Chapter Eleven

Ackerman had just dropped from the back of the modified prison transport when a man in a black suit pushed past him and intercepted Marcus, jamming a handheld radio toward his brother’s face. Breathing hard, the man in the suit said, “There’s been a development.”

Grabbing for the radio, Marcus said, “Special Agent Williams on the line. Someone give me a sitrep.”

A deep voice crackled through. “Agent, this is Warden Polly. I need you and your team at the west gate immediately.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Someone just pulled up and asked to speak with you by name.”

Marcus caught Ackerman’s eye and shrugged, seeming to ask for input. Ackerman responded by snatching the radio from his brother’s hand and saying, “Was this person on foot or in a vehicle?”

“They pulled up in a black stretch limo.”

Ackerman’s heart began to race. It had been a long time since anything had truly surprised him. Even when he saw the back of the empty transport, part of him had expected as much. But this seemed to be uncharted territory, and for Ackerman, greater uncertainty and danger led to greater amusement.

But, in this case, he felt differently somehow. He felt a strange tingling sensation that shook him to his core, and he had no idea what to make of it.

He said, “Tell the driver to get us over there immediately. I would hate to keep our guest waiting.”

“Who’s in the limo?”

Ackerman crawled back into the armored transport and replied, “Let’s go find out.”

Two minutes later, the transport skidded to a halt in front of ADX Florence’s western security checkpoint. Marcus had radioed the rest of the team, including the police officers who aided in the botched prison transfer, to meet them at the gate. Most of those officers had already arrived, positioned their vehicles as cover, and drawn their weapons—good soldiers ready to fend off an assault. Ackerman could almost taste the gun oil and testosterone.

Marcus keyed his procured radio and said, “Open the gate and let them in.”

The large metal gate slid back into a wall of reinforced concrete and a long black limousine pulled inside, the barrier slamming tightly shut behind the luxury vehicle and its occupants.

The driver stepped out first, all guns coming to bear on the man, who was dressed in a formal chauffeur’s uniform. He hesitated a step at the sight of the officers, but apparently having strict instructions, the driver walked back to the limo’s rear door. He pulled it open and unrolled a short velvet carpet.

Ackerman wondered who would step out. Could it be Demon? Perhaps some representative of his? Someone from the government?

With the fanfare complete, a well-built and well-dressed man stepped into the frigid Colorado air. The limo’s passenger wore a black tailored suit over a black dress shirt and silk tie. It was the middle of the night, but the man wore dark designer sunglasses. A styled mane of gray and black hair had been swept back from the passenger’s face, allowing a clear view of the man’s many scars, which were only partially concealed beneath a salt-and-pepper goatee.

Demon said, “Sorry I’m late, but you boys know how I like to make an entrance.”

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