by Logan Ryles
He spluttered and gulped the alcohol in unbridled panic as more of it streamed down his chin and over his shirt. Every time he tried to lower the bottle, Reed shoved the gun deeper into his skin, twisting and biting into him through his dirty polo shirt.
At last, the bottle was empty, and it clattered to the floor amid a puddle of whiskey. The chubby man coughed and leaned back, wheezing and struggling to catch his breath as saliva dripped from his lips.
“Dammit, man. I swear I’m telling the truth.”
Too little too late—like Judas apologizing to a bloody cross. Reed cocked his left fist and drove a snapping punch to the backside of the man’s skull. His victim slumped over in instant unconsciousness.
Reed picked up a towel from the galley counter, wiped down the grip of the Glock, and then placed it in the hand of the man on the floor, pushing the chubby finger through the trigger guard. As he stood up and surveyed the brutal scene, his heart pounded but gradually calmed as he took slow, deliberate breaths.
Satisfied that the job was done, Reed retreated to the rear deck and surveyed the horizon for any sign of other boats. As before, the bay was dark and empty.
After affixing the fins back onto his feet and pulling the mask over his face, he slipped into the cold water and kicked toward shore. When he was fifty yards away from the yacht, he drew the waterlogged flare gun from his wetsuit then aligned the sights with the main salon. He squeezed the plastic trigger. The gun popped, and the flare shot across the water, arcing perfectly through the open window and crashing into the lounge. A moment later, smoke and flames rose from the window as the flare ignited the puddle of whiskey inside.
Reed watched the scene, imagining that he could feel the heat of the fire on his icy face.
A few powerful kicks propelled his muscular frame through the water and back toward shore. He dropped the flare gun, allowing it to fade into the darkness as he closed his eyes. He pictured the flames of the yacht and imagined it sinking, slipping between the waves and carrying the bodies to the bottom of the bay and the watery grave it promised.
Twenty-nine.
Two
The foothills and ravines of north Georgia rose and fell much like the waves of the night before. They rose until almost touching the morning sun, then fell again into a shadow-filled valley, carrying the road with them. Orange and brown leaves drifted down from overhanging hardwoods, bouncing across the pavement before being washed into the ditch. The last remnants of a dying summer. Everything felt crisp and clean.
The stillness of the mountain road was shattered by the roar of the black car, low-slung, with tinted windows and exhaust that shook the mountains to their roots. It blasted around a hillcrest and hurtled into a valley, every curve of the road shoving the car toward the edge, sending wide tires screaming over scarred asphalt, and threatening to break free and roll into a ditch at any moment. After another bark of exhaust and a thunderous roar of the oversized engine, the car pulled out of the turn and rocketed forward again. It was unstoppable.
Reed didn’t know the road. He’d never traveled that way before. Each turn was unknown, filled with hidden danger and intoxicating peril. He slammed the Camaro into third gear and dumped the clutch. The leather-wrapped steering wheel was damp in his hands, slipping between his fingers as he allowed the car to self-correct out of another turn. Wind ripped through the open windows, flooding the car with the mixed scents of autumn flowers and burning gasoline. It was the kind of smell dreams were made of.
Downshift back to fourth. Ride the brake and turn to the left. Pull out, half-throttle, just in time to break a slide and prevent the car from spinning into a ravine. The mountains clapped and shook as the exhaust backfired, a sound like a gunshot ripping through the trees. Reed sucked in a lungful of crisp air and relaxed off the throttle, allowing the car to glide to a natural halt at a stop sign. He closed his eyes and listened to the rumble of the V-8. The way the exhaust snarled, even at idle. It was like music, but better than any orchestra the world had ever heard. It was a voice that awoke the deepest parts of his soul, whispering to his heart sweeter than any lover ever could.
Freedom captured in an engine block.
Reed leaned back in his tight racing seat and slid on his sunglasses, then turned to the left and merged onto a four-lane highway. A green sign towered next to the roadway, painted with white, reflective letters:
ATLANTA, 127 MILES.
The roar of the motor receded to a muted rumble as Reed rolled up the windows and wiped his shoulder-length hair from his eyes. The four-lane road brought its own unique thrill: the peace of American muscle cruising an American highway. Another taste of freedom tainted by the irrefutable truth that it was only that—a taste.
The icy water and dancing flames of the night before receded into the back of his mind, but they would never fade away completely. They joined a slideshow of twenty-eight other bloody moments over the past three years—moments when Reed stepped into somebody’s life and snuffed it out. Every night, that slideshow was the last thing he saw before drifting into oblivion. Every morning it was the first thing that flooded his mind, even before consciousness returned. He couldn’t tell the difference between regret or repulsion—whether he felt guilt or simple irritation at the memories. Maybe it was all the same thing.
A dull buzz rang from the console, jarring Reed from his thoughts. He hit the accept button on the dash, and the call switched to the speaker system.
“It’s done,” he said.
The voice that answered sounded sleepy, or maybe drunk. With Brent, there was no way to tell. It could’ve been both.
“Sweet, dude. Nice work. I saw the news. It looks like you implemented a little arson. Good stuff.”
“Did they salvage the boat?”
“Nah, man, it sank. A few locals took pictures, but there’s nothing to worry about. Looks like you cleaned up real nice.” The blend of spunk and dismissal in Brent’s voice was the sort of casual enthusiasm only a stoned cheerleader could master. Or, in this case, a hitman’s handler.
“Good. They won’t find much when they raise it.”
“Well, it’s sitting in fifty feet of water, so it’ll take time. They’ll probably lift the bodies today.”
“Won’t be much left,” Reed said. “He’s got enough alcohol in his stomach to knock out a linebacker.”
“Right, right. And the goods?”
“The money is in the trunk of a taxi. New York City. I emailed you the medallion number.”
“You checked it out?”
“No, but it’s there.”
“Sure, dude. Whatever you say.”
Reed adjusted the phone against his ear and shifted into overdrive. The tachometer dropped, and the rumble of the motor faded into a hum. He heard Brent slurping on something. A drink, or maybe some hard candy.
“I’m ready for the next job. How soon can you line it up?”
“Um . . . dude, you haven’t been paid for the last one.” Brent smacked his lips. “Don’t you wanna catch your breath?”
“I prefer to stay busy. What do you have?”
“I hadn’t planned on booking you. Let’s see. Well, there’s one job, but I didn’t think you’d want it. Georgia State Senator. Atlanta hit.”
“That’s perfect. Book me.”
Brent chomped down with an explosion of wet crunching. Yes, definitely hard candy. “You sure, man? I mean, that junk’s practically in your backyard. You shouldn’t shit where you eat.”
“I’m not worried about it. Just book the hit and send me the file.”
“Don’t you wanna know what it pays?”
“Nope.” Reed hit the end-call button, then dropped the shifter out of overdrive and planted his foot into the accelerator.
Atlanta: 116 miles.
“Don’t twist it so hard. You’ll strip it.” The big greasy hand fell over Reed’s, guiding him around one quarter turn of the wrench. “There. Just like that. Twist till it stops, then a quarter turn. No
more.”
Reed lay on the concrete and gazed up at the underside of the engine block, painted bright red with streaks of oil and grease crisscrossing it at random. His perceptions were clouded by a misted, dreamlike state, making everything he touched and each word he heard muted and distant. The big front tires hung six inches off the ground, just high enough for him to slip his arm under. He imagined the car falling off the jack stands and jerked his arm back as a wave of thrill surged through his narrow chest.
“Hand me that socket wrench.”
Reed felt the cool metal of the wrench between his greasy fingers. It was heavy and difficult to lift in the awkward position beneath the car. His hand looked tiny as he passed the wrench into the one of the man lying beside him. Dave Montgomery took the wrench and slipped it over a sway bar link, twisted until it stopped, then gave it a quarter turn more.
“Will it be faster, Dad?” Reed asked.
Dave fiddled with the linkage, running a clean rag over the bar and toward the wheel hub.
“There’s all kinds of fast, Reed. Speed is nothing if you can’t control it. Tighter sway bars are all about control. Feeling the road when you turn. Keeping the tires planted on the pavement. You understand what I’m saying?”
Reed nodded. He watched in transfixed fascination as Dave lifted a grease gun and began to lubricate the joints of the front suspension. Grease dripped off the car and splattered on the garage floor.
Dave grabbed a rag and wiped up the spill.
“Now, when you grease a car, it’s all about moderation. I used too much, and it makes a mess. These tiny brass fittings here? You can tell a lot about a man by what he calls them. An ignoramus might call them a nipple. But a real motorhead knows they’re called a zerk.”
Reed giggled. “A zurt?”
“No, a zerk.”
“That’s a funny word.”
Dave smiled as he picked up the grease gun again and began to crawl from beneath the car. Reed followed him, scraping his bare knees against the dirt. Dave held out his hand and helped Reed to his feet, then handed him the rag.
“Wipe off your hands. Time to give her a whirl.”
The rough rag ground into his little palms as he scrubbed the grease away. Streaks of brown tarnished the red cloth, leaving his palms red. The green car with silver rally wheels sat with its front end lifted on the jacks, and the hood was raised to expose the big motor. Twin white rally stripes ran over the hood and the deck of the trunk. Smooth, curving fenders rose over the lifted rear suspension. A chrome badge, glued to the fender just behind the front wheel, read “Camaro” in graceful italics. Beyond it, just in front of the wheel, another chrome badge was accented with red trim: Z/28.
Reed touched the emblem, running his finger down the Z and beneath the numbers. His skin left a thin sheen of oil, reflecting in the dull light of the setting sun. He smiled, then looked up at his dad.
“Will we wash it today?”
Dave laughed. “Boy, you love to wash a car. No, we don’t have time today, but let’s turn it over and see how she sounds. Here. Hop in.”
A silver key ring flashed in the air. Reed caught it with both hands, and his knees were suddenly stiff as his fingers closed around the key. He stared down at the glistening silver, blank except for the etched Chevrolet bowtie. “Are you serious?” he mumbled.
“Of course I’m serious. Get in.”
Reed didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He opened the heavy door and piled onto the worn vinyl seat. It was warm from the blaze of the afternoon Alabama sun beating down on it through the garage door, but it felt like home. He scooted to the front of the seat and strained his left leg to reach for the clutch. His shoe slipped off the edge of the pedal, and he slid closer to the wood-lined steering wheel.
“Okay. First the clutch, all the way to the floor. Then turn it over.”
The key clicked against the tumblers as Reed slipped it into the ignition. He bit his lip and pressed the clutch to the floor. It was heavy, and he had to brace himself on the edge of the seat to force the pedal against the floorboard. Then he twisted the key. The starter whined, and the car jolted as the big motor turned over. Once. Twice.
“Give it a little gas, son. Just tap the pedal.”
Reed laid his right foot against the pedal and tapped the gas. The car coughed and lurched again, turning over twice more. The exhaust rumbled, and the motor roared to life, sending shockwaves ripping down the body of the car. Reed felt it in the steering wheel. He felt it in the pedals and through the seats. The Camaro shook and thundered; it was an awakened monster, alive and hungry.
“Dad! It’s working. It’s running!” Reed laughed and ran his hands over the steering wheel. He felt every dimple in the wood and the sharp edge of the metal spokes. He watched the tachometer dance and spike as the engine continued to cough on a bad tune. But it sounded so good. The feeling flooded his body, filling him with warmth and power.
“All right! That’s my boy!” Dave leaned through the window and grinned down at Reed. He patted him on the back, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a natural. The car trusts you. I can hear it.”
Reed closed his eyes and bit his lip. His tongue poked between the gap in his teeth. The vibrations rumbled up his spine and pounded in his head. Nothing had ever felt so good.
“Can I help you?” Dave shouted over the roar of the car.
In the distance, Reed heard tires grind against concrete. Something shone across his eyes, and he snapped them open. Red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror, and he craned his neck to look behind him. Two black cars were stopped halfway down the long driveway, and tall men in dark suits and sunglasses piled out. They walked toward his father, and one of them flashed a gold badge. Stern wrinkles lined their jaws and foreheads, as though their faces were carved in stone.
“David Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . what can I do for you?”
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back, please.”
A cold fist closed inside of Reed’s stomach. The smile faded from his lips as he stared through the back glass. The men shoved his father over the rear of the Camaro and planted his face against the decklid of the trunk. His cheeks flushed red, while his eyes widened with strain. He spluttered and tried to lift his head, but the bigger man forced him down again.
“David Montgomery, you are under arrest. The charge is four counts of securities fraud, two counts of intentional deception of a federal agent, and eight counts of money laundering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say. . . .”
The voices faded into a muted blur. Reed’s stomach lurched toward his throat as big tears welled, stinging and burning like fire. He jerked the door handle and sprang from the car toward the bumper. The big men hauled Dave up by the elbows and propelled him toward the sedans.
“No! Dad, no!” Reed screamed, grabbed the nearest officer by the leg, and tried to shove him away. The big man leered down at him, grabbing him by the collar and flinging him onto the concrete.
“Get out of the way, kid. We’ll get to you soon enough.”
They faded away toward the cars. Reed ran after them, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he pounded the pavement. Another man, tall and menacing, appeared from behind a trash can. Dressed in muted green with a giant hard-brimmed hat, he backhanded Reed over the face, hurling him to the ground.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, recruit? You better fall in before I wipe my boot across your face! You haven’t got the guts to be a Marine!”
Reed screamed and tried to crawl away. Darkness closed around him, and metal bars sprung out of the ground, blocking his way, pressing in on every side, and forcing him into a corner. Still screaming, he beat against the bars and kicked with both feet, but nobody answered. The darkness was so complete, he couldn’t see his hands.
Then he heard a smooth, British voice just behind him. Reed whirled around to see a bald man with large ears, a broad, toothy s
mile, and deep grey eyes that sat over a long nose.
“Need a hand, son?” The man leaned down and offered his hand. “You’re mine now.”
Reed lurched out of bed, snatching the Glock from the nightstand beside him and jamming it toward the leering face. He gasped for air and swung the pistol around the room, searching for his target, but the man wasn’t there. He had faded into the nightmare like every one before it.
Reed dropped the gun on the covers, pressed his face into his hands, and gasped for air again. His skin prickled, and a shiver racked his torso, making him feel chilled under the breeze of the ceiling fan. He swung his feet out of the bed and stumbled across the loft and down the steps.
The interior of the tiny cabin was still, and he gazed outside over the darkened forest. A night-light glowed against one wall, casting shadows across the hardwood floor. Baxter lay curled up in his favorite armchair, snoring like a dragon with sleep apnea. Drool ran out of his flopping lips, dripping onto the floor in a slow waterfall.
Reed stumbled to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer. He popped the cap off against the edge of the counter, and Baxter’s ears pricked up. The old English bulldog poked his head over the arm of the chair, snorting and lapping saliva off his lips, then stared at Reed with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Sorry, boy,” Reed muttered. “You know how it is. Night thirst.”
Baxter snorted again, then hopped down from the chair and trotted to his water bowl. He lapped up a couple swallows of water, then flopped down under the kitchen table and commenced to snoring again.
Reed watched him for a moment, smiling. Nothing kept Baxter awake. He could have slept through a tornado. The smile faded from Reed’s lips as the emotional fallout of the dream sank over him. He gulped down more beer and swallowed, trying to picture his father’s warm smile, trying to recall the gentle laugh. As clear and strong as both had been only moments before, they now felt as old and distant as they truly were.