The pictures of the two mansions, which the task force had pinned to the walls of the conference room, didn’t nearly do the properties justice. Mr. King’s estate jutted from the hills overlooking the bay like the nest of a large predatory bird. They had traveled up a private drive to reach a massive black security gate. The walls around the rest of the property were fifteen feet tall and made of concrete, but because of the steep slope of the hills into which the mansions had been built, the two massive white homes were on full display.
The structures reminded Ackerman of a white whale with her baby nestled under her fluke. The mansion closest to the security gate was the baby, and Mr. King’s personal residence was the mother resting on the hill’s summit. The baby was still a mansion by anyone’s standards, but King’s home was more than a mansion; it was a palace. The buildings were almost vulgar in their opulence, each adorned by massive white pillars and intricate carvings, with King’s residence looking like a bastardized child of the White House and the Roman Coliseum.
Ackerman could sense that his brother was still angry with him over the Willoughby incident. He imagined that he should be concerned or ashamed or something of that nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. All he could do was follow his personal north star and hope to find his way through the fog of this life. He couldn’t go around worrying every moment, afraid that he would offend one of the normals. Not only because he was incapable of such fear, but also because he refused to live according to the flawed standards of a broken world.
He had, however, acquiesced to his brother’s request to change into a suit for the meeting with Oban. Ackerman suspected Marcus intended to burn his patriotic shirt of denim. A shame, but it was only a piece of fabric sewn together in a sweatshop somewhere. It was nothing worth fighting over.
Alongside the drive—before they reached the security gate—there were several parking spaces. Marcus pulled into one and said, “Let me do the talking.”
Ackerman shrugged his shoulders. “That’s fine. I’m more a man of action anyway.”
“First, I don’t want you to take any action. Second, you are definitely a talker.”
“If I’m not supposed to do anything, then why am I here?”
“Because that’s how the Director wanted it.”
“You didn’t want me on this case?” Ackerman asked.
“It’s not that I didn’t want you here. I just … You’re kind of like an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. And you wouldn’t expect an alcoholic to work at a bar and not give in to that constant temptation. I want to limit your exposure to situations that may tempt your darker nature.”
Ackerman heard his father’s voice, a memory from one of his childhood lessons. From somewhere over his shoulder, Thomas White’s voice said, You jam your fingers in here and here. That’s good. Now rip out his trachea. He still kept his nails a little long to make easy work of penetrating flesh and killing with his hands, just as his father had instructed.
Ackerman shook his head. “Would you put Michael Jordan on the bench because he might be tempted to play basketball? I think not.”
Marcus’s expression traveled from confusion to annoyance.
Deciding to further explain, Ackerman said, “It reminds me of something Theodore Roosevelt once said—”
With a roll of his eyes, Marcus opened his door, stepped from the rented Chevy Impala, and started toward the intercom panel beside the security gate, which looked as though it could withstand the onslaught of a tank.
Thomas White whispered, Now rip out his trachea.
Ackerman sat dumbfounded for a moment. Having killed so many people due to slights of much less magnitude, he was discovering that his little brother’s desire to “protect” him really meant locking him in a cage of a different kind. But he supposed it didn’t truly matter. He would keep doing his thing until someone killed him. And he had always found it better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
To the empty vehicle, he said, “Don’t worry, Father. I’m sure there will be some trachea ripping on the agenda soon.”
By the time he reached the gate, Marcus had already pressed the button and said, “We have a one o’clock appointment with Oban Nassar.”
Ackerman added, “The scheduling was done by a mutual acquaintance of ours named Willoughby.”
The guard on the other end of the intercom paused for a moment, likely verifying their appointment and clearance with a superior, and then said, “Mr. Oban will meet you in the lobby. Leave your vehicle where it is and enter through the small door to the right of the main gate.”
Ackerman whispered, “They must be worried that someone may drive a bomb into the inner courtyard.”
Moving directly to the metal walkthrough door, Marcus said nothing.
The darkness swelling inside him, Ackerman followed his brother but said, “Have you been sleeping well? You’re especially pissy today.”
“You already disobeyed my orders at the intercom.”
“I merely felt that you should stress who had delivered the message.”
“No more talking.”
“As you wish, baby brother.”
With a low growl, a flare of his nostrils, and a crack of his neck, Marcus opened the security door. It led to another checkpoint where two armed men wanded them for metal and performed a set of thorough pat downs. Then they were escorted into the lobby of the smaller mansion. A long staircase flowed like a snake along the three-story room’s right side. There were two guards at the top of the staircase and more in the corners of the massive foyer. All were well armed and alert.
The interior of the mansion was just as color starved as its exterior. White marble floors, gold trim and crown molding, crystal chandeliers, and a smell like fresh linen hanging in the air. With two more guards armed with H&K assault rifles at his side, Mr. Oban entered from a twelve-foot-tall archway opposite the sprawling staircase. Oban wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt and purple tie. His skin was the color of amber, and his hair matched the gray and black of his tailored suit.
With the smile of a desert fox, Oban said, “Welcome to King and Associates. Please, let’s speak in my office.”
He led them up the stairs and past two more guards, who fell in step behind them. Ackerman wondered what would come next. Would Oban feel the need to establish dominance and have them seized and searched? Maybe even killed on the spot, just to be safe?
Normally, Ackerman would strike first, but then Marcus would be upset. So he decided it best to let things play out a bit further.
Without a word, Oban led them down a long hallway and past a series of closed doors with gold plates displaying the occupant’s name and position in the company. The last door on the right, toward the back of the mansion, read “Oban Nassar - Chief Operations Officer.”
One of Oban’s personal guards opened the door, while the others stepped inside. Then the COO gestured for his guests to enter. Once they were all inside the office of white marble and dark wood, Ackerman counted a total of six armed opponents, plus Oban himself, who looked to be in excellent physical condition.
The guards raised their weapons. Closing and locking the door behind them, Oban said, “Please, remove your shirts and get on your knees.”
“Screw you,” Marcus replied.
“Let me rephrase that. Get on your knees now or my men will shoot you in the legs, and I’ll have all the skin removed from the lower halves of your bodies. Then we’ll talk again and see if your attitude has been properly adjusted.”
Ackerman laughed and said, “That certainly sounds exhilarating. I’ve skinned victims before, but I’ve never been flayed myself, at least not to such a degree. I would suggest hanging us upside down when you perform the act. If you plan to start at our feet, that is. Less blood that way. And the other way around, we would be dead before we could have another conversation.”