by Logan Ryles
He holstered the Glock and lifted the submachine gun. A quick sweep of the warehouse revealed two bodies lying on the ground thirty yards away. One of them writhed in pain, clutching his stomach as blood puddled around him. The other lay still.
Reed broke into a run toward the wounded man on the floor, who blurred out of focus, fading in and out of a red mist. Reed kicked him in the ribs.
“Where is she?” he screamed.
The gunman’s eyes narrowed. Reed shoved his heel into the bullet wound, pressing until the building echoed with screams of agony.
Reed jammed the muzzle of the gun into the man’s right eye socket and screamed again.
“I’ll rip you apart! Where is she?”
“Do it.”
A calm voice with a thick, South American accent rang out from behind him. Reed spun on his heel and raised the submachine gun. The man standing twenty yards away was framed by the shadows. He was barely five feet tall, dressed in a heavy overcoat and fedora, with his hands jammed into his pockets.
Reed laid his finger over the trigger. “Game’s up, bitch. Where is she?”
Salvador’s laugh rumbled and then thundered from his throat. It was a full, gleeful sound of triumph. The blaze in his eyes intensified, as though he didn’t control his own reactions—as though he were the slave of an invisible drug.
“Put down the gun, Reed. This is checkmate.”
A crimson flash caught Reed’s eye, and he looked down, relaxing his trigger finger as he did. The red dot that hovered over his chest twitched back and forth, forming X patterns over his heart. Reed traced the laser sight up and onto the roof of the building where an unseen shooter lay in overwatch—his sights fixed on Reed.
“You could have made it simple, Reed,” Salvador said. “But honestly, we thought you’d respond this way. It’s why we had a backup plan.”
Reed lowered the gun and ran his tongue over dry and cracked lips. The iron in his blood returned, bringing control back to his anger.
“Whoever you are, you’re in way over your head,” Reed snapped. “When you screw with me, you screw with my company. It’s not a game you can win.”
“Your company?” Salvador tilted his head. “Don’t you mean Oliver’s company?”
As a knife of uncertainty sliced through his chest, Reed heard a familiar footfall clicking on the concrete. The moonlight cut through the roof overhead, illuminating the new figure emerging from the shadows. He was tall and slender and balding, with a thin grey beard.
The gun slipped from Reed’s damp fingers, dangling at the end of its sling as his knees went weak and the resolve drained from his muscles.
“Oliver?”
Oliver Enfield shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped beside Salvador. His battered old face was set in hard lines, and his brow furrowed into a stony frown—every inch of him looked the part of a disgusted killer.
“I gave you a chance, Reed.” Oliver’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “This wasn’t my first choice. I would have given you the world, and all you wanted was to walk out.”
The shock gave way to untethered rage, and Reed remembered the words of the bloodied biker at the landfill—how he had called his employer “English.” He didn’t mean white. He meant British. He meant Oliver Enfield.
“You son of a bitch! Thirty kills. That was the deal. Then I’m free!”
“That’s right, Reed. Free to continue working for my company as long as you draw breath.”
“So, it’s all a racquet.” Reed spat the words as though they were venom. It was all he could do not to sling himself forward and tear Oliver’s throat out, even as the red dot continued to dance over his chest.
“No, Reed. It’s a company. A company you work for until you die. And you had that chance. You could have climbed as high as you wanted. Maybe one day you would have taken my place. The Prosecutor, my brightest, most ruthless killer. But instead you threw that back in my face. You ungrateful, whiny child!”
“You kidnapped Banks. You killed Brent. You set me up from day one!”
“No.” Oliver shook his head. “The Holiday hit was a legitimate job, a contract made for the legitimate people that Mr. Salvador works for. You were the one who ruined a good thing. Do you think I could just let you walk away? Kill thirty people and then just leave with all you know and all you’ve seen? No, of course not. So, Mr. Salvador and I decided to kill two birds with one stone: Senator Holiday and you.”
Reed snorted. “So that’s it, then? Nice job, Oliver. A damn nice job. You had me, but it’s over now. After your man guns me down, your whole world is going to cave in. I’ve got enough dirt on you to send you straight to death row, and when the FBI is finished investigating the death of Mitch Holiday, your name will be on every newspaper in America.”
Oliver stood in silence, his hands still jammed into his pockets. The groans of the wounded man had faded, and even the wind outside the warehouse died down. Oliver stepped forward, his expensive leather shoes tapping the concrete with grace and precision. He stopped in front of Reed, faced him eye to eye, then calmly put one hand on his shoulder and smiled.
“You’re the perfect killer, Reed. Cold. Brutal. Nothing to lose. You’ve only got one problem: You can’t appreciate the shades of grey—the cunning of an old man. Holiday isn’t dead—I know that. But I’m not going to kill you. I could have done that from day one, but then I’d have to explain to the whole company that I’m not a ruthless backstabber. How can I expect to maintain the trust and effort of my contractors if I gun down their colleagues? It’s not good for morale. So no, I’ve got other plans for you. I’m going to let you clean this up.”
Oliver squeezed his shoulder and stared at Reed, cold and emotionless. The smile faded, leaving nothing but the ashen glare of a relentless monster. Oliver slapped him on the shoulder, jammed his hands back into his pockets, then turned and jerked his head at Salvador as he walked toward the door.
“Enjoy prison, Reed. You might recall that I have a lot of influence when it comes to incarceration. Correctional facilities are funny places full of all kinds of people waiting to throttle a man in his sleep.” Oliver laughed. “After all, none of my other contractors could blame me for that, could they?”
Police sirens rang in the distance, blending with the thunder of a chopper from someplace overhead. The Atlanta PD closed in on the train yard like a pack of bloodhounds eager to sink their teeth into the red-handed killer standing inside. Reed remained silent as Oliver stopped at the door and then twisted his neck. It popped like a gunshot.
Reed spoke calmly, with no hint of malice. “I’ll take you down with me.” It was a promise.
Oliver glanced back at Reed. His smile was wide this time, exposing a row of perfect teeth. “Wanna bet?”
A truck roared to life outside, and the gunman in the shadows lifted his rifle and vanished behind Oliver through the doorway. The police sirens screamed from somewhere in the east, bearing down on the warehouse. Tires spun and rocks clanged against the building as Reed ran to the door, raising his gun and searching for a target. But the truck had already disappeared around the corner; its fading taillights passed out of view and into a hidden path between the trees.
Reed coughed on the dust and turned toward the trees. He started to run, but then he heard the screech of metal on metal, the whistle of air snapping around each car, and the clack of wheels rattling on a train track. Then a ripping, unearthly scream. He knew that voice; he would’ve recognized it anywhere.
Reed bolted toward the far end of the warehouse, slid through a gap in the tin, and ran. Forty yards away, he saw it: MARTA’s Blue Line train rocketing out of Edgewood Station toward Indian Creek. The lights on the train flashed, and passengers locked inside the row of cars pounded against the windows and clawed at the sliding doors. The train hadn’t stopped at Edgewood. It barreled down the track at full speed, sparks flying from the wheels. The windshield of the driver’s booth was shattered, with blood sprayed agains
t the glass, and there, handcuffed to the doorframe, was Banks.
Reed’s heart slammed into his throat, and in the split second it took to recognize Banks, it all made sense. Checkmate—Oliver’s final ploy to frame Reed and send him back to prison, there to be executed at the hands of an endless network of criminal butchers. It was the ultimate maneuver. Even if Reed ran for the hills, everything would be hung on him now. Oliver would feed the FBI and the media whatever they needed to pin the carnage on Reed and run him to ground, with no risk of anything undermining the stability of the company. Reed could drag it out, hide and manipulate, and raise hell for Oliver. Do everything he could to burn the world down. That was why they handcuffed Banks to the front of the train—so Reed never had the option to run.
The roar of the train pounded in his head, and every other noise and stimulant faded away as he ran toward the track, watching Banks flash past. Her blonde hair was torn by the wind, and her screams were drowned out by the train.
Reed slid to a stop as the last car flashed past. He knew the train wouldn’t stop. All MARTA cars were fitted with automatic braking systems to prevent derailing in an emergency, but Oliver would have disabled them. Nothing would keep the train from hurtling the last seven miles to the track terminus, there to explode in a wreckage of twisted metal and shattered bodies.
He dashed back toward the warehouse, tripping over a piece of railroad track along the way. His right leg ignited in pain, and thick blood oozed over his cargo pants. There were three dead men inside the warehouse, and not all of them could have arrived in Oliver’s truck. He knew there must’ve been another vehicle.
Think.
Reed charged through the rail yard, searching behind stacks of machinery and rotting railroad timbers. Entire portions of the yard were consumed by vines and undergrowth, slowly dying as winter approached. Dry dirt crumbling under his boots filled the air around him with a red cloud. Reed clawed the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. He saw footprints, ruts, shallow ditches, and then the tracks. They crisscrossed the thin dirt, then disappeared into one of the sheds. A red taillight glimmered through the holes in the tin, reflecting against the powerful LED.
He dashed back into the big warehouse, slid to his knees next to the fallen gunman, and ripped through his pockets. There was a watch, a knife, and a wad of dirty cash. And then he found the keys.
Reed’s left leg was numb as he pulled himself back to his feet and ran. The earth rang with dull thuds as his boots struck the packed dust. He couldn’t hear the train anymore, and police sirens screamed down Roger’s Street only a hundred yards away. They were almost on top of him now.
Reed slung his leg over the big Japanese sports bike, jammed the key into the ignition, clamped his hand down on the clutch, and kicked the starter. The engine roared to life with a devilish scream. The rear tire spun on dry concrete, and Reed flashed out of the shed as police cars skidded into the empty lot between the buildings. Floodlights blinded him, and somebody screamed for him to stop. A pistol popped, followed by rifle shots. Reed gunned the engine, and the front tire lifted off the ground. He clung to the bike as the KRISS bounced on his back, riding on the ends of the sling.
He skidded around the corner of the building and shot onto Roger’s Street. The bike shook as he slammed it into second gear and swerved around a black SUV loaded with SWAT responders. Everybody shouted at him to stop, and a bullhorn blared. The road opened in front of the bike, and houses flashed past, followed by Toomer Elementary on his left. He leaned into a sharp left turn onto Hosea L William’s Drive and twisted the grip to max throttle.
Twenty-Six
Reed gunned the bike past ninety-miles an hour as he rocketed through subdivisions and small shopping strips. MARTA’s Blue Line led through the East Lake Station before diving beneath Decatur. On the far side of the city, Avondale was the first place the train resurfaced and traveled above ground. Reed remembered a low bridge that crossed over the tracks just past the station, and if he could get to the bridge before the train, he might have a chance of stopping it.
He hit the brakes and planted his boot on the ground, sliding into a left turn before he downshifted and hit the throttle again. As the motor whined and the bike surged northward onto Howard Street, time stood still.
The trees and the houses under the night sky faded around him, and he could feel the hot California breeze on his face. He heard the thunder of his 1992 Suzuki, smelled the salt wind blowing off the Pacific coast, and felt the surge of panicked adrenaline as a squad car closed in on his tail. He remembered the rush of blind recklessness as he gunned the big bike and pulled away from the cop. The world and all of its problems were no longer concerns. The only thing that mattered was clearing the next block, sliding through the next traffic light, and slipping through the closing police net and back into the sweet freedom of south Los Angeles once again.
Reed refocused on the dark street and hooked a right onto College Avenue North East. There were no traffic lights and no stop signs. The avenue opened up as far as he could see, disappearing into the darkness toward Decatur. Reed shifted up and wound the engine out. As the RPM meter rose, the speedometer passed one hundred miles an hour. The neighborhood faded into the dark corners of his vision, and the street became a grey tunnel leading forward between the trees. Lights flashed over either shoulder as Decatur rocketed into view, and the speedometer hit one-forty as the RPM meter hovered close to redline. Reed leaned forward and pressed his body into the bike. The wind tore at his hair, almost blinding him as the bike bounced over the slight imperfections in the road.
East Lake Station passed on his left, and there was no sign of the train. He pressed the throttle harder, but the big Japanese engine was pushed to its max. The train tracks on his left vanished into the ground as MARTA’s Blue Line dove under the city toward Decatur Station. There was a chance that MARTA headquarters had been able to apply the brakes remotely. Even now, the train might be screeching to a stop deep beneath the pavement, but Reed couldn’t take that chance. College Avenue stretched out perfectly straight in front of him for miles. The train would make seventy miles an hour under full speed, and the bike was locked at a hard one-forty. Reed prayed that it was enough.
Seconds passed. Avondale Station was five hundred yards ahead, and just to his left, the Blue Line rose out of the tunnel and back to ground level. Reed’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the train flash out of the darkness, still flying eastward at full speed. He caught sight of Banks clinging to the front of the train, her hair whipping as the car careened forward. Her left foot had been knocked off the front bumper, and she clung to the front door handle as her feet dangled inches above the tracks.
Reed looked forward just in time to swerve and miss an oncoming truck, then he leaned to the right and applied the brake as he rounded a gentle curve on College Avenue. Avondale Station flashed past on his left, and he could hear the clacking roar of the train just over his left shoulder, a hundred yards behind him. A large four-way intersection lay directly ahead, connecting College Avenue with Sam’s Crossing. The bridge that spanned the Blue Line lay to his left.
Reed released pressure on the throttle and leaned to the left, then slammed on the brake. The bike shuddered and slid, and he struggled to keep it upright as the g-forces almost slung him off the seat. The intersection flashed around him, and he turned the bike left on Sam’s Crossing and clamped down on the brake. The motorcycle slid onto the bridge, and he saw Avondale Station beneath him, a hundred yards west. The headlights of the train flashed into view, coming out of the station and rocketing toward the bridge.
The bike screeched to a halt and slammed down on its side. Reed screamed in pain and fought to free his leg from underneath the piping-hot engine block. He heard the train crashing along the track as it passed beneath the bridge. He jerked his leg free, tearing fabric and flesh against the side of the bike, and leaving the air reeking with burning rubber and singed cloth.
Reed jumped to his fe
et and limped to the edge of the bridge. He didn’t have time to think. The last car passed under the bridge, and Reed grabbed the guard rail and flipped his legs over. The open air whistled past his ears as he free-fell ten feet. His boots slammed into the metal roof of the last car, his legs slipped from under him, and he landed on his side, sliding backward over the slick sheet metal toward the rear of the car. Reed shouted and grabbed at the ridges in the metal, clawing for anything to hold onto.
His nails caught on a ridge in the roof, slowing him down just enough to keep him from flying off the side. The wind roared in his ears as the car rose and fell beneath him, clacking against the metal rails. His legs spun off the roof, hanging in midair before slamming down against the side of the car. Reed clawed his way forward, and a fingernail split. With a Herculean effort, he slung his left leg over the rim of the car and pulled himself back onto the roof. He lay five feet from the tail of the car, and began to claw his way toward the rear emergency door.
Reed twisted and grabbed the rear rim of the roof, then pulled himself toward it. The train rattled over a joint in the track, and he looked forward just in time to plant his face against the metal. A bridge flashed overhead, inches above his shoulder blades. He looked up again toward the front of the train and felt the cold claw of fear sink into his heart. Another tunnel was rapidly approaching, and he could already tell there wasn’t enough clearance for a man to lay on top of the car.
Reed grabbed the top rim of the train and slung his legs over the edge, free-falling toward the track. His knees slammed into the rear of the car as his full weight descended on his fingers, and he kicked out with his feet, fighting for any hint of a purchase. The rifle sling caught on the top of the emergency door frame, tying him to the rear of the train and tightening around his neck, choking him as the train rocketed into the tunnel. He jerked at the sling, but it wouldn’t tear free. Reaching down, he grabbed the butt of the rifle and pressed the quick-release. The sling snapped free and slid around his neck just as his boots caught the edge of what must have been the rear bumper. The rifle dangled against the side of the train, then the sling slipped free of the doorframe, and the gun disappeared into the darkness.