ONE WEEK LATER
KANSAS CITY, MO
MARCUS RAN A HAND THROUGH HIS DARK HAIR AND GAVE AN EXASPERATED SIGH AS HE DROPPED THE KANSAS CITY PD’S CASE FILE BACK ONTO THE OAK-LAMINATE TABLE. The last killing involved a man named Josh Stefanson—a husband and father of two who had been drawn into the Coercion Killer’s sick game. The killer’s tactic was simple. He kidnapped the family of an average person and then forced them to murder another completely innocent individual. If the killer’s directions were followed, the kidnapped family was released unharmed. If not, they were returned in pieces.
So far the killer had remained true to his word and the rules of the game. But Marcus knew that there was a lot more to the case than the local police department or FBI realized. Only the Shepherd Organization had all the information. He just didn’t know what to do with it yet, and he had been explicitly ordered not to share anything with the local investigators or FBI.
“Anything happening out there?” Marcus asked his partner, Andrew Garrison, as he walked across the tiny second-floor apartment to the window.
Marcus looked down at the record store in the street opposite the apartment. A forty-two-inch computer monitor resting beside Andrew displayed camera signals being sent from miniature high-res extruded plastic cameras positioned inside the shop and along the street. But, trusting his eyes over technology, Andrew had also trained a tripod-mounted Vanguard VSP-61 spotting scope on the store’s front entrance.
“Nothing. I think he knows,” Andrew replied, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head.
“He’s still accessing the files.”
“Yeah, but he’s not taking the bait.”
Marcus had learned after a previous case that Ackerman had been accessing the Shepherd Organization’s servers through a back door on one of their office systems. But upon learning of the intrusion, the Director had decided that instead of closing up the hole they would use it against the killer. At least, that was the plan. So far, they had provided Ackerman with false information three times without him taking the bait. In this case, Marcus had inserted observations into the files that the owner of a specialty shop named Permanent Records might have seen the killer but was unwilling to help for some unknown reason.
Due to his connection with Marcus, Ackerman liked to insert himself into their investigations. On a case in Chicago, he had tortured information out of an uncooperative witness and had ultimately murdered the man, using an execution method popularized during the Spanish Inquisition.
The witness had turned out to be a pedophile linked to the disappearances of several young boys, and the information that Ackerman had forced out of him had led to the resolution of the case. But, as Marcus seemed to be asking himself more and more every day, he wondered if the ends justified the means.
Andrew rubbed his eyes and asked, “How was your psych eval?”
“Painful and counter-productive. I should have been here.”
“Believe it or not, the world keeps on turning without you.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. When do you go in for your own eval?”
Andrew hesitated before saying, “I’m not sure.”
Marcus nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Do you think I’m slipping?”
“I think you’re one of the best detectives I’ve ever worked with.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You really want to have this conversation now?”
“You’re the one who’s always trying to get me talk about things. So talk.”
They stared at each other a moment. Marcus had seen that look on Andrew’s face many times before. His partner was searching for the most diplomatic way to voice his concerns without hurting anyone’s feelings.
“Just say what’s on your—”
A knock on the door drew Marcus’s attention away from the discussion, his hand straying to the Sig Sauer P220 Equinox on his hip. They turned to the computer monitor in unison to see a group of seven men standing in the hall. Marcus recognized the muscular frame of the lead figure—his boss, a man known only to him as the Director. The Director had recently shaved his head since his hair was starting to thin, but Marcus suspected that the man, who had to be reaching his retirement years, could still take down most men half his age.
Andrew opened the door, and the group filed in. The Director greeted them warmly while five of the others checked the corners and scanned their surroundings with cautious, rapid glances. Their fluid and efficient movements spoke of field training in the military or intelligence communities and experience in covert operations.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed as the final member of the group stepped inside and closed the door behind them. He was different from the others. Expensive suit covering a small frame. Designer glasses. Manicured fingernails. A leather briefcase dangling from his left fist. Obviously some kind of bureaucrat. But Marcus wondered what could have drawn one of the elite away from the marble palaces in DC to a stakeout in one of Kansas City’s worst neighborhoods. And why would he bring a team of operators along with him? None of the reasons could be good.
The man in the suit smiled and stuck out his hand. His voice was soft and friendly. It possessed a nasal quality overlaid by a New England accent. The intensity in his eyes accompanied an air of confidence. “Special Agent Williams. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Marcus met the man’s gaze, and without returning the greeting, he asked the Director, “What the hell is all this?”
With a look of warning, the Director said, “Marcus, this is Deputy Assistant Attorney General Trevor Fagan. He’s our new boss. The Attorney General’s office has decided to take a more active role in our operations.”
“Really? Then what’s with the goon squad?”
“These men are a black-ops team of contractors on loan to us from the CIA.”
“Contractors? So they’re mercenaries. Like Blackwater?”
“Something like that. They’re here to assist in the capture of Francis Ackerman Jr.”
“You mean they’re here to kill him. We’ve talked about this. We need Ackerman alive. He has knowledge about—”
The Director raised a hand. “Let’s take this in the other room.”
The man who had recruited Marcus to be a Shepherd walked into the apartment’s small bedroom with Fagan at his heels. Marcus was the last to enter. He shut the door behind them. The room was empty except for some blankets and an air mattress stuffed into one corner.
Fagan opened the briefcase and handed a manilla folder to Marcus. In his soft voice, Fagan said, “That’s your psych eval.”
Marcus didn’t open the folder. The pounding behind his eyeballs grew in intensity. “Why don’t you give me the short version?”
Fagan nodded. His demeanor reminded Marcus of an airline rep about to tell him that they had lost his luggage. “Sure. According to the evaluation, we should pull you from active duty. Here are the highlights that I remember.” Fagan started counting off points on his fingers as he paced the room. “Paranoid, impulsive, a problem with authority, chronic insomnia, migraines, possible addiction to painkillers for the headaches, patient doesn’t seem to care whether he lives or dies to the point of having a death wish, irritability, verging on a nervous breakdown. Did I miss anything important, Director?”
The Director sighed and wouldn’t make eye contact. “I think that about sums it up.”
An air-conditioning unit rattled annoyingly in the window. Marcus broke the unit down in his mind into each component and examined them—screws, metal, knobs, condenser fan, blower, plastic grille, filter, condenser coil, evaporator coil. He tried to imagine the problem that was causing the rattle. He repeated this with the window and the housing keeping the unit in place. Fagan’s leather shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor. The bureaucrat wore some kind of padded inserts and walked with too much pressure on his heels—he most likely suffered from heel spurs. He favored his right leg, sign of an old injury. The Director had missed a small spot when shaving his head just above the left ear, leaving a patch of dark stubble. The five operators in the other room were moving around. Marcus could hear their boots on the linoleum in the kitchen and on the hardwood near the windows. Probably verifying the integrity of the surveillance system. A lemon-colored moth flapped against the light overhead. The high-pitched beep of a car horn sounded outside the window. Probably a compact car. A door opened in the apartment upstairs and footsteps padded across the carpeted floor.
Marcus wasn’t ignoring the importance of the current situation or tuning out the Director and Fagan. He simply couldn’t filter out the rest of the information as well. It all melted together in his head like watching a thousand television screens at once. He soaked up every detail and filed them away in his mental database for future reference. He tried to focus completely on the conversation, but he couldn’t turn off the rest of the world no matter how hard he tried.
He cracked his neck to the side and pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. He said, “You need me on this case, and you know it. If you want to fire me or put me in a rubber room or whatever you had in mind, that’s fine. But not until after this one is finished.”
Fagan said, “I’m not here to take you off the case, Agent Williams, and I’m not here to fire you. I’m here to get you back on track. We’re on the same team.”
Then the Deputy Assistant AG patted Marcus on the shoulder and walked into the other room. The Director started past as well, but Marcus grabbed his arm and whispered, “What’s really going on here?”
The Director’s gaze traveled from Marcus to Fagan and back again, as if he were debating whether or not to disobey orders. Then he said softly, “The powers that be are thinking of shutting down the Shepherd Organization, and that man is the one who gets to decide our fate. So, for once, please try to play nice.”
“What does that look like?”
“When it comes to Fagan, whatever your instincts tell you to do, just do the opposite.”