by Ethan Cross
He moved toward the parking lot and flitted among the maze. Keeping low and trying to remain unseen, he approached the officer. The man fumbled in his pocket, and a marked police SUV chirped as its alarm disengaged and the locks released.
As the man reached for the handle, Marcus slammed into the officer’s back. The cop went for his gun but found the holster empty.
“Don’t move, and keep quiet. No one will be able to hear over all this noise anyway.”
“You’re making a big mistake here, pal.” The middle-aged cop’s voice was deep and confident.
“You’re probably right. What can I say? I have a self-destructive personality.”
He spun the officer around and stepped back to a safe distance with the gun trained on his opponent. “I need information. What’s the situation here?”
“Some whacko’s got a hostage.”
“Specifics.”
The man remained silent, defiant.
“Listen, let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be. I just need specific tactical information.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because he’s my responsibility, and I’m going in there after him.”
The officer’s expression changed. “So you’re the one he was talking about …”
“What does that mean?”
“He sent us a message. Said he was waiting for a friend to arrive. Said if this friend wasn’t here in twenty-four hours, then he’d turn himself in.”
“That won’t happen. He’ll kill the hostage and as many cops as he can before you take him down. I won’t let it come to that. This is between him and me. Now give me the information I need.”
The man rolled his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Suspect’s name is Francis Ackerman, but you already know that. The hostage is Emily Morgan. He’s on the fifth floor, last we knew. He claimed that he’s going to douse the place with gasoline. We’re holdin’ back while we wait on some hotshot FBI negotiator and tactician on his way down from Denver.”
“Have you drawn up any entry plans yet?”
The man shook his head. “Not my area, buddy. That’s all I know.”
“Thank you. Now turn around.”
The man complied. He moved forward, retrieved the officer’s cuffs, and placed them around the man’s wrists. Then, he grabbed the flashlight from the cop’s belt.
“Think this through. What are you going to—”
He slammed the butt of the pistol into the back of the man’s skull, and the cop fell to the pavement. He retrieved the keys from the unconscious cop’s pocket and stepped into the SUV. The steering wheel felt worn down against his palms. He could relate. He gazed toward the building and calculated the path of least resistance.
Moment of truth.
The SUV growled to life. He threw it into gear and sped from the parking lot.
He laid on the horn as he approached the barricades. The onlookers and cops scurried out of his way as he plowed through the barriers and sped toward a line of cruisers.
The SUV jerked as he slammed into the rear of one cruiser, sending it spinning. The big vehicle roared over the unfinished landscaping and across the wooden walkway.
He braced himself for impact.
The front entrance of the new structure was a giant pillar of glass that rose up the entire height of the building. He didn’t slow as the vehicle broke through the transparent spire and rumbled into the building’s interior.
Glass poured down like icy raindrops with teeth.
Once inside, he slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel. The SUV spun sideways through the spacious lobby and came to rest as it smashed into the newly constructed front desk.
He stumbled from the vehicle, heard the sound of approaching footsteps outside, and made his way into the belly of the beast.
68
Emily Morgan twisted her wrists within the cuffs and tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. The smell of gasoline wafting from down the hall made her feel nauseous. Her head throbbed, and the world still rolled. A moment ago, they had heard a crash. Ackerman hadn’t seemed surprised by the sound. Without a word, he had moved her farther down the hall near the back stairwell of the building.
“I feel sorry for you,” she said.
He chuckled. “Oh, you do? Why is that?”
“And I forgive you.”
His expression fell. “I don’t need your forgiveness or your pity. Don’t try to get in my head. You wouldn’t like what you find there.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t. It has to be hard. It’s been difficult for me over the past few days carrying around the pain of one night. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for a little boy living in a constant nightmare.”
He didn’t respond, but his nostrils flared with each deep inhalation.
When she looked at him, she tried to see beyond the man who had stolen her husband to the scared little boy inside. She had to release her hatred and move past it. His unshed tears glistened in the pale luminescence of the flashlight’s beam. “You don’t have to do this. You could—”
“You don’t know anything about me. You’re right. You can’t imagine what it was like to live in my father’s house. But that doesn’t matter. My father’s actions might have been the fuel, but the flame was there from the beginning. I don’t blame him. This is who I am. I’m not human. I’m a monster. I could never be like you. I could never be normal. Have the white picket fence, two-point-five kids, and a mortgage. It doesn’t matter what I want, or if I wish that things were different. You can’t change the past, and when the darkness is in your soul, you can never tear it out. I can’t just be washed clean and rehabilitated. There is no cure for what I have. This is who I’m meant to be. My destiny.”
She was quiet for a moment. “When I was eleven, there was a little boy who used to tease me every day. He’d walk behind me and call me pale-face or slant-eye or gook and much worse. One day, he pushed me down, and when I stood back up, I had a rock in my hand. I hit him as hard as I could. He fell, and I thought that I had killed him. It ended up being nothing but a bump on the head, but for a moment I wasn’t afraid or sorry for what I had done. I was glad. I was exhilarated. For a split second, I hoped that he was dead. It made me feel … powerful. The darkness is in us all. You just never learned how to contain it. Instead, your father forced you to embrace it.”
He was still for a moment. Then, he smiled at her, but the expression seemed different somehow. She wondered if this was the only time in his life that he had ever truly smiled both on the inside and the outside.
“I’m glad that your husband beat me and saved you. It was a good feeling. It got me thinking about things. Got me thinking that maybe things really do happen for a reason. And maybe we all have a part to play. Maybe your purpose hadn’t been fulfilled, so you couldn’t die there that night? Your survival doesn’t prove anything, of course, but it still made me wonder.”
“Maybe God doesn’t want to be proven to exist? Then … we wouldn’t need faith.”
He seemed to consider her words. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking to me like I’m a real person. I think you’re the only real person who has ever done that. I didn’t come here to kill you, by the way.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Faith.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to.”
A flower of light bloomed at the opposite end of the hall. Ackerman retrieved a lighter from his pocket and picked up a bottle with a rag poking out of the top. He extinguished the flashlight.
As the darkness returned, the fear filled her, but she willed it away. I won’t die here tonight. She had faith in that. “What are you doing?” she said.
The killer lifted her from the floor. “Fulfilling my purpose.”
69
Marcus shined his light down the fifth-floor hallway and took cover in one of the
rooms. He wished that he had the ability to see in the dark. He hated to move down the hall with his light on. It would give away his exact location, but he couldn’t see any alternative. Ackerman might have set a trap. If that were the case and he moved forward in darkness, the hammer could fall before he even knew what had hit him.
He swung into the hall and directed the beam down the corridor. He continued forward, moving from room to room and performing a cursory check of each. The smell of gasoline grew in intensity.
“That’s far enough,” a familiar voice called out.
He could tell that the voice had originated from a good distance away. He shut off the flashlight and moved forward in darkness. Ackerman liked to talk, and he hoped to use that against the killer.
“This isn’t the right setting for what I had in mind,” Ackerman said. “Too dark, too constricted. Turn around and go back down the hall to the stairwell where you came up. It’ll take you to the roof. Emily and I will meet you there, and we’ll finish this.”
Not wanting to give away his position, he didn’t respond.
The floor felt slick under his feet. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming now. He stopped. His heart sank as he realized that he had just stepped into Ackerman’s trap. He began to quietly backpedal away from the killer’s position.
A light blazed into view at the end of the hall. He saw Ackerman’s outline, the light burning in the figure’s right hand. Then, the light seemed to jump forward.
Time slowed, and within a split second, he realized that Ackerman had just tossed a flaming object into a gasoline-soaked hallway.
70
Marcus sprinted away from Ackerman and toward the stairwell. At his back, he heard the voice of the fire call out to him as the flaming object gave life to its brethren. The legion of flames hurtled toward him, consuming everything in its path.
He felt the heat at his back and dove forward.
The initial blast lost momentum as he made it into one of the open doorways.
But the heat remained. He felt pain on his shoulders and realized that he was on fire.
The flames sought to consume him as he rolled around the floor. The fire fought with ferocity, but he ground it out and stripped off his smoldering shirt. His shoes still burned where he had stepped in the gasoline. He kicked them off and backed into the corner.
His lungs searched for air. He felt disoriented. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the burns weren’t as bad as they felt.
He steeled himself and ran back into the hall. Luckily, the flames’ concentration centered upon the area where Ackerman had splashed the gasoline, but he knew that it wouldn’t take long for the fire to blossom out onto the entire floor and the rest of the building.
He reached the stairwell and ascended the short distance to the roof. He kicked through the doorway. Leading with the pistol, he scanned the immediate vicinity.
The wind howled like the shriek of a banshee whose song could only be heard by those who had stood in the presence of death. He took in a deep breath of the fresh air. The cool breeze felt soothing against his back.
Several vents and pipes dotted the rooftop. Some were large, and some were small. As he rounded one large mound of vents, he saw Ackerman and Emily Morgan standing at the roof’s edge.
Ackerman held Emily as a human shield.
A feeling of déjà vu hammered against his heartstrings. He thought of his last encounter with the madman. He glanced down at Emily’s foot as he approached but saw no rope.
Ackerman pressed the gun against her right temple.
His eyes met the killer’s.
“Marcus, I want to play a game. Let’s call this one … Last Man Standing.”
71
“The rules are simple. You throw down your gun. I do the same and release Emily. Then … we try to kill each other. The winner lives, the loser dies. Now’s our chance to prove once and for all whether everything that is good in a man’s soul is stronger than all that is evil. I’ve come to believe that through all the trials and tribulations and winding paths and roads less traveled of my life—that through it all—I am who I was always meant to be. And now, it’s time for you to embrace your destiny as well.”
A part of Marcus had known from the first moment that he saw Ackerman on the TV that this was where the road would lead. Ackerman wasn’t the only one who felt that they were somehow connected.
He tossed the gun off to his right. But he didn’t throw it too far, in case he needed to get to it again in a hurry. His head cocked to the side, and his neck cracked. He wasn’t afraid that Ackerman would double cross him. He knew that the killer believed this confrontation was a part of both their destinies.
Ackerman followed suit and threw his gun to the opposite side of the roof. Then, he shoved Emily away and bowed, as if they were engaging in some type of old-world duel.
Marcus didn’t bow, and he didn’t show any hesitation either.
He ran full-bore at Ackerman like a linebacker cutting through the offensive line and zeroing in on the quarterback. They collided with such force that he felt the impact deep in his bones. He hit Ackerman low. He had spent enough time on the varsity football team to know that the lowest man won. Using his advantage and lower center of gravity, he uprooted Ackerman and slammed him back down to the roof.
The blow knocked the wind out of the killer, but it didn’t immobilize him. He regained his composure and head-butted Marcus above the eye, breaking the skin and allowing blood to flow free.
Marcus retaliated with a quick series of punches.
Ackerman countered and returned the attacks blow for blow. The pair rolled around the rooftop like wild dogs fighting for the last scrap of food in a barren winter.
Marcus glanced in Emily Morgan’s direction and saw her watching the scene half dazed, half terrified. She held one of the discarded pistols in a shaking hand and looked as if she could barely stand. He knew that, even if she had full command of her faculties, a shot now would have as much chance of hitting him as it would Ackerman.
Both sustaining a lot of damage but neither gaining any ground on their opponent, he decided to change tactics. He pushed away and rolled to his feet.
Ackerman did the same. They circled each other, breathing hard. He searched the killer’s eyes and waited for his opportunity.
But Ackerman struck first.
The killer came at him hard and swift. He landed a kick to the side of Marcus’s leg, which buckled his knees. Then, the killer grabbed him by the neck and pounded fist to face.
After sustaining a few blows that would have knocked some men unconscious, Marcus countered. He caught Ackerman’s arm with his left hand and dealt his own series of blows with the right.
They were a flurry of limbs, each blocking and countering with blinding fast movements.
As they traded blow for blow and circled each other, he realized how evenly matched they were. In some strange way, this gave further credence to Ackerman’s claims of connection, destiny, and being two halves of the whole. But he still didn’t consider himself to be a good man by any means, and despite the evil that fueled his opponent, he suspected there could be a small flicker of goodness buried deep within Ackerman.
He supposed that was the way of the world. Nothing was ever black and white. Both darkness and light dwelled within the inner depths of every soul. The choices a person made called him or her to one side or the other. Despite his many failures, he had always tried to do the right thing while Ackerman had always walked a path littered with dark and malicious deeds.
They fought like two immortal titans cursed to battle for the remainder of eternity. Each would offer a blow, and the other would block or retaliate—neither gaining nor losing ground. This continued until Marcus sustained a vicious blow and stumbled near the edge of the building. Ackerman charged full force and landed a swift strike to the abdomen.
The killer followed with a hard shove.
Surprised by a shove and not a punch or kic
k, Marcus tumbled backward, off balance. Only a short step from the edge, he didn’t have time to regain his footing. His legs caught the raised rim of the roof, and he tumbled off the building and toward the ground.
72
Falling …
His heart seemed to stop in his chest. Time seemed to slow. What was he falling toward? Death? Heaven? Hell? In the span of a second, the tide had turned.
He tumbled downward toward certain death and an uncertain afterlife.
Although his mind was close to abandoning hope, his highly tuned instincts and reactions were not. His right hand grasped for the roof’s edge and caught hold. He screamed in pain as his body slammed against the building and his shoulder strained under the sudden twist and snap of his weight.
His muscles trembled. He knew that he couldn’t hold on for long and that a small part of him would welcome the arms of death. He wondered if police snipers had noticed movement on the roof. They wouldn’t have fired during his confrontation with Ackerman, but maybe they would take Ackerman down if the killer won the battle?
Maybe I should just let go?
But he couldn’t know for sure that snipers were watching. He was rationalizing, conceding defeat. He cursed himself. His anger gave him strength.
He brought his left hand up. He held on, not only for his life but also for Emily Morgan’s and the lives of all of Francis Ackerman’s past and future victims. I can’t fail. I won’t fail.
He looked up to see the face of his adversary staring down at him. But Ackerman wasn’t smiling with triumph. His expression was somber with defeat. The killer leaned closer. “Maybe there is no meaning?” he said. “Maybe I’ve been a deluded fool? No balance to the universe. No darkness and light. Only men … and the lies we tell ourselves to justify all that we’ve done.”
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” Emily said from behind Ackerman.
Looking oblivious and unafraid, the madman did little more than glance in her direction. Turning back, Ackerman said, “Maybe you’re not the hero I thought you were?”
