by Logan Ryles
A shriek broke the silence. “Stop! Back off!”
Reed’s chest tightened, and his palms went cold. He knew that voice. How could he ever forget it?
Banks.
“Do I have your attention, Reed?” The speaker was still calm, but Reed could hear the impatience in his tone.
“What are you doing?” Reed hissed.
“I think you know. I have Miss Morccelli. You know Miss Morccelli, don’t you? Two nights ago, you sat on the edge of the parking garage at Lindbergh Station while she played the ukulele. It was a beautiful song. I still have a copy of the recording, if you’re interested.”
Bile welled up in Reed’s throat, tasting both acidic and bitter at the same time. It was all he could do not to scream. He felt his windpipe closing, and he focused all of his energy on controlling his response.
“What do you want?”
“The same thing I’ve always wanted. I want you to kill Mitchell Holiday. It’s going to be a lot harder now, thanks to your little stunt with the dark web. But that’s your problem. You’ll find him on the fourth floor of an FBI field office at the corner of 5th and Washington. It’s an unmarked support office. Blow up the whole building if you want. Just get it done. You have until sundown. Every fifteen minutes after dark, I’m going to cut off one of Banks’s fingers. If she runs out of fingers, I’m going to begin filleting her from the neck down. That sounds deadly, but it’s not. It could take hours for her to bleed out, and I won’t be in a hurry. Do you understand me, Reed?”
The cabin fell silent, and a chill filled Reed’s soul like the breath of a death angel. He closed his eyes and focused on each breath, each muscle movement. The dark clouds in his head began to dissipate, and his fighting instincts and the cold calculation of a natural killer took over.
“I need assurances that she won’t be harmed before sundown.”
“You have them. But this is your last chance. Finish the job.”
Fourteen
Light flooded the basement and dust hung in the air as Reed pounded down the stairs and walked straight to the gun safe. His hands were damp and numb as he spun the dial three times to clear it, then entered the combination and twisted the bolt handle. Fire and a blinding rush of something between rage and hatred flooded his veins. He reached into the safe and pulled out a KRISS Vector submachine gun chambered in .45 ACP.
One thing rang perfectly clear through his muddled mind: He could not think about Banks. It was all he could do to push the sound of her agonized screams out of his mind and focus on the task at hand, but he knew if he didn’t try, the rage would overwhelm him.
Rage puts you in the fast lane to dying hard. Oliver said it a thousand times.
Reed set the gun on the table. With only four hours until sunset, there was no time to strategize or create a subtle plan of attack. He had only one option—kick down the door, clear the room, and find Mitch Holiday. The senator was his best bet of finding Banks.
Reed peeled off his sweat-drenched jeans before retrieving a pair of cargo pants pre-strung with a heavy leather belt. A black T-shirt, black boots, and a set of body armor plates completed his outfit, masking his frame into the classic picture of an American killer. He checked the straps of the body armor and cinched them down further until it hurt to breathe. His chest was already tight, and his mind numb. Every action was practiced and mechanical. There was no time to think.
Reed returned to the safe and selected a drop leg holster. He strapped it to his right thigh before sliding a loaded and chambered Glock 31 pistol inside. Another belt holding two full pistol mags, a Ka-Bar knife, and a flashlight went over his gun belt. Next came the chest rig, loaded with six submachinegun magazines, filled with lead-nose cartridges. Above the magazines, Reed clipped half a dozen flashbangs and smoke grenades to the chest rig.
A sudden rush of blood fell from Reed’s head, leaving a wave of dizziness behind it. He staggered against the wall and grabbed a shelf to steady himself.
They took her. This is my fault—I’m the reason she’s a prisoner right now.
Reed shook his head, forcing the panicked thoughts out of his mind.
Go in cold, come out cold. Emotion is for suicidal assassins. Just do the job, and she’ll be fine.
The heft of the gun felt good under his calloused hands. Reed ran up the stairs and walked past a sleeping Baxter as he approached the front door.
“Don’t wait up.”
The roar of passing cars echoed through a supermarket parking lot three miles north of town, situated right next to the highway. Reed parked at the edge of the lot and carried his gear toward a silver SUV a few yards away. The Camaro was too impractical for the mission at hand, and he didn’t want to risk having the plates photographed. The Toyota that sat by itself next to a shopping cart corral sported political stickers and the words “wash me” written in greasy finger smears over the back glass. It was a few years old, with a peeling clear coat and a cracked front bumper.
Reed set the bags down beside the SUV and dug into the pocket of his cargo pants. He produced a folding Slim Jim and slid it between the glass and the water seal of the driver’s window. A few minutes of careful manipulation with the tool were rewarded by the click of the lock. Reed opened the door and tossed his gun inside, then piled into the driver seat. The SUV was cluttered with fast-food wrappers, empty soda cans, and sales brochures for some real estate company. The stale stench of week-old French fries and sour cheese hung in the air like the ghost of drive-thru past, making him cough and wrinkle his nose. Reed tried to ignore the smell and dug beneath the steering column. He flipped a knife out of his pocket and worked for a couple more minutes before the starter clicked and the engine whined to life.
As Reed put the car into drive, the congealed remains of some food byproduct stuck to his hands. He wiped his palms against his pants and piloted out of the lot and back onto the highway. Cars flashed past as he accelerated into the fast lane and drove toward the east side of Atlanta. Orange lights blanketed the city as the sun began its westward journey toward the ends of the earth. The knots in his stomach tightened, and he swallowed back a fresh onslaught of bile. He twisted his hands around the wheel, then spat into the passenger floorboard. The inside of his mouth tasted like sour cheese, and he rolled the windows down.
Banks was alone. Afraid. Hurting. They had tortured her. He saw those big blue eyes again—so wide and deep—and he imagined them full of fear. The picture was devastating—a red-hot stake driven straight into his heart. Was it worse to know she was in pain, or worse to know he couldn’t do anything to stop it? His eyes stung, and he blinked the fog away.
In cold. Out cold. Clear your head, Reed.
He took the exit onto I-285 and pressed the accelerator deeper into the floor. The Toyota had half a tank of gas. He would get to the field office, take a few minutes to survey the situation, and then pull the trigger. There weren’t a lot of options. He needed Holiday alive—at least for now. Unless and until the status quo changed, Reed wanted the senator as insurance, and possibly as a source of intel.
Why is Holiday still with the FBI? Why didn’t they turn him over to Capitol Police?
The FBI building on the corner of Washington and 5th wasn’t the bureau’s primary facility for the city. Their official field office sat on Flowers Street, with a big lobby and an army of agents. He figured this building must be an off-grid secondary location used for more subtle operations. Did that mean the FBI knew why Holiday was wanted dead? Did Holiday have connections in the bureau?
No possible answer was a good one.
Anger and frustration boiled in Reed’s veins as he approached the field office. He was cornered and forced into a hand of cards he didn’t want to play. From the moment he accepted this damnable hit, everything had spun out of control. He was a puppet on a string, being jerked around and dragged toward an inevitable demise.
It would end today. He would recover Holiday, then retreat to a safe house. Sit down with the senato
r. Get to the bottom of this entire mess. Then negotiate for Banks’s safe release. There would be time for vengeance later.
Reed parked the SUV in an alleyway between a gas station and a shopping strip, one block from the field office. After he cut the engine off, he sat in silence and surveyed his limited view of the street at the end of the alley. He couldn’t see the field office. He hoped they couldn’t see him.
What are you going to do, Reed? Storm the building, snatch him up, and haul ass? That’s a horrible plan. You’ll be gunned down.
Oliver’s strong, commanding voice echoed in the back of his mind, a lesson the hardened killer had pounded into Reed’s skull from day one: Always be ready to walk away.
The steering wheel was rock-hard under his grip, and his knuckles were white. He let go and rubbed his numb fingers. Oliver was right—the only course of action that ended in his favor was to walk away, torch the cabin, cash out some savings. Steal a car and go to ground—Mexico, maybe—and fade off the map. Vanish like the ghost he was.
His arms began to shake. Why couldn’t he walk away? He wasn’t a hero, and he wasn’t interested in becoming one. He made his living by pulling triggers and snapping necks. He never asked why, and he never harbored regrets. A man in his shoes didn’t need honor, and he sure as hell didn’t need a conscience. All he wanted was to be finished. To wash his hands and disappear forever.
Reed reached for the ignition wires. Their bare copper tips gleamed in the sunlight, promising freedom and security—everything he treasured and clung to.
Then he heard it, faintly in the back of his mind, like the muted melody of an orchestra playing on the other side of a brick wall. It was the soft strumming of her ukulele. The enchanting murmur of her sweet voice, just above a whisper, singing to the Atlanta skyline. In an instant, every desperate, prehistoric impulse ignited within his body. The memory of her intoxicating smile. The touch of her lips on his.
The way she felt like home.
Reed slung the gun’s harness over his neck and slammed the door shut, then reached into his cargo pocket and jerked out a three-hole ski mask. He pulled it over his head and checked his wristwatch. Two hours until sunset.
Fifteen
Glass shattered under Reed’s boot as he kicked the door open and raised the gun. The receptionist didn’t scream. She stood, stepped back, and reached for her handgun. Reed pulled the trigger twice. The bark of the submachine gun was deafening, and the bullets slammed into the wall just inches from the woman’s ear. She blinked and stumbled, fumbling with the retention strap on her holster. Reed raced across the lobby and grabbed her by the back of the head, slamming her face into the desk before she could draw her weapon. She collapsed to the floor as blood streamed from her forehead.
An alarm blared, ringing through the building like the bugles of Hell. Reed’s heart thumped, and each breath was strained beneath the constricting body armor. He knelt and snatched the keycard from the hip of the unconscious agent, then held the gun into his shoulder and orbited the corner toward the hallway. Steel doors guarded the entrance to the elevators and the stairwell. Both were controlled with keycard access.
Reed slid the card at the stairwell and waited for the green light to shine, then jerked the door open and thundered up the stairs. With each footfall, fresh adrenaline surged into his system. Thoughts of Banks and the ukulele on top of the parking garage faded from his mind and were replaced by the overwhelming urge to conquer. Combat was what he knew best. It didn’t matter if he was kicking down wooden doors in Iraq or glass office doors in Georgia; the explosive thrill of fear and anticipation colliding felt the same. It was a high like nothing a narcotic could ever deliver.
Overhead, agents shouted, and the continuous honk of the alarm filled the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, making it to the landing of the second floor just as the door burst open and a sandy-haired man wearing a suit and wielding a pistol appeared. The agent wrapped his finger around the trigger and squeezed. Reed slid to his knees, raised the KRISS, and fired twice. The bullets smacked home, directly into the agent’s exposed chest. He was knocked off his feet and catapulted out the door. The pistol clattered to the floor, and Reed jumped back to his feet, breaking into a run up the next flight of stairs. More agents confronted him halfway to the next landing, both screaming for him to stop.
They opened fire, and one bullet smacked Reed in the middle of the chest, slamming into the body armor at over a thousand feet per second. The next slug grazed his right arm, shredding the thin shirt and drawing blood. Pain erupted from his torso in torrential waves, ripping through his body and almost knocking him off his feet. Reed screamed through gritted teeth, then lunged forward and grabbed the first agent by the forearm. He ducked low and jerked backward. The agent lost his balance and tumbled over Reed’s back before crashing down the stairwell.
Reed stumbled backwards and dropped the gun. It dangled from the sling as he delivered a lightning punch to the second man’s exposed rib cage. The agent collapsed forward, screaming in pain. He fired again as he fell, but the round flew wide and struck the concrete wall in a shower of white powder.
Everything descended into a blur of blood and pain and adrenaline. Reed followed the punch with a palm strike to the agent’s ear, driving his head into the block wall, and bone met concrete with a sickening crack. The agent’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor.
Next level. Cover your ass.
Reed jerked his weapon free of the fallen agent’s sports jacket and raised it to eye level as he ran around the next landing. His arm throbbed, and blood dripped from his elbow. Each inhale was agony from the massive bruising inflicted by the chest-armor strike. He wouldn’t die, but it would hurt like a bitch for a few days. He felt the smooth contour of the trigger under his finger, and the fear faded from his mind—a receding tide, leaving nothing but blinding determination behind it.
A large number four was painted on the wall in gleaming white stencil. Sirens and shouts echoed from the other side of the door as Reed fired a three-round burst into the lock. It blew to pieces in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, and he kicked it open.
The noise on the other side of the door was much louder. Red lights flashed overhead, and complete chaos ruled the room around him. Reed raised the rifle and flipped the selector switch to full auto before unleashing a string of rounds over the tops of a dozen cubicles. Somebody screamed over the familiar popping of a 9mm handgun. Bullets skipped against the wall nearby, and Reed slid to his knees and redirected his line of fire at a short female agent who stood ten yards away between the cubicles. Reed trained the gun on her chest and squeezed the trigger, delivering a 255-grain, lead-nose bullet into the center mass of her Kevlar body armor. She crumpled like a rag doll.
The air hung thick with gun smoke. Blood puddled on the floor around Reed as he opened fire on the walls and the ceiling, shattering lights and alarm sirens. Sparks and drywall debris rained down on the office in a cloud of white before the gun’s bolt locked back on empty. Reed pulled himself to his feet and dropped the mag. He slammed a new one in place, smacked his palm against the bolt release, and raised the gun again.
Chaos ruled. Through the smoke and dust, the distinguishable features of the room were seen only through the flashes of handgun fire. The stock of Reed’s weapon ground against his cheek as more agents appeared around the corner, fifteen yards away. Both went down before they could even raise their Glocks. The hellish roar of the submachine gun filled the office space and rattled the windows as brass showered down over the bloody carpet. Reed broke into a run between the offices, leaping across the fallen agents and turning toward the next hallway. A heavy steel door, bolted closed with no window or latch, blocked the way. Reed gritted his teeth and dropped the rifle. Digging into his right cargo pocket, he retrieved a small wad of C-4 and slapped it onto the wall beside the door. He pressed a detonator into the sticky white explosive, flipped the switch, and dove for the floor on the other side of a c
ubical.
The C-4 discharged with a floor-shaking blast, and an avalanche of concrete, drywall, and rebar cascaded over the carpet around him. Reed felt something slam into his leg, and at first thought it was a piece of debris. Then he heard another gunshot. He groaned and rolled over. Blood coated his leg and mired the carpet, causing him to slip as he struggled to get to his feet. His vision blurred, and the room around him swayed and danced as though an earthquake had erupted under the building. His hands shook, and he spat dirt and saliva onto the carpet.
Reed fought to raise the rifle, but the sling was tangled around his arm and hung on the gun belt. He could see the shooter now, standing next to the elevator and firing from the cover of an upturned desk. Muzzle flash lit up the smoke-filled room in little orange bursts as bullets smacked the wall around him. Reed clawed the Glock out of his drop holster and raised it, firing five times. The fast-shooting .357 caliber slugs sent splinters of fake wood flying as the agent dove for better cover.
The room was dark now and clouded with dust. Reed coughed and holstered the handgun, jerking the KRISS back to his shoulder before turning toward the hole left by the blast of the explosives. It was about two feet across, torn through the block as though a giant had put his fist through the wall. Lights flashed on the other side. Agents shouted, and footsteps pounded the carpeted floor.
Stepping up beside the hole, Reed winced at the pain in his leg. It throbbed and burned. His fingers trembled with the mad rush of adrenaline and the unbridled desire to survive, as he jerked a flashbang from his chest rig, pulled the pin with his teeth, and flung it through the hole.
The grenade detonated with an earthshaking blast only a moment later. Reed didn’t wait. He held the gun close to his chest and dove through the hole.
On the other side of the wall, a large and linear room with stark-white walls and a series of reinforced glass partitions greeted him. The floor was covered in concrete and dirt, and a small table lay on its side. People shouted from somewhere on the other side of the room. The air smelled dirty and burnt, as though he were breathing in ashes. His lungs were clogged with the filth.