Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  “I like that attitude. After your punishment has been administered—and you’ve had some time to recover—I’d be happy to explain everything. We have no secrets here.”

  “I thought you just gave me my punishment.”

  He laughed. “No, my dear, that was merely a small taste. As I was explaining, I have learned much from studying the ways of the great Khan. One very popular method of execution among the Mongols was to pour molten silver into the eyes of the condemned. You’ve just experienced the pain of a few drops of that same melted metal.”

  “And I suppose if I decide I don’t want to be part of your kingdom, then I get the silver in my eyes.”

  “It’s important that I establish treason as the most deplorable of offenses.”

  “I didn’t ask to be part of this.”

  “Soldiers are often drafted against their will. In fact, one of Genghis Khan’s largest battles was a war with an already conquered province that refused to send him troops for one of his campaigns.”

  Tears streaming down her face, Corin said, “I don’t want to go to war. I’m not a soldier.”

  “Oh, Corin, this fragile little mouse act of yours doesn’t work on me. And the war I’m referring to isn’t one that requires battle. It’s more a war of ideas. And ensuring the survival of our species can be a messy process.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson. Please, show me mercy. I’m begging you.”

  Gladstone brushed the hair from her face and wiped away her tears. Then he said, “Rules are rules. There are no exceptions. And believe it or not, seeing this through is going to hurt me worse than it hurts you. I hate to see perfection defiled, but sometimes scars and disabilities serve to make people more interesting. I have a few phone calls to make, and so Sonnequa will be completing your punishment. But don’t worry, my dear, you’ll survive, and we’ll talk again real soon.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  After the task force of SFPD detectives had asked their questions and dispersed, the rest of the team went to work, speaking with detectives and making connections. Marcus decided to approach the strange man in the Hawaiian shirt and chinos—who was currently having a heated discussion with Detective Ferrera—but Marcus wasn’t looking to make friends.

  He already disliked Kincaid, after that little presentation. This hippie stoner, dressed like the lost member of the Beach Boys, had stepped onto the stage and openly mocked him with a flipbook. Marcus considered Kincaid’s little show to be the briefing room equivalent of thumbing your nose at someone in the schoolyard.

  He said, “Detective Ferrera, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your consultant here.”

  Trying to smile while still glaring at Kincaid, she said, “Yes, Baxter may act and dress like an idiot, but he actually has a large network of informants and connections. He occasionally helps the department.”

  Kincaid, who smelled like a Bob Marley concert, stuck out his hand, and Marcus shook it a bit too firmly. The private investigator didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he said, “Call me Baxter.” Then he pointed over at the goth chick—who was now sprawled out across a few of the padded chairs, swiping at her phone—and added, “That lovely lady is my partner, Ms. Jennifer Vasillo.”

  Marcus said, “That was a . . . unique presentation, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Mr. Kincaid was my grandpappy. I’m just the Bax, man. But, thank you, and while we’re on the subject, your presentation was damn impressive as well, Agent Williams. It even had little transitions and graphics and such. It was a work of art. Really, man, I dug it.”

  Unable to decide if Baxter was still making fun of him, Marcus clenched his jaw before he could respond with an insult.

  After an awkward pause, Baxter asked, “So is this your first time in our fairest of cities?”

  “It is my first time, but I don’t know if I consider this a real city.”

  “Excuse me? San Francisco has been one of the world’s premier cities since the time of the gold rush in 1849.”

  “I’m from New York. It was founded in 1624 and is the world’s premier metropolis. To me, this isn’t a city. It’s more like a borough.”

  Baxter chuckled, which only further irritated Marcus. Then the private investigator said, “I hate New York. It’s like drowning in concrete and business suits. My city is more for people who enjoy beauty and culture.”

  “You saying New York is ugly and lacking culture?”

  “For me, New York is like being a rat in a maze.”

  Beside him, Marcus heard Ackerman say, “It feels that way for me as well, only the entire maze is made out of cheese. And I need to chew my way out.”

  Looking at the newcomer, Baxter said, “I like this guy already. I adore that shirt, brother.” Then, instead of a handshake, Baxter stuck out his fist for Ackerman to bump.

  With a small wink at Marcus, Ackerman returned the gesture and bumped fists with the investigator.

  With a roll of his eyes, Marcus said, “Baxter Kincaid, this is our special consultant Mr—”

  “Francois Dantonio. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ackerman interrupted.

  Marcus resisted the urge to growl. Instead, he changed the subject. “If you have such a large network, Mr. Kincaid, why don’t you put them to work finding our suspect?”

  From beside Baxter, Detective Ferrera said, “You know what you’re going to have to do about this tattoo thing, Bax.”

  Marcus noted the irritated, yet intimate, way that Natalie Ferrera spoke to Kincaid.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “You’re going to have to pay a visit to Illustrated Dan. He’ll be able to tell us exactly who’s hand that is.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Even Dan doesn’t have complete files. And he’s still pissed at me about that poker game we busted up during the Hutchinson case.”

  Marcus asked, “Who’s Illustrated Dan?”

  Detective Ferrera said, “He’s an old friend of Baxter’s, a lowlife biker whose entire body from the neck down is covered with tattoos.”

  Baxter said, “That’s not completely accurate. He’s saving a few spots on his thighs for future inspiration.” Checking his watch, he added, “Even if we did pay a visit to Dan, it would have to wait until later.”

  “Why is that?” Marcus asked.

  “I’m not sure where to find him right now. We’d probably spend all morning looking. But I know exactly where he’ll be this afternoon.”

  “Do you have his number?”

  “He doesn’t believe in cell phones. He has a pager for emergencies, but only his boys in the MC have those digits.”

  “I didn’t know they still made pagers.”

  Ackerman said, “Actually, they’re widely available. I’ve used them as detonators on several occasions.”

  Marcus, trying to quickly cover up his brother’s odd comment, said, “Okay, we’ll go with you this afternoon to meet with him.”

  “I don’t think he’d appreciate me bringing feds around. No offense.”

  Looking at Ackerman, Marcus said, “Don’t worry. We’ll dress casual.”

  “He’ll smell you from a mile away.”

  Detective Ferrera said, “We’ll all go together, Baxter. Official business. He’ll be down in Tenderloin, right?”

  Baxter sighed and said, “Fine, but you’re picking me up in your convertible, Nat. And after this, I’m done being an active part of this case. Homicides and kidnappings aren’t my bag. The pimp hired me to find Corin and—”

  Natalie interrupted, “Wait, what did you say? What pimp? Who’s your client?”

  “Crap, sorry, that was a slip-up on my part. I’d prefer my client’s identity remain confidential on this one.”

  “Baxter, listen to me. Who is your client? Is it Faraz, that pimp who lives off Haight and Ash?”

&nb
sp; Marcus noticed a subtle shift in body language and posture come over Kincaid. A second ago, the man seemed to not have a care in the world. Now, Kincaid appeared to have been struck with conviction and everything about his mannerisms had turned deadly serious.

  Baxter asked, “Why are you asking me about Faraz?”

  “Because Faraz Tarkani, his guys, and nearly all of his girls were gunned down last night.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  In preparation for the meeting, Marcus had stressed to all of them that they needed to make inroads with the locals after the briefing. But, when the officers had been dismissed, Maggie only wanted to speak with one person: Baxter Kincaid. Unfortunately, she had been intercepted by a detective named Olivette, who wore way too much cologne, and possibly eyeliner.

  When she noticed Baxter and his goth companion rush from the room after conversing with Marcus and Ackerman, she excused herself and hurried to catch up. Not because she cared how Marcus or his big brother had offended Kincaid, but because she was in need of a private investigator.

  She finally intercepted the strange pair on the front steps of the old brick building. She shouted, “Mr. Kincaid!”

  He turned back, and she saw a fire in his eyes that hadn’t been there previously. She quickly said, “I’m sorry for whatever my colleagues may have said to upset you. But—”

  “It’s nothing like that. I just heard about an emergency that needs my attention. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait,” she said. “I want to hire you. I need you to locate someone for me.”

  A look of confusion fell over his face, but he fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “My cell is on there.”

  “Hold up. This will only take a second, I promise.”

  “Why do you need my help anyway? You have more resources than I do.”

  She quickly said, “I have my reasons, but I’d like to keep this between us. It’s a personal matter.” She held out a business card of her own. Only this one listed her info on the front, and on the back, she had already written her father’s full name, date of birth, and a few last known addresses—having planned to hire Kincaid from the moment he was introduced as a private investigator.

  She said, “I need you to find the man whose details are on the back of that card.”

  “How quickly do you want it done, and how much are you willing to spend?”

  “As quickly as possible, and money is not an issue.”

  Baxter narrowed his eyes. “Who is this guy, and why do you need to find him so badly?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shrugged and, after a glance down at the front and back of her business card, said, “Doesn’t matter to me. I just ask because it may help me find him. But no worries, I’ll flush out your wayward father like an old coon hound.”

  “How did you know the man I’m looking for is my father?”

  Stuffing the card in his pocket, he said, “I’m a detective. That’s how I roll. I’ll be in touch real soon, Agent Carlisle.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The pictures of the two mansions, which the task force had pinned to the walls of the conference room, didn’t nearly do the properties justice. Mr. King’s estate jutted from the hills overlooking the bay like the nest of a large predatory bird. They had traveled up a private drive to reach a massive black security gate. The walls around the rest of the property were fifteen feet tall and made of concrete, but because of the steep slope of the hills into which the mansions had been built, the two massive white homes were on full display.

  The structures reminded Ackerman of a white whale with her baby nestled under her fluke. The mansion closest to the security gate was the baby, and Mr. King’s personal residence was the mother resting on the hill’s summit. The baby was still a mansion by anyone’s standards, but King’s home was more than a mansion; it was a palace. The buildings were almost vulgar in their opulence, each adorned by massive white pillars and intricate carvings, with King’s residence looking like a bastardized child of the White House and the Roman Coliseum.

  Ackerman could sense that his brother was still angry with him over the Willoughby incident. He imagined that he should be concerned or ashamed or something of that nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. All he could do was follow his personal north star and hope to find his way through the fog of this life. He couldn’t go around worrying every moment, afraid that he would offend one of the normals. Not only because he was incapable of such fear, but also because he refused to live according to the flawed standards of a broken world.

  He had, however, acquiesced to his brother’s request to change into a suit for the meeting with Oban. Ackerman suspected Marcus intended to burn his patriotic shirt of denim. A shame, but it was only a piece of fabric sewn together in a sweatshop somewhere. It was nothing worth fighting over.

  Alongside the drive—before they reached the security gate—there were several parking spaces. Marcus pulled into one and said, “Let me do the talking.”

  Ackerman shrugged his shoulders. “That’s fine. I’m more a man of action anyway.”

  “First, I don’t want you to take any action. Second, you are definitely a talker.”

  “If I’m not supposed to do anything, then why am I here?”

  “Because that’s how the Director wanted it.”

  “You didn’t want me on this case?” Ackerman asked.

  “It’s not that I didn’t want you here. I just . . . You’re kind of like an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. And you wouldn’t expect an alcoholic to work at a bar and not give in to that constant temptation. I want to limit your exposure to situations that may tempt your darker nature.”

  Ackerman heard his father’s voice, a memory from one of his childhood lessons. From somewhere over his shoulder, Thomas White’s voice said, You jam your fingers in here and here. That’s good. Now rip out his trachea. He still kept his nails a little long to make easy work of penetrating flesh and killing with his hands, just as his father had instructed.

  Ackerman shook his head. “Would you put Michael Jordan on the bench because he might be tempted to play basketball? I think not.”

  Marcus’s expression traveled from confusion to annoyance.

  Deciding to further explain, Ackerman said, “It reminds me of something Theodore Roosevelt once said—”

  With a roll of his eyes, Marcus opened his door, stepped from the rented Chevy Impala, and started toward the intercom panel beside the security gate, which looked as though it could withstand the onslaught of a tank.

  Thomas White whispered, Now rip out his trachea.

  Ackerman sat dumbfounded for a moment. Having killed so many people due to slights of much less magnitude, he was discovering that his little brother’s desire to “protect” him really meant locking him in a cage of a different kind. But he supposed it didn’t truly matter. He would keep doing his thing until someone killed him. And he had always found it better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

  To the empty vehicle, he said, “Don’t worry, Father. I’m sure there will be some trachea ripping on the agenda soon.”

  By the time he reached the gate, Marcus had already pressed the button and said, “We have a one o’clock appointment with Oban Nassar.”

  Ackerman added, “The scheduling was done by a mutual acquaintance of ours named Willoughby.”

  The guard on the other end of the intercom paused for a moment, likely verifying their appointment and clearance with a superior, and then said, “Mr. Oban will meet you in the lobby. Leave your vehicle where it is and enter through the small door to the right of the main gate.”

  Ackerman whispered, “They must be worried that someone may drive a bomb into the inner courtyard.”

  Moving directly to the metal walkthro
ugh door, Marcus said nothing.

  The darkness swelling inside him, Ackerman followed his brother but said, “Have you been sleeping well? You’re especially pissy today.”

  “You already disobeyed my orders at the intercom.”

  “I merely felt that you should stress who had delivered the message.”

  “No more talking.”

  “As you wish, baby brother.”

  With a low growl, a flare of his nostrils, and a crack of his neck, Marcus opened the security door. It led to another checkpoint where two armed men wanded them for metal and performed a set of thorough pat downs. Then they were escorted into the lobby of the smaller mansion. A long staircase flowed like a snake along the three-story room’s right side. There were two guards at the top of the staircase and more in the corners of the massive foyer. All were well armed and alert.

  The interior of the mansion was just as color starved as its exterior. White marble floors, gold trim and crown molding, crystal chandeliers, and a smell like fresh linen hanging in the air. With two more guards armed with H&K assault rifles at his side, Mr. Oban entered from a twelve-foot-tall archway opposite the sprawling staircase. Oban wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt and purple tie. His skin was the color of amber, and his hair matched the gray and black of his tailored suit.

  With the smile of a desert fox, Oban said, “Welcome to King and Associates. Please, let’s speak in my office.”

  He led them up the stairs and past two more guards, who fell in step behind them. Ackerman wondered what would come next. Would Oban feel the need to establish dominance and have them seized and searched? Maybe even killed on the spot, just to be safe?

  Normally, Ackerman would strike first, but then Marcus would be upset. So he decided it best to let things play out a bit further.

  Without a word, Oban led them down a long hallway and past a series of closed doors with gold plates displaying the occupant’s name and position in the company. The last door on the right, toward the back of the mansion, read “Oban Nassar - Chief Operations Officer.”