Free The Prophet by Ethan Cross

Shepherd Organization. The Trojan was a small program embedded within the actual operating system of the host machine and, according to his expert, it was virtually undetectable. He had used his special skills to kidnap the sister of a renowned hacker and force the man’s cooperation. The hacker’s skills had proven well worth his trouble. Ackerman had always found it easy to get what he wanted when he was willing to cause pain or take life to achieve his goal. And he was an expert in pain.
    He pulled up the active case files for Marcus’s unit and began to read about this man the media had dubbed The Anarchist . The more he read, the more impressed he became. He admired the Anarchist’s work. This fellow knew about the hunger. Ackerman could tell that for sure.
    He closed the laptop and gathered his things. Chicago. He could easily be there by morning.
    His gaze found the clock on the nightstand, and his mind calculated the travel time for any police units in the area. The cheap hotel room had wi-fi included with the price of a night’s rental. He had routed his activity through remote nodes and proxy servers as his hacker friend had shown him—mainly through those located in foreign and less than friendly countries like Belarus, nations that would be unlikely to cooperate with US government investigations. But, as an extra precaution, he never stayed in the location where he accessed the files. He got in and out quickly like a ghost in the machine, as though he had never even been there. Then he simply slipped away into the night. They had tried to track him through his calls to Marcus, but he was too careful for that. And he was too careful to be caught by his computer access as well.
    The walls of the hotel room were blank and white. Pictures had been hanging there when he had first entered but he had removed them all. Ackerman had spent his childhood in a tiny cell being tortured by his father. After that, he had spent several more years in mental institutions and prisons. He had become accustomed to a lack of possessions and decorations, and it made him feel strangely uneasy to sleep in a room with pictures hanging on the walls. In fact, he preferred a room without furniture of any kind, and he often slept on the floor.
    He considered putting the pictures back but decided against it. He needed to get on the road. Marcus would soon be needing his special brand of help.

15
    Vasques watched Agent Williams with suspicion as his stare crawled over every inch of the crime scene. He seemed to be lingering on and absorbing every minute detail. She checked her watch and tried to fight down her growing anxiety. She said, “The killer’s very careful. He leaves virtually no evidence behind.”
    “Everywhere you go, you take something with you, and you leave something behind. Locard’s Exchange Principle,” Williams said.
    Vasques replied, “I had that class, too. Of course he’s left behind traces. Unfortunately, this guy hasn’t left behind anything to tell us where to find him. He’s left shoe prints, size ten and a half, but he changes the shoes after every scene. The shoes he wears are as common as you can get. They can be picked up at any Walmart. We’ve found talcum powder on the door handles.”
    “Latex gloves.”
    “Right. No hair samples or skin cells that we’ve found. No fingerprints. He drugs the women so there’s no struggle and no blood left behind. He—”
    Agent Williams held up a hand to stop her and said, “I’ve read all this in the files. I really just need you to be quiet. I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”
    His rudeness and audacity struck Vasques speechless. She fought for words. “What exactly is your specialty at the Department of Justice, Special Agent Williams?”
    His mouth curled into a lopsided grin. “Call me Marcus. And that’s classified.”
    He stepped past her and headed toward the back door. She was dumbfounded. She turned to the other agent, the one who