The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  Reed stood up and placed his palms over the railing.

  Does she love him? The thought snapped through his mind with all the explosive energy of an atom bomb. So clear, and so obvious. Does Banks love Holiday? Are they together? Does she smile and laugh with him the way she smiled and laughed on top of that parking garage?

  Each thought stung a little harder than the last. Reed slammed his closed fist into the railing, then drove his toe into the rough planks. Pain shot up his foot as blood dripped from a busted toenail.

  What’s wrong with me? Why do I care? Why didn’t I just pull the damn trigger?

  Once again, he saw her dancing across the kitchen, holding the wine glass between her delicate fingers. He saw the way her socks twisted when she spun over the expensive tile, and the flash in her eyes when she hugged Holiday. Was that love? Was that love in her eyes?

  Reed shouted and drove another punch into the rail, then glared at Baxter. The dog lifted his head and stared up at Reed with concern and uncertainty.

  “Three years. Three years I’ve been working this job. One trigger pull away, and I back off over some damn girl? No, don’t worry. I’ll get it done. There’s over twenty hours left. It’s just the jitters . . . we’ve seen this before.”

  Reed paced the porch, running his fingers through his tangled hair. Each footfall echoed in his tired brain like the roll of a drum, regulating his breathing and helping him to focus. He couldn’t return to the Ikea. There was too much risk in appearing there for a third time. He needed a new strategy—another place to strike Holiday. There was still time to formulate a secondary plan, but first, he would need to rest.

  Oliver wouldn’t call as long as there was still time on the kill clock. Those precious hours could be leveraged to clean this mess up, complete the job, collect the paycheck, and pack up shop—just like he planned. He’d drive far, far away from bloody Atlanta and all the bad memories it contained.

  Banks’s beautiful face crossed his mind and derailed his train of thought, sending it careening down a new path in the time it took him to blink. Her laugh, so bright and happy, was enough to light the darkest corner of Hell.

  She feels like home.

  The thought shattered the cloud of confusion around his mind as though it were made of ice. She feels like home. He thought again about the house at the foot of the mountains. The rocking chair on the front porch. Banks scratching Baxter behind the ears.

  Home is the one thing I’ve never had. The only thing I want when this whole shit show is finally over.

  Reed jerked the phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  “Winter.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her relationship with Holiday?” Reed shot off the question before Winter had a chance to draw a breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Senator. Holiday.” Reed smacked his palm against the railing. “You didn’t tell me they were involved.”

  The line was silent. Reed didn’t know if he had caught Winter off guard, or if Winter was simply giving him time to stop shouting.

  “First of all,”—Winter spoke in a measured monotone—“they aren’t involved. He’s her godfather. And second, this information was notated on page six of the report. Perhaps you didn’t read the entire file.”

  Reed’s mind spun, and he blinked through tired eyes. “Godfather? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Winter paused again. Now Reed was almost sure the delay was meant to rebuke him.

  “Senator Holiday was close friends with Miss Morccelli’s father. They were frat brothers at Vanderbilt. The details are in the file.”

  Reed lowered the phone and stared into the trees, reviewing the memories one at a time. The way Holiday smiled when she entered the room, how he hugged her from the side and kissed her on the head. His casual demeanor as he handed her the wine.

  No. They weren’t together, but they were clearly close—in a father-daughter way. Or, in this case, a godfather way. She knew him well, was familiar with him, and was possibly even close to him. Holiday was a safe place for Banks—a kind, loyal friend.

  And I was going to kill him.

  Reed jammed the phone against his ear. “Who ordered the hit?” Once again, silence hung on the line, but this time Reed wasn’t having it.

  “I know you know. Who ordered the damn hit?”

  “This is thirty, isn’t it?”

  The sudden question sent an icy chill down Reed’s spine. He pressed the phone against his cheek and wrapped his fingers around the railing.

  “What?”

  “This is your thirtieth kill. They call it the freedom bell.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I’ve contracted with Oliver Enfield’s company for a long time, Reed. I’ve seen a lot of good contractors come . . . and go.”

  Tension shot down his arms as he dug his fingers into the wood. “What does that mean?”

  Winter didn’t answer. The silence was so thick, Reed felt as though Winter was sitting beside him.

  “Who ordered the hit?” he shouted into the phone.

  When Winter replied, the monotone was gone and replaced with a hint of menace.

  “Watch your back, Reed. Freedom has a nasty bite.”

  The line clicked off. Reed’s hands shook as he pried the phone away from his ear and stared at the blank screen. Winter had never broken character before and never expressed interest in him as a killer.

  Winter had never expressed a warning.

  The breach in behavior sent a sting ripping down Reed’s back—an army of fire ants digging into his skin.

  Why the warning? Who ordered the hit?

  Reed snapped his fingers at Baxter and walked back into the house. Everything about this contract felt different and wrong. A voice in the back of his head whispered at him between the blasts of noise and chaos, and he couldn’t discern the words, but he heard the voice, muffled and confused.

  Mitchell Holiday might well deserve to die, but Reed wasn’t taking the shot until he knew why. Nobody forced him into a corner, and nobody could make him take away this woman’s godfather without knowing why. It was time to jerk back the curtain and find some answers.

  He would start with Banks.

  Eleven

  Glistening globes of dew still clung to each blade of browned grass, even as the sun arced toward its noon-time high, bathing Decatur in welcome warmth. The cough-rumble of the Camaro felt as blasphemous to the peace of the morning as a raunchy laugh in a graveyard, and Reed switched the car off and sat in silence as he surveyed the duplex, tired and old with peeling paint. Bits of sunbaked shingles lay in the flowerbed at random. Plastic jack-o’-lanterns guarded the entrance, their crooked smiles leering at Reed as if they knew why he had come, but they just didn’t give a damn. A stray tabby cat bounced across the porch and around the house, chasing a butterfly between the bushes. But there were no people, no laughing children or bustling adults. The neighborhood, which consisted entirely of battered duplexes and brick apartment homes, was as cold and unfriendly as a warzone—decay and despair, and too little of everything.

  A couple of teenagers wandered out of a side street, bouncing a basketball and talking in subdued mumbles. Reed waited for them to pass within easy earshot of the car, then he whistled. “Hey. You guys know a blonde girl who lives here?”

  They stopped and stared at him as though he were an invader, armed to the teeth and ready to burn down what was left of their battered homes.

  So then, Banks wasn’t home. A twinge of defeat bubbled in his stomach, or was it just disappointment? Maybe he should go back to Atlanta and check in at the nightclub. But it didn’t open until late afternoon, and anyway, if Banks left home to run errands, she would most likely do that locally. One of the numerous shopping centers or farmers markets in the area were likely destinations for a morning shopping trip.

  It was a good bet. He spotted the yellow Volkswagen fifteen minutes later, parked in front of her bank. He
left the Camaro a hundred yards away in an adjoining supermarket lot and jogged toward the squat brick building. He wasn’t sure what his plan was. Maybe he would pretend he was at the bank on personal business. Make it out to be a coincidence. Then ask her out to lunch and talk to her. Find out about Holiday. Figure out what the hell was going on.

  His thoughts trailed off as he passed the Beetle. He stopped and stared at the rusty antique, remembering the rumble of the underpowered engine—the squeak of the suspension at every turn. The way Banks drove with reckless abandon—as though she were the only person on the road—the perpetual smile on her face, and the way the wind tossed her hair.

  The front door of the bank slammed shut as a customer walked out. Reed swallowed, looked back at the Beetle, then walked toward the door.

  The bank was cold and sterile, and gaudy marketing covered the walls. Glass offices lined the perimeter of a crowded waiting area. A line of a dozen impatient customers stood in front of the counter, and the tellers looked distant and detached, as though they were present in body only. It was such a stark contrast to the five-star banking experience Reed was accustomed to through Lasquo Financial. The building was more like a title loan office than a bank.

  “I don’t know where it came from. It’s not my money. That’s the problem!”

  Reed immediately recognized the thick Southern accent laden with emotion and frustration. Banks, with her back turned toward him, sat in one of the glass offices to his right. An overweight man with a thinning hairline and cheap glasses sat behind the desk, a look of exhaustion covering his chalky features.

  “Ma’am, I realize you’re upset. If you calm down, I’m sure we can figure this out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out. There’s twenty-five thousand dollars in my account that doesn’t belong to me. Take it out, please.”

  “Um, well, it’s not that simple.”

  Banks rubbed her temples. “Why not?”

  “Well, first of all, that would leave you overdrawn. You were overdrawn when the wire posted to your account.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ll pay the overdraft this weekend. It’s been a rough week, okay? In the meantime, take the money out of my account. You guys should be more careful where you stick money.”

  The banker looked ready to shoot himself. “Ma’am, I already told you. We don’t ‘stick money’ in people’s accounts. The wire was made payable directly to you, with your account number notated. We credited it to your account accordingly.”

  “Well, I don’t want it!” Banks smacked the desk with her palm.

  The banker sat forward, rubbing his eyes with a shaky right hand.

  “Miss Morccelli, it’s unfathomable to me that a person in your position would be so opposed—”

  “My position? And just what is my position, exactly?” There was a tinge of indignation in her voice.

  The banker backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying—”

  “That I’m a broke-ass overdrafter? That’s it. Close my account. I’m not dealing with this. I don’t need anybody’s help!”

  Reed stood still by the door, transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of him. He wasn’t sure how he expected Banks to respond when twenty-five grand appeared in her account out of nowhere. Stupidly, he assumed she would be grateful and apply the windfall toward her medical debt. He now realized how arrogant and belittling that assumption had been, but he was still taken aback by her vehement refusal to accept or even entertain a handout. It was fiercely independent. Aggressively proud.

  Ridiculously attractive.

  An annoyed voice grabbed his attention.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A short woman wearing a crooked name badge leered at him. She looked utterly done with life.

  Reed realized he was standing in the middle of the lobby with his hands in his pockets. “No. I’m good,” he said as he rushed through the front doors.

  He was a fool for assuming Banks would simply take the money. More than that, he was an asshole for tracking her down. She was independent and didn’t want to be babied, which explained why she was the goddaughter of a millionaire and still drove a rattle-trap of a car and was in debt up to her ears. She didn’t want the help. She had it covered. More than that, she didn’t have time to fix his problems. Holiday was his problem, and roping Banks into the middle of this mess wouldn’t be fair to her. He would have to find the answers he needed without exposing her to whatever menace ordered the hit.

  Before he could start the engine of the Camaro, his phone vibrated in his pocket. The dark screen read “UNKNOWN.”

  Reed hesitated, then hit the answer button and said nothing while he waited for the caller to speak first.

  “You screwed up, Montgomery.” The voice was computerized, like that of an automated answering machine.

  “Who is this?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t like being let down, Reed. Somebody who feels very let down by your failure to kill Senator Holiday.”

  A rush of warmth flooded Reed’s cheeks and his heart rate accelerated. The sounds and distractions of the supermarket parking lot vanished around him.

  “Look, smartass. I never fail, and I don’t deal with anyone over the phone. You got a problem, call my broker.”

  “Your broker? I’m afraid your broker is quite indisposed at the moment.”

  “What? What the hell—”

  His words were drowned out by a bloodcurdling scream. The agonized voice of terror and pain flooded the phone, echoing as though it came from an amphitheater. Reed jerked the phone away from his ear as he caught his breath. The screams continued, ripping through the phone as though they were voiced straight from Hell. Pleas for mercy were mixed with dull groans and shrill shrieks, all fused into one horrific chorus.

  The air inside the Camaro was suddenly thick and sticky, as though Reed were breathing through a straw. He held the phone against his knee, muting the hellish voice of death. Moments felt like hours, until at last the screams faded, and the computerized tone took over.

  “I sent you pictures. You have twelve hours to finish the job. Don’t test me.”

  Reed swallowed back the dryness in his mouth and punched the steering wheel. Before he could respond, the caller hung up, leaving the screen vacant. A moment later, the first text appeared. Reed’s fingers felt thick and heavy as he unlocked his phone. The ghastly image that greeted him sent waves of nausea ripping through his stomach.

  Brent.

  He lay on a concrete floor, tied between wooden posts, his face twisted into a death scream. Shreds of skin and flesh decorated the floor beside him, exposing an empty stomach cavity. He was disemboweled, gutted from throat to groin.

  Blinding rage replaced nausea, and Reed jammed the car into gear and dumped the clutch. The rear tires screamed against the pavement, screeching over the howl of the engine as the rear end of the vehicle swung outward. The rubber caught, and the Camaro rocketed forward out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.

  Back toward Atlanta.

  Twelve

  “I need you to post a hit for me,” Reed shouted over the thunder of the engine. The fall breeze snapped around the mirrors and battered the headliner of the car, whipping Reed’s hair in and out of view. The wind tasted fresh and clean—a welcome relief against the smothering feeling against his chest.

  Nobody answered, and Reed rolled up the windows. “Winter, did you hear me?”

  A dry voice coughed, then Winter’s stagnant tone flowed from the speaker.

  “Who is the target?”

  “Senator Mitchell Holiday.”

  This time the pause felt heavy, as though it were laden with unspoken thoughts and conflicting emotions. Reed didn’t have time for either.

  “Did you hear me? Can you do it or not?”

  Another dry cough. “What’s the bounty?”

  “I don’t care. Half a million.”

  Reed thought he heard the scratch of a pen on paper, but maybe it was
just the squeak of whatever robotic entity Winter consisted of.

  “My service fee is twenty-five hundred. I’ll draft your account. Any special requests?”

  “Yes. I want it posted to Section 13, dark web.”

  The pen tapped on the notepad. Reed could hear each slow click.

  “Are you aware that Section 13 has been compromised by the FBI?”

  “I am. Post it anonymously. Ignore anyone who’s dumb enough to respond.”

  “Very well. The listing will be live in twenty minutes.”

  Nausea returned to the pit of Reed’s stomach, boiling like a jar of sour vegetable oil. Every muscle in his body was tense. He downshifted into fourth and blew past a semi-truck. The nervousness growing in the back of his mind washed over him in waves—it was something a little worse than shock, and a little less than panic.

  Brent was dead—slaughtered like a pig. It was a blatant attack on his own doorstep by a defiant challenger. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Reed wasn’t particularly attached to Brent, or to anyone he worked with, but Brent was the partner he spoke to most often. He knew Brent had blond hair and loved mint ice cream and video games. The chatty broker was from Detroit and had a mother he sent checks to every month in a nursing home. She thought he worked for a military history museum in Rome. She had no idea her son was neck-deep in the mire of organized crime, and she would never know what fate befell him. He would simply vanish, gone without a trace, snuffed out like any one of Reed’s victims.

  The thought brought renewed rage into Reed’s soul. No, he didn’t care about Brent, not personally, but a line had been crossed. A line that couldn’t be ignored. The contract had now spilled far, far beyond the realms of acceptable business practices, even for the criminal underworld. There was a debt to pay and a statement to make.

  You don’t shit on Reed Montgomery’s doorstep and walk away breathing.

  Reed snatched up his phone and speed-dialed the first contact, focusing on calming each nerve and backing away from a precipice of uncontrolled, rampaging madness. The answering machine picked up and greeted him with a single-word message: "Enfield." Then the beep.