Father of Fear (16 page)

Francis Ackerman Jr. listened to the hum of the roadway and tried to hear any sounds outside the van that would give him an idea of his location. He couldn’t hear anything specific, but he could make some extrapolations from the absence of certain sounds. He couldn’t hear any other traffic. They hadn’t stopped at any lights. He gauged their speed at a minimum of fifty-five miles an hour from the moment they’d pulled away from the gates of the holding facility. An isolated location in the countryside. Probably southwest of DC.

He was alone in the back of the van. For some reason, they had dressed him in jeans, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots. Then they had secured him to a metal chair bolted to the floor. He couldn’t move at all, couldn’t even turn his neck. And just to be thorough, they had also sedated him.

Unfortunately for them, Ackerman had been slowly building up his resistance to the sedatives and tranquilizers commonly used by prisons and mental institutions. He had started taking small doses and then had gradually built up a tolerance, specifically for situations like this. Drugs like Thorazine and sodium pentathol might have put most people under, but they were little more than recreational for him. Although he wasn’t completely unaffected, he was far from unconscious.

Abandoning hope of hearing anything from outside the vehicle, he strained to hear the two men riding beyond the metal partition separating the front and back of the van. He heard Craig’s voice. He couldn’t understand every word, but he could fill in the rest. They were discussing a football game and women and then something about the drinking problem of one of their coworkers.

But then the second man said, “Are you sure about this plan?”

Craig replied, “This guy’s a Gulf War veteran who’s down on his luck. He uses his shotgun to kill Ackerman like he’s a trespasser, and then he gets the reward money. It’s simple. Clean.”

“What if this guy tells someone that we were involved?”

“Who cares? What are they going to do? Post it on one of those crazy conspiracy websites? Besides, who cares what happens to Ackerman? They should give us medals for this.”

Ackerman leaned back against the cold metal of his chair. That explained the change of clothes; they needed it to appear as if he was free, not a prisoner. He was offended that some random simpleton might get the credit for killing him. Everyone died, eventually. But he felt that his death should be in a blaze of glory. He wanted to go out with a bang, not a whimper.

The whole situation was unacceptable, and he intended to rectify that.

Ackerman felt the van roll to a stop and the engine grow quiet. They had arrived. He lowered his head and went limp, as if he were sleeping.

Light flooded the back of the van. He could feel the change through the hood and through his eyelids. The air that washed over him was crisp and pure. He smelled moist ground, burning wood, trees, the sweet-and-sour scent of weeds. He heard birds and squirrels and the rushing of a stream somewhere in the distance. They had taken him to an isolated home in the woods. Which was perfect for him. All the better for his escape.

He heard the sound of another car and more voices. Four distinct voices. Two men to carry him out. Two to cover him with the shotguns. The contractors were thorough, but also predictable.

Craig gave the orders, and two sets of boots stepped up into the back of the van. The shock absorbers shifted and bounced under the added weight. He felt the men’s hands cautiously undo the restraints holding him to the chair, and then they lifted him up and out of the van.

Ackerman kept his body limp, like a corpse. Like someone unconscious and defenseless.

His feet dragged over the path leading to the house. It was all dirt—no rock, no concrete, no asphalt. Definitely deep in the woods. Probably not the man’s actual house. Maybe an isolated hunting cabin. He supposed that scenario made the most sense. They would make it look as though he had been hiding out in the unused cabin, and his killer had merely stumbled upon him during a hunting trip or a routine supply check. Maybe the guy came here every couple of weeks to make sure that kids hadn’t vandalized the place or that raccoons hadn’t found a way inside.

They dragged him up the steps. Definitely wooden. Definitely old. They banged on the door, and his designated executioner answered after only a few seconds. The man spoke with a southern drawl, and his words were slightly slurred. Ackerman guessed that his executioner had come to the cabin early and started drinking to build up the nerve for what came next. Amateurs—they always worried too much. When it came down to it, killing was easy. No different than a thousand other tasks performed every day. Like flushing the toilet or flipping a light switch. A simple cause and effect that required little effort to accomplish. The effect was just more permanent than most people were accustomed to.

They carried Ackerman inside the cabin and across the hardwood floor. He felt the uneven plane of the wood and heard the creaks. A fire crackled and popped in a fireplace against one wall. He gauged the space by the echoes and the sounds. An open layout. Maybe twenty-five by thirty. Probably a bedroom or two in the back. Definitely a hunting cabin.

They dropped him onto the wood floor. He didn’t attempt to break his fall. He kept up the appearance of being completely unconscious. But when he struck the floor, he heard the rattle of hinges and a lock and the bouncing of a section of floor only a couple of feet from where he had landed. A trapdoor. Probably leading to an old cellar or crawlspace.

Ackerman heard the man with the slurred speech say, “Okay, guys, how do we do this? I’ve never shot anyone who wasn’t shooting back before.”

Craig replied, “Don’t worry about it. This guy’s a menace to society. He’s a cold-blooded bastard. You’re going to be a hero for this. We’ll prop him up in a chair, and you shoot. He won’t even know what hit him. Hell, it’s more humane than a lethal injection.”

“You’re sure he’s asleep?”

“He’s out cold. Won’t feel a thing.”

“What about the restraints?”

“We’ll leave them on him to be sure and then take them off after it’s done. Just make sure you get him square in the chest. It’ll be easy—just like a flipping a switch.”

Ackerman wanted to laugh. Those were the words of a professional.

Maggie and Andrew watched from a distance as the black panel van and dark Crown Victoria came to a stop at the isolated cabin. The Director had really come through for them. He had talked Fagan into discussing more details of the plan to get rid of Ackerman. Then Stan had taken the vague information that Fagan had reluctantly provided—a Gulf War veteran with a remote cabin in rural Virginia who had fallen on hard times—and worked his magic. Stan had narrowed the list of possibles down to three names. The first man was out of state. The second possibility was in the county lock-up for a drunk-and-disorderly. And the third man worked at a nearby cement plant and had taken the day off to spend some time at his cabin.

“You don’t have to do this,” Maggie said as she handed the binoculars over to Andrew.

“He’s my best friend. If Ackerman knows something, then we have to take a chance.”

“Chances are that Fagan will have us arrested for this. Or even killed. At the very least, it’ll put an end to our careers.”

Andrew shrugged. “It’s no fun without Marcus, anyway. Besides, if we find Ackerman Sr. from this, Fagan will at least have to admit that he was wrong. After all, it’s our jobs to bend the rules in order to catch the bad guys, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think anyone wanted us bending the rules against our own people.”

“These bastards aren’t our people. They’re more like Ackerman than they’re like us. They’re murderers.”

“And what are we?”

“Now you sound like Marcus again. We both know that sometimes there’s no other way, and I’m not sure that Ackerman doesn’t deserve every bit of what they’re about to give him, but there has to be a line somewhere. And we have to search our hearts and be objective enough to know what that line is and stop ourselves before we cross it. These guys
enjoy
crossing that line. They probably don’t even
have
a line. We sometimes do bad things in order to protect good people. And then only if there’s no other way. These guys are a different breed. You can see it in their eyes.”

With a shake of her head, Maggie said, “I guess you’re right.” Then she pulled her Glock 19 pistol with her right hand and a two-shot TASER X2 with her left. “Let’s do it.”

They approached the house with ease. The mercenaries, not expecting any kind of attack, hadn’t stationed a guard outside. Maggie ascended the front stairs of the cabin and took up position to the right of the door. It was a routine they had practiced over and over. Andrew would kick in the door. She would sweep in first with him at her heels. She’d take right. He’d take left. Simple, efficient, and effective.

Andrew didn’t wait for any signal. They both knew they were as ready as they would ever be. He kicked the door with a smooth, practiced movement. The wood always gave at its weakest point, which in this instance was the casing. The door flew inward, and the rusty lock plate, which had just been torn from its housing, skittered across the floor with a thud and a rattle. Inside, they found the five targets and Ackerman. They were all gathered in a convenient circle around Ackerman, who seemed to be sitting unconscious in a battered wooden chair. Craig and one other dark-haired man stood to Ackerman’s left. The two other mercenaries were on the killer’s right. And standing in front of him was a short wiry-looking man with glassy eyes and a double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

“Nobody move!” Maggie yelled. Her focus was on the man with the double-barrel. He seemed scared and confused, the most immediate threat to them and Ackerman. “Everyone drop your weapons!”

“You’re making a big mistake here,” Craig said calmly.

“I said put them down!”

The man with the double-barrel shifted his gaze back and forth between Maggie and Craig. Each movement of his eyes grew more jerky and rapid. Then he swung the shotgun toward Maggie. She squeezed the trigger of the TASER X2. The barbs sliced through the air at high velocity and struck their target dead-center in the chest, sending a precision-shaped pulse of electrical energy into his body.

He convulsed, swung away from her, and involuntarily squeezed the trigger of the shotgun. It discharged into the face of the mercenary beside Craig. The man’s skull exploded, splattering blood over the wall behind him and covering Craig’s face.

Craig screamed and pulled his gun. Then all hell broke loose.

Maggie saw the big black pistol appear in Craig’s hand. She recognized it as a Glock 18C with a huge extended magazine. She guessed the mag held thirty to forty shots. Only one reason for a magazine like that on a handgun. It was fully automatic. She had fired one like it at the range. It boasted a cyclic rate of 1300 rounds per minute, if your ammo could last that long. The classic Tommy gun and the modern AK47 both had a cyclic rate of about 400 rounds per minute. Which meant that the Glock 18C was like a chainsaw that could reach out and strike someone from a distance.

With a shout of rage, Craig unloaded an entire clip in their direction. But before he opened fire, Maggie and Andrew both dived for cover behind a sturdy brown leather couch near the door.

Maggie was closer. She made it to cover unscathed. Andrew wasn’t so lucky. He fell on top of her with a cry of agony.

He sat up immediately and started pressing his hands against his legs. He had taken at least three hits to his thighs and calves. Blood flowed out from beneath his fingers as he pressed down on the wounds.

But Maggie had bigger problems than applying first aid. With his clip expended in only a few seconds, Craig was reloading. His men had dropped for cover. She popped up from behind the couch and returned fire to keep her adversaries from rushing them.

And she no longer saw Ackerman in the chair.

When the shooting started, Ackerman let gravity drag him from the chair, still trying to maintain the illusion of unconsciousness. Although the mercenaries had more pressing concerns at the moment. He rolled beneath a nearby table while his captors took cover in the corners of the room or behind the furniture. The air was full of wood particles and couch stuffing and smelled of gunpowder.

With cautious glances, he analyzed each of the mercenaries. None of them were watching him. They were too busy exchanging fire with Maggie.

Ackerman crawled forward a few feet to the fireplace. Three split logs had recently been added to the fire. They still burned brightly. He crawled closer. He could feel the heat against his face. Then he reached into the fire and grabbed one of logs. The flames bit deep into the palm of his hand. White-hot electric tendrils of agony traveled up his arm through his nerves to his brain, but once there, his brain didn’t interpret the sensation as pain. At least, not the type of pain that most people experienced. Maybe not pleasure. But somewhere in between. Perhaps both agony and ecstasy at the same time, melding together to create an experience incomprehensible to the mind of a normal person.

A large window was set in the same wall as the fireplace. Simple brown curtains hung at each side of the window. Ackerman pulled out the log and rolled it against the closest curtain. It took a few seconds for the fire to catch, but when it did, the flames licked up the side of the window with a primordial hunger.

He didn’t waste any more time on the show. He rolled back to where he had felt the trapdoor. He pulled aside a large red rug. It was stiff with stains and dirt from years of abuse by hunters. It wouldn’t roll up, but he was able to slide it to the side.

Beneath the rug, he found a three foot by three foot square cut in the boards of the floor. Hinges occupied the side opposite him with a slide bolt on the side closest. From its size, he guessed the trapdoor probably led to a crawl space rather than a cellar. He slid open the lock and dropped head first into the darkness below.

When Maggie came back down from shooting over the top of the couch, Andrew was ripping off strips of his shirt and applying tourniquets to both his legs. His eyes looked glassy, as though he was about to pass out from pain or blood loss or a combination of both. He said, “I’ll cover you. Go for the door.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You are. I can’t walk, and you can’t carry me. I’ll buy you some time.”

“But Ackerman—”

“Is on his own. We’re no good to Marcus dead. Just go.”

“I won’t leave you!”

“You have to. I’ll buy you some time, and then I’ll surrender. I don’t think they’ll kill me. Let the Director know that they have me in custody.”

Using his arms to pull himself across the floor, Andrew moved to the end of the couch opposite the door. Then he said, “Get ready.”

Maggie didn’t know what to do. Andrew was right, but leaving him behind felt so cowardly. She couldn’t tell which was the right decision, and any hesitation now could mean the difference between life and death.

Andrew pulled himself out in the open at the end of the couch, raised his gun, and fired. Maggie ran for the door. It had swung back shut during the firefight, but there was no striker plate left for it to latch to. She lowered her shoulder and plowed through the obstruction. Bullets chewed into the wood around her, but none struck home.

She rushed down the steps but fell back against them as the dark Crown Victoria skidded to a halt right in front of her. The driver kicked the brake and spun the steering wheel to make the vehicle slide sideways, putting the passenger door directly facing her.

Ackerman reached across with his manacled hands, pushed open the passenger door, and said, “Get in.”