by Logan Ryles
Lying in bed, bandaged up with tubes and wires strapped to his arm, was Senator Mitchell Holiday.
Reed relaxed his shoulders and allowed Banks to lead him toward the bed. The senator broke into a big smile when he saw Banks. She smiled back, and Reed forced himself to further relax his defensive stance.
“Uncle Mitch, I want you to meet someone.” She turned toward Reed, and the smile she offered him was as warm and soft as the Caribbean sun. “This is Chris. He’s the one who saved me.”
Holiday’s face was tired and sported a couple dark bruises. Reed knew where those bruises came from, and he also knew why the senator’s chest was bandaged. He stared directly at Holiday and waited, bracing himself to run.
Holiday’s face broke into a wide smile, and he offered his hand.
“Chris. Such a pleasure. I can’t thank you enough for what you did. You’re a hero, son.”
Reed took his hand and offered a small smile. “It’s an honor, Senator. I’m so glad you’re okay. I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
Holiday laughed. “You could say that. Mostly I’m just dehydrated. Hence all this crap stuck in my arm. Please, have a seat. Tell me about yourself. My goddaughter thinks you hung the moon.”
Reed hesitated, but Banks grabbed his hand and led him to the single empty chair. She perched herself on the left arm, and Reed reluctantly sat down beside her.
“What do you do, son? You military? You’ve got the bearing. And definitely the courage.”
Reed shifted in the chair and tried to smile. Holiday talked like a politician. “No, sir. I’m . . . a venture capitalist.”
Holiday raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
Reed decided to run with the lie. “Yes. I work with small firms. Mostly out west. Invest and promote growth. It’s all pretty boring.”
Holiday tilted his head and squinted. “Have we met before? Something about you is familiar.”
Reed forced a laugh and leaned back in the chair. “I get that a lot. A familiar face, I guess.”
Holiday nodded slowly, then smiled again. “Well, I’m so drugged up, who knows? I’m a bit of a businessman myself, though. I’d love to hear more about your work. We should have lunch sometime.”
Reed glanced at Banks sitting beside him. Her cheeks glowed, and her shoulders were relaxed into a casual slump. She looked happy, and he marveled at that. How could anyone experience the total terror she had been through and walk away so bright and alive? Maybe they gave her a sedative.
“Banks tells me you met at a bar,” Holiday continued. “Hell of a second date.”
Reed shifted on the chair and looked up at Banks. He wanted to scoop her up and kiss her, take her by the hand, and run like hell. Make her his. Love her and protect her and spend the rest of his life making her happy. They could escape this place and all the menacing dangers it held. Run so far into the sunset that nobody, not even his darkest enemies, could find them. Forget the west. They could leave the country, move to Asia or Africa and build a simple home where he could be with her every day. Hold her and protect her and spend every damn morning staring into those eyes. It wouldn’t matter where he was or what he did to put food on the table, so long as she was his. So long as he called her home.
The daydream built in momentum, consuming him until his heart thumped. He stared at her so long, picturing every detail of her gorgeous face, that Banks tilted her head and squinted, dampening the innocence in her eyes.
In that moment, the daydream shattered. It fell around him like a glass statue exploding into a million pieces. Kelly’s warning echoed in his mind, and he knew it then as clearly as he had ever known anything: he was a killer. This woman was an angel. As desperately as Reed longed for a home—a place to call his own and to live in peace forever—and as much as Banks felt like home, it wasn’t fair. She was innocent and beautiful, a priceless artifact from an untarnished world, so far removed from his own that he didn’t even speak the same language. His life was one of deceit and shadows and bloodshed—a violent, unpredictable, hostile world with deathtraps and menace at every corner. A harsh, cold place that was no habitat for love, and no home for happiness. He might escape that life, eventually, but he could never escape the reality of what it had done to him or who he had become.
That was a reality that this goddess from another life could never, ever be touched by. She deserved more.
Reed looked away, pushing back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes.
“Actually, Senator, I have to be going. I’ve got some business in Europe. I just wanted to stop by and check on Banks.”
Holiday frowned at him, and Reed wasn’t sure if the senator was angry or just confused. Either way, he offered his hand again, and Reed stood up and shook it. Banks also got up, and the soul-crushed look on her face was more than he could bear. He nodded at her, and then pulled the hat down over his ears and walked toward the door. The guard let him out, and Reed accelerated toward the elevator.
He heard the door shut behind him, and another set of footsteps rang in the hallway.
“Wait!”
Reed stopped and felt the burn of tears sting his eyes. Everything in his body begged him to stop and turn around. To scoop her up. To hold her close and never, ever let go. Damn the impossibilities of who he was—he could make the daydream come true. The passion in his heart and in her eyes matched, and it catalyzed itself and fueled the fire. He wanted that more than he wanted his next breath. He turned around, and she stared at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“That’s it?” she mumbled. “You’re just . . . leaving?”
The molten feeling in his stomach felt like a hurricane, but the feeling still wasn’t strong enough to wash away the inescapable truth. He couldn’t be hers, and she could never be his. He was at war now. A war that would be long and brutal and would get people hurt. Banks couldn’t be one of those people. She had already suffered too much at the hands of Reed’s dark underworld.
“Take care of yourself, Banks. You’re an amazing woman.”
Without another word, he turned and pushed through the doorway to the stairwell, leaving Banks standing in the hallway. The steps clicked under his feet, matching the tempo of his pounding heart.
As he shoved his way through the crowded waiting room and back onto the sidewalk, the cold breeze stung his face and chilled his cheeks. He looked up at the sky and felt the warmth of the sun on his face, remembering the touch of her lips on his and her amazing eyes shining with so much life and passion.
Nothing had ever felt so much like home.
Reed shoved his hands into his pockets, and without looking back, turned away from the city and walked to the terminal. The white MARTA bus was just pulling up as he arrived. Reed paid the fare and took a seat in the back, where he settled in and jammed his hands into his pockets.
Reed took one final glance at the hospital as the bus turned northeast and drove out of the city. He imagined Banks standing in a window, staring down at him, and waving goodbye. And he realized, just then, that he was leaving a part of him behind that he didn’t know existed. All his life the world had taken things from him—his parents, his integrity, his freedom, his identity—and he didn’t realize he had anything left to lose. And yet, in this moment, he realized just how much anyone could lose. The home that he longed for wasn’t a building or an address on a quiet street. It was so much simpler than that—so much more internal. He just wanted to belong, to have a place that was his that nobody could take away.
But it’s not a place . . . It’s a person.
Reed closed his eyes and ignored the tear slipping down his cheek. He took a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again, he forced out the memories, the hopes, the daydreams, and clenched his fingers around the arms of his chair.
He may not have a home, and he may have to leave her behind, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a place to go. Reed had a promise to fulfill—a promise to complete thirty kills. With twenty-nine down,
Reed knew exactly who his next target would be.
He pictured the face and imagined the crosshairs settling over the base of the neck behind the balding head. He imagined the touch of steel beneath his trigger finger and the snap of the gunshot.
Twenty-nine kills. Oliver would be thirty.
Hunt to Kill
Book 2 in the Reed Montgomery Series
For 2LT Isaac R. King, United States Army.
My oldest friend. My original fan. My best man.
One
November 24, 2014
United States Military Court
Washington, D.C.
“Reed Montgomery, on the charge of conduct unbecoming a United States Marine, you have been found guilty. On the charge of five counts of first-degree murder, you have been found guilty. You are hereby stripped of your rank and dishonorably discharged from the United States Armed Forces. While the murder of Private Jeanie O’Conner was a deplorable act, I nevertheless find your deliberate execution of five US citizens to be a crime of the worst character, and I am unconvinced of any remorse on your part. I am therefore compelled to sentence you to death. Sergeant, take the guilty into custody!”
The gavel rang like a gunshot. The sharp shrick of the corporal patches being torn from Reed’s sleeves filled his ears, screaming over the pounding of blood. Cold cuffs closed around his wrists, and the tall military policeman wearing sergeant’s patches grabbed him by the arm and shoved him toward the door. Boots clicked on the tile, and the air was thick and hot, like the heavy nights of Baghdad.
Private Rufus “Turk” Turkman, Reed’s long-time brother-in-arms stood next to the door. Reed met his gaze and mouthed a single word: “Goodbye.”
“Next!” The stocky sergeant behind the desk bellowed at the line of white-clad prisoners without looking up. His face was pale and blotchy, betraying a life spent sitting behind that desk, away from the sun, and barking at convicts.
Reed shuffled forward, twisting his wrists against the tight cuffs. His footfalls rang against the blank block walls, leaving dark black scuffs on the dirty concrete. In the corner, a desk heater’s electric coils glowed red in a futile attempt to provide warmth to the uninsulated space.
“Name,” the sergeant demanded.
“Montgomery. Reed.”
A pen scratched on yellow paper. The metal table squeaked under the pressure, and Reed swallowed back the knots in his stomach. He twisted his wrists again and tried to keep from shivering.
God, it’s cold. The whole place can’t be this cold.
“All right. Listen carefully, and don’t speak until I’m finished. You are a prisoner of the United States Armed Forces. While renovations are completed at Fort Leavenworth, you will be housed at this facility. As such, you are our guest, and will behave accordingly at all times. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. This institution is the property and function of the state of Colorado, and you can expect it to be operated as such. Colorado does not automatically isolate death row inmates such as yourself. You will be confined in gen pop with other max security prisoners. This housing arrangement is a privilege, and can and will be revoked at any time should you become in any way insubordinate. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good. You will abide by all daily functions, including lights out, waking hours, housekeeping duties, and any commands given to you by correctional officers. Any insurrection, insubordination, contraband, violence, or disruptive behavior of any sort will be swiftly and severely punished. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant laid down the pen, and for the first time, he looked up and faced Reed. “You carry a death sentence. While your case is under appeals, you may have hope for that sentence to be overturned. When it is upheld, you may feel like you have nothing to lose. Listen to me carefully when I tell you we do not tolerate desperate behavior. No matter who you are or where you came from, I promise you, you do not want to test us. This isn’t a white-collar resort with a chain-link fence. We have the power to make your life absolute hell. Do you understand me?”
The heater hummed in the corner, providing the only variance to the silence. Those wide, bloodshot eyes didn’t blink, and neither did Reed’s. Seconds dripped by as though they were falling from a slow-leaking faucet.
“So, you’re one of those.” The sergeant nodded and tapped his pen against the table. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Officer Yates! Show the convict to his cell.”
An iron grip latched around Reed’s arm, and he was propelled out of the room through a back door and into a long hallway. The CO’s boots clicked amid the shuffle of the ankle chains, and with each step, Reed’s chest constricted a little tighter. Dim lights shone down over him, barely illuminating the black dirt packed into the cracks of the floor, or the scratches in the paint along the walls. Dingy yellow ceiling panels hung overhead, completing the mood of the most utilitarian, unwelcoming place Reed could imagine.
“Move it, con.” The correctional officer snapped and pushed harder. The chains caught on his ankles, and Reed stumbled around the corner. Two more halls, one flight of steps, and then a tall metal door with no window. Voices and footsteps rang out on the other side, pounding through a cavernous room beyond. Reed tripped over the threshold and fell to his knees, crashing against concrete. White pants flashing back and forth across the floor filled his vision.
Over a hundred yards ahead of him, standing in neat two-story rows, were dozens of small cells. Steel bars with open sliding doors guarded them, and a hundred white-clothed convicts wandered around the floor. Fluorescent light glowed from someplace far above, joined by a single bar-covered window at the top of the wall. The floor was as hard as the block hallways behind him, and there was no other way out. No doors. No color. No warmth. Only cold, brutal containment.
The CO grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. His fingers dug into Reed’s arm, sending waves of pain shooting up to his shoulder. He fought to find his footing as he was shoved forward.
“Welcome to Rock Hollow Penitentiary, Number 4371.”
“What’s your name?”
Reed sat on the edge of the bed, his feet resting on the chilled floor of the cell. He rubbed his bare wrists, massaging the bruises left by the cuffs. The thin white coverall suit he wore was incapable of blocking the bite of impending winter. Nothing could stop that scourge.
“Hey. You deaf?”
Reed looked up. A tall, skinny man with a shiny bald head and no hair on his pale face stood in the doorway to the cell, one hand resting on the wall, the other jammed in his pocket. His eyes were grey and hollow, like twin black holes frozen over.
“I’m Reed.” The words left his lips as a dry whisper. He swallowed and tried to clear his throat.
The tall man nodded, still expressionless. “Is that right? Well, what the fuck are you doing on my bed, Reed?”
Reed placed his hands on the thin blanket stretched over the cheap mattress. The stiff plastic sheathing crackled under his touch. He stood up and stepped away, offering a small shrug. “I’ll take the top.”
Reed placed his palms on the top bunk, preparing to lift himself onto the mattress, when cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, tightening into his skin.
The tall man leaned in close, his breath, reeking of garlic and cheap food, misting just inches from Reed’s face. “That’s my bed, too.”
The comment felt distantly preposterous to Reed, as though he should laugh. But through the fog of disorientation, he couldn’t make sense of it. He tilted his head and stepped back, gesturing toward the small cell. “Okay, well where the hell do I sleep?”
The man laughed, then jerked a thumb toward the stainless steel toilet mounted against the wall. “Sitting up. Like the bitch you are.”
Reed stared at the toilet. The comments didn’t register. Was this a joke? Was this man insane?
“Hey! What’d I tell you about coming in here? Get your skinny ass bac
k into the hall!”
A snapping, high-pitched voice filled the cell, coming from behind the tall man. Reed started and stepped back as a short guy with dark hair barreled through the door. He wore the same white coveralls, but they fell low around his ankles and almost covered his hands. He couldn’t have been more than five and a half feet tall, but his shoulders bulged, and even through the loose outfit, Reed could see the power of his muscled core.
The short man grabbed the tall one by the back of his coveralls and shoved him toward the door with another curse. “Go back to your hole, creep! I catch you slinking around in here again, and I’ll stretch your sack right over your ugly flat face. You hear me?”
The tall man cast one more sinister look toward Reed, then vanished down the hallway. The sound of barking voices from the crowd of convicts drowned out his footfalls. Reed leaned against the wall, feeling all the more disoriented.
The short man ran his fingers through dark curls, still glowering at the door. “So, you must be the fresh meat. Welcome to the pen.” He extended his fist, then waited for Reed to bump it. His knuckles were hard with thick callouses built over them. He nodded at Reed once, then turned toward the bed and began to stretch the wrinkles out of the blanket. “I’m Stiller. You can call me Still if you want. I’m your cellmate. You want top or bottom?”
Reed placed his hand on the rail of the top bunk and ran his finger against the smooth surface. Flecks of ancient lead paint and grime rained onto the floor, and the stench of unwashed bodies and years of sweat filled his nostrils. The edge of the rail dug into his finger, and he dropped his hand back to his side.