The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset

by Ethan Cross

  The atmosphere and clientele made him feel sick to his stomach.

  His disappointment turned to anger, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to hurt these men. Which was difficult to do without touching them. Still, Ackerman didn’t believe in impossibility.

  Emily asked the young woman at the reception desk where they could find Leland Unser. She directed them to a thick-necked black man dancing around the main sparring ring. Large padded gloves covered Unser’s hands. He bobbed and weaved as he yelled instructions at some kid punching the pads.

  To Ackerman’s trained eye, he could tell that Unser was one of the only true fighters in the place. And even the tough-looking trainer seemed about twenty years past his prime.

  Approaching the sparring ring, Emily called out, “Mr. Unser, can we have a word, please?”

  Unser screamed at the trainee, “You’re still dropping your elbow! You do that tonight and that monster will put you on your ass.”

  Emily said again, “Mr. Unser, we just need a few minutes of your—”

  In a gravelly baritone, Unser said, “As you can see, little girl, I’m busy. The kid here has a big fight tonight, and we have a lot of mental work to do before then. You’ll just have to come back another time.”

  Ackerman climbed to the side of the ring and ducked under the ropes. He wore a black, long-sleeve shirt made of a skin-hugging, dry-fit material. He had selected the shirt for the purpose of displaying the thick cords of muscle stretched across his body. Not out of vanity, but as a type of psychological warfare.

  The trainee had stopped throwing punches and stood beside his master, breathing hard. Leland Unser was a short, muscular black man with tattoos crawling up his neck, horn-rimmed glasses, and a perfectly shaved head. The muscles in Unser’s jaw and neck were rigid and his nostrils flared.

  Ackerman walked toward Unser and said, “Do I look like the kind of person who comes back later?”

  Unser snorted in derision. “What are you supposed to be? Whatever it is, I’m not impressed, pretty boy. I get a lot of guys like you coming in here thinking they’re big stuff, but any one of these other guys would eat you alive. They’re real fighters. And you ain’t got what it takes. Save us both some time and energy and get the hell out of my gym.”

  Ackerman laughed. “You’re adorable, and I didn’t know this was a training gym. I thought perhaps it was some sort of dance studio.”

  “You’re about to have a very bad day. Now, last chance. Take your girl and your cocky attitude and get the hell off my property.”

  Emily had followed him into the ring and said, “Mr. Unser, I think you have the wrong idea. We really just need a few moments of your time.”

  Ackerman said, “We’ve been asking around about the city’s underground fighting scene. I hear there’s a lot of money getting thrown around. Our sources told us you were the guy to see about getting an invitation.”

  “You heard wrong. I have no idea what you’re even talking about. I’m a legitimate fight promoter. I don’t associate with anything illegal.”

  Ackerman shrugged. “I know, I know. ‘The first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club,’ but you’re going to have to make an exception. All I need is a time and a location, and I’ll handle the rest. No introductions or invitations necessary.”

  Other thickly muscled selfie-takers gathered around the perimeter of the sparring ring, obviously ready to jump in and defend Unser against the apparent interloper. Unser said, “I don’t have anything to say. Now go.”

  Ackerman looked toward Emily, who had backed to the corner of the ring. She gestured to the door. She was angry about his handling of the situation and wanted to cut their losses. But she knew him better than that. Ackerman never backed down from a fight.

  He smiled. “I know you don’t know me. I’m merely some guy who walked in here off the street. You wouldn’t risk exposing your less than legal income sources to a stranger. I completely understand. So why don’t we do this … I’ll prove myself and help your fighter prepare at the same time. A little sparring match. No offensive moves on my part. See this gorgeous face. If he’s able to land even a single punch or kick to this face, then I’ll leave your baby-oil factory and never return. You can even tie my hands behind my back.”

  Unser’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze locked with Ackerman’s. “Why are you asking about underground fighting anyway? What kind of game you playing here?”

  Emily said, “We could make it worth your while, Mr. Unser.”

  Ackerman cocked his head to the side but maintained the focus of his unblinking gaze on the washed-up brawler staring him down. He let the smile build onto his face like a slow tide sliding over the sand. He allowed the madness, the bloodlust, the darkness to swell up in him. He could almost taste the moment when Unser saw the insanity in his eyes.

  Ackerman had always found that you can win a battle before it begins by merely asserting your dominance. After all, the whole point of the battle was to prove one’s superiority over the opponent. If he could make his opponent fear that he or she had already lost, then his victory was assured.

  One of the quickest ways to accomplish this was with a simple look. The gaze of something primal and wild that dwelled in him would reach into the other person’s soul, triggering what he imagined to be some sort of biochemical reaction that informed his adversary that it’s life was in clear and present danger. The instinctive part of his victim’s body would then send out all kinds of signals, neurons firing, adrenaline pumping, all manner of subconscious warnings, all screaming to the soon-to-be victim that he or she was in the presence of an alpha predator.

  He said, “You wouldn’t much like the games I play, Mr. Unser.”

  As he spoke, Ackerman could almost taste the cold chill as it fell like rain down the trainer’s spine. The words didn’t matter, it was the way they were spoken. Like a hungry wolf growling at its prey.

  Unser shivered and asked, “You look like a guy who’s done time in the Ding Wing.”

  With all too intimate understanding, Ackerman knew that Unser referred to the psychiatric wing of a prison. Using another common prison term, he replied, “I’m actually out on jackrabbit parole right now.”

  Unser looked from his trainee to Ackerman and then back again, as if he were a chess master considering the sacrifice of one of his pawns. “All defense and no offense,” Unser said. “And all he has to do is land one punch, and you’ll let me get back to work?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we can tie your arms behind your back?”

  Ackerman bowed his head in acceptance of the terms.

  “Somebody grab a jump rope and get up here. Tie this fool up.”

  The man Unser had been training—a Latin gentlemen with a head shaved into a mohawk—had kept his mouth shut during the entire exchange, deferring to his superior. But now the young fighter seemed hesitant. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Unser? He can’t defend himself.”

  Unser squeezed the fighter’s shoulder and, through clenched teeth, said, “I want you to knock this crazy bastard’s head off with one swing. Can I count on you to do that, or should I have one of these other guys in the octagon tonight instead of you?”

  The fighter shrugged his shoulders, looked at Ackerman, and said, “Sorry, player, but you ‘bout to get knocked out.”

  It would have been simple enough for Ackerman to slip free of the rope, but he had no intention of doing so. The objective here was not to demonstrate his skills of escape, but to establish his dominance to every other alpha male in the room.

  The young fighter rushed forward, preparing to deliver the knockout blow but still half expecting Ackerman to kick or dodge the attack. The kid’s fear made him hesitate.

  Unfortunately for the hungry young fighter, Ackerman had catalogued every flaw in the kid’s technique as he had watched him train earlier. The kid always shifted his weight and raised his left arm before throwing his right, and when throwing a
left, his right shoulder tensed up.

  Since the fighter’s unconscious muscle movements choreographed his every attack, Ackerman was easily able to dodge a long series of punches. With every unconnected blow, the fighter’s frustration grew. With anger and embarrassment clouding his judgment, the young Latino’s technique became even sloppier.

  Ackerman intentionally backed himself into the corner and then read the twitches of the boy’s muscles like a shaman seeing the future in smoke and fire. When the kid was about to throw a huge right cross, Ackerman ducked under the blow and spun away from his opponent.

  The fighter’s momentum carried him forward, off balance, his fist striking the corner post of the ring. But then confusion turned to anger, and the kid rushed him with the intention of taking him to the ground.

  Up to this point, the young fighter had been relying on his fists, but this wasn’t boxing. It was mixed martial arts, and kicking and grappling were all on the table.

  As the boy rushed forward, Ackerman waited until the last moment and then dropped low and spun, sticking his foot into the boy’s path. Already out of control, the impetuous young fighter ran right into the trap, lost his balance, and ended up with his face planted into the mat.

  Ackerman couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He looked out at Emily, hoping to see some admiration and respect in her eyes. But her face was emotionless except for a few tight lines of concentration and concern. She reminded Ackerman of a zoologist watching a lion devour his evening meal.

  Amid the chuckles and jeers of onlookers, the young fighter slapped the mat. It seemed the entire gym had taken time away from flexing in front of the mirrors to watch the show.

  Pushing himself to his feet, the kid took a second to collect himself and control his breathing.

  Ackerman said, “There’s still time to forfeit.”

  Changing tactics, the kid feigned a right cross and then kicked Ackerman in the thigh with his right leg. Landing a blow for the first time, the kid seemed rejuvenated. He followed with a flurry of kicks, both low and high. The low kicks Ackerman caught with his thigh, enjoying the jolts of pain. When the kick came high, he deflected the blow with his shoulders.

  Much like his punches, every one of the young fighter’s kicks had a nearly imperceptible giveaway, allowing Ackerman to easily deflect the blows.

  The fighter’s right leg shot toward Ackerman’s face with the speed and strength of a knockout. But before launching his attack, the kid had shifted his weight and pulled his right foot back two inches. Knowing exactly where the kick was headed, Ackerman offered a kick of his own. This was designed to intercept the incoming blow at the ball of the fighter’s ankle. Crying out in pain, the kid stumbled backward.

  Ackerman tilted his head and said, “‘The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.’”

  Breathing hard, the fighter said, “Did you memorize that from a fortune cookie?”

  Ackerman grinned. “Close. It comes from an ancient Chinese military treatise dating from the fifth century BC. Sun Tzu, The Art of War.”

  The kid squared up again, but Ackerman had grown bored with the display. It was time to put an end to the sparring match. The next kick from the impetuous young man was an all-in type of move that seemed to work better in movies than in real life. It was a knockout move, a full round-house kick aimed at Ackerman’s head. The kid didn’t even try to feign another attack or hide his intentions, as if he were daring Ackerman to stop this blow from connecting.

  As soon as the boy’s muscles betrayed his intentions, Ackerman turned to the side the kick would be coming from and launched a hard straight forward kick of his own. No spin. No fancy technique. Merely a jackhammer blow aimed directly inside the fighter’s calf.

  The blow connected with a crunch, spinning the boy around and dropping him to the mat. The young man rolled in pain.

  When he saw the blood on the mat, when he smelled its sweetness, he heard his father’s voice: Kill them all and the pain will stop. You are the night, Francis. No fear of death. No purpose in life but to cause pain and kill.

  Ackerman clenched his fists until the nails broke the flesh of his palms. He concentrated on the pain, centering himself. Using the pain as a compass to guide him to serenity.

  Unser, his rage returning, said, “That was an offensive move. You cheated!”

  Ackerman replied by slipping free from the rope and dropping it to the mat. Then he removed his shirt, exposing the roadmap of pain and suffering that covered his body. There wasn’t an inch of his torso and arms that wasn’t covered in scar tissue. Burns covered huge portions. Multiple bullet holes. Countless knife slashes. His back even showed the marks of a scourging, similar to what Jesus Christ experienced before his crucifixion. Father had tried to be historically accurate and fashioned his whip from several leather thongs with sheep bones and sharp metal balls grouped at intervals along the ends of each thong. Ackerman vividly remembered the whip embedding itself into his back and ripping out whole sections of flesh as the flagellum was pulled free.

  Many of the onlookers gasped at the exposed scars, but Ackerman’s eyes didn’t move from Unser’s. He said, “As you can see, many have attempted to kill me over the years. Care to venture a guess at how many succeeded? Now, I know you’re a tough bunch and you probably think you could overwhelm me by your shear numerical advantage. But let me remind you that this time my hands won’t be tied behind my back, and I won’t be playing nice.”

  Unser ran his eyes over Ackerman’s scars a moment and then pulled out a business card from a wallet in his back pocket, whispering, “Somebody give me a damn pen.” One of the onlookers tossed him one, and Unser wrote on the back of the business card. Then he said, “There are a few different underground circuits in the city. I put the times and addresses of the two best on the card. Now get out.”

  Unser looked to Emily and added, “The places you’re headed, baby doll, I once saw a guy get punched so hard that his eye flew out. His opponent picked it up and ate it. The crowd cheered him on.”

  Ackerman chuckled. “You know eyeballs have a very rich and buttery consistency. They sort of melt in your mouth. But there’s this hard sphere in the center. It’s best to just spit that part out.”

  Unser’s face curled up in disgust. He held out the card and said, “Please leave.”

  Taking the business card, Ackerman stared at the two addresses and debated about whether to press his luck. “The real reason I’m in town, Mr. Unser, is because I’ve come to bet on the next fight in the Diamond Room. Do you have any connections there?”

  Upon hearing the words “Diamond Room,” Unser’s demeanor instantly changed, his eyes darting around from his men to the newcomers. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “I’m just a man with provocative proclivities and money to burn.”

  Ackerman saw two trainees creeping up behind Emily, but he also recognized that Unser possessed information vital to their case. He had often found that the easiest way to extract information was to simply allow your target to tell you themselves.

  The two goons grabbed Emily from behind, searching her pockets and placing the edge of a knife to her throat. Ackerman felt a strange, protective rage fill him. He wanted to rip out the two men’s tracheas for laying their probing hands on his partner.

  In his mind, Father said, Kill them all.

  Lip curled in a snarl, Unser said, “I think maybe it’s time we start asking the questions. And if I don’t like your answers, then I’m going to kill you both and have your bodies burned down to nothing but ashes.”

  Ackerman’s gaze remained locked on Unser. It took every ounce of his hard-earned self-control to keep from listening to Father’s instructions. He wanted their blood, their pain, their fear.

  One of the two trainees pawing at Emily said, “She’s packing, and she’s got a government badge! Department of Justice.”

  Unser’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
To Ackerman, the barrel-chested trainer said, “You don’t seem like a fed.”

  “I’m a special consultant.”

  “Why didn’t you two just tell me you were cops?”

  Ackerman was tired of playing with these men. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Your men will remove their hands from my colleague, or I will detach their hands from their bodies. Then you will tell me all you know about the Diamond Room.”

  Unser was silent, transfixed by Ackerman’s cold stare. With a nod to his men, Unser said, “Everybody get back to work. These two are leaving.” The two trainees released Emily, returning her weapon and ID. His glasses were becoming fogged up from his erratic breathing, and so Unser removed the horned-rims and wiped them on his shirt. Then he removed another business card from his pocket, wrote an address on the back, and said, “All I can tell you is that if you’re wanting to find the Diamond Room, this is a good place to start.”

  29

  Get them before they get you.

  That had been one of her mother’s favorites. She used to impart that wisdom to her daughters regularly. At least, she did before that day when she hung herself in the bathroom.

  Corin Campbell could still see her mother’s feet spasming and searching for a foothold. The kicks slowly died down as her mother’s face turned purple and her eyes rolled back in her head. Corin had been four years old, but she still remembered the event in vivid detail. She supposed it wasn’t the kind of thing a person easily forgot.

  She had tried to kill her mother’s memory many times, but her current ordeal had exposed how alive and well that pain truly was, how closely it lay below the surface. Although, even her worst memories of her previous life were preferable to this hell.

  The door creaked open, which was strange. She normally heard his heavy footfalls echoing off the concrete walls long before he opened the door. This time, she heard nothing.