The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset

by Ethan Cross

  Marcus rushed out of the observation room. Pulled his own gun. Shoes squeaking on freshly polished floors. Officers turning toward him in confusion.

  He threw open the door to Interrogation Room 3. Raised his gun. Screamed for Brad to stop. And watched in horror as Brad Dunham fired the Beretta twice at the man lying on the floor.

  Blood exploded against the white walls.

  Marcus reacted on instinct. He leaped forward, slid over the gray metal table, and closed the distance between himself and Brad Dunham. He rammed the butt of his Sig Sauer pistol against the side of Brad’s head. Then he twisted the Beretta from the man’s grasp, jerked him around, and slammed him face-first onto the metal table.

  Pulling out a pair of flex-cuffs from beneath his jacket, he restrained Brad before thinking of anything else. When he looked up, he saw Andrew standing in the doorway with a hand over his mouth. The look in his partner’s eyes told Marcus that he didn’t need to turn around and check on Kaleb.

  Brad Dunham had succeeded in his mission. Kaleb Duran was dead.

  36

  MAGGIE HAD ALREADY GOTTEN TO WORK ON ACKERMAN’S LIST OF ALIASES WHEN SHE HEARD A KNOCK ON HER DOOR. She expected to find the Director and was surprised to see Claire standing on the other side. Maggie’s own workout clothes hung loosely from Claire’s small frame. Claire seemed like the kind of person who was thin not because she worked at it and ate right but had simply been blessed by genetics. Maggie didn’t want to hate her. Claire had done nothing wrong. And neither had Marcus for that matter, not really. Maybe it was an evolutionary response or insecurity or human nature or all three, but she couldn’t help but be suspicious and jealous of the woman.

  “Did you need something?” Maggie said.

  Claire looked at her shoes and said, “I just thought maybe we could talk for a minute.”

  “So talk.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Maggie opened the door further and gestured toward the bed. She pulled over the desk chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to ask how Marcus is doing. He doesn’t seem well.”

  “He’s fine.”

  “He seemed very ... depressed.”

  “He recently found out that his real brother and his real father are both serial killers. That’s enough to mess with anyone’s head.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that he was unhappy with ...”

  “With what?”

  Claire just nodded. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”

  Maggie raised a hand to stop the woman and joined her on the bed. She felt silly for being so abrupt. Claire wasn’t the enemy. She was just a frightened person dealing with an unimaginable situation and trying to make the best of it. Maggie knew that she was supposed to be the trained agent and able to deal with situations like this and the roller coaster of emotions that came with them. “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn’t mean to be short with you. We’re all a little on edge right now.”

  Claire gave a half-smile. “The two of you are together.”

  “That’s right.”

  “For how long?”

  “Off and on for two years. What was he like when you knew him?”

  “Marcus was a sensitive guy who covered that up with a lot of bravado and a smart-ass attitude. But he always had this adventurous energy about him. He loved being a cop, and he could never let anything go. One time we were down on the boardwalk at Coney Island. It was late, and we were some of the only people around. A guy came up to us and pulled a snub-nosed revolver, demanded Marcus’s wallet. Marcus gave it to him. Not because he wanted to, I could feel the anger pulsing out from him, but I grabbed his arm and held him back. Anyway, the point is that Marcus couldn’t let it go. He spent nearly every free moment for the next week tracking the guy down.”

  “And he found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he do?”

  Claire laughed. “I didn’t see this part, but I can still picture it. He said he walked up to the guy’s door, knocked, and when the guy answered he politely asked for his wallet back.”

  Maggie smiled. “Let me guess. The guy ran and then fought back and Marcus beat the crap out of him.”

  “No,” Claire said. “The guy had his wife and two kids in the ratty little apartment. He begged Marcus not to tell them or arrest him. He said that the gun wasn’t even loaded. He ended becoming an informant, and Marcus helped him turn his life around.”

  “Wow. We don’t get many opportunities like that with what we do now.”

  “That’s sad. Marcus has a good heart—or at least, he did. He cares about people. Wants to save them. I hate to see him in pain, and I’m sorry for the way things turned out between us.”

  Maggie nodded and looked down at the floor. Claire added quickly, “Not because of our relationship. I meant because of Dylan. Marcus and I were not exactly compatible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Claire said, “Let me tell you this, and I think you’ll get the idea. I like elegant parties. The ballet. Classical music. Musical theatre. I hate going to the movies. I’m half-Jewish. I’m pro gun-control, and I always dreamed of a career in politics.”

  Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “How did you and Marcus make it past the first date? Hell, how did you make it past the appetizer on your first date?”

  “I don’t think either of us ever knew. We argued all the time, and I don’t mean in a fun flirtatious way. I think the only thing that kept us together was a chemical attraction. Pheromones or whatever it is that makes two people who couldn’t be more opposite attract. The point is that I knew that we couldn’t build a life together with what he had. Marriage is hard enough without starting off with every obstacle imaginable in your path. I think we both knew that. But Marcus could never give up.”

  Maggie cradled Claire’s hands in her own and said, “And he won’t give up until he finds your son. Marcus will do whatever it takes.”

  Tears filled Claire’s eyes, and she squeezed Maggie’s hands. “I hope you’re right.”

  37

  MAGGIE SAT BY THE UPSTAIRS WINDOW OF THE OLD FARMHOUSE, TYPING NOTES ON HER KEYBOARD AND MAKING PHONE CALLS. She and Stan had taken the information that Ackerman had provided and had compiled a list of possible aliases. There were two thousand, six hundred proper names in the Bible. But most of those were strange and outdated. She didn’t expect Ackerman Sr. to be using names like Meshach, Shadrach, or Abednego. They narrowed the list down to the fifty most common and most likely names still in use for a male. Then they tracked down every person within a hundred miles with one of those names and started cross-referencing by age group, race, and interests.

  Maggie was on the phone, running down one of the men from the list, when Marcus entered the bedroom and dropped onto the bed. She hadn’t even heard the Suburban pull up. She had been too wrapped up in her own work to notice.

  “Ackerman gave us some possible aliases. Stan and I are ...”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked back at Marcus. He stared off into nothing. His eyes were red and bloodshot. Even more so than usual. Then he broke down. He leaned forward, his head between his knees, and sobs shook his muscular frame.

  She came over to the bed and helped him out of his leather jacket. Then she laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. “What happened?”

  “The detective who was our liaison with the locals was killed today. Right in front of me. I should have seen that something was wrong. I could have saved him. He was just a kid.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Brad Dunham killed him. My father must have given him Kaleb as a target.”

  “Why would your father target a junior detective?”

  “His mother’s the head of the homicide division. It makes sense. He just put the whole department on tilt.”

  “On tilt?”

  “It’s a poker term. When someone loses a big hand, their emotio
ns take over, and they start making mistakes. Making calls that they wouldn’t normally. They call it being on tilt.”

  “It seems like your father has it in for the KCPD.”

  Marcus sat up. “You’re right. He does. Dammit, I should have seen this sooner. I need to talk to Ackerman.”

  *

  Marcus pulled the hood from his brother’s head. Ackerman blinked his eyes at the sudden burst of light. He started to smile and say something, but Marcus cut him off. “How vindictive is our father?”

  Ackerman laughed. “We were on the run from the police, and he still tracked our mother across the country and murdered her in the home of her new husband. Who happened to be a NYPD homicide detective.”

  “So he might be doing all this, the elaborate game, just to hurt the KCPD? He set traps for them at the Goodweather scene, and he just targeted a detective.”

  “I suppose so.” Ackerman looked confused, but then he nodded. “Oh, I see. The initiating event. You’re thinking that whatever changed the pattern of Father’s behavior was due to the actions of the KCPD.”

  “Right. And, like you said, if we can identify that event, it could lead us back to him.”

  Marcus placed the hood back over Ackerman’s head and started toward the door. His brother’s muffled voice said, “You’re welcome.” Marcus ignored him, but then Ackerman added, “Be careful, brother. He brought you into this for a reason. It’s only a matter of time before he comes for you as well.”

  38

  MARCUS LEFT THE DINING ROOM, WHICH WAS NOW A MAKESHIFT PRISON, AND ENTERED THE LIVING ROOM, WHICH HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO AN ARMORY AND BARRACKS BY THE GROUP OF MERCENARIES. Fagan was in a corner, talking on the phone and typing on a laptop. One operator clad in black tactical pants and a black T-shirt cleaned a Benelli M1014 shotgun at a small desk beside the front window. Another operator slept on a brown floral-printed couch along the south wall. Craig sat Indian-style on the floor, sharpening a long KA-BAR knife. The room smelled of musty furniture and gun oil.

  Marcus asked Craig, “Have you seen the Director or Andrew?”

  The blond mercenary didn’t look up. He just pointed the knife toward the front porch and went back to his work. Marcus could see a sadistic glee in Craig’s eyes as he worked the knife back and forth, as if he was picturing who he would cut with the blade next.

  Marcus heard voices on the front porch as soon as he stepped into the entryway. The hardwood front door was open with only an old screen door held shut by a rusty spring separating the interior from the outside.

  He heard Andrew say, “He’s getting worse.”

  The Director asked, “The headaches?”

  “It’s more than that. I think he may need to be committed.”

  “Marcus isn’t crazy. He’s just struggling. He’s had a lot thrown at him in a short amount of time.”

  “I’m not saying he’s crazy. I just think he may need more counseling than he can get from us. And he could use a break from all this. Some time to clear his head. He’s running on empty. If he doesn’t come to grips with where he came from and who he is and find a way to separate the two, he’s just going to keep slipping farther and farther down the rabbit hole.”

  The Director said, “I don’t know. He’s still—”

  A gunshot echoed across the valley like the rolling of distant thunder, causing birds to abandon their perches on the surrounding telephone wires. Marcus watched in horror as blood splattered the wire mesh of the screen door.

  Andrew jumped to his feet. Marcus pushed his way onto the porch.

  The Director didn’t scream. He just fell from his chair, a look of surprise on his face. His blood stained the dirty white boards of the porch crimson.

  Marcus jumped forward, staying low to make himself less of a target. He hugged the exterior wall of the house and kicked the Director’s chair out of the way. Then he grabbed the Director beneath his armpits and pulled him toward the safety of the house.

  As the initial anesthetizing shock of the bullet’s impact wore off, the Director screamed in agony. Blood poured from a wound in his shoulder. The slippery warm liquid soaked through the sleeve of Marcus’s shirt.

  “Get the door,” Marcus yelled.

  Andrew looked as though someone had just shaken him awake. He ran for the door and held it open from inside the house.

  Another gunshot rang out. It struck the porch. High and to Marcus’s left.

  He ignored it and continued to pull the Director to safety. His feet slid in the blood, but he scrambled backward through the door and into the foyer, leaving a trail of blood across the floor in his wake.

  The Director’s breathing was fast and shallow. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. He seemed to be in shock.

  As soon as they were out of the sniper’s line of sight, Andrew pushed Marcus out of the way and went to work on the Director, applying pressure to his wound and shouting orders at the mercenaries who were watching from the dining room.

  Marcus looked toward the stairs. Maggie was coming down so fast that she stumbled at the bottom. Marcus caught her and said, “Help Andrew.” Then he asked everyone, “Where’s Claire? Is she still in the bedroom?”

  The CIA contractors had started to take action. They scrambled to the windows, staying low and watching the horizon with their weapons at the ready. One headed for the kitchen to make sure that no one crept up from the rear.

  Kneeling beside one of the windows, Craig said, “The shots might have come from that patch of trees up there.”

  “I don’t see anyone approaching,” another contractor said.

  “Where’s Claire?” Marcus repeated.

  Fagan cowered in a corner behind a large reclining chair. He said, “Last I saw, she was on the back porch.”

  Andrew was still trying to stop the bleeding from the Director’s shoulder. Marcus asked, “Are you going to be—”

  “Just go. Find Claire,” Andrew snapped, all his attention on his wounded comrade.

  Marcus rushed toward the back of the house. He bypassed the dining room. He didn’t want one of Ackerman’s guards to get an itchy trigger finger and shoot him accidentally. Instead, he circled around to the kitchen through a small room off the living room. A mercenary stood at a back door leading directly outside on the far right of the kitchen. The entrance to the back porch was on the opposite wall.

  Marcus stepped out onto the screened-in porch. Old outdoor cushioned furniture sat atop bare wood 2x4s. Long vinyl shades covered most of the screens, shrouding the space in darkness.

  “Claire?” Marcus said.

  He heard the floorboards creak and saw her step from the shadows on his right. A big black pistol in her hand was aimed directly at him. He recognized it as one of the .45-caliber 1911s that the mercenaries used. Her hands shook, and her eyes were wet with tears.

  “Don’t move, Marcus,” Claire said. “Take out your gun slowly and put it on the floor.”

  “What is this?”

  “That gunshot was my signal. I’m supposed to deliver you to him. I’m sorry, Marcus. He has my boy.”

  “You know there’s a good chance that turning me over to him still won’t save Dylan.”

  “I know. But it’s my only hope. I have to.”

  Marcus pulled his Sig Sauer from its holster and laid it gently on the floor. “I won’t fight you. You’re right. If there’s any chance that it will save Dylan, then I’ll gladly sacrifice myself.”

  More tears poured down her cheeks, but she swatted them away with her left hand. “Do you have the keys to that Suburban?” Claire asked.

  “In my pocket. But my friends will come after us.”

  “That shooter out there will keep that from happening. We’ll go out and circle around the house.”

  She gestured with the gun toward a screen door leading to a flight of concrete steps and into the backyard. Marcus pushed open the door and went down the steps.

  One piece of him knew that he could easily overpower Clai
re and prevent her from taking him to his father. Another piece wondered if this was the purpose of his life—to die in exchange for his child’s survival. And yet another piece knew this was the best chance he would have to catch the man who had murdered his parents, tortured his brother, and taken the lives of countless others. He just wasn’t sure what it would cost him to make that happen.

  39

  MAGGIE’S HEAD JERKED UP AS SHE HEARD THE ROAR OF AN ENGINE AND THE SOUND OF TIRES CHURNING GRAVEL. She stood and looked through the front window. Field dust covered the pane of glass, but through the grime she saw the Suburban whipping around and veering down the field lane.

  She cursed under her breath and ran toward the door. Bursting onto the porch, she watched the Suburban get smaller as it sped away from the house.

  The rod-iron and glass porch light beside her head exploded from the impact of another bullet. Shards of glass shrapnel streaked out and ripped the skin of her face. She cried out and grabbed the side of her head. Another shot struck the wall nearby, driving her back into the house.

  From the floor in front of her, Andrew screamed, “Maggie! What are you doing? Stay down and get over here.”

  She removed her hand and saw some blood, but nothing to worry about now. She shook off the shock and said, “What can I do?”

  “I think the bullet punctured the subclavian artery in his shoulder,” Andrew replied.

  “What can we do about that?”

  “I would recommend percutaneous endovascular repair by using a self-expandable stent graft. But since we don’t have that, I need you to get me a tampon.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it!”

  She bounded up the stairs and into her and Marcus’s bedroom. She wondered where the hell Marcus had been going. Was he rushing the shooter? Through the second-story window, she saw the Suburban reach the end of the lane that connected with the main road. The patch of trees that Craig had thought might hide the shooter lay to the left. Marcus went right.