darting back and forth between Ackerman and Emily.
“We’re not here to hurt you. Put the gun down, and we’ll talk. King doesn’t have to know that you spoke a single word about him.”
The barrel of the shotgun moved slowly up and away. Willoughby looked down at the gun as if it had chosen to betray him. But then his expression changed, and he said, “Wait. Tyson’s been out sick all week.”
With a quick flick of his wrist, Ackerman hurled the pocket knife at the shop owner. The blade embedded itself into the center of Willoughby’s right hand, traveling through the soft flesh and
into the wooden stock of the shotgun.
Emily pulled her Glock 19 pistol but seemed unsure where to aim it.
~~*~~
Chapter Fifty-Four
The single bedroom of Kevin’s apartment had been converted into what he called his “Command Center.” Electronic components, soldering guns, swivel-mounted magnifying glasses, wires, tools, and multiple working computer systems. The rest of the apartment seemed to simultaneously be very normal and yet very wrong. It took Baxter a moment to realize why, but when he made the connection, it made perfect sense. The kitchen and living room contained all the normal items: refrigerator, table, couch, television, coffee table. What the rooms lacked was a single decoration or photograph. The walls were beige and bare. All in all, Kevin’s domicile reminded Baxter of a well-kept crackhouse.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, movie posters adorned the walls of Kevin’s Command Center. Beneath the posters, a metal cage lined the interior walls of the former bedroom. Kevin explained that it was a Faraday cage and went on to describe the importance of the countermeasure. At which time, Baxter zoned out for a moment.
After completing his spiel, Kevin led them to the living room, pulled the blanket and pillow off his gray suede couch and said, “Please, sit. Would you like a refreshment?” Kevin spoke in a clipped, unnatural tone, like a waiter on his first day, as if he were reading from a script.
Baxter dropped onto the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. He said, “I’d love a Fresca or something like that, if you have it.”
Kevin was silent a moment, his face hidden behind the shroud of his hood. Finally, he said, “All I have is coffee, Jolt Cola, and bottled water.”
“Don’t worry about it, little buddy. Have a seat. Let’s communicado.”
Kevin reluctantly sat on the edge of the coffee table, his hooded face only a couple of feet from the couch. Baxter said, “Are you sure you don’t want to just sit between us?”
