by Logan Ryles
He punched Holiday’s address and unit number into Google on his phone and was rewarded with a Zillow listing. The condo last sold in 2016 for $428,980. The listing contained details of the unit, including square footage, a floor plan, and pictures from the inside.
One of the pictures featured the giant wall-to-wall window that framed one side of the kitchen/living room/dining room combo. Zooming in on the picturesque view allowed him to focus on the landmarks. In the distance was a flagpole featuring a small blue flag with a yellow cross. Reed studied the flag, rotated the image, then looked up and scanned the horizon. Several hundred yards away, a blue spec flew a few feet beneath a giant American flag, mounted on top of a building.
Ikea.
Reed retraced his line of sight back toward the high-rise and settled on the fourteenth floor.
“Gotcha.”
Seven
It was a short jog to the Ikea. Reed approached the building from the north side and then turned to get a bearing on the high-rise. It stood in clear view, with no obstructing trees or buildings.
He glanced around the perimeter of the Ikea, checking for cameras, security guards, or foot traffic. The parking lot held a smattering of pickup trucks and minivans, but no police, no golf-cart security, and no rent-a-cop on a Segway.
When he made it to the rear of the building, Reed scanned the loading dock for any surveillance. The alley was quiet and littered with stray paper trash and puddles of oily runoff water. Past the loading dock, along the rear of the store, a dumpster overflowed with cardboard boxes. An access ladder for the roof clung to the side of the wall, its lowest rung hanging ten feet off the ground.
Reed hoisted himself onto the dumpster, and as his shoe squished against the damp edge, he slipped and then dug his fingers into the cold steel to keep from falling. He stumbled again as he tried to stand, then fell forward off the dumpster, flailing for anything to break his fall. His hands closed around the man cage that surrounded the ladder, and he winced as the metal bit into his skin. Flakes of rust rained down over his face and into his mouth. As his legs dangled over the concrete and the full strain of his weight descended on his biceps, something in his shoulder popped. No matter how many hours he spent in the gym, he always found a way to pull a muscle and wake up sore. Reed let go with his right hand and grabbed the lowest rung of the ladder, then began to pull himself upward.
Yeah, this is gonna hurt tomorrow.
The roof was covered in pea gravel and humming air-conditioning units, and a few spots were patched with tar. At the northeast corner of the building, Reed dropped to his stomach and crawled the last twenty feet to the edge of the roof.
A two-foot parapet surrounded the building, blocking his view beyond. Reed positioned himself onto his knees, then kept his head low as he approached the brink. The sun beat down on the white painted blocks of the parapet, and Reed shielded his eyes to view the high-rise standing to the east of the duck pond.
From a small case in his cargo pants, he withdrew a Bushnell Elite ARC range finder. The soft rubber of the scope was familiar under his fingers. He held the viewfinder to his eye, feeling just a hint of adrenaline rush into his blood. This was it—the journey leading up to the press of the trigger—the suspense and cold calculation. It wasn’t about the blood, and it certainly wasn’t about the money. It was about being untouchable, detached, and above the world with puppet strings in his hands. Was it a power trip? Maybe. Reed didn’t think about it too hard; he just enjoyed the security of being the one behind the rifle.
The rangefinder provided moderate magnification, offering him a clear view of the high-rise. Reed focused the crosshairs on the fourteenth floor of the building, then depressed the trigger on the side of the scope, activating the laser—a clear shot at 745 yards.
Reed lowered the range finder and studied the high-rise. It wasn’t quite square with his position. He viewed Holiday’s window from a forty-degree angle, which wasn’t ideal; it limited his view of the interior of the condo, and there was a chance Holiday wouldn’t expose himself at all.
On the other hand, the roof of the Ikea offered unique advantages. When the coast was clear, he could enter and vacate at his convenience. There would be almost no chance of anyone else climbing to the roof after dark. Other than a handful of security cameras mounted on the light poles in the parking lot, all of which were pointed down, there was no electronic surveillance of the rooftop. Visually, he would be covered.
Audibly, the Ikea was also advantageous. The humming A/C units would provide moderate aural masking for a suppressed rifle. Contrary to what Hollywood seemed to believe, silencers didn’t reduce the blast of a high-powered rifle cartridge to a puny pop. Even with a state-of-the-art suppression canister, the rifle would still make substantial noise. The A/C units, along with the vehicles in the parking lot, would help mask the gunshot. The sound could be excused as a car backfiring or a runaway cart crashing into a minivan. An oblivious civilian wouldn’t notice.
Last, there really wasn’t another vantage point within range on this side of the high-rise. He could use a van or find a way to disguise his position in a park, but the odds of being caught in such an arrangement were much higher, and the field of view wouldn’t be any better.
Ikea was the spot. He would set himself up a few yards behind the parapet and use a shooting mat and a bipod. A kill shot from an unseen assassin while the senator relaxed in his own home would be theatrical, and Reed would have ample time to haul ass before the police arrived.
He popped his neck and returned the range finder to its case. Before hurrying down the ladder and cat-dropping the final ten feet onto the pavement, he checked the alleyway below for any signs of associates or passing vehicles. There was nobody.
It was a Thursday, and the senator would be home sometime after dark. Reed would return to the roof with his rifle and find a place he could conceal himself on the off chance somebody joined him up there. The glass on the side of the high-rise was reinforced; it wouldn’t stop the bullet, but it wouldn’t shatter, either. With any luck, Reed would be miles away before anyone knew Holiday was dead.
Breakfast was the last meal Reed had eaten, and nausea began to set in. Packaged beef jerky and can of Coke from the gas station was a poor substitute for a meal, but it would have to suffice. Reed fumbled in his pocket for his wallet.
“That’ll be five-sixty.”
He nodded and checked his left pocket. Did he leave it in the car? There was spare cash in his tennis shoe, but he really didn’t want to dig that out in front of the cashier.
“Think I left my wallet in the car. It’ll just be a minute.”
“I got you, brother,” came a voice behind him.
Reed looked over his shoulder. Behind him stood a short man with a tangled beard, holding a ten-dollar bill in his right hand. He wore torn jeans and a faded Falcons hoodie that was at least a size too large.
“Excuse me?”
The man grunted and set a bottle of water and a pouch of peanuts on the counter, then handed the cashier his ten. “Semper Fi. I got this one.”
Reed frowned and shook his head at the cashier, but the half-stoned teenager was already poking the bill into the cash register.
“Semper Fi?”
Reed accepted the Coke and jerky from the man, who then smiled and gestured toward Reed’s right forearm where an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo was drawn in red ink. He pulled the sleeve of his Panthers jacket over the tattoo and grunted.
“Let me go to my car. I’ll get you your money.”
The man snorted and brushed dirty hair out of his face. “Seriously, dude. I got it. Jarheads stick together.”
Reed shrugged and turned toward the door. “Well, thanks. Have a good one.”
As he pushed through the door back into the crisp fall air, he heard the short man shuffling behind him. “Hey, you got a smoke on you? I was gonna buy a pack but I’m a little light on cash.”
Reed sighed and dug in his pocket. He
handed the man a cigarette and then started to walk away again.
“Light?”
Reed stopped half step. He crammed his hand back into his pocket, dug the lighter out, and then waited as the dirty man rolled the smoke between his fingers, dangling the tip over the golden flame.
“You look like an infantryman.” The man said. “Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“I was transport. You know, the shmucks in the trucks. Two tours in Iraq. All that jazz. You?”
Reed waved his hand. “Look, man, I’m in a rush. Just keep the lighter.”
The dirty man nodded. “All right. Catch you la—”
Before he could finish, a snapping sound rang out from his right leg, and he toppled forward with a grunt of pain, catching himself on the edge of a newspaper dispenser before hitting the sidewalk. Reed lunged forward and caught him by the shoulder, then helped him up. The man gritted his teeth as he leaned back against the wall.
“Dammit. You okay?” Reed asked.
He grunted, then took a drag of the cigarette. “Yeah. Just my leg. It’s prosthetic from the knee down. The joint keeps breaking. I’ll take care of it.”
The dirty and torn shoe was twisted on the end of the man’s right leg, and it looked ready to fall apart. Through the torn canvas, Reed saw a glint of the rusting metal prosthetic, and ripped jeans exposed more of the damaged mechanical appendage.
Reed cursed under his breath. “What happened there?”
“What you think happened? IED in Baghdad.”
“You didn’t get disability?”
He snorted. “You kidding me? I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing for people who weren’t supposed to be giving orders. The VA considered it ‘reckless endangerment.’ I get three hundred bucks a month.”
Reed clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first such story he’d heard. Not all the refugees from the Middle East were Middle Eastern.
“Wait here.” Reed hurried around the corner and ducked behind a dumpster. He pried his shoe off, lifted the insole, and withdrew five hundred-dollar bills folded neatly together in a flattened wad.
Back around the building, he handed the cash to the slouching vet.
“Here. Go find yourself a shower and some fresh clothes. And for God’s sake, get a haircut. You’re way out of regs, my friend.”
For a minute, the vet glowered at the money then slowly reached out his right hand. Reed accepted the firm and confident handshake, simultaneously slipping him the cash.
“Sergeant Vincent Russel,” he said. “My friends just call me Vince.”
“Corporal Reed Montgomery . . . Force Recon.”
Vince raised an eyebrow. “Force Recon? No shit. Reckon your retirement is a helluva lot better than mine.”
“Not when you retire in handcuffs.”
Vince crammed the bills into his pocket. “Well then. I guess that’s two things we have in common.”
“Two things?” Reed asked, cocking his head.
Vince jutted his chin toward Reed’s long brown hair. “Yeah. You’re also out of regs.”
“Regs are overrated, aren’t they?” Reed grinned. “Roll easy, Sergeant.”
Eight
Winter’s report waited in Reed’s inbox when he returned the cabin. The single email was labeled with nothing but a capital “W” in the subject line, and in spite of his resolve to leave Banks behind, fresh anticipation and a million questions flooded his mind. Had Winter found her? Who was she? Was anything she told him true? Perhaps the most important question wasn’t about Banks . . . maybe it was about him. Why did he need to know so much? Why did he feel so obsessed over the blonde singer with the ukulele? It was petty . . . childish . . . irresistible.
The first page was blank. The next contained half a dozen color photographs, and he recognized the girl in the pictures. Blonde. Long, swept-back bangs. Bright blue eyes. That intoxicating smile. Banks stood next to an older woman in one photo, and they favored one another. Perhaps it was her mother. Another picture showed her cuddling an orange cat on a couch. She smiled while the cat slept.
Reed’s fingers felt numb over the mouse pad. Banks was even more beautiful than he remembered, and even more intoxicating curled up on the couch without makeup.
Reed blinked and reached for the whiskey. He took a deep swallow and scrolled to the next page. Her full name was Banks April Morccelli. Born January 14, 1992, so she was a couple years his junior and older than she looked. He was relieved that she wasn’t nineteen.
Her home address was an apartment in Decatur where she lived alone. A 1972 Super Beetle was registered in her name. Three unpaid parking tickets. Her phone number and email address were both listed, but under the social media tab, Winter had typed “No accounts found.”
She’s a performer. Why would a performer not have social media accounts?
As he scrolled down a little farther, he learned Banks was employed at a coffee shop in Buckhead. She graduated high school from a public school in rural Mississippi and dropped out of college at Ole Miss. Her passport expired four years ago, and before Decatur, her last known residence was another apartment in Memphis, where she lived for three months.
The next page was labeled “Financials.” Reed scanned the tiny notations. She held a checking account with a regional bank, and it was overdrawn two hundred and forty dollars. She had over four thousand dollars of unpaid medical bills in collections, her power bill was past due, and she hadn’t filed taxes in two years.
Beneath the financial tab were specifics on her medical record, including two hospitalizations in the previous twelve months. Prescriptions were written for various heavy-duty antibiotics. She had Lyme disease and no medical insurance.
Winter’s reconnaissance was, as always, highly detailed. Reed wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he requested the file, but he wasn’t expecting the graphically clear picture that was painted before him: A girl on her own, barely scraping by, and struggling with significant medical conditions. No apparent friends or family to lean on, and no career or place to call home.
He hadn’t seen any of that in her the night before. He would have never guessed her to be broke and alone, let alone chronically sick. She seemed so happy and colorful, as though nothing in the world could dim her glow. That made her all the more irresistible.
Walk away, Reed. Nothing in this file changes reality. This isn’t the time or the woman.
Reed pushed away the commanding voice in his head and unlocked his phone. The phone rang once before a friendly female voice answered.
“Lasquo Financial.”
“The summer is hot, but at least it won’t rain.”
“There could be earthquakes,” she answered without hesitation.
“Sure, but I have insurance.”
“Thank you, sir. How may I direct your call?”
“Get me Thomas Lancaster, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Reed Montgomery. Account ID 4871994.”
“One moment please.”
A familiar voice with just a hint of a Cajun warble answered the line.
“Good afternoon, Reed. How are you today?”
Thomas Lancaster was the senior banker for Lasquo Financial, an independent corporation that housed a network of banking services to support the needs of the criminal underworld. Headquartered in New Orleans, the company was as ghostly as the people it served. While the money itself was stored in an assortment of Swiss, Grand Cayman, and third-world banks, Lasquo provided the daily conveniences that enabled contract criminals to exchange payments, invest in the stock market, and hide their illegal wealth. It was an orchestrated masterpiece designed to circumvent federal oversight by framing itself as a financial concierge service for elite businessmen. Reed wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, and he didn’t really care.
“Hello, Thomas. Another day in paradise. Could you pull my balance, please?”
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“Sure. Liquid assets?”
“Just the checking is fine.”
Reed heard the click of a computer keyboard.
“You have one million, two hundred twenty-two thousand, four hundred eight dollars, and forty-two cents available.”
“Outstanding. I guess a payment came in?”
“One hundred eighty-two thousand last night. From your last contract.”
“Perfect. I’d like to make a wire please.”
“Of course. To which bank?”
“Uhm…it’s some regional institution. Let me find it.”
Reed read off the name of the bank while Thomas continued to tap on his keyboard.
“The beneficiary?”
“Banks Morccelli.”
“How much would you like to send?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“I’ll have that out within the hour.”
“Great. And Thomas, I’d like it to be anonymous. Is that possible?”
Thomas grunted. “Is the beneficiary not expecting the deposit?”
“No. And I don’t want them to question it.”
“Hmm . . . well, it’s no trouble to make it untraceable. But I suspect that your average person who saw an unexpected deposit would assume it’s an error and call the bank. I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
Reed heard the banker mumble something about wire fees, but he wasn’t listening. He hung up and stared at Banks’s picture. She was everything he remembered. All the grace and charm and charisma glowed just as brightly in the photo as it had under the nightclub lights. Was it wrong to pry into somebody’s life? The question hit him like a bucket of ice water over his face. He’d never asked a question like that before, and why should he? Whenever he read a file like this, he was usually about to kill somebody. Digging through a sock drawer with noble intentions was virgin territory, let alone handing out money. Sure, he doled out his share of monthly guilt payments to an assortment of charities, but he never gave money to a specific person. It made him too accessible. Too vulnerable.