by Ethan Cross
Then he kicked through the door into the next corridor.
*
Little sister thought that he just rambled about and rushed headlong into every situation but, if anything, he overanalyzed. And he never took on a fight he couldn’t win. After all, losing was just an excuse for not cheating hard enough. Everything he did was calculated, weighed, and then often put instantly into action. There was no second-guessing or morality or fear of pain or death. There was just analysis and action.
He decided that he would walk back through this encounter with Maggie afterward and explain his every calculated move. That way she could perhaps understand that although his ways were often a mystery to her, they were very sensible from an objective standpoint.
He would use this as a teaching moment.
He had that in mind as he stepped up the stairs toward the group of men on the landing which joined several hallways. The far side of the nexus held seven hostages. Five inmates-turned-revolutionaries stood between the hostages and Ackerman. If each enemy had retrieved a Taser from a guard that meant that two of those were still available for use. He scanned the area, and his eyes found the electricity-based weapons sitting on the ground near the line of hostages.
These guys were making it too easy.
He debated about even using the Tasers, just to make it a bit more challenging.
He said, “Hello, gentlemen.”
Ackerman had come to realize that his lack of fear also gave him a tactical advantage in that he was never afraid to fail. He considered all the possibilities and their potential outcomes, but he didn’t fret over how things would turn out. This gave him a tactical advantage because he always entered every situation assuming that he would win. He may have to adapt and improvise his game plan. That was inevitable. But why even consider defeat? Ackerman felt that it was amazing what one could achieve when that person knew from the start that they were going to win. No doubt. No fear. Just analysis and action.
The first opponent stepped forward, aimed the Taser at Ackerman’s chest, and said, “Don’t move!”
Ackerman kept moving forward.
He held the empty assault rifle up like a white flag of surrender.
The man who seemed to be in charge of the gathered group was a behemoth of a man with a military bearing. But the rest of the group seemed to be a mix of colors and gang affiliations. Ackerman supposed this was the reason for the shootings—ensuring alliances, just as he had predicted.
The big man who seemed to be in charge kept the Taser trained on his target and said, “Don’t you move, you crazy bastard.”
Ackerman considered the man’s voice and tone and then gave his face a second look. He laughed out loud when he realized who it was. His old friend from the prison yard. What was his name? Bozo?
Ackerman said, “My dear Bozo, so good to see you again.”
The man’s voice was little more than a rumble as he said, “Bozo? You call me that one more time, and I’m gonna—”
Ackerman laughed and replied, “My apologies. I forgot that’s not actually your name. I was just calling you that in my head earlier.”
Bozo leaned down into his face. He could smell the big black man’s sweat. The odor reminded him of a dive bar he had demolished once in Chicago. Bozo said, “I find that name offensive and racist.”
That genuinely surprised Ackerman. “I apologize. That was never my intention. Offensive? For sure. But racist? Never. I actually think you may be confused at what I’m referencing with that name. At any rate, the name was simply intended to convey my view of you as some sort of clown or dancing buffoon. Any other undertones were purely accidental, and I’m truly sorry for that.”
“My name is Winston.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you.”
The smart play for this group would have been to surround him and work together to restrain him. But these were mere foot soldiers following Lash’s orders, and he supposed their presence as convicts at Foxbury to begin with spoke to their poor decision-making skills.
Winston repeated himself. “Don’t move.”
Ackerman kept walking forward. He said, “Are you familiar with the infamous Nazi scientist Hans Eppinger?”
Winston said nothing. The big man just kept his feet moving and his eyes on the assault rifle. He said, “Where did you get that gun?”
“From your boss. But Mr. Lash is fine. Don’t worry. Anyway, Hans Eppinger tried to see if people’s bodies would somehow adapt to drinking seawater. Or at least I suppose that’s what he was after when he forced ninety gypsies to drink nothing but seawater.”
“Where is Mr. Lash?”
Ackerman supposed that Maggie was currently listening in and thinking that he was merely talking to hear the sound of his own voice. But, in reality, he was using the conversation as a distraction while he analyzed the coming fight. He already knew how things would play out; down to what order the opponents would be dispatched and what available weapons he would use to achieve that. He had sized up each adversary, their strengths and weaknesses, and he had chosen a fighting style to implement. Indonesian Silat, which was a fighting art that he employed on a regular basis and had been studying extensively as of late. Unlike many of the other disciplines, it assumed that the opponents you were facing were trying to end your life. With that in mind, Silat was brutal, and it aimed for all out destruction of one’s opponent.
He would have to explain all of this to Maggie during his post-fight analysis.
He said, “It’s reported that the suffering gypsies would lick the freshly mopped floors to find drops of fresh water. All the subjects died horribly, of course. Perhaps Eppinger was merely in the data-gathering phase at that stage of the game. Doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s amazing what normal, intelligent human beings will do, what ignorant schemes they can be talked into, when under the influence of an egomaniacal narcissist.”
Ackerman knew it wouldn’t be long now before Winston took action. He could see the big man’s wheels turning. Winston would eventually figure out that he was holding a nonlethal weapon, and the safest course of action would be to stun and subdue Ackerman before asking any other questions.
Ackerman said, “What did Lash offer you to go along with all this madness? Money? Freedom?”
Winston pulled the trigger.
*
Ackerman saw the move coming long before the big man pulled the trigger. It was predicted by Winston’s eyes, posture, and breathing. But Ackerman wasn’t worried about the Taser. He wasn’t concerned about the electric shock he would receive. He had practiced this move to perfection with everyone from security guards to federal agents.
Electricity-based weapons required a connection from the intended target’s body to a power source of some kind. In the case of the typical pistol-grip Tasers, the weapon fired barbs into the flesh of the target, which connected by wire to the power source in the Taser’s grip.
When Ackerman saw the big ULF enforcer tense to fire, he released his grip on the assault rifle, letting it fall to the floor. After that, all he had to do was send his arms into motion before the kiss of the Taser reached his skin. He jerked his arms up to about head height, each aimed with an arcing path toward the point of impact of each electrode. He wasn’t fast enough to catch the prongs before they struck, but once his arms were up, the rest was like surfing. All he had to do was ride the wave.
Truth be told, this was his favorite part.
Something so soothing about the muscle-tensing touch of electricity.
He felt the prongs penetrate his flesh, and the shockwave began. Eventually he knew his body would betray him, and he would succumb to the current if he didn’t ride the wave of electricity with his falling hands. He guided his soon-to-be-useless arms like a pair of paratroopers gliding toward an objective. Then he used his remaining muscle control to tangle his fingers around the wires and, just before the wave crashed, he let his arms fall to his sides, yanking the barbs free of his flesh.<
br />
With the electrodes in hand, Ackerman thrust them back at their master. Winston wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and prison-issue pants. The best point of impact would be his torso, but Ackerman opted for exposed skin and jammed the prongs he had just ripped from his own flesh back into Winston’s neck.
The big man’s eyes had already been wide and fearful, but they went wider. He was out of the fight for at least a few seconds, which meant that he was out of the fight altogether.
Ackerman held Winston up for a second and then shoved him back toward his friends.
At this point in the dance, Ackerman faced a choice. Go for the improvised knife sticking out above Winston’s waistband, probably something fashioned from broken glass. Or use the assault rifle as a bludgeoning tool. Considering that he had promised not to kill these men, the knife would be the obvious choice. He could be very precise with a blade.
But he decided to go with the assault rifle.
Less mess.
He snatched up the weapon and swung the empty gun by the barrel toward his next closest threat. It struck the man across the face and drove him downward toward a brick wall. The man collided with the brick in such a way that Ackerman had to wonder if the blow was fatal.
How was he supposed to keep from killing anyone when all these people were so damn fragile?
As he suspected, both the second and third attackers had prematurely pulled their triggers and missed. So that left only one real threat, since victory was insured by limiting the number of Tasers to one. He could easily handle the stings of one Taser, but in numbers they could immobilize him.
The first and second of the hostage takers were now down or at least stunned and momentarily out of the fight. The third was still on his feet. He was a big, dumb-looking white guy with Aryan ink. He hadn’t changed position by two feet during the entire confrontation.
He threw a punch at Ackerman. A big, dumb, slow haymaker.
Ackerman grabbed the wrist with his left hand and snapped the man’s forearm using his own forearm as leverage. The big Aryan howled in pain, and Ackerman shoved him aside.
The fourth man stupidly tried his Taser, but he was also blocking his final ally from attacking.
The fourth man fired, and Ackerman once again turned the electric serpents back on the snake charmer. Just as he had done with Winston, he jammed the hooked prongs into the man’s neck and shoved him aside.
The final man had the stance and technique of a boxer. He feigned two fake punches, Ackerman blocked a third, and a fourth connected with Ackerman’s jaw.
He stumbled back and gave a nod of respect. He said, “Nice moves. I had you pegged as a boxer, but you were a bit more than just mildly competitive, weren’t you?”
The final enemy narrowed his eyes and said, “Two-time Golden Gloves winner.”
Ackerman said, “Good for you. But I don’t really care for boxing. Too violent.”
Then he sprang forward.
Golden Gloves was ready. He feigned a big punch with his right and then faked an uppercut with his left. But then Golden Gloves wisely chose to throw no punch at all, and he instead focused on defense.
His strategy didn’t matter.
Golden Gloves wasn’t ready for Ackerman to lunge not at him, but instead at the wall to the boxer’s left.
Ackerman expertly pushed off the wall with the side of his foot and, launching himself into the air, he used his downward momentum to drive his elbow into the side of the boxer’s head.
Ackerman connected with the blow, but Golden Gloves wisely wrapped him up. It was second nature for a trained fighter to wrap up his opponent if necessary.
But Ackerman had counted on that training. He had exploited that ingrained tendency.
Golden Gloves wrapped up Ackerman’s arms, just as he had planned. And then Ackerman did the thing that all modern boxers feared. He bit the man’s ear off.
*
FILE #750265-6726-694
Zolotov, Dmitry - AKA The Judas Killer
State Exhibit F
Description: Diary Entry
The stage production of The Judas Game was a moderate financial success. Although, I wasn’t impressed with it. It was a drama about a youngest brother trying to cheat his way to riches by stealing a portion of his father’s wealth. The critics weren’t impressed either. It just didn’t resonate. Like Father was trying too hard to be something he was not.
Although, if I were Father, I would have wanted to be someone else as well.
The production made just enough money to buy Father a bit of goodwill when his next two plays flopped completely. At that time, he started working at the theater as a stage manager while he toiled away on what he called “his masterpiece.”
While Father had been failing as a playwright, I worked behind the scenes as a stagehand. I was a teenager by that time and so, like most boys at that age, thinking about girls occupied most of my time.
But there was one girl in particular who caught my eye the first moment I saw her, and it wasn’t long before she and I were deeply in love. Her father was one of the actors, and she filled in with some bit parts from time to time. Her name was Stasi, and she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. Her hair was the color of maple syrup, and she smelled like strawberries. But she tasted better than either of those.
Stasi was the one thing that I’ve had in my life that truly felt real. With her, for a time, the hole that was in my soul was filled by her light and our love. We would sneak away into the shadows of the catwalks, high above the stage, and we would lie there on the metal, side by side, staring down through the grates, and talking about where we would live and how many children we would have. I could have died in her arms. I used to lay my head on her chest and listen to her breathe in and out, our hearts beating in unison. It was innocent and beautiful.
Her father, much like mine, was an abusive drunk, and I always suspected that he visited Stasi in the night. Sometimes she would come to me in the morning, crying and wanting me to hold her. She never told me, and I was too scared to ask. Too afraid of what I would do when I learned the truth. What I would do to him. And I knew that, no matter how perfectly I orchestrated his murder, there were elements beyond my control that would threaten the perfect sanctuary that Stasi and I had found in each other.
I felt like Stasi and I were living in a bubble that would inevitably pop, and I was too afraid to move or change anything for fear of that perfect world bursting around us.
Until I met Debra, I didn’t think that I could ever love like that again. But Deb reminded me so much of Stasi. So much pain in her past, but so much joy in her future. You could just see it in both of their eyes. They each held a light inside that had refused to be extinguished, no matter what the circumstances that the darkness threw at them.
I envied them both. I always wondered what was inside of them that wasn’t in me. I was born into darkness, and I embraced it out of survival and necessity. But they had refused to let it stain their souls, and their courage and strength astounded me.
I would have died to protect Stasi, just like I would have died for Debra after her, and so when Stasi asked me to run away and start a new life, I had no hesitation. I would have followed her anywhere.
So we made our plans. And then we made our escape.
*
The SWAT van was wheels up when Marcus received a text from Andrew. It said, Thirty seconds out. Don’t leave without me.
Marcus yelled up to the driver and told him to wait. Then he started counting seconds. It was two and a half minutes before the van’s rear doors parted and Andrew climbed inside.
Marcus had hated to wait, but he was damn glad to see his friend. He said, “Took you long enough.”
Andrew, out of breath, said, “I peeled out of there as soon as I got your message. The cops on the scene think it could be a state record, by the way.”
“Go team.”
“We obviously can’t be involved in the arrests.”
Marcus said, “Sheriff Hall and I understand one another.”
“She barely made it out of there alive.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I told her that I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That you covered for her in Pittsburgh. I saw the pictures of the body. Up-close pictures of the wounds. I can tell things from wounds like that. Things about the person who did the stabbing.”
“I believe you. Do you have a point?”
Andrew said, “Let’s start with what I know.”
The van started to roll out, and Marcus said, “Have to take a rain check on that.”
Andrew said, “I’ll be quick.”
“This really isn’t the place or time.”
“Another girl went missing, but you knew she was already dead.”
“I had a hunch.”
“We were all following different leads. I went to the warehouse district. You were following up on the ATM thing. And Maggie was checking out a lead on the van. You told me that Maggie called in for backup and waited at the scene and the two of you went inside together. Then you were attacked and defended yourself, killing the suspect.”
Marcus said, “What is this, an IA investigation?”
The van bounced over the scorched earth of no man’s land and moved through the final gate leading to the manufacturing facility. The plan was first to secure that building and the tunnel leading into the prison. It was imperative that they maintain a foothold here.
Andrew said, “This is your friend asking for the truth. I don’t understand why you’re covering for her. It was self-defense. She wouldn’t have gotten into any real trouble. Probably just a psych eval and some mandatory vacation time.”
The van rolled to a stop. “You don’t stab someone eleven times in self-defense. You do that out of anger,” Marcus said, and then he stood up and jumped down from the back of the van.
Sheriff Hall held back with Marcus and Andrew while his SWAT team prepared to blow the front doors.
To Andrew, Marcus said, “You wearing your vest?”
“Never leave home without it,” Andrew said. “It’s saved my life too many times. But we’re not done yet. Why did you cover for her?”
