by Logan Ryles
Reed stood and tossed the spoon into the corner, then drew his phone from his pocket and held the flashlight over the body. The LED glow shone on Holiday’s face, washing his skin in a chalky pallor. Reed snapped a few pictures from different angles then reviewed each one. The effect was perfect. Holiday lay on the floor with two bullet-sized wounds streaming blood over his chest.
A thick wad of stuffing from the broken armchair in the corner subdued the bleeding. Reed bound it in place with strips from Holiday’s undershirt, and propped his body against the wall so the blood would run downward and away from the wounds. Then he selected the unknown number from his recent-callers list and sent it a string of photographs followed by one message.
it’s done.
Seventeen
The last rays of sunlight faded through the pines. Reed stood amid the trees and lit a cigarette, enjoying the tangy flood of nicotine as it washed through his lungs, bringing fresh waves of relief along with it. The throbbing ache in his body subsided a little, and he exhaled through his nose. So many times he swore off cigarettes. So many times he enjoyed a “last smoke ever.” The habit started in Iraq, where booze was restricted and tobacco was cheap. That first smoke became a pack a day in less than a month. Careful restraint reduced the addiction to a pack per week, but he couldn’t fully surrender the comfort of the smoldering drug. Not yet.
The phone buzzed. UNKNOWN lit up the screen. Reed took another slow pull of smoke, then hit the green button. “All right. It’s done. Where is Banks?”
Salvador spoke calmly, disguising a hint of venom underneath.
“Impressive work, Montgomery. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure you could pull it off. He certainly looks dead . . .”
Salvador let his voice trail off, leaving the sentence hanging. The suspicion was evident in his tone.
“He’s dead. And you will be too if you don’t hold up your end. Where is Banks?”
“Hmm . . .”
Reed’s heart pounded, and he slammed his clenched fist against the nearest pine tree, but he didn’t speak. This was a battle of nerves, and he wouldn’t be the one to break.
“In your original contract, you may recall we had a stipulation for the manner of death.”
Reed searched his memory, trying to recall the details of that first contract.
“You wanted him dead within seventy-two hours. And he is.”
“Right. But we also specified that the death had to be conspicuous.”
Reed cursed. “I just knocked down an FBI stronghold, you cheap shit. How much more conspicuous can you get?”
“Granted. But we’re going to need more. Where is the body now?”
“Someplace the FBI isn’t.”
“I figured as much. We’re going to need more concrete assurances of his death. Along with a more public . . . spectacle. Are you following me, Reed?”
“No. I’m not. And I’m done playing games. He’s dead. I’m coming for Banks. Where is she?”
Salvador sighed. “Reed . . . you challenge my patience. Hit her.”
Reed heard an abrasive popping sound . . . an unearthly scream . . . a muffled crashing . . . another scream.
“Stop.” Reed didn’t shout. Blood thundered in his ears, and his throat was dry, but he forced himself to focus. There was no card for him to play. He could bluster and threaten all he wanted, but at the end of the day, they both knew he was helpless.
The screaming faded, and Salvador returned. “As I was saying. We want a spectacle. I’m feeling generous. It’s just now five o’clock, and I’ll give you until ten.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to tie a rope around Holiday’s ankles and hang his body off the west side of the 191 Peachtree building.”
Ice-cold dread washed through Reed’s body, landing in his stomach and triggering a wave of nausea. “What?”
“You heard me, Reed. I want you to present his body in front of CNN headquarters.”
“That building is secured access. I can’t get inside. I’ll display the body in Centennial Park. Or on the Capitol steps.”
“No. I want it done at 191 Peachtree. And I want it on an upper floor. Shall we say, the 45th floor? That seems reasonable.”
Reed slammed his closed fist into the hood of the SUV, clenching his jaw to avoid screaming. The frustration and tension in his body overwhelmed him. It rushed through his blood and clouded his mind in a wave of anger and total rage.
“I can’t get inside. It can’t be done.”
Another laugh. It was a dry, humorless sound.
“Reed, you just knocked down an FBI stronghold. An office building should be a walk in the park. You have five hours. Oh, and Reed?”
“What?” Reed spat the word.
“Make it bloody.”
Special Agent Matthew Tucker sat in his windowless cubical and watched his computer screen in silence as the soundless security camera played footage in black-and-white with poor resolution. Parts of it were obscured by smoke, and some of the camera angles prevented him from viewing the face of the man in the ski mask. He wondered if that was intentional. Did the masked attacker purposefully dodge the cameras, or was it just his own crappy luck?
Tucker clicked the ballpoint pen in his hand and replayed the tape. His T-shirt clung to his skin, and he flipped the desk fan to a higher speed. It didn’t help much. The AC unit was out again.
First, he viewed the receptionist. As the glass door of the field office swung open, she had stepped back, assumed a fighting stance, and reached for her gun. There were two flashes from the muzzle of the submachine gun in the attacker’s hands, and she went down. Then the stairwell. The cameras provided a limited view of the gunfight between the first and fourth floors. More gunshots. Three agents down.
And then—in what couldn’t be described as anything less than a massacre—the entire fourth floor was overtaken and subdued by the one man and his gun.
Tucker punched the blinking call-waiting button on his desk phone. The name flashing on the screen read “Lucas, F.”
“Okay. I watched it,” Tucker said.
“What do you think?” Agent Fleet Lucas’s voice carried an oppressive Boston accent, mixed with the rasp of too many cigarettes.
Tucker leaned back in his chair and hooked his forearm behind his head. “I think, whoever he is, he eats his green vegetables.”
“No kidding.”
“How many causalities?”
Lucas grunted. “That’s the crazy part. None.”
“Say what?”
“None. I mean, we’ve got some pretty banged-up agents. Lots of broken ribs, shattered eardrums, etcetera. A couple gunshot wounds in the shoulders and arms, but no fatalities.”
“I don’t understand. He shot at least four agents, center mass.”
“Yep. But the only bullets that struck a vital area were all stopped by body armor. They shattered some bones and left some bitching bruises, but they didn’t penetrate. We’re still running tests, but initial impressions are that they were lead-nose bullets.”
Tucker scratched his jaw. “That’s a miracle.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.”
“Come again?”
“Every round was placed squarely in the center of the vests, right where the Kevlar would absorb the bulk of the shock. It’s unlikely that any .45-caliber cartridge would penetrate body armor, but it’s almost certain that a lead-nose bullet wouldn’t. If I’m going to war, and I’m trained well enough to take out a dozen FBI agents, I’m not loaded with lead-nose bullets.”
“Unless you didn’t actually want to kill anyone.” Tucker finished the thought.
“Exactly.”
“You did say there were some gunshot wounds.”
“Yep. A few. All flesh wounds. Nothing fatal.”
Tucker unwrapped a peppermint candy and popped it between his lips. “What’s your theory?”
“I don’t have one. That’s why I called you. You’ve been working this Holid
ay case for eight months. I hoped you might have some ideas.”
Tucker placed his right hand behind his head and twisted his neck until it popped, providing moderate relief for his sore muscles. His head hurt. He knew there were dark circles under his eyes, and he wasn’t really sure what day it was. Friday, maybe? He couldn’t remember his last shower, either, but none of this was unusual. He had indeed worked the Holiday case for eight months, and holy mackerel, what a nightmare. Endless dead ends, missing emails, corrupted surveillance footage, silent witnesses, and vanishing suspects. It was the most frustrating, exhausting case he had ever worked. Holiday had been a top witness—and possible suspect—for the previous ten weeks, but he was impossibly hard to crack. Tucker’s fifteen years as an investigator taught him the unique stench of fear. Holiday was drenched with it.
“I don’t know, Fleet. I talked to Holiday for about half an hour before your boys picked him up. He was agitated, but that’s typical with him. He’s got this goddaughter that he’s really close to. Frank Morccelli’s girl. He wanted all these guarantees of her isolation from the case and the media. Of course, I couldn’t promise that, so he hung up. An hour later, I got word that you had him under protective custody for the death threat.”
“Hit order,” Lucas corrected him. “And yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t advise you beforehand. There wasn’t much time. He was a bit contentious, also. Had to restrain him in the safe room.”
“It’s fine. I can assume that whoever is on the other side of this mess got word Holiday was about to squeal, and they wanted him buried. That would make the fifth witness to vanish or bite the dirt right before they talked.”
“You think our gunman is employed by your suspects?”
“I don’t have any suspects. Just a series of crimes that feel linked to me, and a gut feeling that there’s a bigger picture behind it all. This incident lends credence to that feeling. Even so, I’m not sure this guy works for them.”
“Why’s that?” Tucker could hear Lucas grinding his thumb against a cigarette lighter. Geez, the man never quit.
“He didn’t kill Holiday,” Tucker said. “If they wanted him eliminated, it would’ve been easy to do. I mean, our security obviously isn’t an issue. So why kidnap him?”
Lucas breathed out, and Tucker imagined he could smell the sordid odor of cigarette smoke. Seconds turned into minutes, punctuated by occasional puffs from Lucas. He must’ve been re-watching the security footage for the umpteenth time.
“Maybe they wanted Holiday to talk first. Make sure he hadn’t leaked anything.”
“That’s possible, but most of my witnesses have a habit of simply winding up dead. Still, he’s a state senator. Maybe they’re being more surgical this time.”
Lucas was quiet a moment longer, and Tucker heard the clicking of a computer mouse.
“What strikes you about him? The gunman.”
The security footage played on loop now, starting with the carnage in the lobby and moving to the stairwell. Tucker studied the attacker’s moves—the way he managed his weapons, his stance, dress, and tactics. They weren’t the stuff of an action movie, but they were brutally effective.
“Military,” he said.
“Yep. And look at his stance. Adjusted Weaver style, maintaining his hold on the grip of the gun when he changes mags, leaning low against the walls . . .”
“He’s one of ours,” Tucker finished.
“Looks that way. Not your average G.I., though.”
“So, we have another rogue spec ops commando on our hands.”
Lucas grunted. “Yep. Okay, Tuck. I’ll keep you posted if we make any progress. Get some shut-eye. You sound like death.”
The line went dead, and Tucker leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Coming from Lucas, the prognosis was as good as a terminal illness.
Eighteen
Darkness blanketed the pines, saturating the clearing and leaving Reed alone in the cold. The air was thin but impenetrable. As the last of the sun vanished over the horizon, the tension in his chest increased, and cold sweats ran down his back. The Kevlar suffocated him, and he jerked it off and hurled it to the ground with a scream.
“Shit!” Reed ripped his shirt off and drove his fist into the hood of the SUV again, leaving a large dent. He gasped for air and leaned over the Toyota, resting his forehead against the cool metal. A light breeze whispered through the forest, and it felt good to breathe it in.
Banks was alone. A captive of the freak from South America. A madman with an obsessive desire to destroy her godfather. Why? The thought wouldn’t leave his mind. Why the hell did they want him so publicly executed? Of all the twisted, depraved crap they could come up with—hanging his body off the side of a skyscraper? It was beyond bizarre and worse than twisted. It was sickening.
Pine needles and dry sticks crunched under his feet as Reed straightened. He paced in front of the trailer as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His mind raced as he considered each of his options, of which there weren’t many. He couldn’t kill Holiday, of course. And he couldn’t throw him off the 191 building.
Again, the keystone of the problem was the request itself—their obsession with a conspicuous death didn’t add up. Holiday’s violent kidnapping and disappearance were conspicuous enough—maybe the most conspicuous thing Reed had ever done. By sunrise, every news outlet in the country would carry the story. The nation would dissolve into a state of shock as pundits and talk show hosts fanned the flames of public uncertainty into a roaring blaze of fear. The president would make a thoughts-and-prayers speech, then call the director of the FBI and demand immediate answers.
So why inflame things any further? Amplifying the horror of the murder now only stacked the deck against these people in every possible way. A gruesome and public display of the body would all but ensure that the killer was run down and. . . .
Reed stopped pacing, and a tingling sensation rippled up his arms. There it was. It was so painfully obvious. They wanted the killer to be caught. And that killer was him. The whole thing was an elaborate setup. Salvador wanted him to be apprehended at the FBI building. He probably laid a trap at the Ikea, also. When Reed evaded capture both times, they had no choice but to up the ante once more. Naming the place and time of Holiday’s post-mortem display was a perfect way to ensure success. Reed would be cornered on the 45th floor of a secured-access building with no route of escape. One call to the Atlanta PD, and the music would stop. Reed would be caught in the act and as guilty as sin.
Like cops closing in on an escaped prisoner, the darkness enveloped his mind, making him feel suddenly smothered. He was cornered, and it was his own fault. Every step over the last twenty-four hours had led him deeper into the muck. It was a trap from the start, and his moronic refusal to look after his own interests had ensured that he fell head over heels into the pit.
Reed turned back to the trailer and flipped the flashlight on. He stormed up the steps and walked into the dark living room. It still smelled musty and stale, with a hint of blood in the air. Reed shuffled through the kitchen drawers again until he located a bottle of water and half a roll of duct tape. Both were old and dirty, but serviceable.
Strips of tape secured Holiday’s hands to his thighs, and a third locked his ankles together. Reed slipped the ski mask back on, then opened the water bottle and dumped it over his prisoner’s face while smacking him on the cheeks. The senator coughed and blinked bloodshot eyes full of fear when he recognized the black ski mask, and he mumbled a panicked plea before recoiling from the water. Reed shoved the bottle into Holiday’s mouth.
“Drink,” he said.
Holiday didn’t object. He gulped the water, spluttering as it streamed down his chin. Reed let him consume all but the last swallow, then finished the rest himself.
“Where am I?”
It was a predictable question.
“West Virginia,” Reed said without hesitation. He needed Holiday to talk, and he guessed the senator would respond best to open di
alogue.
“Why?”
Reed squatted in front of him. The senator still appeared confused, as though he wasn’t aware that he had been kidnapped. But the rasping breaths and rigid posture betrayed his terror.
“I brought you here. Now you’re going to answer some questions. Do you understand?”
Holiday grunted. His eyes began to clear, but he still wouldn’t meet Reed’s gaze.
“A hit was placed on your life,” Reed said. “Do you understand what that means?”
Something flashed across Holiday’s face. Uncertainty? A distant connection, perhaps? He glared at Reed.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the man hired to kill you.”
Holiday leaned back and tried to jerk his hands free. It was a futile effort, and Reed pinned him against the wall with one hand.
“Why do they want you dead, Senator?”
Holiday shook his head. “I don’t know. You don’t want to do this!”
“You’re right. I don’t. So, answer my question. Who wants you dead?”
He looked away and spat on the floor. “Look, this isn’t worth it. Just walk away while you can.”
“Walk away from what?”
“I’m not saying a damn thi—”
Reed cocked his right arm and dealt Holiday a quick punch to the jaw. The cracking sound of bone on bone popped through the small room. Holiday’s head smacked into the fake wood paneling of the walls, and blood streamed from his lip as he cried out in pain.
“Don’t test me, Senator. Who ordered the hit?”
Holiday spat again, spraying blood and saliva over the dingy linoleum. “How would I know? You think I have any idea how deep this goes?”
“How deep what goes?”