by Ethan Cross
“All of those leaders—the most powerful, the most cunning, the most remembered. All of them used the resources they had on hand wisely and inventively in order to achieve their goals. They thought outside the box. That’s what you’re doing here with me.”
“I’m only doing this to satisfy a curiosity and because you will be undercover inside a prison and still in custody. But have no illusions. The option to simply have you put down like a rabid dog is still very much on the table.”
The corners of Ackerman’s mouth and eyes curled up into a malicious grin. “Trever, do you still believe that I’m actually your prisoner?”
“Says the man strapped to a table in an impenetrable glass box that sits inside a secure CIA black-site facility. Who is monitored by three personal guards around the clock. Not to mention that you would have to escape the outer room, which requires handprint analysis and an eight-digit code. The handprint analysis also checks that the person is alive and not under duress. There’s no escaping your cage. If I wanted you to rot here forever, then that’s what would happen. But don’t worry, this experimental prison you’re going to seems to be every bit as secure.”
A large set of steel doors opened up in front of them. They were the kind of doors designed to hold King Kong and could only be opened from the other side. They were used for prisoner transport.
When the doors parted, five guards wheeled in a lightproof box a bit larger than a casket. The guards all eyed him warily. As it should be. He had been called a lot of names by law enforcement over the years—the Experiment, the Boogeyman, Frankenstein, the Monster—but out of those many nicknames and stories, Ackerman most enjoyed the one the guards here had come to call him , , , The Man with No Fear. It had a nice ring to it.
He said, “I’m sure I could find a way to escape from this new prison as easily as I did this room.”
Fagan said, “There’s no escaping this room unless someone like me says so.”
Ackerman closed his eyes and pictured the escape that could have been. Then he said, “The toilet and shower here in my little apartment clog quite easily. Bit of a design flaw. Say that toilet should become clogged up by something, like it did eight months and three days ago. The guards would have me stick my arms out a slot in the back wall of my cube. Once I’m sitting on the floor, arms behind me and secured outside the cell, maintenance would enter and fix the toilet. One guard remains behind me, watching my hands, so I can’t work a way out of my restraints. Another guard is in the cube with me. He monitors me from this side as the maintenance person does their work. The third guard is on overwatch from the catwalk holding a shotgun chambered with Taser XREP shells.”
Fagan said, “Sounds pretty damn secure to me.”
“Oh, it is. They try hard here. But imagine if I were to break both my thumbs before they even start any of this. I’m already wet from the clog. It makes it easier to rip my hands directly out of the restraints. I’d probably lose some patches of skin on my hands and forearms, but I can’t say that I wouldn’t actually enjoy that part. From there, I kick out the guard inside the cube’s feet and disable him. He’s armed with a single shot Taser. I take that and use it on the next guard. The plumber’s of no concern.”
“But the guard on the catwalk would drop you.”
“On some days perhaps. But if it’s a day when the blond guard with the beard is working, then he’ll be down here with me. He’s always down here with me when he’s on shift. Maybe he’s their toughest man. Best in hand-to-hand. Either way, his presence is important because he keeps a knife in his boot, which I suspect is against the rulebook. I can take that knife from him and throw it into the flesh of the catwalk guard, throat or thigh depending on my mood. Then I parkour up the corner of the room—parkour is a type of free-running martial art, in case you aren’t versed in such things—and I reach the catwalk.”
“And you’re still trapped in this room. We gear up an assault team and take you down at our leisure.”
“Or I could just open the door and walk out.”
Fagan said, “Sure. Right past the latest in biometric analysis and an eight-digit code that you couldn’t possibly know.”
“In The Art of War, Sun Tzu teaches to pretend inferiority and encourage the arrogance of your opponent. I’ve never been good at the pretending inferiority part. For the biometrics, I would cut off one of their palms. Just the top few layers of skin and muscle. Then I would wear their flesh like a glove.”
“You promised your brother that you wouldn’t kill anyone. At least, not without permission.”
“The guard would survive. The skin would grow back nicely. I’ll even take it from his non-dominant hand. That way he can still wipe his ass without difficulty.”
“How thoughtful of you. But there’s still the code. And there is no way that you could know what that is.”
The blond, bearded guard walked up and said, “We’re prepped for transport, sir.”
Fagan turned to the man. “Do you have a knife in your boot?”
“Sir?”
“If you do, it had better not be there tomorrow. Now, get Mr. Ackerman out of my sight.”
The guards went to work securing Ackerman. They lifted the black box on its edge, covering him with shotguns while they wheeled him out of one box to the other.
As they were about to close the coffin’s lid and wrap him in darkness, Ackerman said, “22537626.”
The look on Fagan’s face was priceless. Ackerman took a mental snapshot.
Fagan said, “I won’t confirm or deny that you’re correct, but out of pure curiosity, why would you guess that specific code?”
Ackerman smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Trever. Daddy will tell you all about it when he gets home from work.”
*
Powell had requested that Officer Navarro remain in custody at the prison to aid in the investigation. The local sheriff had agreed. So there they sat. Inside a secure conference room with brown-paneled walls, maybe the same one lawyers used to confer privately with their clients. A dead zone. Marcus had made sure of that.
The metal chair creaked under his weight as Marcus sat down opposite the man who twenty-four hours prior had shot four inmates and blown up two of his coworkers. Ray Navarro still smelled strongly of smoke and blood, and his odor filled the whole room.
“How’s your day going?” Marcus said.
Navarro’s eyes didn’t waver from the floor. He hadn’t spoken a word since his capture.
“I hope today’s going better than yesterday at least. Yesterday was probably the worst day of your life. So were you involved, an accomplice, or were you forced to murder those men?”
Marcus laid a few file folders on the table in front of Navarro. He opened them up. Fanned out the pictures inside. They were family photos of the two guards who had died in the explosion.
“I had to request these photos from the families of your victims.”
Navarro wrestled his eyes up to the images, human nature and curiosity cutting through his grief. His eyes were bloodshot from crying.
Marcus said, “When I return these photos, should I tell them that the person responsible has been brought to justice, or is that person still out there?”
Navarro said nothing, but his facial expressions showed that he was understanding. He wasn’t completely catatonic.
Marcus said, “Did you kill your family?”
Tears ran down Ray Navarro’s cheeks. Marcus could almost feel Navarro’s thoughts. The man was thinking that he might as well have.
Marcus leaned back in his chair and said, “I had a similar experience a while back. But mine lasted for months. I was thrown into a dark hole and tortured and forced to do a lot of things I’m not proud of. But you know one thing that kept me going was the thought of making sure that something similar didn’t happen to someone else. If you don’t talk to me, Ray, then other families are going to suffer and die. Other kids will go to bed without a parent. You may feel that you didn’t hav
e a choice up to this point. You may have been trapped. But that’s not true anymore. Now, you have a choice. I don’t judge you for what happened, but I will judge you if you don’t make a choice right now, a conscious choice, to help me make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
Navarro said nothing, but he did look up.
Marcus said, “How about I run it down from the beginning and you fill in the blanks? Just nod if that’s all you feel you can do.”
But Navarro did more than nod. His voice sounded like dried leaves crumbling as he said, “Why aren’t there pictures of Bill’s family in there? You didn’t mention him.”
“They didn’t tell you? Bill Singer is doing okay. Well, he has one too many holes in him, but he’ll live.”
Ray started weeping. He raised his head to the ceiling in what seemed to be a silent thank you. Marcus imagined they were the kind of tears a father would shed after a child pulled through a dangerous surgery. They were tears of joy, of relief.
“Your coworkers say that you and Bill were close.”
“Why past tense? I thought you just said he’s okay. Did I imagine that? Was that in my head?” With each word, Navarro would rub his throat as if he was in pain from speaking so much.
“Stay with me, Ray. I was referring to your friendship in the past tense. I’m sure you shooting him put bit of a strain on the relationship.”
“I’m just not sure what’s real anymore.”
“I’ve been there. But this man who started the ball rolling, he’s real. Here’s how I figure it so far. Some guy busts in and takes you and your family hostage. He knows that you were a Marine sniper. He knows you’re a man who has killed before. Killed for something you cared about. For the right reasons. Killed for your country. He knows that it’s a short shove, just a little push, to get you to kill again in order to protect something you love. Hell, all the targets are convicts, nasty ones. You’re practically doing the world a favor. What I don’t understand is why your family hasn’t turned up one way or another. Dead or alive. They’ve just vanished without a trace.”
“They’re dead,” Ray said in a hoarse whisper.
“That’s something else I don’t understand. You haven’t even asked about them. If you didn’t kill them and you didn’t watch them die, then why are you so sure they’re gone?”
“I figured he was going to kill them either way, but with what I did, they’re dead for sure.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t follow the plan. My mother-in-law has been staying with us. She was taken as well. He killed her just to make a point. Just to show how serious he was. He was very clear. He told me in detail what he would do if I didn’t follow the plan to the letter.”
“You only saw one man? You sure?”
“Positive. He had us in a dark room with hoods over our heads, but he left us alone a few times. Anyone who had a partner would have kept a guard on us. I never heard any other voices.”
“The partner could have been on another mission or this guy could have been one member of a larger group.”
“I suppose, but I didn’t get that feeling.”
“What part of the plan didn’t you follow?”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”
“Ray, I think your family may still be alive.”
“The other cop said the same thing. But you weren’t there. You didn’t look in his eyes.”
“This killer isn’t a sadist. He doesn’t kill just for the joy of killing. He’s mission-oriented. He killed your mother-in-law to prove a point. He had you kill those inmates because they fit into his plan somehow. He wants attention. It’s not about the killing. It’s about proving his superiority. Over you, Powell, law enforcement. Killing your family doesn’t prove he’s superior to them.”
“He wouldn’t just let them go. I knew a guy like him in the corps. People might as well be flies or ants. The lives of other people mean nothing to men like that.”
“What was the plan? What went wrong?”
Ray teared up again.
“What were you supposed to do?”
“I knew he was going to kill them either way. I had to do something. I had to try. But Bill stopped me. He got in the way.”
“What did you try?”
“To get away. I was supposed to kill myself with the bomb. None of the other guards were supposed to get hurt. I chose my family over them. I thought maybe I could sneak back and … I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were making impossible choices and doing the best you could with an unthinkable situation. If he wanted you dead, that means you know something that can hurt him.”
“I don’t know anything. He wore a mask and disguised his voice electronically.”
“Where did you get the bomb? How did you get it through security?”
“I didn’t. The bomb was already here waiting for me.”
*
Marcus stared out the enormous window and surveyed the prison complex. Powell’s office was a sort of watchtower itself. It sat above all the others, built upon one of the prison’s many interconnected buildings, some of which looked as if they were about to—or already had—fallen in on themselves. The office rested in a twenty-five-by-twenty-five-foot space sitting at the very top of the tower. Each of the four walls had large viewing windows. Sunlight bathed every corner of the room, and the scent of boiling peppermint oil hung heavy in the air. The office took up a whole floor of its own that could only be accessed via the spiral metal staircase Marcus had noticed in Control Center East.
Powell walked up and handed Marcus a cup of coffee. Marcus looked down at it like it was a breath of air to a drowning man. He hadn’t had any caffeine all day. How was he supposed to catch bad guys while suffering from withdrawal?
Powell said, “They call this office the Ivory Tower. It was designed by one of my more grandiose and arrogant predecessors. I hate it. Makes me feel like I’m lording over these men.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Perhaps. In a sense. But I like to think of the relationship more as that of a father to a child. One of love, but also of discipline.”
“So you think of yourself more as a god to these men rather than their king.”
Powell seemed to consider his next words carefully. “Special Agent Williams, Marcus if I may, do you take particular issue with me or what I’m doing here?”
Marcus took a long sip of his coffee. Normally, he would have dropped a sarcastic remark or smart-ass comment, but he wanted Powell to open up and tell him the truth about something and, sometimes, the easiest way to get someone to let his or her guard down was to let down your own.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I sometimes get so wrapped up in the case that some of my natural tendencies shine through.”
“I’ve been there. What you do isn’t easy.”
“I hear you know from firsthand experience.”
“Yes, but that was a lifetime ago.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“The past is the past, son. I think your boss and I would both like to keep it there.”
He thought of his boss. The Director. What kind of a guy goes by a codename and doesn’t give out his real name to the people he works with? It was only because of Ackerman that he knew the Director’s real name was Philip. On any information of a personal nature, the Director was more than just a closed book. He was a book that didn’t want to be read.
Philip had left for the airport in order to greet Ackerman’s private plane at the hangar. Marcus had wanted to be there himself, but his boss had insisted on briefing Ackerman while he updated the local sheriff and prison leadership. The Director had finally convinced Marcus by suggesting that he could pick up Maggie on the way, and maybe try to cool her down a bit. Marcus wasn’t expecting great results from that plan, but it was worth a shot.
They were still waiting for Powell’s public relations manager. He checked the time on his modified Apple watch.
If the PR guy wasn’t there in five minutes, the briefing would begin without him.
Marcus said, “I need to know why you quit.”
“It has no bearing on the case.”
“I didn’t say that it did. I noticed the pictures here in your office. Your daughter is definitely old enough to have been around when you were part of the organization.”
Powell nodded in understanding. “I heard you have a son. You’d like to know if I quit because of my daughter? Well, it’s more complicated than that.”
“It always is.”
“I will tell you this. I love my daughter, and we have a strong bond. A bond that would not have been possible if I had been working at the SO.”
Marcus was about to probe deeper, but Powell’s secretary called out from across the office, “Excuse me, Mr. Powell. I just got word that Mr. Reese is on his way up. Are you ready to start the briefing?”
*
While Marcus had been interrogating Navarro, Andrew had decided to speak with some of the guards about the incident and the prison in general. As people started to gather around the conference table in Powell’s office, Andrew was surprised to see one of the men he had questioned earlier at length. A young guard who had been present at the time of the shooting.
Andrew walked up and shook the man’s hand and said, “Hello again, Jerry.”
Jerry Dunn answered with a smile and a nod as he limped past Andrew toward the marble conference table filling one side of Powell’s office. Andrew had learned that Jerry had only started working in corrections a few months ago. Based on his lack of seniority, it seemed strange for Jerry to have been invited to this meeting. The others he could understand—the assistant warden, Major Ingram, Spinelli, Sheriff Hall, Powell’s PR rep, and Powell’s secretary—but Jerry Dunn seemed out of place.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Andrew said.
Jerry Dunn paused his shuffling gait and said, “I requested to help.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
