by Ethan Cross
Once his feet hit the metal, Ackerman released every ounce of rage he had been suppressing.
He raised the M4A1 and emptied a clip into the first tower. He replaced the mag, slammed a new one in place, and emptied that into the second tower.
With no more magazines, he went to work on the last tower the old fashioned way. He used the assault rifle as a club, and then he used his hands. He smashed and kicked and pulled at every wire he could find. He practiced his Silat moves on the towers, ignoring the pain in his fists, knees, feet, and elbows from striking the metal of the servers and their housings.
When it was done, he stood there, panting and bleeding, and surveyed his handiwork. It looked like someone had smeared the servers with peanut butter and locked a grizzly bear in the room.
But Ackerman knew that it had worked because Spinelli had stopped shaking and was now staring up at him from the floor.
She said, “You could have just unplugged them.”
Ackerman said, “Darling, you don’t send me when you want something unplugged. You send me when you want it dead.” He smiled and gave her a wink. “And that was a hell of a lot more fun.”
*
It was nearly another twenty hours before any of them slept. The medical examiner had confirmed what Marcus already knew. The body in the morgue lacked testicles and was indeed the remains of Bradley Reese or Dmitry Zolotov or Judas or whatever the man called himself. Marcus had then remembered that Reese gave them his computer to use. That had to be checked out and analyzed. Then he had the idea to check the cabin where the picture was taken. He also wanted to get someone pursuing the corporate angle. Plus, they had to retake the damn prison, which didn’t prove to be much of a challenge after Winston told them that the remaining ULF members had been told to surrender if the tactical teams came in.
It had been a good day that had felt strange to Marcus because someone’s life wasn’t on the line every second. Unfortunately, things would return to normal for him, but he had enjoyed the brief respite. A little vacation from staring at crime scene photos and seeing the victim’s eyes and knowing that the man he was hunting could kill again at any moment, leaving him staring at more pictures and more bodies of more victims.
He kind of enjoyed hunting a few bad guys who committed crimes for rational, comprehensible motives, like money.
But that wasn’t his job. His job was to stop broken people with distorted views of the world by seeing the world through their demented perspectives. And if he didn’t do it quickly enough, some living, breathing person with goals and dreams and loved ones would be savagely torn from this world.
He knew some guys were able to compartmentalize all that, and he was trying his best to be like them, but the weight of it all took its toll.
He didn’t get to see Dylan that day, and Marcus had fallen into bed feeling like a poor excuse for a father and his own worst enemy.
When he woke up the next morning, he looked for the hotel alarm clock, but it wasn’t glowing beside him on the nightstand. He turned on the lights and found that the clock had been removed completely.
They had a decent-sized suite at a Hyatt near the airport. The space on the other side of his room’s door was an open communal area with a full kitchen, dining room, living room, and game room.
From the sounds coming through the door, they were all getting some use.
He pushed himself out of bed. He had kicked off his shoes the night before, but beyond that he was still wearing all the clothes he had on the previous day.
He opened the door and was first greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs. And second by a little boy in swimming trunks, still dripping onto the carpet.
Dylan walked over. He didn’t run and dive into his father’s arms. He walked over and put his arms around his dad’s waist and said, “Will you take me to the airplane museum? Grandpa Will won’t take me because he’s scared to fly.”
The whole comment caught Marcus off guard, and he started chuckling.
Grandpa Will stood beside the pool table, a pool cue still in his hand. Will was in his sixties and had shaggy brown hair that had started sliding up his forehead. He wore an old but now-retro button-down shirt, and a greasy red baseball cap with a Chevrolet emblem on its front.
Grandpa Will said, “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone that, kid.”
That made Marcus laugh even harder.
He shook Will’s hand. He hadn’t seen Claire’s father in years, and the awkwardness would have been even greater considering that Maggie had dropped Dylan off with Will and then basically disappeared. Luckily, Dylan had helped defuse that tension.
Maggie was at the stove, which was frightening. She gave him a wink and said, “I told the Director we’d be working from here today. And breakfast is almost ready.”
He kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I love you. And not just because you’re cooking bacon.”
She looked at him roguishly and said, “I know.”
“Careful. You know it makes me hot when you quote the classics.”
Dylan said, “Dad, did you see who else is here? They let him out of his box.”
The boy then pointed across the room to where Andrew and Francis Ackerman Jr. stood in front of the team’s digital OLED display board.
Marcus walked over and said, “Who let you out? I thought the Director was sending you back to your cage.”
Ackerman shrugged. “He’s getting soft in his old age.”
Andrew added, “I talked him into it.”
Marcus nodded and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder. “You’re so much better at that than me.”
“The key is not getting angry and throwing things.”
“I’ll try that next time,” Marcus said. “What are you boys talking about?”
Ackerman said, “We were just discussing Judas’s files.”
“What about them?”
“Where to find them.”
“I thought Spinelli found an encrypted folder on Reese’s laptop. I figured the files would be there.”
“Some of them,” Andrew said. “Stan broke the encryption, but it only contains some of Judas’s journals. From what I’ve read so far, the journals do discuss other killers associated with Demon’s group. Including one in particular whom we think may have the detailed files. The journals call him the Gladiator.”
Marcus said, “Any clues as to how we find the Gladiator?”
“Nothing … yet.”
Marcus nodded. “We need those files.”
Ackerman said, “Obviously. But you should consider something else. This isn’t a normal case or a normal killer. Taking on something like this requires more than just dedication and solid detective work. Taking on the Demon will require an obsession. One that will tear you away from everything you love. And I have a bad feeling about all this.”
“We already have Demon. Now, we just need to use him to take down his friends.”
“Please. A man with the resources, money, and intelligence of Demon’s level won’t remain in custody for long. And he’s the kind of beast that lets you think you’re hunting it, when really it’s hunting you. He won’t hesitate to kill any of us. Including your son.”
Marcus looked across the room at Dylan laughing and playing pool with Grandpa Will. Maggie had started whistling at the stove. She looked like she knew what she was doing, but he knew from experience that those eggs would wind up being Cajun style and smothered in salsa or ketchup to mask the taste.
He had a beautiful family. A group of loved ones much like the countless other families that Demon and his friends had torn apart. And someone had to step up and put an end to it.
“Cases like this are why the SO was created. It’s our job but, more than that, it’s who we are. All of us.”
Marcus leaned in close to his big brother and added, “When you look around this room at these people, that feeling of happiness and contentment that you feel … That’s born out of love. And when you imagine losing all of us
… That’s fear.”
Ackerman’s head slowly tilted back, and his eyes shifted around the room from person to person. He whispered, “Fascinating,” and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “If two people are lost in the woods and come across a grizzly bear, and it chases them. Those people only have a few options. They could try to climb a tree, which is not a good idea. Play dead. Try to startle the bear somehow. Or they could run as fast as they can. After all, one would just have to be faster than the other person. Most people would fall into this group. They would run and consider themselves lucky for having made it out with their lives. And then there are some of us out there who would help nature along and trip that other person up a bit, ensuring our own survival. But you, brother, you would turn to face the bear and fight it to the death in order to save your companion. That’s who you are.”
“You saying I need to eat the bear or the bear’s going to eat me?”
“I’m saying that I’m glad that there are crazy people like you in the world.”
“Thanks, I guess. And what about you? Which group are you in now?”
“By nature, I would trip the other person. No hesitation. But not to save myself. Simply because it would be fascinating to watch such a gorgeous predator in action. Although, I’m doing my best to stand beside you and fight the bear.”
Ackerman then theatrically waved his arm toward the display board covered with photos of people and clues. He smiled and said, “So, if we’re all in agreement … let’s go hunting.”
*
FILE #750265-6727-097
Zolotov, Dmitry - AKA The Judas Killer
State Exhibit F
Description: Diary Entry (Final Entry)
It’s strange to think that through this diary you—dear reader, dear future historian—are studying my words, experiencing my feelings, and learning of my innermost thoughts even while I am long dead. There’s a kind of immortality in that, isn’t there. Especially in this digital age when no good ideas or heinous sins are ever forgotten or lost to history. Every post. Every tweet. Every selfie. Our grandchildren’s grandchildren will go back and study those words and images someday.
Maybe as a school project or a hobby.
In this age of 1s and 0s, all that we are is remembered in the digital signature we have left behind. It’s something that has never before been possible in recorded history.
Digital files don’t fall to ruin or rot away. They will be accessible in some form forever. Well, at least until our entire modern society falls into ruin itself and all that remains of us is legend and myth and the cycle begins anew. Or someone in the future decides that your life or the lives of your entire bloodline aren’t meaningful enough for anyone to care and drops the entire record of your existence into some virtual trash can.
Barring either of those, future generations will be able to piece together our lives based on what we have left behind digitally, and for anyone between the ages of 0 and 50, you’ve left a record of almost your entire life behind. And for those of you who have been born within the past ten years … someday your ancestors will be able to go back and experience your birth, your first steps, your first day of school, your first everything, and they’ll be there with you from that first breath up until the moment you die. Every report card. Every bad decision. Every good game. Every moment of brilliance. It’s all there, accessible forever if one knows where to look.
Your entire story is being told by you to every generation to come.
Make sure you tell a good one.
I AM HATE
Ethan Cross
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
1
Francis Ackerman Jr. had lost track of the number of lives he had taken and the level of destruction he had wrought. He barely remembered much of those dark years. They were merely a blur of blood and pain. If a man truly reaped what he sowed, Ackerman knew the kind of harvest he deserved. Still, he couldn’t make himself worry about consequences or fear judgment. He had stared into the darkness on numerous occasions and imagined the smell of brimstone and the sound of weeping and gnashing of teeth. But he couldn’t harness the proper emotional and physical response. Fear remained as elusive to him as sight to a man whose eyes had been carved from his head.
Ackerman hadn’t been born blind to fear and addicted to pain. His own father had subjected him to every form of torture imaginable and forced him to experience traumatic events from the lives of the most notorious killers in the world. When that wasn’t enough, his father surgically ravaged the portions of his brain which controlled the response to fear and the fight or flight instincts.
Despite those
inherent setbacks, Ackerman was proud of what he’d accomplished so far. He had found his way back to his younger brother and, through Marcus, had gained a family. Since then, he had saved several lives and, by his count, aided in the capture of eight serial murderers. And the biggest catch yet—a man they knew only as Demon who ran a network of sadistic killers for hire—was scheduled for transfer from Foxbury Prison to ADX Florence, one of the most secure correctional facilities in the world.
Ackerman should have been in a better mood. But he couldn’t allow himself joy or pride over the capture, since he hadn’t directly beaten the Demon. Part of him knew that while they both still breathed, their struggle would never be over.
He watched his brother from the rear of a briefing room with speckled floors and white block walls that stank of cigarettes and gun oil. Special Agent Marcus Williams—Ackerman’s younger brother—wore a black suit and a dark-gray dress shirt, no tie, his brother having vowed to never wear one again. Marcus outlined the details of the transfer to the team of law enforcement and correctional officers arranged in a grid of folding chairs crowded into the room’s center. Ackerman wasn’t allowed to directly participate in the transfer, since his status was merely that of a “consultant.” But his skills would be put to use soon enough. What coach left the star player on the bench for long? And if killing were a sport, then Ackerman was certainly the Michael Jordan of murder.
His brother’s plan was simple, but had merit. Three teams would leave the staging area at staggered intervals. Each convoy would consist of a forward scout in an unmarked sedan, two patrol cruisers, the armored prisoner transport, two trail cars, and a helicopter on overwatch. In addition, they would have state police diverting traffic to insure that their route was clear of innocent bystanders and potential threats. Each armored transport would be loaded with a hooded man. Not even the guards would know which convoy held the real prisoner.
Marcus would ride shotgun with a state trooper behind the real prisoner, while the others from their team occupied the trail cars of the decoys. Ackerman and Special Agent Maggie Carlisle would be in the overwatch chopper for Marcus’s group—him as a special consultant and her as his keeper. Ackerman had grown quite fond of Maggie and considered her family, though his brother had yet to pop the question to his longtime girlfriend and officially make her Ackerman’s little sister.
