by Logan Ryles
He thought about Vince, the homeless marine at the gas station, and the money he gave him. This would be twice in one day that he made an erratic decision to step outside of his orchestrated comfort zone. It was dangerous, and it exposed him. It built connections he couldn’t afford to have. Each relationship was a point of weakness in a carefully crafted armor of detached invincibility.
Armor that keeps me alone.
Nine
The sky was dark and cloudless. The parking lot of the Ikea slowly emptied, and Reed waited two hundred yards away in the Camaro, watching every person who left the building. He had arrived three hours before and surveyed the parking lot, surrounding streets, and passing cars, watching every face, every police cruiser, and searching for any red flags in the quiet urban landscape.
Reed was uncomfortable with pulling off a kill so quickly. He didn’t feel prepared. He didn’t know the terrain and moving parts well enough. A week of watching and studying and taking notes would have put his mind at ease.
Chill out, Reed. It’s just another job—an easy one. The last one.
Reed left the Camaro across the street from the rear of the Ikea, parked in an empty lot with no security cameras or nearby structures. He shouldered a canvas bag and walked back into the alleyway behind the store. The shadows under the moon melded with his black pullover and cargo pants, helping him to blend into the alley and fade from view.
He had learned long ago that the key to sneaking around in a public, civilian environment was not to sneak. Find out where the people are, do your best to avoid them. Act casual, and dodge any professional security or surveillance devices. The rest tended to take care of itself.
Reed stuck his arm through the bag’s shoulder strap, then repeated his jump from the dumpster to catch the bottom rung of the ladder. Five seconds later, he slid over the parapet and dropped onto the gravel below. The roof was dark and still hummed with the rhythmic purring of the air conditioners. Even with the chill outside, the interior of the store would quickly become stuffy without the steady ventilation from the A/C units. Reed had counted on that.
He squatted on the roof next to the ladder and listened. The Atlanta skyline glimmered, and his stomach twisted as he remembered the last time he enjoyed that view. It was less than twenty-four hours before, but it felt like days.
Gravel crunched under his boots as he ran toward the edge of the roof. The air was thick and heavy, and his clothes clung to his body, glued by a thin layer of sweat. The moonlight that illuminated the roof outlined a handful of air conditioner units. They purred in the darkness like sleeping cats, providing just enough sound cover to mask the scrape of his knees against the gravel as he knelt at the edge of the roof. He set a small digital anemometer on the parapet, then drew a deep breath of damp Georgia air. It tasted like city smog.
The anemometer swiveled on its mount until it faced the wind, and the little blades whirred to the hum of the air-conditioning units. Reed crawled back to the bag. After unrolling the shooting mat across the roof, his hands moved in a practiced blur as he withdrew the rifle and locked the barrel into the receiver. He knew every part of the weapon better than he knew himself. The polymer magazine was loaded with twenty rounds of .308. The smooth, aluminum trigger guard curled around the stainless steel, three-pound competition trigger. Known as a thousand-yard rifle due to its average effective range, Reed knew the weapon was capable of slightly more. But tonight, it would need to be capable of less than eight hundred yards.
Reed pulled the lens caps off either end of the scope and twisted the power switch. His vision blurred momentarily against the red glow of the crosshairs. He settled down behind the rifle and lifted it into his shoulder, enjoying the familiar touch of the stock against his cheek. For the first time since leaving the car, he allowed himself to relax. With his eyes closed, he focused on relaxing each muscle group—his back, legs, shoulders, and stomach—drawing in deep breaths and remaining perfectly still.
Tension faded from his body with each breath, and a calm settled over his mind like a cloud passing over the sun on a hot day. This was his silent place—the moment when distractions and stressors were excommunicated from his mind and total focus took control. It was a whole-body experience that was more than just embracing the rifle; it was the moment he became part of the weapon.
Reed laid his trigger finger against the frame of the rifle and gazed through the scope. The dull lights of the shopping mall illuminated his view, and he pivoted the gun to the right until the crosshairs glided across the high-rise. He counted fourteen floors up from the ground level, stopped, then twisted the zoom control to the 30x mark.
The windows of Holiday’s corner unit were dark, but through the crystal-clear glass of the powerful optic, Reed could discern the outlines of furniture parked around the living room. Something gleamed beyond the living area—maybe the clock on a microwave or stove.
The fan blades of the anemometer still spun silently, and the LCD read six knots from the southwest. The breeze was barely detectable and would have little impact on a shot at 750 yards, but it was still useful information. The wind might pick up speed or change direction, and a miscalculation could easily lead his bullet off target.
Reed settled back into the stock of the rifle, pressing his cheek against the polymer and resuming his surveillance of the condo. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and hope Holiday showed up.
Hours passed, and the parking lot of the Ikea was desolate, with only a handful of cars still gathered around the front entrance. The wind picked up for a while, then died off completely, leaving the night calm, though Reed wished it would return. A steady breeze could certainly make his shot more difficult, but it provided additional masking for the blast.
Reed lay perfectly still behind the rifle, his left eye shut, and his right eye focused on the condo. Every couple of minutes he completed a sweep of the entire building and the sidewalk around it. Residents walked their dogs. Men watched TV. Women chatted on phones. Kids played video games. A young couple made love in a shadowy bedroom. None suspected that somebody might be watching them, let alone through the scope of a high-powered rifle.
Refocused on Holiday’s condo, Reed checked his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Holiday might be out at dinner or visiting with friends. Reed wanted to catch him right as he returned home, preferably in the living room where he would be most exposed. One shot to the base of the skull. Avoid the mess of trying to tap him in the bedroom, which was less visible.
A light flashed from somewhere inside the condo, and Reed’s muscles tensed. As the kitchen light flooded his optic, somebody crossed his field of view. It was a man, tall and handsome, wearing a light grey jacket and a Brave’s baseball cap.
Without looking away from the scope, Reed retrieved a car alarm transmitter from his bag, flipped a switch, and was answered by a barely audible beep.
Holiday bustled around the kitchen, smiling and talking on his cell phone. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a long sip. The crosshairs rose and fell over the senator with Reed’s every gentle breath. Holiday brought his drink into the living room and flipped on the overhead light. Once Reed’s eyes adjusted, he saw Holiday sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, still on the phone, and taking sips of wine between animated laughs.
Reed pressed his thumb against the bolt-release button mounted on the left side of the receiver. The stainless-steel bolt slid forward over the magazine, stripping off the top round, and slamming it into the chamber. He disengaged the safety and set his left hand on the remote while holding the rifle into his shoulder.
Holiday’s left side was perfectly exposed to the crosshairs. Reed could make out the basic features of his face. The powerful curve of his left shoulder. The wrinkles in his jacket.
Reed lowered the crosshairs until they hovered over the base of Holiday’s skull. He reached up and adjusted the windage and elevation knobs on the scope, ensuring the optic was calibrated correctly for t
he distance.
Holiday set down the phone and grabbed the TV remote. The room flashed as the big flat screen came to life. Reed wrapped his hand around the grip of the rifle, rested his finger against the trigger guard, then reached down and pressed a button on the remote. The device beeped, and four seconds passed. Then the parking lot below erupted with the blaring of a car horn. An SUV’s emergency lights flashed as its horn blasted in a series of constant honks.
Reed pressed his face against the stock of the rifle and laid his finger against the trigger. Counting silently, and matching the beat of the car horn. He would fire on the third blast.
His finger tightened around the trigger, and the crosshairs fell still over Holiday’s neck as Reed drew in a half-breath and held it. His world outside the scope blurred from existence. The horn blared. Once. Twice.
Holiday turned toward the door and smiled. Reed felt the muscles in his chest tense as the senator disappeared around the corner, back toward the front door. Every blare of the car horn matched the increasing intensity of Reed’s heartbeats. He fought to restore calm to his body, removing his finger from the trigger and rolling his head back until his neck popped. As the seconds ticked by, his urge to surrender to the tension grew. Reed wanted to smash the damn car and silence its incessant honking.
When Holiday reappeared in the kitchen, Reed pressed his cheek against the stock and laid his finger back on the trigger. A quick twist of his arm pivoted the crosshairs from the living room back into the kitchen—back over the neck of his target. A second slipped by. He took half a breath. And then he saw her.
The breath froze in Reed’s throat. He twisted the zoom to the 35x mark and stared through the glass. Her shoulder blades filled his view. Then her neck. Blonde waves fell over her shoulders, and long bangs were swept back over her ears, displaying just a shadow of rosy cheeks. Reed’s hands were suddenly damp and swollen. He lifted his finger off the trigger and peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. His lips were dry, and his vision blurred around the woman as she turned toward him.
Banks.
The world stopped spinning, and he sat in transfixed stillness as the crosshairs hovered over her smile. She laughed and accepted a glass of wine from Holiday, and he gave her a side hug and kissed the top of her head. In the living room, they sat across from each other. Her long, elegant legs were crossed, revealing torn jeans and the white laces of her red sneakers.
The corners of his vision blurred. Each breath burned in his chest, burdening an already pounding heart. He pivoted the crosshairs back to Holiday, settled them over the base of his skull, and then touched the trigger.
One shot. Then I’m finished. I can’t help it that she’s here.
One breath. Two. He realigned with every blast of the car horn. The crosshairs twitched over his target, even though Holiday hadn’t moved. His breaths were shorter and more labored as he tightened his finger around the trigger . . . and then stopped. He shoved the rifle away from his shoulder and rolled onto his back, covering his face with both hands. “Shit!”
He lay on the roof. Whoever owned the SUV silenced the emergency alarm, and the parking lot fell quiet again. In the confused stillness that settled over him, nothing felt real. The world and every trained sense that he had honed in on this one shot only moments before were shattered. His focus, practiced calm, cold calculation—all of it was gone. All he could see was her face—the bright blue eyes, enchanting smile, the grace and seduction of her every casual move. Each sensation tore through his mind more violently than his bullet would have ever torn through Holiday. They dominated him and reduced him to a numb and disoriented child.
Reed’s hands shook as he disassembled the rifle, crammed the parts back into the bag, and jogged back to the ladder. The hangover headache from hours before returned as he dropped off the bottom rung, and every pound of his boots on the concrete echoed in his head with intensifying pain as he made his way back to the Camaro.
He dialed Brent.
“Yeah, boss?”
Reed’s voice snapped.
“Cancel the hit.” Reed’s voice snapped in the light breeze.
“Um, what?”
“The Holiday job. Cancel it. I’m out.”
“Reed, whatever happened, just walk it off, okay? We can—”
“I said cancel it, dammit. This isn’t a debate.”
Brent was quiet for a moment. Reed slammed the Camaro’s door shut and fumbled in the passenger seat for a bottle of water, but there was nothing except the empty Coke can from earlier that day.
“Reed, listen to me. As your broker. You’re about to make a huge mistake. This is number thirty, right? You don’t wanna back out on this one. It could send a really bad message.”
Reed slouched against the steering wheel. He just wanted the headache to go away. “Brent, I never intended to continue past thirty. Tell them to get me another target, and I’ll finish the hit list, but I won’t kill Holiday.”
“That’s something you can tell them yourself. I’m not getting in the middle of your contract. It’s nothing personal, but I won’t go down with you.”
Reed felt fire flood his veins. “Are you shitting me?”
“You might be ready to flush your career, but I’m not. These people are serious, Reed. You made a commitment. If you walk out, we can’t work together anymore.”
“Fine. Nice knowing you.” Reed threw the phone into the passenger seat, and slammed his open palm against the dash.
Why him? Why Banks? Just one shot away. Three pounds of pressure applied to a performance trigger—that was all that stood between him and the open highway.
What the hell have I done?
The high-rise wasn’t visible from where he was parked, but he could still see her face. It was forever burned into his memory. He’d never met a woman like Banks, and he didn’t know why he felt this way, but there was no turning back now. Everything was on the line. He had to see her again.
Ten
Leather met leather with a wet thud. Sweat sprayed from the glove, showering the white bag in a blast of hot drops. Reed danced back on his right foot, shifting his weight over the ball of his left, before lunging forward again.
Whoomp, whoomp. Each stroke jarred his shoulder. Wet hair hung in his eyes, further blurring his bloodshot vision. Another combo to the middle of the bag. Then a headlock. Two death kicks with his left shin. Another stroke on the side of the bag, just where the temple would be. Each blow fell faster than the last. The chain that suspended the bag creaked and jerked against the rafters, threatening to give way under the onslaught of enraged strokes. Reed danced back on his toes and drove a right cross, followed by a left hook, straight into the white leather. He breathed through his mouth between each blow. A hiss, and then a thud. Always in that order. So close together, the sounds melded into an indistinguishable roar, like distant thunder masked by torrential rain beating down on a metal roof.
Shhh. Whoomp. Whoomp. Two distance-testing jabs. Shhh. Whoomp. A blow strong enough to crush bone.
Reed stumbled back, allowing his jaw to fall slack as he gasped for air. His naked torso glimmered, and the blood pounding through his veins sent waves of dizziness through his brain, only subjected to reason by larger waves of adrenaline. Power and chaos were always at war with each other for total control of his body.
The light bulb mounted on the cabin wall shone over the back porch. As the bag continued to swing and creek, Reed collapsed against the rail. The night wasn’t warm—not for an October night—but after half an hour of incessant pounding, he would have sweated in a snowstorm.
“Baxter! Beer me.” Reed peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto a nearby table.
The back door hung open. Toenails clicked against hardboard, followed by the scuffling, snorting sound of the bulldog sinking his teeth into the towrope attached to the refrigerator door. Rows of brown beer bottles were conveniently stowed in the lower door pocket, right at eye-level for the grouchy pooch. A few sec
onds passed, then Baxter appeared on the back porch with the neck of a beer bottle clamped between his yellow teeth. He dropped it on the rough-sawn decking of the porch, then snorted and lay down.
Reed took a moment to wipe thick streams of doggy saliva off the bottle before popping off the lid against the rail.
Cold and fizzy. The light beer stung his throat and erupted like explosive sandpaper against his tongue. God, it tastes good.
Reed waved the bottle at Baxter. “That’s a good beer.”
The bulldog raised one eyebrow at him, then snorted again.
“No. We’ve been over this. No beer for you. That’s animal abuse. Do I look like a criminal to you?”
Baxter closed his eyes as though the effort of staring at the quiet trees around the cabin were just too much strain. His bottom teeth jutted out between his lips, gleaming with slobber under the faint light. In spite of his disgruntled appearance, Reed knew he was content. This was Baxter’s favorite time of day.
Reed finished the beer, then flung the bottle at the punching bag. It bounced off and spun into the darkness, crashing into the leaves. Waves of tension rushed through his chest, causing his muscles to tighten.
I was so close. One shot. One trigger pull. It was almost over.
Oliver would call. The kingpin killer would demand answers. There was no excuse for backing out of a hit. It simply wasn’t done. Oliver’s contractors always delivered. It was the hallmark of his company—their core belief. Whatever happens. Whatever it takes. Finish the job.
“I don’t have answers,” Reed spoke between dry lips. The lie tasted stale as soon as it left his tongue. Obvious and cheap. Oh, he had answers. He knew exactly why he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t an answer he could offer Oliver.
Reed could hear him now—the words snapping off his tongue like darts full of venom. “You did what? You backed out over a cheap bitch?”