Callsign: Knight - Book 1 (A Shin Dae-jung - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  The suspect made no attempt to bring his hands up from beneath the counter. In fact, the formation of a smile constituted his only movement as a malicious grin spread across his face. The smile held no joy, nor love, nor warmth. It was cold, making Jim feel like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

  Tom took another step forward and repeated himself with no better results. He had now advanced to no more than three feet from the counter. Jim, on the other hand, had taken a step back and wanted to scream at Tom that he had moved too close. The thought dissipated when the man behind the counter spoke in a calm, yet commanding voice. “Do you like it? It’s my version of a killing by Andrei Chikatilo, Russia’s Rostov Ripper. You’re probably not familiar with him. While you were learning about Lincoln and Washington, I was learning about Jack the Ripper, Albert Fish, Ed Gein, the Zodiac. Those were just a few of my founding fathers.” The killer’s eyes darted between them. “You boys don’t recognize me, do you?”

  Tom screamed at the man with even greater ferocity. “I don’t care who you are . . . just put your hands on your head. NOW!”

  The killer shot Tom an uninterested glance and said, “You should show me a little more respect. After all, I am a bit of a celebrity. My name is Ackerman.”

  Jim felt his breath stripped away once again. When he had first laid eyes upon the man, he had noticed a vague familiarity. Now, his synapses fired, and he made the connection. He had seen the man’s face on television, a two-hour special presented by one of those network news shows. He tried to remember the name of the special. It was something along the lines of An Experiment in Madness, but he couldn’t remember the exact title. He did, however, remember the description of the man and his hideous crimes. The program had described the kind of monster that was only supposed to exist in the minds of Hollywood’s most creative—not a person of flesh and blood who found substance in the real world.

  Tom repeated his ultimatum, but this time he spoke the words in a soft voice, as if beseeching the madman to submit and end the confrontation without a fight. “Put your hands where I can see them. I’m going to count to three, and then—”

  “I wouldn’t do anything rash, officer. If you’re not careful, my pretty little hostage might get her pretty little face blown off.”

  “What hostage?”

  Ackerman redirected his gaze from Tom to Jim. “The one under this counter with the sawed-off shotgun strapped against her right temple. It’ll make a real mess of her, believe me on that. I’ve seen it before. It’s not pretty. And I know exactly what you’re thinking. You think I’m bluffing.” He turned back to Tom. “And you’re thinking that even if I am telling the truth, you can probably put one between my eyes before I could get my shot off. You’d be wrong, though. My finger’s resting right on that trigger and, as soon as your bullet struck, my muscles would clench and her head would be blown out the other side of this counter. So, gentlemen, it appears that what we have here is a Mexican stand-off.”

  Ackerman took a deep breath and continued in his honeyed tone. “Isn’t this fun? You both began your day like any other. You kissed your loved ones good-bye, enjoyed a cup of coffee, maybe read the morning paper, but little did you know that this would be the most significant day of your lives. Today is a day that makes or breaks everything you’ve ever said or done, everything you’ve stood for or believed in. At some point, we all come to a place where we have to choose whether to be the hero, the villain, or to walk away and remain one of the sheep. This is one of those moments, gentlemen.

  “I’m going to give you both a choice. You can walk away now and continue on with your lives. Maybe I have a hostage under this counter that I’m going to carve up the second you walk out that door, and maybe I don’t. Maybe you can catch me and make a name for yourselves, or maybe you’ll die trying. There’s no way you can know for sure, but that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? There’s no meaning. Good doesn’t triumph over evil. There’s just random chance and death. You were the unlucky ones who got the call tonight. The gentleman down the aisle was the unlucky one who was working the station tonight. We like to walk around and think of ourselves as being so damn evolved, so much better and more intelligent than all of the other wildlife. But you know what?”

  Ackerman looked at the two men as if he was a hungry animal and they were his next meal. He lowered his voice. “In the end, no matter how many delusions of grandeur we blind ourselves with, we are all either hunters or the hunted, predators or prey. Life is just one big game, gentlemen. The winners survive and the losers rot. The choices we make determine our fate. So . . . make your choice.”

  Jim stood at rigid attention, entranced by the madman behind the counter. Ackerman had recited the speech with passion, as if the killer were a politician rallying the constituency behind some noble cause. He had never seen a man with two guns pointed at his face remain so impassive. There was no fear in him. Fear to Ackerman seemed as alien a concept as an airplane to a Neanderthal. More than that, it appeared as if the man felt in complete control of the situation.

  Despite the gun in his hand, the realization of that fact made Jim feel defenseless.

  Tom’s voice cracked and contained a noticeable tremor. “There is no hostage,” he said. “There were no other cars out front. Now, you put your hands where I can see them, or I swear to God in heaven, I will put a bullet right between your eyes.”

  Jim wasn’t convinced by Tom’s statement, and neither did it seem to influence Ackerman. He knew that Ackerman would have most likely stashed his own car in back, in order to keep up the appearance of being the attendant. If some woman had stopped and come across the killer, he would have moved her car to the back with his own. The possibility that Ackerman had brought the hostage with him in his own car also occurred to him.

  He wasn’t sure whether his partner had overlooked those scenarios, or if Tom’s actions merely represented a desperate attempt to end the situation. Either way, he knew it wouldn’t work. Ackerman wouldn’t allow this to end without things getting messy. He could see that much in the killer’s eyes.

  Ackerman sighed. “Well, darling, they apparently don’t believe you’re real. Why don’t you scream for them?”

  With Ackerman’s last word, the front of the counter exploded outward, sending pieces of wooden shrapnel in all directions. The shotgun blast tore into Tom’s left side, sending a spray of blood into Jim’s face and dropping Tom onto the linoleum.

  Jim dove into the closest aisle. An instant after he was clear, the end cap display of Dorito chips erupted from a second blast.

  He regained his feet and fired two shots in quick succession around the corner. He barely had time to see his shots strike the counter when the shotgun answered, sending him back to cover.

  He could hear Tom crying and cursing. His gun must have been lost in the confusion, he thought. And Tom must have been half delirious with pain since he wasn’t even attempting to find cover. Jim knew that his partner wouldn’t survive if he didn’t immediately end the confrontation and get help.

  “Trooper down. Send medical,” he said into his portable packset radio. He didn’t bother to announce his name or location. The radio carried a unique code that dispatch would identify while the GPS in the patrol car would alert backup units of their position.

  But, unless he acted now, he also knew that he and Tom would be dead by the time backup arrived.

  He tried to stay focused, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering onto his wife and daughter. Will I see them again? Will I get to watch my daughter grow up? He thought of brushing the golden, curly locks of hair away from her face and kissing her on the forehead. He thought of the way her eyes lit up with awe and wonder as she sat on his lap and listened to him read.

  He thought of his wife kissing him good-bye and telling him to be careful. He thought of holding her, skin against skin, and running his fingers through her raven black hair.

  I have to be strong. I have to make it home to them. He tried
to tell himself that he would see them again, but somehow he knew better. At that moment, he would have given anything for one more chance to hold them.

  The smell of gunpowder mixed with the aromas of scented cleaning fluids attacked his senses and made him feel lightheaded. It was that or the adrenaline. Either way, he felt as if he was in a washing machine on spin cycle. He tried to get himself under control, but he was terrified beyond reason. He had no idea of what to do next.

  He knew that he wouldn’t survive a frontal assault against the shotgun, so he decided his best option would be to move around to the back of the aisles and perhaps catch Ackerman off guard. Plus, the greater the distance, the more advantage his 9mm would have over the less accurate shotgun.

  Moving as quietly as possible, he made his way down the aisle. Reaching the opposite end cap, he peered around the corner into the next row.

  All clear.

  He dashed to the next end cap.

  So far, so good.

  There were only four rows of food in the small station, which meant that if he made it to the next end cap without Ackerman seeing him, he would have an unobstructed view of his opponent’s hiding place.

  He checked the next aisle for danger and was about to make a dash for the next end cap when he heard a small but strange noise coming from the front of the store. It took him a moment to associate the sound with anything tangible, but then he made the connection of a liquid being pressed from a squeeze bottle. Following the sound, Tom’s wailing increased in intensity, and the injured officer screamed an almost unintelligible call for help.

  “Your friend is having a very bad day, officer. He made his choice to stay and fight, but I guess that I didn’t really give you much of a choice, so here it is. Your partner was right. There was no hostage before. But there is one now, and he’s not going to leave here alive. I will, however, let you walk right out that door, get in your car, and leave this place behind like it was nothing more than a nightmare. If you stay, maybe you can stop me and save your friend, but let’s be honest. I’m better at this game than you are. If you stay, odds are you’ll both die. The choice is yours, officer.”

  He gritted his teeth. Ackerman most likely knew his position, so the chance to sneak around behind the madman was gone. He knew that Ackerman was right. He had never been in a situation like this. He had never seen any real action other than a few rowdy traffic stops and a hostage situation at a diner a few years back, where he had been one of about twenty policemen on the scene. He had been involved in some murder investigations after the fact, but he had never been in a shootout with the killer.

  His adversary, however, had taken countless victims, several of which were law enforcement. The killer outgunned and outmatched him; yet, he knew that he could never abandon his friend.

  Tom Delaine was a hotheaded, irrational jerk, but he had also been his partner and best friend for nine years. Tom had been there the day that Emily had given birth, handing out the cigars and grinning like a proud uncle. Tom had been the only person who could comfort him on the day they placed his father in the ground. His partner had counseled him through every tough moment of his life and had never asked for anything in return.

  “You come on back here where I can get a good look at you, and I’ll give you my answer,” he said, without the slightest tremble in his voice.

  “All right, officer, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He didn’t respond. He was already on the move.

  He made his way down the middle aisle, staying low and trying to zero in on Ackerman’s location from the sound of his voice. If his instincts proved correct, Ackerman awaited him at the end cap of the third row.

  When he reached the end of the aisle, he peeked one eye around the corner, but couldn’t see the killer. Tom lay only a few feet away.

  He edged farther out of the aisle, but still no Ackerman. He was about to reach for Tom, when he heard a match being struck. In that split second, he noticed the line of liquid running from around the side of the station’s counter to where Tom lay. He sniffed the air and realized that the sound he had heard earlier was the spraying of lighter fluid. Before he could react, a hand appeared from around the corner of the counter and dropped a match into the trail of liquid.

  The stream of lighter fluid ignited, a blue spark questing out and morphing into hues of red and yellow. Within the blink of an eye, the fire shot back to Tom and engulfed him in flames.

  Tom’s tortured screams of agony filled the gas station and reverberated off the walls and glass. The echoes compounded on each other, giving the effect of a chorus of the damned.

  In that moment, Jim lost the capacity for rational thought and acted on pure instinct. He dropped his pistol, ripped off his coat, and slapped at the flames in a last-ditch effort to save his friend. After a few swings, his coat glowed with reds and yellows, as well. He dropped it to the linoleum next to Tom.

  A part of his rational mind, which had now been thrown to the back of his consciousness, realized that his friend and partner of many years was gone, but terror had usurped coherent thought. His own screams added to the cacophony of suffering.

  After what felt like an eternity, his partner’s thrashing ceased, and only the flames remained. The smell of charred flesh filled the space all around him, adding to the whirlwind of emotions swirling in his mind.

  A mixture of terror, grief, and anger consumed his consciousness. He sat on his knees, weeping for his friend and knowing that he would be next. For some time, he had been aware of the man with the shotgun standing behind him in the aisle. Ackerman had used Tom as a distraction, and the ploy had succeeded.

  His voice trembled and tears ran down his cheeks. “Why did you do this? You called us here just so you could kill us? Why?”

  “Why?” Ackerman said. “That is the eternal question, isn’t it? From the beginning of human existence, we have sought frantically for the answer to one question: Why? Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really have an answer for you, other than to say that it is simply who I am. Some people paint beautiful works of art. Some people are doctors, lawyers, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. I am a predator, a killer. Life’s a game, and I like to play. But I’m not quite through playing with you yet. Give me your wallet.”

  “My wallet?”

  A kick to the back of the head answered his question. “Your wallet, now. Please.”

  He complied, and Ackerman took the proffered item. The killer sifted through the wallet’s contents, pausing to study the driver’s license and a tattered family photo. “You’ve got a beautiful family here, Jim Morgan. I’d love to meet them.”

  “Don’t even look at them!” he said as he charged at his best friend’s murderer.

  Ackerman used the shotgun as a club to knock him to the floor. Then, the killer pummeled him until blood flowed from several large gashes on his face. He could feel his flesh tearing with every blow, but he could do nothing to stop the barrage.

  After a moment, the blows ceased. Ackerman stood over him, aiming the shotgun. “I was just going to toy with you a bit before ending your life, but now . . . I think I’ve got a better idea.”

  Ackerman walked behind the counter and retrieved a bottle and a cloth, his eyes never leaving Jim.

  He writhed in agony on the floor as he watched Ackerman dump some of the contents of the bottle onto the piece of torn cloth. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He could taste his own blood in his mouth and still smell the acrid smoke from Tom’s charred remains. His brain couldn’t process the onslaught of information transmitted by his senses, and his mind threatened to shut down.

  Ackerman knelt and placed the cloth over his mouth. He tried to fight back, but his efforts were futile. Within a moment, he succumbed to the chemicals and darkness overtook him.

  ~~*~~

  Jim awoke and scanned his surroundings. He noticed that he was home. His first thought was that the entire ordeal at the gas station had been nothing
more than a nightmare.

  When he saw his wife and daughter, his relief dissipated like a warm breath on a winter’s day.

  His wife, Emily, and their young daughter, Ashley, sat across from him in their living room. The chairs from the dining room had been arranged, as if for an intervention, with Emily and Ashley facing him. They were bound, and duct tape covered their mouths. Their disheveled hair matted together and clung to their foreheads, sticking in a mixture of sweat and tears.

  “Ashley!” He tried to run to her, but his own restraints held him at bay. He fought with the ropes, and the fibers dug into his skin.

  He turned to his wife. Her raven-black hair hung in her face, and fear contorted her features. Her light complexion, one of the traits she had inherited from an odd pairing of an Irish-American grandmother and a Japanese grandfather, had flushed with red. He thought of the countless moments in which he had run his fingers over her smooth, delicate skin. She had always hated her pale pigmentation and complained of how easily she burned in the sun, but he adored her milky complexion. It reminded him of fine porcelain. He had always felt undeserving of her. Although he had never seemed to find the words to tell her, he felt like the luckiest man in the world to have her as his wife.

  Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and his heart broke. He wanted to tear the heart from the monster who had done this to his family. He wanted to light the monster on fire, like the killer had done to Tom, and give the psychopath a glimpse of the hell that clearly awaited him.

  As he fumed with impotent rage, Emily caught his attention, and with her eyes, she indicated for him to look to his right.

  He followed her gaze, and the cold gray eyes of a madman greeted him.

  The sawed-off shotgun in one hand, Ackerman stood and walked to Jim’s side. “It’s about time you woke up,” Ackerman said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ve been having a great sleepover so far, Dad, but we’re ready to start the night’s entertainment.”

  Ackerman moved behind him and leaned in close to his ear. “You’ve got a real nice family here, Jim. You’ve built a good life for yourself. Nice house, cutest little girl I’ve ever seen, and your wife . . . man, she’s gorgeous. And I don’t mean that in a vulgar or crude way, Jim. I’m just telling you, honestly, she is a beautiful woman. She reminds me of one of those old-time movie stars, with her dark hair and pale skin. You know, from the thirties or forties. Back when the world was black and white. Anyway, I’m just saying that you’re a very lucky man.”