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  Junior stepped up into Marcus’s face. The eighth-grader towered over him like Goliath to David. The older boy seemed to be challenging him for some reason, but Marcus couldn’t understand why. Still, he had learned early on that you never run from a fight and you never back down from a bully.

  He imagined that he was a stone gargoyle, the kind that stood watch on some of the older buildings. Nothing could hurt stone. And stone was neutral and unchanging. Marcus simply stared back at the older boy and stood his ground.

  Junior finally said, “My Grandpa Angelo was one of the greatest men who ever lived. He built this town. He was in the family business, little boy blue.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Marcus said, even though he really had no idea what that meant.

  Eddie acted differently around Junior. It was as if they had fallen into a strange hierarchy where Marcus answered to Eddie, and Eddie answered to Junior. He didn’t know who Junior answered to, but he was sure there was a bigger fish above him.

  “I need to know that you are cool, little boy blue,” Junior said. “Because I’m about to take you babies deep into the red zone.”

  Eddie seemed to be bubbling at the prospect, but Marcus was fine playing in the green area. Stepping forward, Eddie said, “He’s cool. Take a chill pill.”

  “If he sees something and squeals,” Junior said, “then it’s my ass. Which means it’s your ass. And your pop’s.”

  Eddie hesitated, apparently considering the consequences for the first time. After a few seconds of thought, he turned to Marcus and said, “I was thinking about that birthday cake. It’s going to be gone soon, and I really want a piece of that. Marcus, you fly down there and grab us three pieces, so we don’t miss out. Better yet, grab four, so you can have two for your trouble.”

  Junior seemed relieved, as if Marcus was a burden he was glad to be rid of.

  Marcus wanted to scream. His supposedly best friend had just stabbed him in the back. He wanted to explode. He wanted to flip over all the furniture in the hallway and ram his fist through the walls. He felt the anger rising up, the red creeping over his eyes, but outwardly he kept pretending that he was a stone gargoyle.

  He said, “Sure thing.” Then he headed back down the hall toward the stairs.

  Over his shoulder, he heard Eddie say, “I told you it was cool. That fat freak does whatever I say.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Francis Ackerman checked the address a second time and then growled like a wolf about to strike. “I don’t understand this.”

  From the driver’s seat of the rented white Impala, Emily Morgan looked at the entrance of Oakbrook Cemetery and said, “I take it this is Unser telling us to drop dead.”

  Ackerman cracked his knuckles over and over. “My honor demands retribution to be swift and bloody.”

  “Don’t be silly. You don’t have any honor.”

  “Words hurt, and now is not the time to provoke me. This just doesn’t make sense. Feels like we’re missing something. Maybe he’s directing us to one of the current residents of the cemetery?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a big cemetery, and it’s raining. Do you really want to walk the rows, looking at headstones for clues?”

  “We wouldn’t even know what to look for. Why can’t people be more precise with their language? His instructions were so vague.”

  “I think we may have to accept that he was sending us a message to get lost. He may have sent us here just to waste our time.”

  Ackerman looked back on the encounter with Leland Unser inside the sparring ring. He said, “Unser would never have knowingly defied me.”

  “Really? He seemed pretty defiant to me.”

  “But I gave him the look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that tells him if he challenges me then I’ll butcher him, his family, friends, his pets, and then everyone in his phone’s contact list.”

  Emily said, “That’s a pretty powerful look. Do you think something may have been lost in translation?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so you gave him ‘the look’ of murdering his whole family tree, but at any point did you ever intend to carry through with that implied threat? If he crossed you, did you intend to kill everyone in his phonebook?”

  “I suppose not, at least not right now, but maybe someday. We’re too busy at the moment for such distractions.”

  “And the old Ackerman? What would he have done?”

  “Are you saying that I’m going soft? Am I losing my edge?”

  “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You’re just becoming less of a monster and more of a human being.”

  He stared at the rows of gravestones beyond the wrought-iron fence. “But what if the monster is what we need? I was born to be a predator, and every moment of pain from then on has sharpened me to a razor’s edge. I can’t allow that edge to grow dull.”

  “Life has phases, Frank. To everything there is a season. Maybe it’s time to put the knife down.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It sounds like you want to put me out to pasture. Killing, fighting, hunting. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

  “Then maybe it’s time to learn something new.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  With Blake’s reluctant permission, Baxter had searched the whole condo for any clues or insights. In the bathroom, he found a high dosage of anti-depression medications in Corin’s name, but little else. She was clearly the dominant personality, but Baxter had the sense that she established her dominance passively, possibly through manipulation. The drawers in the bedroom were each labeled with his or her initials, and there was a small chalkboard on the bedroom wall beside the light switch. At the top, it said, “Blake’s List.” It then contained a chalk run-down of all their activities over the next few days and a task list for Blake on each. The dates were nearly two weeks past.

  The only room left to check was the spare bedroom. He wandered through it with a trained eye. The devil was always in the details, and the details often went overlooked.

  Finding nothing, he moved to the closet. As he parted the bi-fold doors, a dark shape shot toward him. He deflected the attack with a forearm and muttered a curse under his breath.

  Looking down at the object that had fallen on him, he said, “You always keep your ironing board in the closet of the spare bedroom?”

  “No, that is strange. Corin has a spot for it in the hall closet. She likes to iron while I watch TV.”

  “She doesn’t watch with you?”

  “Corin prefers books. If she picks out what we watch, it’s usually a boring documentary.”

  Baxter asked, “So did you or the police move the ironing board into here?”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t use it, and the cops didn’t move anything. Corin must have stuck it in there.”

  “Seems rather peculiar, the way it fell out at us like that.”

  “I guess. She was probably in a hurry.”

  “When does she usually do her ironing?”

  “Like I said, while we watch TV.”

  “But does she ever use the ironing board in the morning before school, or does she press your Italian suit before you head to the club.”

  “No, I have it dry cleaned and pressed. And Corin always has everything ready and laid out for the next day. She seldom irons anything in the morning.”

  “So when was the last time she used it?”

  Blake paused to consider that. “Probably the night before she went missing.”

  “Probably?”

  Another pause. “Definitely. I watched the 49ers game, and she ironed a couple of outfits and then worked on homework.”

  “And what did she do with the board afterward?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I think I rememb
er her putting it away in the hall closet. Where are you going with this?”

  Baxter shrugged. “Could be nothing, but it makes me wonder if the site of Corin’s abduction was actually here in the condo.”

  “You mean that the person who took her moved the ironing board? Why would anyone do that?”

  “I don’t know, but the real question to ask is: Does her being abducted from here change things?” He checked the time and said, “I have another appointment, but I’ll be back in touch soon. Probably later this evening. You be around?”

  Tears forming in his eyes, Blake replied, “Anything you need. If there’s even a chance it could lead to Corin, I’ll do it. Whatever it is. I just need her back.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Stefan Granger parked the Buick a block down from Haight and Ashbury. It was a nice day. Low 70s. Granger still wore jeans and a hoodie. The weather in San Francisco was always perfect for identity concealment. The sky had gone dark but a steady stream of people still flowed down the streets once walked by some of the most iconic musicians and activists in history.

  Granger had placed an antiviral mask over his face before leaving his apartment. He didn’t even want to be recognized while driving. From the visor, he grabbed his low-light glasses. They weren’t quite as effective as night vision, but they hid his eyes, and the large green goggles associated with night-vision technology could be a bit conspicuous. Still, in his profession, even the slightest edge over an opponent could make all the difference.

  The white antiviral mask he had chosen was a cross between one designed to collect dust, like a painter would wear, and one designed to protect from infection, like those worn by surgeons. It was the perfect tool for concealing his face. When the average person saw a man in a hoodie and a ski mask walking down the street, they immediately became suspicious. Fake beards and prosthetic noses and the like could be employed as camouflage, but the easiest option by far was to pretend he was merely another germaphobic or germ-infected citizen. People generally steered clear, and he could even wear such a mask while indoors.

  His gloves were the most popular brand, purchased from a chain store, and paid for in cash. While not as innocuous as the mask, the gloves were still not enough to make anyone suspicious.

  But the one tool he had yet to choose for this job was his weapon. Granger had an arsenal in the trunk of the old Buick, but he didn’t want someone to see him staring into a trunk full of guns, and so he took a moment to consider the options.

  There was his trustee Walther PPK, threaded for a top-of-the-line suppressor. It was chambered for the 380 auto, a small caliber which, combined with subsonic ammunition, could be virtually silent. Then there was his father’s old shotgun, which he had sawed off and retrofitted into a weapon of mass destruction. It had originally been an over-under hunting gun, and he enjoyed the frequent reloads that the two shot capacity required. It made the game fairer for his opponent. Like a handicap in golf.

  But neither of those seemed to check the boxes for this evening’s contract. He wanted this to look gang related. So he decided on the Mac 10—a fully automatic machine pistol with a long magazine filled with hollow-point 9-mm rounds. It was brutal, effective, and easily concealable. And unlike those used in drive-by shootings, his Mac 10 had been customized and upgraded for reliability and accuracy.

  His hooded sweatshirt was two sizes too large, which left ample room to conceal the machine pistol.

  The last thing Stefan Granger did before exiting the vehicle was to stick in his wireless earbuds and direct his phone to play AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” He’d started the practice of listening to music while killing a few months back, in an effort to heighten his other senses and to give another handicap to his prey.

  After retrieving the Mac 10 from the trunk of the Buick, he walked toward the target’s apartment building, which had been converted to an inner city bordello. As he moved, he kept his head down and made eye contact with no one. He cleared his mind and visualized what was to come.

  When Stefan Granger was a boy, his favorite games had been the Mortal Kombat series. He still remembered the first time he had visited a friend’s house, one who could actually afford a Sega Genesis. It was there that he saw a digital cartoon character tear out the spinal column of another cartoon character. He was instantly hooked. Not because of the violence, although that didn’t hurt; but for him, it was the thrill and strategy of the gameplay. He found it to be much like real life. In the game, when a character performed a certain move against you, one needed to be able to counter and return the attack. This was done by pressing a certain combination of buttons. And Granger had become an expert at responding to his opponents’ attacks with the perfect combination.

  He smiled beneath the antiviral mask, thinking of the day that his father brought him home his very own Sega Genesis. It was a little used and abused, but his dad had picked it up at a yard sale with extra controllers and over twenty games, including some bloody fighting games like Mortal Kombat and Eternal Champions.

  Still musing over childhood memories, he reached the front stoop of Faraz Tarkani’s whorehouse. A large, bald white man in a black T-shirt stood beside the entrance, smoking a cigarette. The apelike sentry was laughing and joking with another man, a big black fellow wearing a sleeveless shirt and a stocking cap. Granger couldn’t hear what they were conversing about because of the earbuds, but he read their lips and ascertained that the discussion centered upon the anatomy of a new employee.

  He tapped a button on his earbuds to pause the sounds of classic rock. Then he said to the two thugs, “I’ll make a deal with the two of you. The first one of you to tell me where I can find Samantha Campbell gets to live.”

  The overly muscled ape man flicked away his cigarette and said, “Get lost, freak.”

  Stefan Granger smiled, but then he realized they couldn’t see him beneath the mask. Rolling his shoulders and warming his muscles up to pump on all cylinders, he tapped the earbud and the tiny speakers began to pump with AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill.”

  The bouncer seemed to register that something was wrong, some primordial alarm system dating back to the early days of man. Granger had the gun out and was squeezing the trigger before the sentry knew what had happened. He aimed low, the bullets shredding the ape man’s legs and dropping him to the concrete.

  As the bald bouncer shrieked in pain, Granger turned his machine pistol on the man in the stocking cap. The large black gentleman was smarter than his comrade. He raised his hands and said, “Sammy’s upstairs with the boss. She’s showing him her appreciation.”

  “Appreciation for what?”

  “I don’t know, man. Something to do with her sister who went missing.”

  The first man flailed about on his hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood on the pavement as he tried to crawl toward his fallen weapon. Granger raised the Mac 10 and squeezed off another line of projectiles. This time, he aimed for the man’s large, bald head. It reminded Granger of a giant egg, and it cracked just like one.

  The other man kept his arms raised and trembled with fear. Granger took aim and said, “Thank you,” before ending the informant’s life. On his earbuds, Brian Johnson sang about pulling the trigger.

  After performing a tactical reload, Granger headed for the top floor. He wasn’t here to kill the girls or their clients, but he also had a rule about witnesses: never leave any. The mask and glasses were camouflage against video surveillance, but he didn’t trust them or take chances. He mowed down three of the girls and two of the clients before he reached the pimp’s penthouse suite.

  Granger approached the top of the stairs cautiously, knowing what would await him on the other side. While on the floor below, he had heard the footfalls of at least two other gunmen. They would be waiting somewhere in that hallway.

  He reached the top of the stairs and placed his back aga
inst the wall, keeping himself concealed from the point of view of the hallway. Then he grabbed one of his empty magazines and tossed it back down the stairs. It thudded and clanked. He listened and waited.

  Back in his video game days, Granger had faced numerous opponents who found success through button mashing, essentially just going crazy and getting lucky. But in every instance, he had found that button mashing was no match for proper technique and strategy. Even then, he knew that the most patient of two opponents always had the upper hand.

  Just as he expected, he saw the barrel of the man’s Glock pistol before he saw the man himself.

  Granger grabbed the guard by the wrist, jerked him forward, and unleashed his weapon into the man’s abdomen. His victim screamed in pain and discharged his own weapon. Granger slapped the Glock pistol away and spun the dying guard around to use as a human shield.

  With his arm around the first guard’s neck, holding him up like a rag doll, Granger rushed into the hallway. The other sentry had his gun raised and ready, but Granger was concealed behind the man’s partner. His Mac 10 roared and spit hot shell casings toward the ceiling. The controlled burst caught the second guard in the chest, driving him back and painting the walls with red.

  His human shield had yet to die like a good boy and was even trying to wriggle free of his grasp. In his ears, AC/DC still thumped along with his heartbeat. Granger wasted no time in turning the gun on his human body armor and squeezing the trigger against the man’s temple.

  An empty forty-five round magazine fell to the floor, and Granger slammed a fresh mag in place. Then he jacked back the slide and headed toward Faraz’s penthouse.

  Over the earbuds, “Shoot to Thrill” ended, and “What Do You Do for Money Honey” began.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The dark-skinned woman in the house slippers pushed Corin up to a concrete landing as she unlocked a door with two deadbolts. Corin asked again, “Where are we?”