by Ethan Cross
Craig shook his head and yelled Morales’s name, not really expecting to hear a reply, which didn’t mean that Morales was necessarily out of commission, just that he wouldn’t want to give away his position.
Washburn asked, “Should we go after them?”
“Quiet,” Craig said.
Then he heard what he was waiting for. A lone shot rang out in the distance, followed by a stifled yelp, and then nothing. Craig shook his head. Morales had walked right into Ackerman’s hands. He didn’t intend to make a similar mistake, and he refused to underestimate Ackerman again. They had the tactical advantage. They had the high ground and the numbers, even though Ackerman had already reduced his six-man fireteam to only four. Craig wasn’t about to let Ackerman gain the upper hand by using guerrilla warfare.
“Everyone fall back to the house.”
“What about Morales?”
“Morales is dead because he was stupid and didn’t follow orders. I’m not about to go out there running around in a dark swamp so Ackerman can go Viet Cong on our asses. We take up defensive positions at the house and let him come to us. We control the engagement.”
Washburn asked, “How do you know he won’t just keep running?”
“He won’t leave Agent Carlisle behind. Besides, this is what Ackerman lives for. He’s a predator, and he loves a challenge. You don’t follow a lion into the tall grass. You stake out a gazelle and let the lion come to you.”
*
Ackerman had trained himself long ago how to move silently through most environments by utilizing different techniques, including the ninjutsu concepts of balance and foot placement. He did this almost instinctively as he moved swiftly through the swamp, flitting among the dark shapes of the trees with eel grass and widgeon grass gently licking against his legs. He was hyper-aware of all the sounds of the swamp—the movement of animals, the chirping and buzzing of insects, the way the breeze moved through the vegetation. He studied these sounds for a disturbance in the natural order, an unknown and intrusive presence.
Falling comfortably into the role of predator, Ackerman cautiously made a wide circle around his prey. He suspected that Craig would hole up at the plantation house. It was the smart move, what he would have done if the roles had been reversed. After all, Craig had the numbers and the tactical advantage. That was, of course, only a temporary problem. One which Ackerman intended to rectify quickly.
As he moved among the shadows, his plan began to take form. If these men had been normal citizens or even local law enforcement, he would have relied heavily on fear and intimidation. He would have forced them into reckless actions and used their own natural instincts of self-preservation against them.
But these men were different and required a different approach. His opponents were well trained but lacked discipline. They were overzealous and overconfident. They were also heavily armed, but they would have to see him in order to shoot him.
The choice was obvious to him. He couldn’t attack them head on, and so he would divide and conquer. A little misdirection, a little stealth. And it didn’t hurt that the Hispanic man who had brazenly run after him into the darkness had provided him with a pistol, a flashlight, a lighter, and most importantly, his own Bowie knife.
Ackerman couldn’t resist a smile. He hadn’t felt this alive in months. It felt so good to be on the hunt again. This was going to be fun, and he intended to savor every moment.
*
It didn’t take Ackerman long to reach the dirt lane which led up from the main road. He followed it back to the plantation house, staying within the safety of the trees and thick foliage. Then he watched the house for signs of movement. The home’s design made it an easily defensible position with its wrap-around porches and exposed basement.
He caught sight of one sentry on the front porch, assault rifle at the ready. A slight stirring of the shadows beside one of the exposed basement’s pillars caused him to believe that another enemy lay in wait there.
He found a comfortable spot hidden beneath some groundsel trees and alligator weed and waited. Blending in with the natural landscape, he ignored the insects that crawled over his body and pierced his flesh for nourishment. He could have stayed in that spot without moving for days if the situation had warranted it. Fortunately, he would only have to wait a few hours.
The timing was important. He needed to wait long enough for the mercenaries to get into a rhythm and grow moderately complacent, yet not long enough for the sun to rise and steal the concealment of shadow. If he hadn’t been concerned that Craig might have called in reinforcements, he would have watched the house for a day or two and let the mercenaries grow frustrated and angry.
As Ackerman waited and felt the tiny legs of the swamp’s smallest residents dance across his flesh, the memory of his father locking him in a small concrete cell came back to him. Between the experiments and torture and pain, he would often be left alone for days in total darkness. He was never allowed friends, so he conjured some of his own. Some of them imaginary. He supposed the shrinks would call them delusions or hallucinations. He simply called it imagination. But other friends he made were the insects that not even his father could keep away from him.
A cockroach. A spider. Even a ladybug once. They all had names and stories to tell. He remembered them fondly, his childhood friends. To that day, he hesitated to squash an insect beneath his foot, even though taking a human life held great appeal.
There was no sport in taking a life so small and helpless. Plus, Ackerman admired their simplicity and their beauty. A spider didn’t lie, cheat, or steal. It had no delusions of grandeur. It didn’t judge him. It simply formed a symbiotic co-existence with its environment and fulfilled its small purpose without complaint.
Ackerman found nature to be beautiful, and people to be unnatural.
74
THE DOOR OF THE CELL OPENED AGAIN, LIGHT FLOODED IN, AND MARCUS FOUGHT THE URGE TO WEEP. HE COULD ENDURE HIS OWN PHYSICAL PAIN. He could persevere through torture, starvation, and psychological torment. But he could not stand to watch helpless as another human being suffered at his father’s hands, and he knew that was what was coming: another of his father’s “lessons.”
Ackerman Sr. tossed a long black robe over to Marcus and said, “Put that on.”
Knowing that disobedience was futile, Marcus slipped the robe over his shoulders and cinched the belt around his waist. The material was soft and silky against his skin. It was the first pleasant sensation that his body had felt in months. His father led him to the adjacent cell as he had done previously. This time, however, no other victim sat at the metal table. Still, that fact didn’t fill him with any measure of hope; he knew better than to expect anything but malice from an interaction with his father.
Ackerman Sr. gestured toward Marcus’s usual chair but then surprised him by saying, “Dylan has been asking about you, and so I figured that now was as good a time as any for you to meet your son.”
“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what? Kill me? Please, let’s dispense with the drama. I created you and Dylan. You wouldn’t exist without me. I own you both, and I’ll do with either of you what I please. However, I haven’t harmed your son. Not yet, at least. I’m trying a different tactic with him. He’s not really old enough to have much of a will of his own to break, and so I’m going to mold his pliable young mind in my own image. He’s going to be my greatest apprentice. A true heir to our family’s legacy.”
“You don’t need him. You can let him go. You have me. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”
His father laughed. “I’m going to break you of that self-sacrificial nature, but I have to say that it is rather amusing watching you play the martyr card time and time again.” Ackerman Sr. pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table and continued, “I’m going to bring Dylan in now. He’s been told that you are very sick and that’s why you can’t be with him yet. He knows that his mother has been killed and thinks t
hat the bad men who did the deed are also after him. He believes that he’s here for his own protection. If I have to hurt you in front of him, it would be very traumatic for the boy. Right now, he trusts me, and his current line of treatment hinges on that trust. If you try anything stupid, it may force me to re-evaluate the method of Dylan’s education. Do we understand each other?”
As with every other time he was with his father, Marcus’s mind searched for a solution, an escape, a plan of attack. And just like every other time, he could think of none, and so he simply replied, “Yes.”
His father led Dylan through the metal door of the cell and directed him toward the chair at the opposite end of the table. The boy seemed nervous and afraid. He refused to make eye contact. Marcus was also afraid, but more than that, he experienced a warmth that he had never felt before. The boy was a stranger, and yet he seemed familiar, as though Marcus was looking at an old friend who had changed and aged but was still the same person whom he loved and trusted. He had Marcus’s hair color, complexion, and eyes, but there were also undeniable traces of Claire. This was his son, a small human being who had come from him, who was part Marcus and part his mother and wholly his own person, a new creation. The joy Marcus felt was surreal, but he also felt ashamed and regretful. He hated the fact that his and Dylan’s first meeting was tainted by these horrible circumstances. He hated the fact that his son would see him for the first time in this condition. He mourned all the years and experiences that he had missed.
The air seemed to brim with tension and potential. Marcus realized that he had been holding his breath and blurted, “Hello, Dylan.”
“Hi,” the boy whispered, still not taking his eyes off the floor. Then, with what seemed like great effort, his young eyes slowly traveled up to meet his father’s. Dylan seemed to shrink away when their gazes met. Marcus hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for months, but he could imagine what he looked like. “Grandpa says that you’re sick.”
Marcus couldn’t resist a quick glance of hatred at his father, but he quickly recovered by saying, “That’s right, but hopefully I’ll be better soon.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
Marcus wasn’t sure how to respond, and so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “It’s my heart. There’s a dead spot inside it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grandpa says that you’re my real dad.”
“I’m your biological father, Dylan.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your mother and I came together and each gave a piece of ourselves to make you. But your real dad is the man who’s there for you. Who loves you and takes care of you and protects you. The one who teaches you to be a good person and how to be a man. Your grandfather here is my biological father, but my real dad was a man named John Williams. He raised me. Everything that’s good about me came from him.”
“So why didn’t you want to be my real dad?”
Tears rolled down Marcus’s cheeks. He reached across the metal table and placed his hand over his son’s. “I wish I had been there for you. I wish that I was your real dad. And someday soon, we’re going to get out of all this, and I’m going to make it up to you.”
But even as he spoke the words, Marcus couldn’t help but feel that he was making promises he could never keep and that neither one of them would ever see the light of day again.
75
ESTIMATING THE HOUR FROM HIS OWN INTERNAL CLOCK, ACKERMAN CONCLUDED THAT HE HAD WAITED LONG ENOUGH. It was time for the games to begin.
Luckily, Maggie had parked far enough away from the house for him to be able to crawl up beside the rear bumper of the Malibu without being seen. Tearing off a piece of his undershirt and flipping open the fuel door, he stuffed the cloth into the gas tank of the vehicle.
He checked the house for any sign that he had been spotted and analyzed his path away from the car for any obstacles. Once he set things in motion, he would need to be quick, and mental preparation could save valuable seconds.
Once he was satisfied, he struck the lighter he had taken from the fallen mercenary and lit the piece of his shirt, which he had converted into the makeshift fuse of a very large bomb designed by General Motors.
Then Ackerman bolted into the trees, skirting the yard and staying hidden within the foliage. Circling to the opposite side of the yard which he had exited from earlier, he reached the far side of the plantation house, the one closest to the water. He scanned the back porch, which slanted down at an angle due to structural decay, and examined the space below the house for watchers.
He saw a vague humanoid form among the shadows and waited for his distraction to kick in.
The wait was only a matter of seconds. The sound of the explosion echoed through the bayou, causing a stirring of animals in the undergrowth and birds to take flight from all the surrounding trees. From his position, Ackerman saw the fireball and smoke and heard the roar of flame and the screech of metal.
Any doubt he had about the vague form that he’d seen faded when the sentry stepped forward into the yard and aimed his assault rifle back toward the front of the house. As Ackerman had planned, the explosion caused a split second’s curiosity accompanied by a split second’s vulnerability.
Ackerman rushed from the trees without hesitation and closed the distance to his opponent in the blink of an eye. The man still had his back to him. Ackerman leaped forward with the Bowie knife gripped in his right hand.
His weight and momentum struck the mercenary in the back at full force, driving the man toward the ground. But before they had even reached the moist soil of the yard, Ackerman had plunged the knife into the sweet spot at the back of the sentry’s neck, severing his spinal cord. The man was dead before he landed.
Having no time to savor the kill, Ackerman dragged the body into the deep shadows beneath the house and collected the sentry’s dropped M4A1 assault rifle. As he was about to head back to the trees, he noticed a bag of concrete mix leaning beside one of the pillars. His grandfather had probably planned to use the concrete to shore up his home’s foundation. But Ackerman had another idea of how to put the bag of powdery material to use. He went back to the dead man and pulled off one of the mercenary’s black tactical boots, deciding he would need that as well. With the M4A1 slung over one shoulder and the concrete mix over the other, Ackerman headed back into the swamp.
It had begun now. The time for waiting and caution was over. Now was the time to strike again while his enemy was still off balance.
*
Craig stepped onto the front porch and looked out at the flaming wreckage of the car. Landry crouched at one corner of the porch, scanning the area surrounding the ruined vehicle. Craig keyed his radio and said, “It’s started. Eyes open. Everyone check in now.”
Each man rattled off his status. Craig waited a moment and then said, “Fitzpatrick, check in.”
No answer came, and Craig swore under his breath.
*
Ackerman was reminded of the words of Miyamoto Musashi, a great swordsman and tactician. If the opponent expects the sea, give him the mountains. If he expects the mountains, give him the sea.
Craig would expect a quick attack followed by a swift retreat. Ackerman intended to attack multiple times on multiple fronts in short order. Craig would expect him to use stealth and silence. He planned to make a lot of noise.
Only a moment after taking down the sentry, acquiring his assault rifle, and finding the bag of concrete mix, Ackerman had found a spot ten feet within the tree line that would be the perfect point from which to stage his next distraction. He propped up the bag of concrete mix in the crook of a water elm. Then he positioned the M4A1 assault rifle against the tree beneath the corner of the bag. Next, he took the dead mercenary’s boot and wrapped one of the laces tightly around the trigger of the assault rifle.
Ackerman knew that the typical trigger pull on a rifle like this would be between five
and a half and eight and a half pounds. Which meant that, if he did this right, he would have several seconds to get in position before the necessary weight was reached.
He checked that the safety on the rifle was off, and then he made a small puncture in the corner of the bag of concrete mix. The powdery material started raining down, and he adjusted the bag and the stolen piece of footwear so that the grainy stream landed directly inside the mercenary’s boot. Eventually—hopefully once he was in position—the boot’s weight would increase enough to pull the trigger of the rifle. The fully automatic weapon would discharge its full clip into the air, causing his enemies to think that he was in one spot firing at them, when in reality, he would be somewhere else entirely.
*
Craig turned to Landry and was about to tell him to go cover Fitzpatrick’s position—since the other man was probably dead—when the sound of rapid-fire shots from one of the assault rifles interrupted his orders. Landry’s gaze shifted toward the source of the shots as well, and upon Craig’s command, the remaining three mercenaries took up new positions in order to flank the shooter.
*
By the time the boot had filled with enough of the powdery concrete mix to pull the assault rifle’s trigger, Ackerman had darted across the backyard, staying low and hugging the water’s edge, and had reached the trees on the opposite side of the house.
The wild shots pierced the air, and Ackerman watched as the mercenaries did as he had hoped and adjusted their positions to defend against what they thought was a new attack.
The shadows seemed less substantial with every moment, and Ackerman knew that the sun would be rising soon. He planned to have the situation resolved before that occurred.
The sentry who had been positioned beneath the front corner of the house had slowly rounded the porch, making himself a clear target. He was a big man with hair so blond it was nearly white. He held a tactical shotgun against his shoulder, aiming it toward the distraction.
