by Logan Ryles
Almost every night for years, this same dream plagued his tired mind. At first, it was just the nightmare of his father being arrested, occasionally joined by haunted memories of the trial and conviction. After Reed joined the Marine Corps, the nightmare was joined by the drill sergeant—the big man with the big hat. Another shouting terror that had nothing to do with his childhood, and yet it dominated the dream as much as Dave Montgomery’s violent arrest.
And then the bald man. The one with the smooth smile and the big hand. So kind and gentle. So menacing. The kingpin killer.
Reed stumbled back up the stairs into the loft. He flipped the nightstand lamp on, then knelt beside the twin bed and reached beneath the overhanging sheets. His fingers closed around the hard edge of a box, wooden and cold, and he dragged it out then sat cross-legged on the floor. Reed took another long pull of beer, flipped the latch open, and lifted the lid.
Mementos lay inside: a few sheets of paper, five fake passports, a spare Glock handgun, and fifty thousand dollars in cash. Reed shuffled the items aside and dug under the stack of papers. He felt the faded photograph under his fingers, recognizing it by its tattered edge, and pulled it free of the pile.
Under the soft glow of the lamp, he saw the green car sitting at the edge of a lake and shining under the sun. The chrome badges affixed to the fender glistened, half-covered by the family that sat in a neat line beside the car. A smiling Dave Montgomery on the right, leaned next to his wife with one arm wrapped around her shoulders. Reed sat on his lap, barely six years old, his legs crossed much the same as they were now. The three of them radiated in that picture in a way that no amount of sunlight could fabricate. It was calm and perfect how they huddled together in front of that old sixty-nine Z/28. A family together. Safe.
Reed blinked back the stinging in his eyes and shoved the photo into the pile of papers. He tipped the beer bottle up and gulped down the last few pulls of fizzy alcohol. Back in the box, he retrieved a small notebook about three inches tall with a rubber band holding it closed. He pulled the band off and flipped it open, stopping at the first page. His tight handwriting covered the page in condensed notes.
March 17. Nova Scotia, Canada. Paul John Grier, age 37. Terminated by affixation with vehicle exhaust. Body left for the police. One down, twenty-nine remaining. I feel as though I died with him.
He flipped a few more pages and then stopped at another entry, this one dated for June seventh of the following year.
Marie Florence Thomas. Age 49. Panama City, Panama. Terminated by precision shot, five hundred yards. Body fell into canal. Confirmation of death obtained by secondary contractor. Twelve down, eighteen to go. This was the first woman.
Reed lifted a pencil from the box and flipped to the first blank page. He took a deep breath then scratched a new entry onto the yellow paper.
October 29th. Max Chester. Middle name unknown. Delaware Bay, United States. Terminated by use of alcohol, fire, and drowning. Also had to terminate unknown man there with him. Both bodies lost to sea. Twenty-nine down, one to go. I’m almost free.
Reed stared at the note, rereading it once, then he shut the book, wrapped the rubber band back around it, and pushed the box beneath the bed. His phone dinged from the bedside, and he scooped it up. A notification lit the screen beside Brent’s name. He unlocked the phone with his thumbprint and opened the message.
Hit Confirmed. Details to follow.
Three
The lights of the midtown nightclub were almost blinding. Reed sat at the bar, leaning over the counter, and staring into the muddled depths of a Jack and Coke. The ice melted slowly, and the surface of the drink pulsated with each pounding thump of the music.
Reed tipped the glass back, draining the contents, then slammed it back on the counter and nodded at the bartender.
“Make it a double.”
A spunky young woman with a heavy Boston accent replaced his glass and poured three fingers from a bottle of Jack.
“Got a new Kentucky bourbon on special tonight. Wanna mix it up?”
Reed smiled and shook his head. “Last one, Jen. Gonna call it a night.”
“You should stick around. We’re playing live music later.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The screen glowed, illuminating a text message from a contact labeled “O.E.”
Call me.
Reed hesitated over the text, twisting the glass between his fingers and listening to the ice cubes tumble over one another. He dreaded this moment and the conversation it promised. For twenty-nine kills, his boss had maintained close tabs on Reed, checking in with him every few weeks and offering advice and training. Even knocking him over the head now and again, ensuring he was performing at the top of his game, every time. It was a strange relationship the two of them formed. Oliver was both master and friend, slaver and mentor. As the bodies piled up and Reed worked his way down the hit list, Oliver allowed him increased independence and allocated him larger paychecks.
For three years I served the U.S. Government, and I never felt as respected as I do by a total, black-hearted killer.
Reed mashed the call button and held the phone against his ear.
Oliver answered with just the hint of an English accent, abrupt but kind. “Reed. We should talk.”
Reed lowered his head, covering his left ear.
“Oliver. It’s not a great time. Can I call you back?”
“It’s important. I want to talk to . . . about . . . kill . . .”
“I can’t hear you. Oliver . . . you’re breaking up.”
The voice faded and crackled on the other end of the line. Reed squinted at the phone and saw one bar illuminated in the top corner of the screen.
“Oliver, I’m gonna call you back in ten, okay? I can’t hear you.”
As the music stopped and the flashing lights faded, Reed drained his glass, dropped a fifty on the counter, and nodded at the bartender.
“I’ll catch you later.”
He pressed his way into the crowd, glancing toward the corner stage as he heard the manager rambling into the microphone.
“A sensation. A Madonna of our time. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome the incredible Sirena Wilder!”
The manager stepped back and clapped, and the room erupted in a gentle rumble of applause. The lights focused on the stage as the manager melted into the shadows, and just as Reed started to turn back toward the door, he saw her. The club fell silent, and the girl stood in front of the mic.
Reed was frozen in the middle of the crowd, and his breath stuck in his throat. He stared over the bobbing heads as the girl picked up a guitar and settled back on a stool. She brushed long blonde bangs from her view and ran her fingers across the strings. The club was breathlessly silent as the gentle melody of the guitar rippled through the audio system. Her face shone softly in the lights, and she stared at her fingers, strumming gently and rocking back and forth on the stool.
When she smiled at the crowd, Reed’s heart skipped. She had narrow, graceful features, and her high cheekbones highlighted rosy dimples. Her bright smile shone from her crystal-blue eyes, which were deep and soft, as though nothing ugly or sad had ever touched her life. She was tall and curvy, with just a hint of pudge, and she wore a spaghetti-strap top and jeans with torn-out knees. Her feet, encased in yellow converse sneakers, were tucked under the stool. Her hair fell in gentle waves over her bare shoulders, shining in the stage lights, showing just a hint of red amid the blonde.
Pressing back through the crowd, Reed sat down at the bar without taking his eyes off the stage. He rapped on the counter with his knuckles, and the bartender chuckled and slid him another whiskey.
The guitar intensified over the speakers, and the girl swayed and smiled, alight with passion and excitement. Slowly, she leaned forward and whispered into the mic.
“How we doing tonight, guys?”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Her voice was soft but sharp, ringing with confidence, fun,
and hint of a Southern accent. Reed swallowed his whiskey. Sirena leaned back on the stool and finger-picked a few more chords, flooding the small room with a crescendo of melody. She grinned, then leaned forward and abruptly stopped playing. With her lips millimeters from the mic, she began to sing softly.
“He was a vagrant and I a gypsy. I lost my way when he first kissed me.”
Reed’s world stopped spinning. Her voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was soft, strong, and full of depth and charm and mystery. And so much beauty. She picked the guitar again, her voice rising with each chord change. When she broke into the chorus, and after each pass over the strings, she slapped the guitar with the palm of her hand, creating an overwhelming blend of rhythm and melody. She stood up from the stool and leaned toward the mic as she broke into the bridge. The crowd sang with her, swaying back and forth under the dim lights.
The song ended, and the bartender spoke over the applause. “She’s from Decatur. Been playing here for a few weeks and sings at a few bars around town. Getting kind of popular.”
Reed slid his glass back down the counter for a refill, still watching the girl as she began her next song. The crowd talked amongst themselves, ordering drinks, and relaxing to the music. The girl played for another half hour, occasionally swapping the guitar for a keyboard. Her vocal talent ranged from pop to country to eighties rock-and-roll, and every song brought a new round of applause from the half-drunk audience. Still leaning against the bar at the back of the crowd, Reed joined in the show of appreciation.
When Sirena finished her final song, she waived to the audience and blew a kiss, then left through a door backstage. An overwhelming urge to follow came over him, and he dropped another fifty on the counter. He almost started toward the stage, but the thumping club music and flashing strobe lights returned. He blinked in the blaze and shook his head.
I’m drunk, and this is ridiculous. It’s time to go home.
As he pushed through the crowd, he saw her again. She stood at the far end of the bar, leaning on the counter and laughing at a pair of gushing drunks. She offered them each a hug and then signed their cocktail napkins before they grinned and bumbled off. Sirena turned toward the bar, shouting something at the bartender over the blare of the music.
Reed shoved a couple drunks out of the way until he made his way to her. Sirena shuffled through her clutch, peeling out a wad of one dollar bills and a handful of change. The bartender walked toward them with a cream-colored daiquiri and fresh napkin.
Reed sat down on the stool beside her and reached into his pocket.
“May I?”
The girl squinted through the lights at his broad frame. Reed shifted on the stool, leaning down, trying to make himself look less like a killer.
She smiled. “Oh, you’re sweet. But us Southern girls can buy our own drinks.”
He could definitely hear the accent. It must have been masked on stage because it rang clear and clean now. Alabama, for sure. Or maybe Mississippi. The South never sounded so good.
Reed shook his head. “No. I insist. It was a hell of a show.”
He pulled a twenty from his wallet and passed it to the bartender. “Another, please.”
Jen lifted one eyebrow. “A daiquiri?”
“Yeah . . . sure.” Reed leaned on the counter and stared at Sirena as she took a deep sip of the drink then winked at him. The gesture was unexpected, and maybe it was meant to be sly, but it just looked cute.
“Where you from, sailor boy?”
Reed cleared his throat. “I live here.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Born and raised?”
“I grew up out west. And you?”
Sirena took another long sip of the drink. “Mississippi. A little town you wouldn’t have heard of.”
Mississippi. He knew it. Damn, he loved Mississippi. “Rebels fan?”
Sirena grinned. “Hell yeah! Damn right.”
Reed felt the cold touch of glass in his hand and took a sip of the tangy drink. It was sweeter than he expected. “So what brings a Mississippi Rebel to the big city?”
Sirena finished the drink. “Fortune and fame, bitch. What else?”
She set the glass down and pulled a tube of lipstick from her clutch. With practiced ease, she applied it to her lips then rubbed them together. Her every move was intoxicating. Graceful.
Sirena dropped the lipstick back into the clutch, then laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks, Jen. I’ll see you next week.”
Reed’s heart skipped again. “I’ve got the drink. Wanna stay for another?”
Sirena laughed and winked at him. “Oh no, sailor boy. I know how that game is played. This girl buys her own drinks. Thanks anyway. You’re a champ.” She smacked him on the arm and then stepped into the crowd.
He hesitated and then stood up. “Wait. I like you.”
Sirena stopped. Reed froze. What the hell did he just say? His throat was suddenly dry, and he cursed under his breath.
Idiot.
Sirena turned around, and a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. He thought she might jack slap him, but instead she broke into a soft laugh. “Well, okay, then. Straight to the point. You ain’t from around here.”
His muscles relaxed, and he straightened, adopting a persona of confidence. “Isn’t the mystery irresistible?”
She laughed again. “More desperate, I’m afraid. But there’s a hint of charm. So, what then? I’m not drinking anymore.”
Reed hesitated, his mind bogged down by indecision. He cleared his throat and motioned toward the stage. “Um . . . wanna dance?”
This time her laugh sounded genuinely amused. “This ain’t that kind of club. I’ve got a better idea.”
Four
Reed followed Sirena through the tight crowd. She ducked and slipped between the sweaty bodies, occasionally pausing to return a high five or accept a drunken compliment. She moved with the grace and ease of an urban angel, her hips rocking with the beat of the music overhead. Her whole body seemed consumed by the music. Even as she walked, it was still in her step. Every beat. Every riff.
The crisp air outside the club was a refreshing relief to the muggy confines of the cramped interior. Reed drew in a long breath and put his hands in his pockets. The glow of the skyline obscured most of the stars, but a bright smile illuminated Sirena’s stunning features as she stared at the sky.
Again, the breath stuck in his throat. Dear God. Nobody should be that beautiful.
“I love the stars.” Her comment seemed sudden and conclusive, as though she didn’t expect or really want a response.
Reed didn’t break the moment. Instead, he looked back up at the sky and suddenly wished he could extinguish the city lights. Let the heavens take over.
He’d never wished for something like that before.
Sirena started for the parking lot.
“Let’s take a ride.”
Reed shifted on his feet, subconsciously adjusting the Glock 32 where it hung in a shoulder holster beneath his shirt. She beckoned him on.
“Come on, sailor boy. Don’t get cold feet on me now. I wanna show you something.”
Reed pulled his car keys from his pocket and turned toward the Camaro, but Sirena shook her head and walked in the other direction.
“Nope. I don’t get into cars with strange men. We’re taking mine.”
Reed followed her down the line of parked SUVs, sedans, and pickup trucks. It looked like a used car lot.
“What if I don’t get into cars with strange women?”
“Well, you’re in luck. I’m not strange. Crazy, but not strange. Here. Hop in.”
Sirena stepped around the corner of a truck. Reed followed her around the pickup and saw a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked on the other side. It was old. Mid-seventies, at least, with hints of rust around the wheel wells and one missing hubcap. The roof featured a rusted luggage rack, tilted awkwardly toward the driver’s side. Mud
clung to the tires, and the headlights were misted over with age and erosion.
“This?” Reed couldn’t hide his surprise.
“What? You don’t like my wheels?” Sirena unlocked the door and shrugged. “You can walk, I guess.”
Reed hurried to the passenger side and piled in, cramming his six-foot-three frame into the confines of the vintage economy car. Sirena landed beside him with a plop and poked the keys into the ignition. She depressed the clutch and tapped the gas pedal a couple times, then twisted the key. A dull clicking sound emanated from the rear of the car.
Sirena rolled her eyes.
“Shit. Hold on.”
She pushed past him and dug around in the back seat. The sound of paper crumbling was followed by metal clanking on metal. Sirena emerged with a hammer and retreated to the rear of the car. She banged around under the hood, then returned to the driver’s seat and tossed the hammer into the back.
“Sorry. He does that sometimes.”
“He?”
“Oscar. My car. He’s old and crusty. But he loves me, so it’s okay.”
She twisted the key, the motor coughed, and the engine roared to life. The little car vibrated as though it were about to fly apart, but it rolled forward with surprising grace and agility.
“I’m Banks, by the way.”
Reed twisted in the narrow seat and frowned. “I thought your name was Sirena Wilder.”
She laughed. “Hell no. That’s just a stage name. You know . . . to keep the crazies away. Real name is Banks Morccelli.”
Reed wanted to point out that her real name sounded a great deal more contrived than her stage name, but somehow the comment didn’t seem safe or welcome. Besides, something was charming about the unusual name. He kind of liked it.
“Chris,” he said. “Chris Thomas.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Chris.” Banks shifted into third gear and turned the Beetle onto the highway. “I kind of like sailor boy better though. Fits your persona better.”