by Ethan Cross
One of Oban’s personal guards opened the door, while the others stepped inside. Then the COO gestured for his guests to enter. Once they were all inside the office of white marble and dark wood, Ackerman counted a total of six armed opponents, plus Oban himself, who looked to be in excellent physical condition.
The guards raised their weapons. Closing and locking the door behind them, Oban said, “Please, remove your shirts and get on your knees.”
“Screw you,” Marcus replied.
“Let me rephrase that. Get on your knees now or my men will shoot you in the legs, and I’ll have all the skin removed from the lower halves of your bodies. Then we’ll talk again and see if your attitude has been properly adjusted.”
Ackerman laughed and said, “That certainly sounds exhilarating. I’ve skinned victims before, but I’ve never been flayed myself, at least not to such a degree. I would suggest hanging us upside down when you perform the act. If you plan to start at our feet, that is. Less blood that way. And the other way around, we would be dead before we could have another conversation.”
~~*~~
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Dr. Derrick Gladstone unlocked the steel security door and wheeled into the compound’s control room. This was the nerve center of his sanctuary. From here, Derrick could see every inch of his kingdom. And thanks to an old friend—the brilliant killer known as Judas—the compound, especially the Diamond Room, was equipped with the latest and greatest in monitoring technology.
What had once been the resort’s executive offices now pulled double duty as the control center and his mother’s cell. He had provided the old witch with a comfortable bed in the corner, three square meals, and a wheelchair. What else did she need? Mother had Parkinson’s so bad that she had basically lost all control of her own movements anyway. What more would she receive in a nursing home? Perhaps a television, but she had something better: a front row seat to everything happening inside her son’s kingdom.
“Hello, Mother,” Derrick said. “Are you enjoying the show?”
Her eyes were already filled with tears. The terrible truth of Parkinson’s disease was that it attacked the body but left the mind intact.
Derrick followed her shaky gaze and saw Sonnequa on one of the monitors administering Corin’s punishment. The sound feed wasn’t active for that monitor, but with a turn of a dial on the control board, the sound of Corin’s screams filled the room. With a small grin creeping onto his face, he reduced the volume and said, “I’m so happy you’re able to bear witness to the culmination of your legacy.”
It seemed to him that Mother tried to shake her head No, but he found it difficult to know for sure among all her involuntary movements.
“Don’t bother thanking me, Mother. What’s that you said? Oh, you’d like me to read you a story? Perhaps your favorite?”
She closed her eyes.
Derrick wheeled over and opened a desk drawer, from which he removed an old leather journal. Opening to a marked page, he began to read aloud: “I don’t know how I will ever explain to the boys. I know they idolized their father, but they didn’t understand him the way I did. He was a terrible man. What I did, I did for my boys as much as for myself. The bastard wanted to trade me in for a younger model and was planning to abandon us. So I shot him in the back of the head.”
Tears rolled down Mother’s cheeks.
Derrick whispered, “I just love that one, don’t you? I’m surprised you didn’t read that to us as a bedtime story when we were boys. And in case you’re wondering, Mother, I am knowingly torturing you. Yes, I enjoy it. And yes, I think you deserve it.”
She opened her eyes and twitched.
“I want you to remember everything, Mother. I want to constantly remind you that you showed me all that is broken with this world. And Father . . . he showed me how to make it right. I could perhaps forgive you for the murder of such a great man. I suppose, in some twisted way, I can understand your feelings on the matter. But your hatred could have died with him instead of turning its attention on your sons.”
She tried to raise her arm, but all her muscles would do was tremble. Derrick respected the ruthlessness of Mother’s affliction.
He said, “I heard from Dennis this morning. Your precious baby is wanting to pay you a visit. At first, I was rather upset about the whole thing, but with our declaration of independence forthcoming, a visit from my worthless brother actually presents an interesting opportunity. Dennis is without a doubt the weakest link in our genetic chain. He exemplifies the weak, ignorant complacency that is eroding our society. I think I’m going to kill Dennis and his family, while you watch. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. I’ll get to taste your pain as the favorite child dies, and I’ll also be ensuring that his inferior genetic makeup isn’t allowed to spread.”
She shook violently and turned her eyes from him.
“And don’t worry, Mother, once we reach the Island, I’ll find plenty of other ways of making your life interesting. Perhaps I’ll start by slowly removing pieces of you. I could begin with your toes and work my way up. Average life expectancy is now 81.2 years for women in the USA. If you even get close to that, it will mean that we have ample time for me to remind you of past sins.”
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty
Oban Nassar walked over to his desk—a black-and-gold marble monstrosity that screamed of decadence and power—and picked up a handful of dates. He took a bite of the sweet fruit as he walked around and leaned against the front of his desk. He said, “I’m sure you gentleman can understand our concern for security, considering the audacious and insulting nature of your attack on one of our associates merely to get our attention.”
Ackerman could feel the telepathic bullets Marcus was sending his way. Perhaps he had been a bit overzealous, but the message seemed to have been received in the manner he had intended.
He said, “Sometimes a situation calls for a certain level of audacity.”
Marcus snapped, “Shut up, Frank. My partner didn’t mean to insult you, Mr. Nassar. He can be a bit . . . abrasive.”
Oban raised a date to his mouth and bit down to the pit. “Are you aware of our company’s reputation, gentlemen? There are some horrible rumors floating around. Jealous competitors and governmental bureaucracies claim that our methods are extreme, but I feel that we have always displayed a measured response dictated purely by the nature of our business.”
Turning away from Oban, Ackerman faced the nearest of the armed guards, who stood beside a row of dark bookshelves. With a smile, he said, “The nature of the business we have come to discuss warranted a proper introduction.”
“Attacking one of our associates is how you like to introduce yourselves?”
Ackerman replied, “No, that was merely setting the appointment, and the stage. This is the introduction.”
On the last word, he leaped toward the closest bookshelf, pushing off the third level and diving toward the nearest guard. His bicep collided with the gunman’s throat. Ackerman squeezed and used the stunned man to change direction again, pulling the guard off balance and coming up directly behind the man. Just as he had mentally choreographed, he then grabbed the man by the gun arm, wrenched up, and tore the shoulder from its socket. In the same motion, he grabbed the H&K rifle by its grip and, holding it like a handgun, pointed it toward Oban.
Ackerman said, “Here’s the thing. Well, the first thing. You don’t really want to kill us, because you need to know who we actually work for. These men have been ordered to harm us only if absolutely necessary. That creates a hesitation in their actions, which leaves an opening for attack.”
Oban took another bite and said, “I’ll make a note for future reference.”
Ackerman kicked the guard away and made a show of disassembling the assault rifle, piece by piece, dropping each component to the floor. His fingers flew over
the weapon with intimate knowledge. While in various institutions and in other down times throughout his life, he had studied all manner of weapons to their exact specifications. In those days, his access to the Internet was extremely limited, but a keen intellect could find ways to learn most anything.
He named off the components as his fingers gripped and pushed against the release mechanisms.
Once the last piece of the weapon had hit the floor, he continued, “Second thing. If the kind of service we have come to offer states that we can reach out and touch anyone, anywhere, anytime . . . Then how better to prove ourselves than by showing how easily we could kill you. But if we had come to harm you, then we would have done it already. Now, can we dispense with this nonsense and discuss business?”
Oban finished off the last of the dates and, to his men, said, “Stand down.” Then he gestured for two chairs to be brought over. “Please. Have a seat. You were right about my desire to know more about who employs the both of you, along with the Asian woman from last night.”
Ackerman dropped into one of the chairs. Marcus seemed hesitant, his jaw clenched and his face growing red. But, after a moment, he too sat down in front of Oban Nassar’s desk. Ackerman said, “Let’s just get the obvious question off the table. Are we cops or law enforcement of any kind? Well, I can assure you that I’m not on the side of any law beyond God and nature.”
Oban crossed his arms. “Why would you ever think that our company would want to hire a service that can, as you said, ‘reach out and touch someone?’ We’re an investment and asset-management firm. We have no need of such services.”
Marcus said, “We’ve done work back east for Eddie Caruso. We’re branching out, and he told us that you own north Cali. He suggested we reach out to you.”
“Yes, your associates mentioned that to Mr. Willoughby. But I also knew because Eddie—or The Great Caruso, as they call him now—contacted me this morning. He let me know to be expecting you.”
Ackerman maintained his expression despite the urge to roll his eyes. Marcus didn’t seem to be keeping his composure quite as well. His brother’s voice was almost a snarl when he replied, “And what did dearest Eddie have to say about us? Nice things, I hope.”
Oban smiled. “I assume that you’re Marcus. Eddie told me all about you. He said you were a cop.”
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty-One
Stefan Granger pulled his second Buick in two days to the curb, having ditched his other car and purchased a replacement after the brothel mission. He considered what weapons he would need for his current undertaking. After some thought, he decided on his bare fists, with the silenced Beretta in his coat as a backup. He wasn’t excited about what he was about to do, but it was a necessity. Unser had grown increasingly bolder with his threats, and now the old man had sealed his fate by sending federal agents to the cemetery. Normally, cops at the graveyard weren’t a problem for Granger, because they were either dead or grieving. It did bother him, however, to have officers hunting him down and discovering the place where he had spent half his life.
It was a rare stroke of luck that the agents hadn’t probed deeper or asked to speak with the caretaker.
Granger had once considered Leland Unser to be a friend, but now his old mentor had betrayed him to his enemies. And Father had always taught him that revenge should be swift and complete.
Stepping from the Buick and locking the old vehicle’s door manually with the key, Stefan Granger walked toward the brick-and-glass facade of Unser’s Gym. The place had undergone three makeovers since the days when he had started his training. He didn’t particularly like the new look. There was something a bit too girly and self-absorbed about it. But Granger also understood that anyone in the service industry had to adapt to the needs of their clientele.
He knew the door would be locked and the gym closed. Unser, a devout Catholic, refused access to his facilities on a Sunday to all but his chosen few.
Through the glass, Granger saw Unser and several of his guys practicing footwork. He removed his silenced Beretta and shot out the glass of the gym’s entry door. As he stepped over the broken shards, pistol still in hand, he had everyone’s attention. There were five of them, not including the old man. He recognized the group as one of Unser’s primary trainers and his four top guys.
Granger smiled as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles. If he was going to murder his mentor, he might as well have some fun while doing it.
Unser stepped forward and yelled, “You crazy son of a bitch! You have some real balls busting in here. But I guess anyone can pretend to be a big man when he’s holding a gun.”
Still smiling, Granger undid the slide on the Beretta and pulled back the mechanism, essentially rendering the weapon useless until it was reassembled. Then he gently laid the gun atop one of the nearby weight benches.
Granger saw the fear in Leland Unser’s eyes. The old man had trained him during his youth and knew what he was capable of. Or, at least, the old man thought he did. In truth, Unser had only seen a fraction of the methods of destruction at Granger’s disposal.
He ran his fingers across a straight bar, which rested on the supports above the bench. It was a standard Olympic-sized bar that someone had apparently been using to bench-press. It was much like the one he had at home, except this one had started to bend slightly from neglect.
He could hear the other men scuttling about and arming themselves, but he ignored them. Unser said, “Why are you here, kid?”
“You know what you did. Don’t add insult to injury by playing dumb. Do you remember what you told me when I came to you to be trained? I could never afford your fees, but I begged you to let me work off the debt. Do you remember the warning you gave me?”
Unser looked toward the floor, regret in his eyes. Then he whispered, “I told you the thing about making a deal with the devil is that, one way or another, the devil always collects.”
Stefan laughed. “You always did have a way with words, old man.”
“And you always had a way with your fists. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever trained, and yet you’re my biggest disappointment.”
Granger had been prepared to hear something along those lines, but the insult still stung. He had once idolized the barrel-chested old boxer. But he had outgrown fighting for sport, preferring battles with higher stakes. For him, fighting wasn’t a game; it was a way of life, an existential philosophy.
Unser asked, “Who told you about the feds?”
He replied, “One of your stable of young studs informed me about the visit and the information you gave them. You really can’t trust anyone these days.”
To Unser’s credit, he didn’t try to deny the allegation. He said, “I always suspected that some kind of cop would show up asking questions about you and your Diamond Room. I think I always knew you were a monster. I just thought maybe you could be my monster. I thought maybe I could beat that out of you, show you a better way. But I made up my mind a long time ago that if anyone ever came asking about you, then I would send them out to your dad at the cemetery. I figured he would be the only one who really knew what rock you were hiding under and how to find you.”
“Why do you take such offense to my choice of profession?”
“’Profession’? You use the skills I taught you to kill people. That practically makes me an accessory.”
“You realize the consequences of your actions?” Granger looked up and saw that all of Unser’s top guys had armed themselves. One gripped a baseball bat that he must have retrieved from the back office. Another held a switchblade. Another had grabbed two thirty-five pound dumbbells, apparently planning to use them like weighted gloves. Granger recognized the final opponent as Unser’s number-one contender prospect. This last man simply cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.
Stefan Granger removed his jacket and rolled up his slee
ves. Then he stepped up to the Olympic straight bar and snatched it up one-handed. Then, to test the weight and balance of his new weapon, Granger spun the forty-five pound Olympic bar as if it was a bow staff, twirling it through the air and around his body.
After a few seconds of showing off, Granger looked at his opponents with a lopsided grin and whispered, “Get over here.”
The young prospect with the aluminum baseball bat rushed in first, ready to hit a homerun. An aluminum bat wasn’t a bad weapon, in the right hands. The thing about a bat or club was that the wielder needed lots of room for the swing, which wasn’t a problem in the open gym.
Unfortunately for him, the softball slugger had completely underestimated the speed at which Granger could wield his makeshift bow staff. What his opponents didn’t know was that, between sets, Granger would often grab a bar and spin it like a weapon. Not that he had ever intended to use one while in combat, but the heavy training increased the strength of his blows with a lighter staff.
Now, just as he had practiced so many times, he whipped up the end of the Olympic bar and connected it with the onrushing power of the baseball bat. The two metal objects collided with a resounding clang. The young man holding the bat screamed in pain as the intense vibrations traveled up the bat to the muscles in his arms. Obviously, he had forgotten how well aluminum bats transferred force.
The attacker’s arms dropped to the ground as they absorbed the vibration. But Granger wasn’t done yet. He spun on his heels and twisted the other side of the Olympic bar back to collide with his attacker’s skull. Metal connected with bone in a sickening crunch, and Granger drove the blow home, pushing the man all the way to the floor and slamming the bar flat against the concrete, crushing his opponent’s skull.
Blood spattered all over Granger’s face and torso.
Thinking of his days as the undisputed Mortal Kombat champion, he said, “Flawless victory. Who’s next?”
