by Ethan Cross
“Not a very helpful hallucination, are you? He has no weaknesses. I’m actually quite honored to be killed by an instrument of such pure perfection.”
Now, you’re getting the idea.
Ackerman felt a strange, piercing pain in his skull, and he stumbled forward, dropping to his knees.
He said, “If you’re going to keep doing all this talking but saying nothing, then I welcome my imminent demise.”
Just because he has no weaknesses, doesn’t mean he doesn’t make mistakes. He’s just better than you at hand-to-hand combat. Get over it. I know you’ve been moping about since he beat you at Willoughby’s.
“He didn’t beat me. I saved Emily and—”
Once again, news flash, I’m in your head. You can’t lie to me. Now, if you can’t create a weakness, then create an opportunity for one.
“I hope this isn’t how I sound when I intentionally annoy people.”
Use your available resources, boy. The Gladiator is the best, and he knows it.
The fog starting to clear, Ackerman realized what his delusion-born dad had been trying to tell him. Vanity. Pride. Those were the Gladiator’s sins. His opponent had complete confidence that he was the best. But he had also never seen Marcus really angry …
His brother, after being swatted across the hardwood pit like a tennis ball, grabbed Ackerman by the shoulder and said, “Are you okay?”
Ackerman looked up into his brother’s face, which was bruised and bloody, and then over at the Gladiator who stood at the opposite side of the ring, hands at his side, waiting for them to come to him. Another sign of his opponent’s overconfidence.
Knowing what needed to be done, Ackerman began tearing at his throat and waited for the fear to hit his brother’s eyes. Then, still pretending to be choking, he faked a blackout.
“Frank! Frank!”
Holding his breath and lowering his heart rate, Ackerman made himself appear dead to cursory examination. He was going for the idea that the Gladiator had damaged his larynx to the point of him choking to death. He had first learned how to lower his vitals in order to appear dead when he was a boy. It was a skill that had served him well in the past, one forcefully learned under the tutelage of his father. The elder Ackerman had hooked electrodes and sensors to his body and then made an electric shock directly correspond to the rate at which his son’s heart beat. This essentially meant that Ackerman had to learn how to die in order to live.
“Frank!” Marcus screamed.
Then Ackerman heard the Gladiator whisper, “Flawless Victory.”
He fought back the urge to chuckle, but the Gladiator’s words stirred an altogether different emotion in his brother.
Marcus let out a battle cry and rushed at the Gladiator with reckless abandon. Hearing the scream and the footfalls, Ackerman opened his eyes and watched as his brother attacked with a feral intensity that could seldom be witnessed this side of hell. It was an attack of pure rage, no technique or planning or out-thinking an opponent. Marcus punched and kicked and fought the Gladiator with pure animal brutality, no consideration for his own life or for the damage he was sustaining. Marcus used his body like a bullet that he intended to drive into the heart of their enemy, no matter the cost.
Still, the Gladiator was an opponent like no other. He couldn’t be bested in a fair fight, by Ackerman or his younger brother. The big man absorbed a lot of blows from Marcus, but he was skilled enough to keep them from striking in full force on any vital areas.
Ultimately, the only way to stop his brother’s wild attack was for the Gladiator to wrap him up, the massive arms encircling Marcus like a pair of boa constrictors. But that was a big mistake. It presented an opportunity for his brother to create a weakness.
And Marcus seized the moment, using his teeth. Ackerman watched with pride as his brother bit into the Gladiator’s neck. Much as one of the hellhounds watching hungrily from the higher levels would have done, Marcus was going for the throat.
The Gladiator screamed and punched, but he couldn’t free himself. Marcus followed by kneeing the larger man repeatedly in the groin until their adversary dropped to his knees.
Following him down, Marcus continued his frenzied assault.
It seemed to be over. The big man appeared to be bleeding out on the floor, and Marcus looked to be intent on the job being properly finished.
But Ackerman knew that any predator grew increasingly more dangerous the closer it came to death.
His choking charade successfully complete, he sprang to his feet and rushed to assist his brother.
Before he could reach them, Ackerman watched helplessly as the Gladiator produced a small push dagger from a hidden sheath and plunged it into Marcus’s side.
Marcus didn’t even pause his assault at the blow. He kept working his fists like pistons, and then he pulled the small dagger free from his flesh and thrust the man’s own weapon into the side of the Gladiator’s neck.
As Ackerman pulled his brother off the dying man, Marcus seemed surprised to see him and wrapped him up in a huge bear hug. It took Ackerman a moment to realize that his brother had actually considered him deceased only seconds ago.
Patting Marcus on the back, he said, “I experienced a momentary loss of consciousness. I see that you faired well on your own.”
Pressing his left hand over the knife wound in his side, Marcus said, “You weren’t breathing.”
“Strange. I suppose I experienced a momentary loss of life. How’s your wound?”
“I’m fine.”
Ackerman doubted that. Blood was pushing past Marcus’s fingers, and his brother’s skin grew paler by the second. Marcus needed a battlefield dressing and a trip to the hospital. But he had faired far better than the Gladiator, whose remains would be lucky to see a morgue.
The Gladiator had his hand clenched over the weeping wound in his neck. His eyes were wild with terror, but his mind still clung to life.
Kneeling beside him, Ackerman stroked his adversary’s hair and said, “I noticed that during your life you’ve suffered from a bit of an identity crisis. You hate the face you were given, and so you cover it as often as possible. You hate the name you were given and the people who share it, but what you’ve failed to realize is that neither the moniker you were given nor the one you conjured for yourself is your true name.”
The Gladiator reached up to Ackerman and, in a choking gurgle, he rasped, “Kill me. Please.”
“Shhhh, don’t speak. I’ll merely ignore you anyway. You’re about to die, my friend, with or without my assistance. The important thing is that you listen to me now. When your life functions cease and you’re all alone in the darkness, I think you’ll hear a voice calling your true name. Not one given to us by parents or the stage or society, but a name you were given by the One Uncreated Being. I know you don’t believe in that sort of thing, but perhaps now is a moment for re-evaluation of one’s views on the afterlife? Perhaps you should consider answering that voice calling your true name. Or not. Your call.”
Then Ackerman kissed the Gladiator on the forehead and whispered, “Enjoy being eaten alive. You know what they say, live by the tooth, die by the tooth.”
From behind him, Marcus said, “Come on, Frank, we need …”
Ackerman turned back as his brother’s voice trailed away in time to see Marcus faint. He rushed to his brother’s side and caught him under the arms. Then he scooped Marcus up and carried him to the next level of the tiered VIP lounge, striding among the hellhounds.
The dogs growled and woke Marcus. Ackerman said, “Don’t make eye contact. At this point, we have to trust their training.”
A few of the Rottweilers whined and spun in circles, but they would always look back to the bleeding form in the center of the pit. Once through the door at the top-most tier, he sat Marcus down on the filthy Berber carpet and locked the door behind them. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the predatory black shapes of the hellhounds descending upon their dinner. Regrettably
, he couldn’t stay for the show.
When Ackerman returned, Marcus had passed from consciousness once again. Slapping his brother awake, he said, “Now is not the time for a nap.”
Marcus mumbled something incoherent, and Ackerman responded by asking, “Why are you always biting people? You have no idea where they’ve been. Not to mention the microbes that could be swirling in their veins. At least tell me you spit the blood out afterward.”
“I think I’m dying.”
“Nonsense.” Then he tore off a piece of his shirt, stuffed some of the fabric into the wound, and wrapped the rest around Marcus’s waist as a field dressing.
“We’re trapped,” Marcus said. “I’ll never get to the hospital in time. There are more of those dogs patrolling outside. We can’t even walk out.”
Ackerman replied, “You don’t need a hospital. We just need some gunpowder and a match to burn those veins and capillaries shut.”
His voice a ragged whisper, Marcus said, “Where are we going to get those things? Shut up. Just promise me you’ll find Dylan a good home. Somewhere he can be normal. I don’t want him to be anything like us. He deserves better.”
“I’ll raise him myself, instructing and teaching him in the ways of both the flesh and the spirit.”
“Absolutely not. He needs—”
“You have no say in the matter. You’ll be dead.”
“Damnit, Frank, can’t you just—”
“If you want to make sure Dylan grows up right, then you’re going to have to fight for him. I’m not going to let you off easy, little brother.”
“Listen to me, please, I’m not … Do you hear that? Is that the wind?”
Ackerman said, “If it’s flights of angels swinging low to carry you home, they’ll have to get through me first.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Just listen …”
Still concerned that his brother may be hallucinating, Ackerman nonetheless strained to identify any abnormal auditory vibrations. And there was something; a distinct thumping sound.
With a smile, Ackerman said, “That’s a helicopter, and it’s hovering over the roof.”
119
The sound of John Fogerty asking if anyone had ever seen the rain pumped out of Baxter’s headphones. He hummed along, nodding his head to the beat of the music, and remembered the next song on his record at home as “Born on the Bayou.” Unfortunately, his record player wouldn’t have fit on the SFPD’s Bell 429 helicopter. He supposed that the reduced size of his music library was one win for technology, but vinyl still sounded better.
From the copilot’s seat, Det. Natalie Ferrera said, “There’s nowhere to put it down on the roof.”
Still nodding along to CCR, Baxter said, “You know how I like to make an entrance.”
The roof of the defunct resort property was covered with dilapidated tables and equipment. It looked as though someone had cleared a lot of junk out from the building’s interior and stacked it on the roof. But Baxter knew a couple of tricks to clear a path. Directing the chopper’s rotor wash at the obstacles, he expertly guided the helicopter lower until the force of the blades pushed away the debris like a giant leaf blower. He repeated the procedure and then set the Bell 429 down in the middle of the Ristorante La Cascata.
Nat shot him a dirty look and, referring to the helicopter’s given name, said, “Air Support will skin you if you damage Matilda.”
“Would that be before or after you punch me in the balls?”
Dropping her headset, Nat opened her door and yelled, “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be collecting on that debt when you least expect it.”
Agent Morgan slid open the door to the rear cabin, and the two women pulled their weapons and headed for the covered portion of the restaurant, which also held the stairway access.
Baxter stayed with the chopper. He was merely the getaway driver. No need for him to stick his neck out. Nat and Emily didn’t make it inside, however, as they were met by a pair of women, one clearly unconscious and wheelchair bound and one a gorgeous black women in a white silk house dress and slippers. The woman in the wheelchair wore a similar outfit but hers was stained red and black. He recognized her as Corin Campbell, the person he had been hired to find. He also remembered seeing a photo of the lady in the white dress in Nat’s files: Sonnequa Washington. She had been one of the earliest hacking victims and the first to disappear, which made him wonder how many of the other missing girls were also still alive.
Baxter dropped from the chopper and rushed to help. He scooped Corin’s unconscious and bloody body into his arms and laid her down gently in the large helicopter’s rear cabin.
Corin’s eyes fluttered open, and looking up at Baxter, she rasped, “Am I dead?”
With a wink and a smile, he said, “No, darling, you’ve got a spectacular life left to live.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Just think of me as your guardian angel. Now, lie back, relax, and let old Baxter take care of the rest. You’re safe now.”
At his back, he heard Sonnequa yelling, “Get this thing out of here. She needs a hospital.”
Emily calmed the nearly hysterical woman with a confident look and a hand on her shoulder. Then she held up her phone and showed Sonnequa a photo of the missing members of her team. She said, “Have you seen these men?”
Sonnequa didn’t look long at the photo before saying, “They’re already dead. We need to leave now. Before he gets here. He had to have heard you landing.”
Baxter noticed Emily’s features tense and her porcelain cheeks flush at the thought of her friends being dead. Tears filled her eyes. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Nat asked, “Before who gets back? The man in the skull mask? The Gladiator?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but he’s already killed your friends by now.”
Emily grabbed the dark-skinned beauty by the shoulders and said, “What do you mean, ‘by now?’ You didn’t see them die?”
“You can trust me on this, little girl. He’s like a spider. No one gets out once they’re caught in his web. I’ve never seen anyone else but him walk out of the Diamond Room. He’s invincible.”
Releasing Sonnequa, Emily said, “You just don’t know my friends. Detective Ferrera, we need to hurry.”
Sonnequa held up Corin’s leg to show the scorched flesh and missing foot, and Corin cried out in pain. “My friend needs a hospital, please!”
Ignoring her, Emily and Nat headed for the stairs, Sonnequa still yelling after them. Then she turned to Baxter and said, “We can’t wait. I’m begging you.” Her eyes were bloodshot and wild with fear.
He said, “I assume I’m the only one here who can fly this thing. And I’m much more afraid of those two ladies than your pal, the Gladiator.”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she said, “You’re a fool. We’re all going to die, if you don’t get us out of here. Please.”
“Listen, there are a whole slew of other cops on their way.”
“How did you even find us? I’ve been here for … I don’t even know how long.”
“It’s over now. You’re safe.”
“As long as he’s alive, we’ll never be safe.”
“Granger or Gladstone or the Gladiator or whatever he wants to call himself is just a man of flesh and blood. We tracked down the one normal Gladstone brother and triangulated the last times the burner cells used by his siblings were activated. Then I hijacked a helicopter to get us here as fast as possible, but the local cops should only be a few moments behind us. You’re safe now. Your fight’s over. You won. Both of you. You survived.”
Sonnequa closed her eyes to hold back the tears and shook her head. To Baxter’s surprise, Corin reached out and took Sonnequa’s hand. A long look, pregnant with emotion, passed between the two women. Then Sonnequa nodded slowly, and wrapping her arms around Corin, both women began to weep.
He said, “You’re going home, ladie
s. You beat them. They’ll never hurt you again.”
Hearing Emily’s voice from behind him, he wheeled around to see Mr. Dantonio carrying Agent Williams, who looked deathly pale. Emily yelled, “Baxter, get us to the closest hospital.”
With a smile, he said, “It would be my pleasure.”
Climbing into the cockpit, he began his pre-flight checks as the others piled in. Slipping on a headset, Emily said, “He’s bleeding out, Baxter. We have to hurry.”
Pulling back on the stick and lifting off from the resort’s roof, Baxter said, “No worries. You know, you never even questioned how I knew how to fly a helicopter. It’s not like I learned this shit from reading a book.”
Over the intercom, the man who had introduced himself as Francois Dantonio, said, “Actually, Mr. Kincaid, I did learn how to operate a helicopter, and several other pieces of equipment, by reading a book. It’s basically just the concepts of lift, drag, and thrust.”
Frowning, Baxter said, “No offense, but I don’t want to work with y’all no more. You steal my thunder.”
120
Two weeks later …
Corin stared at the hospital room ceiling and wondered if life was worth living, if the benefits of existence outweighed the costs. She didn’t question merely the purpose of her life, but that of all life in general. All the pain. All the suffering. Was there a point to any of it?
She had survived, true. She had refused to die and had won the day. The police had rescued Sammy and the rest of Derrick’s harem from the compound, after Mr. Dantonio had contacted animal control agents about humanely tranquilizing the compound’s four-legged praetorian guard. Her little sister now occupied the hospital room’s other bed, having suffered no physical harm but enough psychological damage that it took her three days to speak. Sometimes, Sammy still seemed to be walking in a sort of sick fugue state, but Corin refused to let herself succumb to a similar melancholia.
She had nearly lost the baby during her own struggle for survival, but through some twisted miracle, the Gladiator’s seed still clung to life. It was young enough that abortion was on the table, and she couldn’t see herself raising a child conceived in such a dark place. But terminating the pregnancy and choosing whether or not a baby deserved to exist seemed too close to something Dr. Derrick would have done. Adoption perhaps. Childbirth couldn’t be any worse than what she’d already been through.
