by Logan Ryles
“My persona?”
“Yeah, you know. Leaning up on the bar with all that swagger and condescension, judging the whole universe while you sip on a Jack and Coke and hit on the bartender. Sailor boy.”
He shot her a sideways look, wondering if she had randomly guessed his drink of choice or had observed him consuming it. Maybe Jen mentioned it.
“I’m not judging anyone,” he said. A tinge of defensiveness rang in his voice, and he winced. He should have let it go.
Banks laughed. “Relax, dude. You’re too serious. Roll your window down. It’s stuffy in here. Oscar doesn’t have A/C.”
He turned the crank on the door panel and lowered the tiny window. Banks followed suit, and the crisp fall air whistled through the little car. It felt amazing on his neck and bare forearms. Through the window, he watched the busy streets of south Atlanta pass by in a blur. Banks drove with aggression and very little grace, grinding each gear and swerving in and out of traffic. The small car would occasionally groan, and Banks would reach forward and pat the dash, poking her bottom lip out and talking to the vehicle directly.
A repressed gut instinct warned Reed that the behavior should alarm him, but he couldn’t help finding it endearing. Banks seemed utterly lost in her little world—her windblown hair snapping back behind her ears as she careened around each turn. They pulled up next to a low-slung Monte Carlo at a red light, and the heavy beat of a rap track echoed across the intersection. Reed was surprised to see Banks turn toward the car and offer a “hang loose” gesture at its occupants before she broke out into an enthusiastic attempt at rapping along with the song.
It was terrible. Stifling a smile, Reed looked ahead as the Beetle groaned and bounced forward again, clearing another hill and winding into a residential section of the city.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Banks shook her head. “Don’t ask questions. Just enjoy the ride.”
It was difficult to enjoy the ride when his head was continually slamming into the roof of the small car, but there was something enchanting about her careless flamboyance. He wondered how old she was. When he saw her on stage, he assumed she was in her early or mid-twenties, but now he wondered if she might still be a teenager.
Oscar bounced around another corner then slid to a stop in a small parking lot. A MARTA sign stood between the road and a set of train tracks. It read Oakland City Station.
Banks jerked the parking brake, then hopped out of the car. “Come on, sailor boy!”
Reed pried himself out of the cabin and waited as Banks dug through the front trunk of the car. She emerged a few seconds later with a small case on backpack straps. She slung it over her shoulder, and they jogged across the street to the station. Reed bought a MARTA card while Banks leaned against the wall, humming and gazing up at the stars.
The train arrived a few minutes later, and Banks hopped on board. Reed hurried to follow, sliding in as the doors smacked shut behind him. The computerized voice of the prerecorded MARTA announcer rang through the car.
“This train is bound for the Doraville Station.”
The train started forward with a rush, and Reed began to sit down, but Banks grinned and shook her head.
“No. Here, stand in the middle. Now press your feet together. All the way. Yeah, like that. Now bend with the train.”
As the momentum of the car climbed, Reed struggled to keep his balance. Banks giggled and swayed with the building g-force, her sneakers remaining planted on the dirty grey floor.
“Come on, Chris. Find your sea legs!”
Reed couldn’t resist a laugh. He stumbled backward and grabbed at the overhead rail. The trained stopped at the next station, and Banks urged him to try again. Once more the car launched forward, and once more Reed stood in the middle of the floor with his feet planted together. As the momentum built, he leaned back and focused on maintaining his balance. Lights flashed past the windows, and the wheels clicked on the track underneath. Reed slipped and landed on his ass in the middle of the car.
Banks laughed and leaned against the wall.
“Damn, son. You’ve got the balance of a rolling stone.”
Reed shrugged and grinned. His face was hot, and he grabbed the overhead rail. Why did his legs feel so stiff and awkward? He watched Banks as she slouched into a seat and pulled out her phone. Stations flashed past as her fingers clicked on the screen. The light from the phone reflected in her eyes, making her whole face glow. Kicked back in the dingy mass-transit seat, she looked as content with life as anyone he had ever met.
How can somebody be so content? So at peace with life?
The announcer rang overhead. “The next station is Lindbergh Center.”
Banks jumped up and shoved the phone into her pocket. The train screeched to a halt. As the door slid open, her soft fingers slipped between his. He hesitated and looked down. Her fingers were so delicate, intertwined between his, but her grip was stronger than he anticipated.
She pulled his arm, laughing again. “Come on. This is it!”
They ducked through the door and onto the platform. Banks’s laugh sounded like the delighted giggle of a child. Free. Alive. Completely at home with herself.
Reed stumbled to catch up, and she led him across the street toward a five-story parking deck. He hesitated. A distant voice in the back of his head nagged him not to wander into a dark parking garage with a stranger. What could Banks possibly want to show him? Was this a setup? Had he misread everything about the pretty blonde?
He gritted his teeth and silenced the voice. He hated feeling cynical and seeing the devil around every corner. This moment was perfect, and he wouldn’t ruin that with his practiced paranoia.
Banks pulled him into the garage. “Come on. Trust me.”
She slipped past the ticket booth at the entrance of the first level and walked to the elevator. Punching the top floor button, she slumped against the wall and winked at him again.
“I don’t get it,” Reed said with a chuckle.
“Wait for it.”
The elevator stopped at the top floor, and the doors rolled open. Reed stepped out onto the broad, open-air level, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Banks bounced past him and walked to the far side of the garage. He followed her, drinking in deep breaths of the cold air as he watched her hips sway with each step. Even though the only sound in the sharp night air was the squeak of the departing train, Banks still walked as though she was in the middle of a thundering concert.
“Here. Look.”
Banks stopped at the chest-high wall of the garage.
Spread out before them, the Atlanta skyline shone beneath the clear black horizon. Each building stood in independent majesty, towering over the sleepy city, glowing champions of the night. The twin peaks of 191 Peachtree Tower glowed in amber glory from the powerful beacon lights nestled at its top. A few blocks away, the cylindrical glass mass of the Westin Peachtree Plaza rose eight hundred feet above street level, glimmering in the light of the other towers as guests slept quietly within its darkened rooms.
The soft glow of the skyline calmed Reed’s nerves. He slid his hands into his pockets and wondered why he’d never taken time to enjoy the view before. It was both majestic and tranquil.
Banks grabbed his shoulder and threw her leg over the wall.
Reed stumbled back and grabbed her arm.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Relax, doofus.” She laughed and smacked his arm. “If I were gonna jump, it wouldn’t be off a five-story parking garage.”
Banks pried his hand free and slung her leg over the wall, plopping down with her feet swinging in midair over the quiet street sixty feet below. She slapped the concrete beside her.
“Come on, sailor boy. Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, Reed slung his legs over the wall and sat down beside her. With a grin on her face, Banks unzipped her case and pulled out a ukulele strung with four plastic strings. It was just big enough to look co
mical.
She nestled the little instrument over her legs and gently strummed. The melodic sound was both louder and sweeter than Reed anticipated. He closed his eyes as she began to play a little faster.
“City lights, city skies. The only love I know, the only place I call home. Wherever I go, these lights hold my heart. They shine in my dark. They love me so.”
The world fell still around him, and he watched her. Each twist of her small hand. Her wide, beautiful smile as she sang each line. It was as though he had vanished, and she was lost. Alone in a world that only she knew.
Strumming slowly, she gazed out at the skyline and sang just loud enough to carry a tune over the ring of the instrument. She repeated the song twice, singing softer each time.
Finally, the ukulele fell silent. Banks hugged it against her body and leaned forward, still gazing at the city. For a full five minutes, she just sat, staring at the lights and the gleaming towers. Huddled beside her on the edge of the wall, Reed still watched her. Her shoulders, bare under the night breeze, rose and fell with each slow breath. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, but she didn’t shiver.
How can she be so comfortable with herself and so free in the moment? What does that feel like?
Baxter and a dirty, lonely cabin were the closest things he could call “home,” but he never minded that. It had always been temporary. Life was always about the next job—the next bloody checkmark on the hit list.
Get to thirty. Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught.
They were such dry, empty ambitions. Did Banks have ambitions? Did she dream at night of being free? Of not having a gun over her head? No. She already embodied freedom, as though nothing and nobody could ever tell her she wasn’t alive and as free as the wind.
Is it that simple? Is there no deeper reality behind those blue eyes?
Banks looked toward him as though she knew his thoughts, then pulled him in and kissed him on the lips. Softly. Slowly. Reed’s heart skipped and then rushed to life. His fingers trembled as he leaned into her. Her soft lips tasted of daiquiri.
God, she can kiss.
Banks drew back and slid her hand down his thick, powerful arm.
“Thank you, sailor boy.”
Stunned, he looked into her deep, beautiful blue eyes and caught his breath.
“For what?”
She poked him in the arm. “For shutting up and enjoying the view.”
Five
The cell phone’s loud buzz woke Reed, and he shoved the blankets off his legs. A hint of sunlight glowed through the east-facing window of the cabin, but the living room was still dark. Quiet. Except for Baxter’s snoring, of course. The big bulldog slept on his back in front of the stone fireplace, his legs sticking straight up in the air, and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Reed rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked down at the phone. O.E. Shit.
He hit the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Prosecutor.”
“Reed. You never called.”
Oliver’s voice snapped just a little, like a distant thunderclap, a mixture of annoyance and indifference. Reed’s stomach twisted, and a hot lump welled up in his throat. There was no avoiding it now. “I’m sorry. I was occupied.”
Reed stumbled to his feet and climbed down the steps, accidentally tripping over Baxter on his way to the coffee machine. The big dog snorted and rolled to his feet, bursting into a chorus of barks and charging straight for the sliding glass door. He slammed face-first into the clean glass and stepped back, snorting and swaying on his stubby legs before he fell over sideways and commenced to snoring again.
Reed decided to let Oliver initiate the inevitable. “What did you need?”
“Are you drunk?” Oliver’s tone softened a little, almost as if he gave a crap.
“No. Just a little hungover. I was out relaxing last night.”
“You show your face too much, kid. It’s gonna bite you in the ass one of these days.”
Oliver was always saying things like that. Coming from a man whom Reed had only met in person twice over the last two years, Reed wasn’t too concerned with the judgment. He knew how to look after himself.
“Everybody needs a little fresh air, Oliver. You could use some yourself.”
“I guess you deserved a drink. That was a hell of a job up in Jersey, and the client was very satisfied. It should unlock quite a bit of future business for us.”
Reed wasn’t sure what to say to that; it was always strange discussing death in terms of sales and customers, as though Oliver were running a lemonade stand and struggling to discover the perfect balance of sweet and sour.
“Thank you.” It was the only thing Reed could think to say.
“I understand you accepted a new job. The Atlanta hit.”
“That’s right. Just waiting on Brent to get me the file.”
“Excellent. This is a big one, isn’t it? Thirty?”
Here we go.
“That’s right. This is thirty.”
“That’s incredible, Reed. I knew you’d do well, but I have to say you’ve impressed me. You’re a hell of a killer.”
Reed leaned against the counter and picked up a bottle of whiskey. He took a long sip straight from the bottle and gazed out the front windows of the cabin. The sun rose over the Georgia pines, lighting up the surface of the forty-acre lake lying between the foothills. A glowing mist clung to the surface of the water as the sun began to burn it away.
Banks. He could still feel her kiss on his lips and smell her soft, intoxicating perfume. He could hear her voice and the melody of the ukulele. She left right after kissing him. She had flipped her legs back over the wall, poked him in the ribs, and winked. She’d said, “I like you, sailor boy,” and without a backward glance, she slung the ukulele over her shoulder and disappeared into the elevator. Reed wanted to follow her. He wanted to chase her down, beg her to stay, and spend the whole night with her. Somehow, he knew not to try.
“I think you should take a vacation.”
Oliver’s sudden comment jarred him out of the daydream, and Reed rubbed his eyes. “I’m glad you say that, Oliver. Actually—”
“You should check out the Caribbean. It’s hot down there. Girls half-naked all the time. Get some drinks, bathe in the sun. Rent a sailboat. It’s important to recharge. Keep your balance. You’ll roll back in here twice the killer you left as.”
This is it. I can’t put it off any longer.
Reed set the bottle on the counter. “Oliver, I’m retiring. After this hit, I’m done. I fulfilled my end of the deal…I’m gonna walk.”
The line fell silent. A hot lump swelled in Reed’s throat, and he shoved a cup under the spout of the coffee machine, watching while it filled. He dumped a healthy shot of whiskey into the mug, then stepped over Baxter and slid the door open.
When Oliver finally spoke, his tone was subdued and soft. He almost sounded old and tired. “I’m disappointed, Reed.”
The wicker rocking chair next to the door had seen better days. Reed eased into it and propped his feet on the porch rail, relishing the wave of relaxation that settled over his body. The coffee was scalding hot, but it felt good on his throat. For weeks he had dreaded this conversation, but now that they were having it, it didn’t seem so scary.
“I’ve worked hard, Oliver. I’m very grateful for what you’ve done for me, but a deal is a deal. I’m holding up my end; thirty kills, and I get to walk.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong. Your contract was never meant to be terminal. Of course, you’re free after Holiday, but you’ve got a good thing going here. Your salary doubles now, and there are opportunities for advancement. You could run this company. You’re that good. Don’t walk away when you’re just warming up.”
Reed sipped the coffee and stared at the lake. He leaned forward and set the cup on the wicker table beside him. “Oliver, it’s not something I’m willing to discuss. You saved my life. Gave me a second chance. I’
ll never forget that, but I’m finished after this job. I just want to rest and open up a garage someplace. Work on cars. I’ve had all the bloodshed I want.”
Oliver spoke in a dull monotone. “Are you sure about that, Reed?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
His boss sighed. “You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that. I’m gonna be damn sad to see you go.”
A tinge of remorse loosened the knot in Reed’s stomach. “I’m very grateful for everything, Oliver. You’ve been good to me. It’s just my time.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Oliver’s voice snapped back to his old, confident, commanding tone. “All right, then. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll get your release file.”
Reed tapped the end-call button and finished the coffee. Baxter snorted from the other side of the open door, then stumbled out onto the porch for his usual scratch between the ears. He groaned and leaned against the wicker legs of the chair. Reed wondered if Oliver was anything like the old bulldog—tired, grouchy, and losing his edge.
He looked back over the lake and slumped into the chair. The faces of the twenty-nine people he had killed skipped across his memory, beginning with Paul Choc—the Latino man he killed while in prison. That kill sparked a series of events that led him here, twenty-eight kills later. That kill earned him an audience with Oliver Enfield, the kingpin assassin who offered to take Reed off death row, spring him out of prison, and give him a second chance at life. All Reed had to do was kill thirty people.
Reed closed his eyes, and for the millionth time in his life he wondered where it all went wrong. Life was full of choices, and often there were more than two options. It wasn’t all black and white—there were so many shades of grey, tinges of red. Did he go wrong when he joined the gangs of South Los Angeles as a teenager? Was that the first misstep? Or was it when he joined the Marines and trained to become an expert killer? No, it wasn’t wrong to be a Marine, and being a Marine pulled him out of the ugly streets of South L.A.
So what, then? He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, letting his mind drift back to years before—years before death row, and prison, and all the brutal realities of being a professional assassin—all the way back to that fateful night in Iraq. His hands trembled as he remembered the way the rifle felt in his hand. The soft kick of the weapon as each bullet left the chamber. The way the men crumbled at the end of his gun, bleeding out in the sand.