The massive white parking structure directly across West Roosevelt Road from the Chicago FBI field office was six levels high, counting the roof. They had found a spot for the Yukon on the far west end of the fourth level. Marcus had volunteered to drive, and Vasques had agreed a bit too quickly. He had expected her to put up an argument, not for any real reason, just as a display of independence and authority. To his surprise, her frosty attitude had melted significantly. His little display had apparently made an impression.
They all made small talk on the walk over to the garage. Allen was asking Vasques her impressions of Duke University. His son, Charlie, was hoping for a basketball scholarship there in the fall. Marcus was half listening to them and half analyzing every detail of their surroundings when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number and knew what that usually meant. It was Ackerman.
Marcus had changed his number twice when the killer first started to make near-daily calls, but, somehow, Ackerman always learned the new number. At his request, Stan had searched through all their computer systems and had found nothing. Marcus couldn’t imagine why anyone within the organization would provide such information to the killer. It had to be the computers. He made a mental note to have Stan double-check everything once again, including all their cell phones, laptops, and servers.
After several failed attempts and more wasted resources, they had given up on trying to trace the calls back to the killer. Ackerman always used remote nodes with disposable cell phones or payphones. They could trace the calls back, but he never stayed in the same spot long enough to catch him there. He was careful and cautious, and Marcus suspected that he had been masking his appearance whenever he was in public. The killer had learned how to blend in over the years. Ackerman’s use of technology did suggest, however, that he was receiving help from someone skilled in electronics and computer systems. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead.
The others moved on up the ramp, and Marcus slowed his pace to put a little distance between them. “Speak.”
“Marcus, it’s good to hear your voice.”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you enjoying your time in the Windy City?”
His jaw clenched. How did Ackerman always know so much about their operations? “What do you want?”
“You sound even more on edge than usual, Marcus. Have you been sleeping? That pesky insomnia. And the migraines. We really need to do something about those. I need you at your best.”
“I’m touched by your concern.”
“You should be. I’m the best friend you’ll ever have, Marcus. No one will ever love you the way that I do. And you need to be on top of your game if you want to take down the Anarchist. I’ve been reading about our new playmate and, quite frankly, I’m impressed.”
A Chevy Malibu skidded around the corner ahead of them, taking the curve a bit too fast. The vehicle’s tires screeched as the driver nearly collided with a Chrysler 300 that was trying to back out. The driver of the Malibu laid on his horn and shook a fist at the woman behind the wheel of the Chrysler, even though it was hardly her fault.
Ackerman continued on the other end of the line. “This Anarchist. He’s the real deal. He understands the hunger. He’s like us, Marcus.”
“We’re nothing alike.”
Ackerman chuckled. “You can lie to everyone else. You can even lie to yourself to a certain extent. But you can’t lie to me. I know all too well about the demon running around inside of you, trying to break free.”
The killer’s words had fallen to the back of Marcus’s mind. Something had just happened. He had heard something. His subconscious had picked up on it, but it took him a moment to realize the significance.
His eyes went wide.
His pulse rate soared, and he could hear the blood pumping faster through his veins.
But he couldn’t look or sound surprised. He couldn’t let Ackerman know what he had heard.
When the driver of the Malibu had skidded around the corner and then laid on his horn, Marcus had heard the sound not only echoing through the parking garage but also coming through from the other end of the line. Ackerman’s end.
And that could mean only one thing.