by Ethan Cross
Marcus’s lip curled up in disgust. “A drug that ensures that only the strong survive. Even in death, Gladstone is corrupting the world with his views about who deserves to live.”
Marcus supposed that neither he nor his son would have a place in Dr. Gladstone’s brave new world. Their unique neuropathology would likely have been one of many deemed unworthy of life.
Ackerman shrugged. “Gladstone was merely adhering to the Darwinian concepts revered by the scientific community. Perhaps taking them to extremes, but Darwin himself believed that inferior individuals should refrain from reproducing. I believe one such quote from Darwin, who is an irrefutable pillar of the scientific religion of today, states that hardly any farmer is so ignorant as to allow his worst animals to breed.”
With a shake of his head, Marcus replied, “And who determines who deserves to live? Who among us has that right? It makes me sick. Francis Galton’s concept of eugenics was built upon the scientific doctrine set forth by his cousin, Charles Darwin. And Hitler’s ‘superior race’ belief was based on the ideas of group inequality that are key to Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest’ theory. Rudolf Hess, a Nazi party leader, said that ‘National Socialism is nothing but applied biology.’”
Ackerman leaned back in Derrick’s leather chair and placed his feet up on the desk. Then he said, “Perhaps, but we can’t blame old Charles writing about his observations on the Galapagos as having direct causality to atrocities like the Holocaust. After all, Hitler perverted religious ideology as much as he did scientific theory. Darwin didn’t directly advocate concepts like eugenics or the Nazi’s final solution, but the idea that we are no more than animals of flesh and blood certainly gives rise to the thought that we should control human breeding in the same manner we would any other livestock. Science is a wonderful thing. Such pursuits save lives and make the world a better place. It’s the study of God’s creation and our universe, and it’s beautiful. But science is not a satisfactory standard for quantifying the human condition. We are so much more than these mortal coils. We are beings of light and emotion. If you rob humanity of that ideal, classifying people as nothing more than a subset of intelligent animals with delusions of grandeur. If our lives have little meaning beyond what we can contribute to the herd, then it becomes easy for us to put a value on one life over another.”
“And now Derrick Gladstone is going to enact a holocaust of his own. But rather than killing those he deems inferior, he wants to make sure they’re never even born.”
“Perhaps your Director has an associate at the Food and Drug Administration who can put a halt to Gladstone’s brainchild?”
“Hopefully, but I’m not holding my breath. Damnit, Frank, even in death, that bastard is still hurting people. The more I learn about them, the more I think the Gladstone brothers are the most evil men we’ve ever hunted. It’s one thing to take life, but this is . . . a whole other level of depravity.”
“They were certainly a pair of lost souls, but I get the sense that we’ve yet to see the meaning of the word ‘depravity.’ Just imagine the perversions a mind like Demon’s could dream up.”
Marcus said, “Or someone like our father. But even he only brought two broken children into the world.”
“That we know of.”
“Don’t say that. Two of us is more than enough.” Marcus sighed and leaned his fists against the mahogany desktop. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Frank. Derrick Gladstone used his brother like a hammer to nail down his enemies. I don’t want to push you like that. I don’t know that this life is the best thing for you.”
“Our lives and the direction our paths take is something we can neither control nor hide from. You told me the past didn’t matter. All that’s important is what we do now. We are soldiers, Marcus, in a war that we can’t even see from our limited perspectives. We are those who stand against the darkness by bringing others to the light. It’s our job to save men like these from themselves and prevent them from bringing others down into the depths along with them.”
“Some people are beyond saving.”
“I’m sure everyone said the same about me. Ephesians 6:12: ‘For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.’”
“You and I aren’t exactly champions of virtue and light.”
“I don’t believe we were chosen for who we are, but, rather, who we could be. You and I have been called to rage against the dying of the light inside the souls of men.”
“It seems more like we’re called to be punching bags.”
“There’s some truth to that. But I think we’re more like those inflatable clowns that children pummel. We always seem to pop back up.”
“Until the day comes when we don’t.”
“And what a grand adventure that will be.”
“Where do we go from here? Do we head back to ADX Florence and pay Demon a visit, or do we go after Maggie?”
“You’re the boss, brother. But if I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion.”
“As if you have a problem being bold.”
Ignoring him, Ackerman continued, “I’m afraid that little sister may have bitten off more than she can chew by pursuing the Taker on her own. I say we leave Demon on ice and focus on our wayward team member. Because it’s my professional opinion that if we don’t find her before she finds the Taker . . . Well, then she’ll be the next one who’s taken.”
Tears brimmed in Marcus’s eyes. “It’s my fault that she left. I should have been there for her. I didn’t know how much she was hurting. If anything happens to her, that’ll be my fault too. So how do we find the Taker? It’s a twenty-year-old cold case that has been poured over by the best minds law enforcement has to offer.”
Ackerman smiled. “But sometimes, dear brother, catching the worst of the worst is a job for the best of the bad.”
~~*~~
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
Oban Nassar had first cut his teeth as a baltagiya working for the Egyptian government and police. The term translated as “hatchet men,” who were basically thugs often hired to attack regime targets and stir civil unrest. The baltagiya had even been trained by the police to implement many forms of sexual brutality against protesters and detainees.
With a head for business, Oban had quickly risen above such menial chores, but even after all these years, Mr. Demon still referred to him as the Hatchet Man.
As he pushed the wheelchair down the boardwalk leading to the beach, Oban strained to understand people’s fascination with saltwater and sand. Growing up in the desert, he had seen enough sand to last a thousand lifetimes. Sometimes, lying in bed, he felt as though the sand had been permanently embedded beneath his skin.
The Marshall Islands also didn’t seem like the kind of place to which the Demon would wish to retire. But it was not his place to ask personal questions of his employer. Oban had the paperwork prepared and ready prior to the deaths of Derrick and Simon Gladstone, and so the entire process had taken only a couple of days to complete. When all was said and done, the holdings of each man—which included the private island on which Derrick had planned to build his new society—were legally transferred to their mother. Then the Gladstone matriarch had gladly transferred control over to the Legion and Mr. Demon in exchange for the best treatment and care on the island for the remainder of her life.
An attendant in a white suit met Oban at the end of the boardwalk, ready with Mrs. Gladstone’s beach lounger and martini.
Oban was glad he wouldn’t actually have to take the old woman all the way onto the beach and risk getting sand in his shoes. For his retirement, he dreamed of the Swiss Alps, but to each their own.
Leaning down to the old woman’s ear, he said, “The staff will handle your care from this p
oint on, Mrs. Gladstone. I hope you enjoy the scenery. It’s certainly a step up from the dark room in which your sons had confined you. Mr. Demon wanted to pass on his thanks for your assistance. This island and the financial holdings of your sons will certainly aid a great deal in his plans going forward.”
As he headed up the path toward his awaiting AugustaWestland AW109 Grand Versace helicopter—which came equipped with every amenity and a 6.3 million dollar price tag—Oban Nassar thought of the old woman barely able to speak or move and willing to sell out her own children in exchange for a place in the sun. As he climbed inside the cabin of the luxury helicopter, he was reminded of a quote from Helen Keller: “Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”
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read these other Ethan Cross books
The Shepherd
TO STOP A MONSTER…
Marcus Williams and Francis Ackerman Jr. both have a talent for hurting people. Marcus, a former New York City homicide detective, uses his abilities to protect others while Ackerman uses his gifts to inflict pain and suffering.
HE MUST EMBRACE THE MONSTER WITHIN HIMSELF
When both men become unwilling pawns in a conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of our government, Marcus finds himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse trapped between a twisted psychopath and a vigilante with seemingly unlimited resources. Aided by a rogue FBI agent and the vigilante’s beautiful daughter – a woman with whom he’s quickly falling in love – Marcus must expose the deadly political conspiracy and confront his past while hunting down one of the must cunning and ruthless killers in the world.
Here’s an excerpt:
“Are you okay?” Maggie said, taking a cell phone from her purse and placing it against her ear. “You’re bleeding.”
Marcus reached up and wiped a trail of blood from his lip. He rubbed it between his fingers. “I’m—”
Maggie held up a finger to him, and he guessed that her call had connected. He had always found that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to a stressful or dangerous situation. As she spoke into the cell phone, he watched her mannerisms, cadence, pitch, tone, breathing, eyes. The words she spoke could have just as easily been issued from the mouth of a valley girl, but he looked beyond the words at the person underneath. Her voice was calm. Her tone was insistent yet professional. Her breathing was steady, and her body language exuded confidence. Her eyes scanned their unconscious attackers. At the edge of his perception, he detected a slight tremble, but that was to be expected. She reminded him of a cop calling in for backup.
“Glenn and some of his buddies just tried to jump me and a friend . . . We’re fine . . . My friend took care of them . . . Yes, Father, it’s a guy friend . . . No, you don’t know him. Now’s not the time. Just get over here. We’re in an alley next to the bar . . . Okay. Hurry.”
She closed the phone and placed it back in her purse.
Marcus watched as Glenn tried to get up but then fell back down and lay still. “Don’t you think we should call the cops?”
Maggie smiled. “My dad is the cops. He’s the Sheriff.”
“Oh, great.”
“That’s not a problem, is it? Lotta guys head for the hills when they hear my father’s the Sheriff. Guess they’re a little intimidated.”
“Not me. I’ve got a lot of respect for anyone who carries a badge. I’m a third-generation cop myself. Or . . . I was anyway.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he could be a cop again. Maybe I can get a job as one of the Sheriff ’s deputies, sitting next to the highway, issuing the occasional citation? It would be a far cry from the world he had left behind. But calling his previous employer for a reference would pose a problem.
Not pressing the issue, Maggie sighed and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face. A dark, bronze tan made her hair seem lighter than it actually was. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and didn’t need any. Her pink t-shirt bore the name of The Asherton Tap, the bar where she worked as a waitress and where they had met earlier in the evening. He had offered to walk her home.
“Sorry about all this,” she said. “I knew Glenn had a thing for me, but I never thought that he would take it this far.”
He smiled. He couldn’t believe that he had met someone like her on his first day in town. Although in his experience, things that seemed too good to be true usually were. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself.”
“Kinda noticed.”
He shrugged. “Chuck Norris movies.”
Maggie chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, you look like a man who can take care of himself, but that usually doesn’t mean anything.”
“I had some martial arts training and did some boxing when I was on the force. Plus, I was a pretty tough kid growing up. But to be honest, what happened here was one part ability and three parts luck.”
He had been lucky. Then again, he had always been lucky in similar situations. He always seemed to come out on top in a fight. When did luck become skill? When did a skill become a talent? In the end, he knew that he had a gift for hurting people, and it scared him. He wished it was only luck, but deep down, he knew better. He knew what he was capable of.
He saw flashing lights coming from around the corner. A moment later, a patrol car stopped in front of them. A middle-aged man with silver hair and goatee stepped out of the vehicle. Maggie relayed the situation to the man who Marcus assumed to be her father.
A crowd from the bar had gathered at one end of the alley. The sounds of a top-forty cover band echoed out of the Asherton Tap as more patrons walked from the bar to see what was happening. Many of the spectators looked disappointed that they had missed the action.
People always seemed to be in awe of the infliction of pain. Why do we find it so interesting to see people beat each other’s brains in? He wasn’t judging. He liked to watch a fight as much as anyone, but he wondered what it was in the nature of human beings that caused a fascination with violence and suffering.
After hearing the story, the Sheriff walked over to Glenn and hauled him up from the pavement while one of his deputies rounded up the cowboy’s friends. “Do you have anything to say for yourself ?”
Still dazed, Glenn said, “Sheriff, I didn’t do nothin’. We were just trying to welcome the new guy, and he got all smart with me. Next thing you know, he’s kickin’ and punchin’ people. It was craziness.”
The Sheriff nodded. “Right. I’ve always thought that you should be head of the welcoming committee. Plus, it was real nice of you and your boys to bring that baseball bat and tire iron as house-warming gifts.” The Sheriff shoved Glenn in the direction of his deputy. “Get him out of here.”
Her father pulled Maggie aside.
After a moment, they returned, and turning in Marcus’s direction, the Sheriff said, “Sorry about Glenn, son. Sharp like a spoon, that one. Anyway, it’s against my better judgment, but Maggie has convinced me to let you walk her home. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I want you to come into my office tomorrow and give a formal statement. I’ll be gone in the morning, but you stop by in the afternoon. That’ll give us a chance to sit down and have a nice visit.”
Marcus didn’t like the sound of a “nice visit.” The conversation would probably revolve around Maggie and the removal of certain parts of his anatomy if she weren’t shown respect. “I’ll be there, sir.”
“See that you are.”
Maggie gave her father an awkward hug before she and Marcus continued on. After a moment of silence, Maggie spoke. “So why aren’t you a cop anymore?”
A dark alleyway, a scream, the blood, the tears—the memories came rushing back and swirled through his mind like a tornado that leaves a house standing but uninhabitable. What business is
it of hers? Why don’t you ask about how my parents died, or maybe if I had a dog that was run over when I was a kid?
But she doesn’t know it’s a painful memory. She’s just trying to get to know you better, idiot. Maybe because she likes you, but now she probably thinks you’re some kind of burned-out psycho, since you’re taking an hour to respond to a simple question.
“Well . . . ”
What do I tell her?
“I think that’s a question we should save for at least our second or third date.”
“How do you know there’ll even be a second or third date?”
“Because you want to learn all my secrets.”
THE PROPHET
OLD ENEMIES...
Francis Ackerman Jr. is one of America’s most prolific serial killers. Having kept a low profile for the past year, he is ready to return to work – and he’s more brutal, cunning, and dangerous than ever.
NEW THREATS...
Scarred from their past battles, Special Agent Marcus Williams cannot shake Ackerman from his mind. But now Marcus must focus on catching the Anarchist, a new killer who drugs and kidnaps women before burning them alive.
HIDDEN TERRORS...
Marcus knows the Anarchist will strike again soon. And Ackerman is still free. But worse than this is a mysterious figure, unknown to the authorities, who controls the actions of the Anarchist and many like him. He is the Prophet – and his plans are more terrible than even his own disciples can imagine.
With attacks coming from every side, Marcus faces a race against time to save the lives of a group of innocent people chosen as sacrifices in the Prophet’s final dark ritual.
Here’s an excerpt:
Francis Ackerman Jr. stared out the window of the dark copper and white bungalow on Macarthur Boulevard. Across the street, a green sign with yellow letters read Mosswood Playground - Oakland Recreation Department. Children laughed and played while mothers and fathers pushed swings and sat on benches reading paperback novels or fiddling with cell phones. He had never experienced such things as a child. The only games his father ever played were the kind that scarred the body and soul. He had never been nurtured; he had never been loved. But he had come to accept that. He had found purpose and meaning born from the pain and chaos that had consumed his life.
