The Prophet (11 page)

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.

Ackerman watched the group move up the ramp toward their vehicle through a pair of Bushnell Fusion 1600 ARC binoculars. He sat low in the front seat of a silver Dodge Avenger about fifteen cars up the row from their Yukon. He wanted to be able to see Marcus’s face as they spoke. He wanted it to be as if they were there together, speaking in person. Soon they would be.

But as some idiot took the curve of the garage moving entirely too fast and nearly caused an accident, Ackerman knew that Marcus was aware of his presence.

Marcus had tried to conceal his shock, but a hesitation as he walked and a tensing of his shoulders gave him away. When Ackerman thought about it, he supposed that he would have been disappointed if Marcus hadn’t realized.

His plan was only to observe and follow. That way he could spot possible opportunities where his assistance could prove valuable to the investigation into the Anarchist. Being spotted and forcing a confrontation wasn’t part of the plan. But he had learned long ago how to adapt and overcome. Situations like this were fluid and unpredictable. A person needed to be prepared to react to unforeseen circumstances and deal with unintended consequences.

Luckily, he’d had the foresight to reverse into the parking spot so that he could make a quick escape. Those few extra seconds could make all the difference.

Ackerman sat up, turned the key in the ignition, and threw the Avenger into drive.

Marcus could feel Ackerman’s stare slithering over him. But how to warn the others without alerting the killer? Vasques, Allen, and Andrew were ten feet ahead with their backs to him. Vasques’s shoes clicked against the pavement, the sound reminding him of a ticking clock.

Thirty feet up the ramp, the engine of a silver sedan roared to life. It could have been just another working stiff on their way to lunch, or it could have been a sadistic murderer. His mind searched for the right move, offense or defense, react or attack. The killer was watching. If he assumed Ackerman was the sedan’s driver, he could be blowing the best shot he’d had at the killer in months. There was no way to judge Ackerman’s location based on the noises he had heard over the phone. Sound carried in strange ways.

The car was facing forward in the parking spot.

For a quick exit?

That was the way Ackerman would have parked, the way Marcus would have in the same situation. A second’s hesitation could mean the difference between stopping the killer once and for all or failing again and letting him slip away. It could also mean the difference between life and death for him or his colleagues.

A predator is most dangerous when cornered, and he had no idea how Ackerman would react if faced with the possibility of capture. The killer wouldn’t go quietly; he knew that much for sure.

He made his decision and sprinted up the ramp toward the others, closing the distance as quickly as possible.

The tires of the silver sedan squealed, and it jolted forward.

He saw Vasques’s head jerk toward the noise. Her black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, whipped around her neck with the sharp movement.

The sedan shot down the ramp. The others, having no idea how close they were to one of the country’s most prolific serial murderers, didn’t sense the danger until it was too late to react.

Vasques moved to the side of the ramp near the line of parked cars. She stood against the trunk of a black Ford Focus. There was no way for her to truly know the danger she was in.

Marcus’s feet pounded up the ramp.

He had only a split second to react. His right arm shot toward Allen, shoving him away. Then Marcus wrapped his left arm around Vasques’s waist and rolled them both onto the trunk of the Ford.

The sedan smashed into the back of the Ford in the spot where Vasques had been standing a second before. Sparks shot into the air. He could feel pinpricks of heat landing on his skin. The Ford kicked sideways and smashed into the vehicle beside it. He pulled Vasques in tight as they were thrown from the trunk and smashed onto the pavement.

Ackerman rocketed down the ramp, screeching around a tight corner.

In one fluid movement, Marcus untangled himself from the dumbfounded FBI agent, pulled his gun, and sprinted after the killer.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. His face had smashed into the concrete during the fall. The smell of burnt rubber and exhaust clung to the inside of his nostrils.

“Get the car!” he yelled.

He knew he’d never catch Ackerman on foot. But the killer would be forced to follow the ramps down through the structure. Marcus needed to move vertically, not laterally. He looked over the edge of the ramp. The level below showed through the gap in the layered structure, over the top of a three-foot concrete barrier.

He slipped his gun back into its shoulder holster and his feet carried him toward the edge. And then over it. He didn’t have time to consider his actions or hesitate.
React, don’t think.

Knees bent, he landed against the roof of a white car on the next level. His gaze swept the area. There was the silver sedan. Ackerman made the turn, spiraling downward.

Marcus grabbed the edge again and swung down.

The roof of another mid-size car awaited. The impact jolted him, but he pulled his Sig Sauer and aimed at Ackerman’s vehicle. The silver sedan fishtailed sideways, almost striking a support pillar as Ackerman guided it around the turn to the next level.

Marcus cursed and shoved his pistol back inside his coat. He was getting closer with every drop, gaining on the killer. But he was almost out of ramp.

He dove toward the edge and swung through the gap.

This time, however, the spot below was empty. There was no car’s roof to break his fall. He dropped a full twelve feet to the concrete. He tried to bend his knees and roll, but he still felt the impact in his bones. His ankle twisted below him. Pain lanced through his leg. He stumbled forward, pulling out the gun.

He would only have one shot at this. He moved into the path of the oncoming sedan and took aim. Ackerman’s head was visible behind the windshield, the fluorescent lights burning overhead illuminating the calm face.

Marcus’s finger found the trigger, and he squeezed. The gun bucked, and the sound of the blast, amplified by the structure’s interior, reverberated throughout it. His finger twitched back repeatedly, unleashing a stream of hot metal toward the front of the sedan.

He could see Ackerman ducking down inside the vehicle as the windshield splintered out in spiderweb cracks. But Marcus didn’t let up.

On a normal day, he carried either a 9mm P226 Platinum Elite or a Diamond Plated P220 chambered for .45 caliber. The .45 had more stopping and takedown power, but it also only held ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber while the 9mm held fifteen in the magazine and one in the chamber. Today, he had opted for stopping power, so he counted off ten shots. Then, with the calm precision of a maneuver that had been practiced over and over and while he still had a bullet in the chamber, he ejected the clip and slammed another home. The blasts from the gun didn’t skip a beat.

But the car was still coming. Faster and faster. The distance between them growing to nothing.

He had time to fire three more rounds from the new clip before Ackerman was on top of him.

Waiting until the last second, Marcus dove away from the path of the onrushing vehicle, narrowly avoiding being crushed beneath the tires and the unforgiving weight of the sedan.

While still on the ground, he turned toward Ackerman and fired again, trying to hit the tires. But the sedan careened forward and smashed through the gate to the garage, reaching the public streets of the city.

Yelling a primal scream, Marcus was back on his feet. His ankle protested with every step, but he ignored the pain as he sprinted after Ackerman, onto the street and down Roosevelt Road.

Vasques shoved Andrew away from the driver’s door of the big black SUV. “I’m driving,” she said.

He didn’t argue, and it was a good thing. This day had been a roller coaster, and she wasn’t in the mood to discuss this with a committee. Being humiliated, psychoanalyzed, and nearly run down had a funny way of putting her in a pissed-off mood. But this time she knew exactly what she was going to do about it, even if she still had no clue as to what had just happened or who had tried to kill her.

She slammed the Yukon into reverse and jammed down the accelerator even before Andrew had closed his door. The Yukon barreled down the ramp, bottoming out and spitting sparks as she took the turns at breakneck speed. She tossed a cell phone into the back seat at Andrew as she pulled out onto Roosevelt Road.

“Speed dial 3. Tell them we’re in pursuit of a suspect wanted for the attempted murder of a federal agent and get us some backup.”

As he fumbled for the phone and dialed, Andrew said, “I’ll just tell them we’re in pursuit of Francis Ackerman. They’ll send the National Guard.”

“Ackerman? How do you know that?”

The killer topped the most-wanted lists, and his exploits had grown to be the stuff of legend, especially after his escape from a burning hospital in Colorado Springs. Somehow, he had managed to stay under the radar and evade capture since then. Many within the law-enforcement community believed that the only explanation was that he had fled the country.

“It’s a long story for another time,” Allen said from the passenger seat. Then he pointed at the road ahead of them. “There’s Marcus!”

Agent Williams sprinted down the road ahead of them, hugging the center line and barely managing to avoid being hit. She screeched to a halt beside him. “Get in!”

Williams hopped into the back seat and pointed down Roosevelt Road. His words were punctuated by gasps of air. “He just turned ahead. We’re going to lose him.”

“The hell we are,” Vasques said under her breath. This was her town, and Ackerman had just made a major mistake. The killer had turned down Wood Street. Unfortunately for him, a crew was filming a scene for some movie at a statue in front of the University of Illinois Medical Center located on the corner of Wood and Taylor. They were going to close the streets and block traffic for the whole afternoon.

She jerked the wheel and turned onto Damen Avenue. The tires squealed in protest, and the big top-heavy SUV listed to the side. An angry commuter in the opposite lane pounded his horn as he slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into them.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Williams said. She ignored him and continued north down Damen until she whipped the vehicle right onto Taylor.

Ackerman was trapped. He had nowhere to go but straight into their path.

Vasques slammed down the accelerator again and held the wheel in a vise grip. “Take a look,” she said. The silver car that had nearly run her over was heading straight for them. The car swerved around a red S-10 pickup truck and then nothing separated them but a couple of football fields of gray pavement.

“What are you doing?” Williams said again from the back.

Once more she didn’t answer, kept accelerating. This wasn’t the first time she had played chicken.

“You can’t.”

The street was a narrow two-lane patch of road bordered by parked cars. Both of their vehicles hugged the center, straddling the yellow lines. Ackerman was in a mid-size Dodge sedan. Vasques was driving a full-size extended SUV. She was twice his size. He would swerve or stop the vehicle and try to escape on foot. He had to. Anything else would be suicide.

“He won’t swerve!” Williams bellowed.

As Vasques watched the smaller sedan from the raised vantage point inside the cab of the Yukon, she knew Williams was right. In fact, Ackerman too was accelerating.