Special Agent Marcus Williams—a team leader in the Department of Justice’s black ops program known as The Shepherd Organization—strapped on his Level-4 tactical gear. The armor had been designed to withstand rounds even from a high-powered rifle. He cycled his M4A1 assault rifle to make sure it was locked and loaded, clean and lubricated. He had a terrible feeling that he would be needing the weapon and the body armor in the next few hours. He had hunted several serial murderers—including, at one time, his own infamous brother, Francis Ackerman Jr.—but Marcus had never encountered anyone quite like the man they knew only as Demon.
Marcus had apprehended Demon just beyond the borders of Foxbury Prison as the madman aided in the escape of the leader of one of the world’s most dangerous gangs. He had learned from Demon’s former apprentice, the now-deceased Judas Killer, that the Scottish-born man with the scarred face had actually recruited and organized a network of the most depraved members of society and given them direction and purpose. He had banded this interconnected web of psychopaths and malcontents into a money-making machine, which allowed Demon’s influence to grow in both power and reach.
It was the kind of case the SO had been created to handle, the sort of work Marcus had been born for.
Ackerman had told him that a man with Demon’s resources wouldn’t remain in custody for long, but that only led Marcus to take a more personal role in Demon’s transport and incarceration. He had succeeded in the apprehension of a killer whose criminal influence spread out like a fibrous cancer across the dark underbelly of society, and Marcus had no intention of letting such a prize slip from his grasp.
He waited in the long dark tunnel leading from Demon’s holding area to an armored transport that would carry the criminal mastermind to the supermax prison known as ADX Florence—a modern dungeon surrounded by a barren wasteland which housed everyone from the world’s most dangerous terrorists, including Al-Qaeda operatives and Unabomber Theodore Kaczynski, to several organized crime figures. One of those inmates had a very personal connection to Marcus and Ackerman—their own father, the mass murderer known as Thomas White.
His real name was Francis Ackerman Sr., but the SO had kept that information under wraps, allowing the name of Thomas White, the killer’s last-used alias, to become his permanent name. Even Marcus had grown accustomed to thinking of his biological father as Thomas White. It made it easier to distance himself from the madman who had used Marcus and his son, Dylan, as test subjects, just as he had done with his brother many years prior.
Marcus had no plans to visit his biological father upon dropping off his current prisoner. He hadn’t spoken to Thomas White since his apprehension, after the madman tried to blow up a group of school children in Kansas City, which only came after his torturing Marcus in a dark hole for months on end. If God answered his many prayers, Marcus would never have to look in the eyes of his biological father again. His brother felt differently, even though Ackerman had endured even more torture at the hands of their sperm donor. Ackerman had gone so far as to request visitations with their father, and the Director had reluctantly indulged his brother’s forays into the dark mind of Thomas White.
He wondered if his brother’s control and willpower had now surpassed his own. He couldn’t stand to be in the presence of the man who had brought him into this world. He had even fantasized many times about his father’s violent death and didn’t know how Ackerman could look the bastard in the eyes. But he supposed that his brother’s total lack of fear helped when facing their own personal monster.
As the guards marched Demon down the long dark corridor of concrete and rebar, Marcus white-knuckled his weapon and resisted the urge to end the mastermind’s life. Part of him wished he had killed Demon when he had the chance in the tunnels beneath Foxbury.
“Take off the headgear. I want to say goodbye,” Marcus said to the guards.
With the hood and protective mask removed, Demon smiled and puckered his lips as if for a kiss. Grabbing the killer by the throat, Marcus said, “If you try anything, I’m going to put a bullet in you. The biggest part of me hopes that you’ll attempt to escape, because nothing would bring me more peace than to have you lying on a slab in some morgue.”
Demon, quoting Nietzsche through rancid breath, said, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
Marcus looked to the lead guard and said, “Get him out of my sight.”
The officers loaded Demon into an armored prison transport, and Marcus took his position inside the rear patrol car. He had tried to plan for the worst and consider all possibilities, but some dark intuition told him it wouldn’t be enough.
The caravan rolled out from the holding facility in Arizona early that morning, expecting to arrive at the secure facility at ADX Florence around 11:30 that night. Marcus had actually informed the prison of a much later arrival, but the early departure was another attempt at sabotaging any potential rescue attempts. Demon had the resources necessary to stage a dramatic escape, and unfortunately, any countermeasures he could dream up could be outthought by the opposition. He just hoped he had planned one move ahead of the unseen adversary.
The first eleven and a half hours of their journey proceeded without incident.
Marcus could barely keep his eyes open most of the drive. The Colorado scenery whipping past the window was probably beautiful during the day, but now the view was nothing but vague silhouettes and the occasional flash of an animal’s eyes illuminated by the periphery of the convoy’s headlights. He nodded off for a moment, always surprised at how much easier it was to fall asleep when he was trying to stay awake. But he sprang to attention as the cruiser bumped its way over a dead animal, some small carcass that flashed out of sight before he could really look. His hand rested on his pistol. He tried to relax while keeping his eyelids from dropping like castle gates.
The state trooper behind the wheel of the cruiser—possessing about as much personality as an earthworm—was little help. The short but muscular man had barely spoken a sentence since they left. Marcus disliked people who were comfortable in their own silence. The quiet moments left more time to think. More time for questions with answers he didn’t really want to know.
The cruiser’s radio crackled to life and a voice said, “Command, this is Overwatch 2. You’ve got a car parked along your route about twenty miles ahead.”
Before Marcus could give the order, the scout came back with, “10-4. This is Forward 2. Proceeding to intercept.”
The next few moments dragged on as Marcus waited for the scout to reach the site of the potential ambush. He held his breath in anticipation. Finally, the senior officer in the scout car reported, “Appears to be a genuine breakdown. Male and a female are outside the vehicle flagging me over.”
Marcus grabbed the radio receiver and said, “Go in hot! Take them down and ask questions once they’re secured.”
“They seem scared to death. If it’s a real breakdown, they’ve been out here for quite some time with no traffic flowing past. They—”
“That’s an order. Take them down hard and fast. Apologize later, once the scene is secured.”
“Roger, Command.”
A moment passed, and Marcus said, “Overwatch, do you have eyes on?”
“Affirmative. The suspects have been subdued.”
After another pause, one of the cops in the scout car said, “Command, we’ve got a nine-month-old baby in the back seat. Should we arrest her as well? I don’t think my cuffs will fit.”
Marcus gritted his teeth and took a deep breath before responding, “No need for cuffs. But you may want to have the dog sniff the kid’s car seat for explosives. Don’t forget for a second the kind of people we’re dealing with. The type who would slaughter that whole family and wear their blood like war paint if it furthered their cause. Don’t let your guard down for a second.”
“Roger, Command.”
Marcus added, “And the rest of you, remember … I don’t care if your grandmother or your baby sister is in the middle of that road. We stop for nothing.”