The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  Reed jerked free of the guard and made a dash toward the table before the nightstick descended over the back of his head. A light crack, just sharp enough to send disorientation and nausea washing through his body.

  He shoved the guard back and stumbled toward Milk, wrapping his fingers into a tight fist. “You son of a bitch! I’ll rip your throat out!”

  Another blow from the nightstick crashed into his arm. Fingers dug into the collar of his jumpsuit, pulling him off balance as more COs rushed in to subdue him.

  Reed kicked out with both feet, swinging his elbow backward until it connected with somebody’s chin. “Let me at him! He started it, dammit!”

  “Shut up, con!”

  Two more COs piled on top of him, and Reed jerked free of the first, launching himself out of the pile and back onto his feet. Milk stood ten feet away, his eyes alight with devilish glee as he twisted his head backward and stuck his tongue out as though he were strangling at the end of a noose.

  As he was dragged backward, overwhelmed by the crowd of guards, Reed spat a warning at Milk: “I’m coming for you.”

  “Don’t do it, Reed. Whatever happened. Whatever you know. You can’t come back from this.”

  Grey mist swarmed and danced around Turk’s face. His words were distant, as though they were coming from the other side of a cavern—echoing, but familiar. Reed touched Turk’s shoulder and imagined the rough, dirty texture of the military jacket, but it felt thin and wispy, as though Turk were a ghost. But it wasn’t a ghost. He knew this marine. Turk was his best friend and the last surviving member of his fire team back in Iraq. His righthand man.

  “Neither can she.” Reed’s own words echoed through the mist and darkness, and his body felt detached from his voice

  The words tasted bitter. God, why are they so bitter? They flew from his mouth like venom. Reed shoved past Turk as fireworks burst, lighting up his path as he weaved between the barracks. Dry sand crunched beneath his feet. The rifle was heavy, but with each stride, fresh confidence—and fresh anger—flooded his body.

  Where am I? Why is it all so familiar? And so distant?

  Men in black with beer bottles and cigarettes were gathered around a table—smoking, drinking, laughing. One of them leaned over the table, pumping his hips into its edge, dramatizing the motion while the others laughed. These weren’t marines. No, they were contractors. Mercenaries.

  “Give it to her! Smack that bitch!” The shout was slurred, laden with alcohol.

  Five of them. Reed squinted into the scope of the rifle, aligning the crosshairs with the base of the first man’s neck.

  Commander Gould. The prick.

  That first gunshot shattered their laughter but was lost amongst the blast of Independence Day fireworks overhead. Gould went down, blood gushing from his stomach over the Iraqi dust. Reed stepped ahead and fired again. There were screams, and then a handgun popped. Something ripped into his shoulder.

  The thunk of the bolt locking back over an empty magazine resonated through Reed’s arm. Through the blur of rage and adrenaline, he saw four bodies lying in the swirling mist with gaping mouths and pale cheeks. The fifth man lay on his side with blood gushing from his hip as he clawed at the sand, pulling himself away from the corpses of his comrades.

  Reed knew his face—a strong brow line, low cheekbones, a bold chin. Even in the darkness that hung around him, he recognized Commander Gould’s defiant glare.

  The shriek of metal against metal rang through the stillness as Reed’s knife cleared its sheath. Someplace on the other side of the fog, men shouted. There were gunshots, too—short and popping, the familiar voice of a handgun. A bullet hissed past Reed’s ear as he stepped over the last body and placed his muddy boot against Gould’s shoulder, pinning him into the dirt.

  “Remember me, Gould?”

  The commander’s face twisted into a smile, then his features morphed as his teeth became fangs and his hair horns. It was no longer the face of a civilian contractor. It was the face of a demon, snarling back at him in blatant defiance.

  Reed screamed and plunged the knife into the demon’s throat. The gunshots roared behind him now, and bullets tore through his back, blasting holes in his chest that gleamed like stars as he jerked the knife free and plunged it home again. The blood that gushed free of the demon’s throat wasn’t red—it was inky black. Thick and hot.

  Reed sat up with a scream, and cold sweat ran down his face as he fumbled through the darkness. The tiny isolation cell was complete and consuming. He grabbed to his right and felt the block wall. As his feet hit the floor, he focused on the opposing wall, only four feet separated from its twin.

  He dug his fingers into the mattress, holding on as he trembled and imagined the walls closing in around him.

  No. I can’t do it. I can’t do it!

  Reed stood up and slung himself against the steel door, driving his fist into it. The tiny cell rang with the clatter, and he screamed for the guard. No lights flooded on, and no boots rang against the hallways. Only silence answered his desperate outburst.

  The mattress squeaked as he collapsed back against it, and at once, the visions returned. Blood. Carnage. Bodies everywhere. Eyes open or closed, he could still see their faces—the haunted stares of the slain. He didn’t feel regret, and no hint of remorse haunted his soul, but he felt the burning desire to destroy the last remaining traces of the ghosts from Iraq.

  Reed clamped his eyes shut in an attempt to extinguish the flames dancing behind his eyelids. But even here, in the darkness and silence, there was no peace—only anger and the crushing reality that his life was a joke. Maybe it always had been. His earliest memories weren’t like this. They were happy. His father was a free man and a successful finance professional. His mother was a local environmental activist, and she was sober, still something of a basket case on her worst days, but nothing like the slobbering, skanky drunk she became after her husband was hauled off to federal prison for money laundering.

  Reed tried to calm his nerves by remembering those days when his family was a family. They lived in Mountain Brook, Alabama, an upscale suburb of Birmingham. Tabitha Montgomery used to make Toaster Strudels in the morning before Reed got on the bus, and ham and potatoes on Sundays for lunch. She always fussed about feeding him sugar first thing in the morning, but Dave Montgomery came to his son’s rescue. Dave was like that. Fun and happy. He told cheesy jokes and was friends with all the neighbors—the kind of guy you might ask to borrow a hand tool from and wind up sitting on the back patio sipping beer and swapping war stories with. Everybody loved him.

  Maybe that was why she left, Reed thought. Maybe that was why, after her husband’s conviction and sentencing, Tabitha couldn’t stay in her beloved hometown anymore. Too many people knew her, knew Dave, and knew little Reed. There were too many patronizing stares at the grocery store, too many whispering gossips at the local Baptist church. It was a level of shame and displacement she couldn’t handle, so she did the next logical thing: pack up her son and what was left of her belongings after the federal confiscations, and move as far away as she could.

  Reed opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling. He imagined his mother’s face: the bags under her bloodshot eyes, another glass of vodka held between thin, greasy fingers. Los Angeles hadn’t been kind to her, just like it hadn’t been kind to him. At eighteen, Reed was only weeks away from being accepted into a south LA gang, when the Marine recruiter confronted him outside of a convenience store.

  The sergeant wore green camouflage and a glare that could melt stone, but when he looked at Reed, he smiled. “You’re about to fuck up your whole life, kid. What a shame. A guy like you, confident and bold, could make a hell of a Marine. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?”

  Reed rubbed his finger against the steel rail of his bunk and closed his eyes again. He never asked the recruiter how he knew Reed was about to join the gang, or how he knew Reed at all. He never asked him what the pay was or
what career opportunities he would have in the Corps. He didn’t even ask where they would send him. He just walked after him, caught the recruiter by the sleeve, and said, “You’re wrong. Where do I sign?”

  The edge of the bedrail sliced into Reed’s thumb and he snatched his hand back. The tiny cell closed in on him again, and he sucked in a humid breath.

  They betrayed me. I signed away my life to protect justice, and they threw me in this hole without a second thought.

  He pressed his thumb against the dirty sheets until the bleeding subsided and continued staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t see Tabitha’s face anymore. He couldn’t hear the Marine recruiter challenging him with that gruff, disgusted voice. All he could hear was a single thought, pounding through his skull as loud and insistent as a war chant.

  I have to get out of here.

  Four

  Metal clattered as steel plates were set onto steel dining tables. Reed rubbed his wrists.

  The CO standing at his side raised an eyebrow then jerked his head toward the mess line twenty feet away. “Get to it, 4371. No talking.”

  Reed stepped into the back of the line and waited his turn to fill his plate. The dining hall rang with the clinking of utensils and the murmur of voices. COs stood in the corners, their narrow eyes surveying the crowd of convicts. A few of the prisoners looked at Reed with detached curiosity, but nobody said anything to him.

  The cafeteria worker slopped runny mashed potatoes piled high next to dry ham and a wilting salad onto Reed’s plate. He remembered eating with Turk in Baghdad at the military mess halls. That food was a feast compared to the stale slop on his plate now.

  He took a seat at a table near the back of the room and ate quietly, searching the room for any sign of Milk or his comrades. A few faces were familiar, and the others were men with big shoulders and stern glares, tattoos adorning their skin, exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Nobody smiled. Nobody laughed.

  Ignoring the slimy texture of the salad and dressing, Reed shoveled more food into his mouth. At least he could see what he was eating. That was an improvement over the lightless dungeon of solitary confinement.

  The door at the far end of the room opened, and a CO stepped out first, followed by a small crowd of prisoners. Reed immediately spotted Milk standing at the back, a surly smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. When he saw Reed, his smile widened and his eyes flashed as before, but he turned away and shuffled toward the meal line. Reed watched him over the top rim of his water cup, taking slow sips and muting out the chaos around him. Only the pale man in coveralls mattered.

  “He’s not worth it. Trust me.”

  Reed recoiled, clenching his fist and raising it to defend himself. A short white man in a prison jumpsuit stood behind him, his stubby arms jammed into his pockets. He squinted at Reed, and without breaking eye contact, tilted his head toward a nearby CO.

  Reed traced his gaze to the correctional officer, then lowered his fist.

  The short man shuffled forward and sat down on the bench across from him, his hands still in his pockets. “You’re quite the fighter, in spite of your total lack of discretion. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Reed spat the words, surprised by his own aggression.

  “I don’t know, 4371. Who are you?”

  Reed scoffed and stuck his fork into the last clump of cold potatoes. “Get lost.”

  Silence hung between them for a moment, but the little man didn’t get up.

  When Reed looked up again, the narrow black eyes were still locked on him, and his fork rang against the plate. “I said beat it!”

  The short man withdrew his hands from his pockets and placed them on the table. One finger was missing from his right hand, and his other fingers were short and stumpy like the rest of his body.

  “Think very carefully about what you’re about to do. I know you can kill him. You know you can kill him. He probably knows it, too. But you’ll be caught. And when you are, there will be zero chance of your death penalty being lifted.”

  Reed’s fork hung in midair, a piece of leathery ham stuck to the end. “How do you know about that?”

  “I know a lot of things, Reed. A lot of things you’d like to know.”

  Once more, Reed let the silence hang in the air between them as he waited for the man to either blink or look away. He did neither.

  “All right,” Reed said. “I’ll bite. What is it that you know?”

  The little man drummed his fingers on the table, then smiled. “I know how to get you out of here.”

  Reed snorted. “Pretty sure I can make it back to my own cell.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the mess hall. I was talking about prison. I know how to get you out.”

  This time the silence was palpable, like the emptiness of a tomb. Reed stopped chewing, once more trying to force the man to blink, but he wouldn’t. His gaze was as unbroken and relentless as the block walls that encased them.

  “Who are you?” Reed demanded.

  “Call me Gould.”

  Reed slammed the fork against the plate, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then set a clenched fist against the tabletop. “Okay. So you know all about me. What do you want?”

  “I want you to do what you do best. I want you to kill somebody. Somebody in this prison. Except this time, I want you to get away with it.”

  “And why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because after you do, you’ll walk out a free man. No death penalty. No FBI hounds on your heels. No criminal record to hide from. A fresh start.”

  “You know something, Gould? When something sounds too good to be true, it is.”

  “I thought you might say that. And maybe you’re right. So go ahead and finish your ham. Go on and kill Milk. Rot in prison for another ten years before they shoot you up with a load of potassium chloride. Won’t be my loss.”

  “All military death penalties are automatically appealed,” Reed said. “They’re appealing mine right now. The sentence could be lifted. Why would I throw that away and trust you?”

  He shrugged. “You were ready to throw it away to kill an underweight pervert. But fine. If that’s how you feel, appeal your sentence. Take life in prison instead. You’re not yet thirty, the next fifty years should glide right by.”

  A knot twisted deep inside Reed’s stomach, and he rubbed his thumb against the tabletop. His breath was short and shallow, like he was inhaling and exhaling through a straw. “All right, fine. Explain yourself.”

  “There’s nothing to explain. I work for a powerful man who has the resources to restore your freedom. Somebody in this prison doesn’t deserve to be alive, and that’s a problem for my employer. You fix his problem, and he’ll fix yours.”

  “So you want me to murder somebody in cold blood?”

  “No. I want you to execute justice. Just like you did that hot night in Baghdad. Just like you were about to do on Milk over there. I want you to be the hand of long overdue karma.”

  Reed dropped the fork and wiped his mouth on a greasy section of paper towel. He folded the napkin and laid it on the table, smoothing it against the stainless steel as he noticed its flower pattern contrasting sharply with the scratches in the metal. He studied the faded blues and yellows as prisoners around the mess hall began to shuffle into line. COs barked commands. The racket felt unimportant, as though it were happening on the other side of the world.

  Reed whispered between his teeth. “Who do you want me to kill?”

  A smile spread across the man’s thin lips. “Now that’s a good question. But you need to sleep on it, Reed. When I know you’re fully committed . . . then we’ll talk.”

  He stood and shuffled off, leaving Reed sitting alone. A CO shouted and grabbed Reed by the arm, dragging him to his feet and shoving him toward the line of men. Still, the noise was distant. Irrelevant. One thought rang through Reed’s tired mind: I can be free.

  Five

  Weeks dragged by in a
muddled blur. Each day was the same: Up before sunrise to march out to the yard and stand in line while the COs counted them off. If there had been any infractions from any prisoner the day before, they would be forced to exercise. Sometimes they would be left to stand for an hour, huddled in the cold while the COs did whatever it was COs spent their long days doing. Then they would be shoved into the showers.

  Midday was consumed with prison housekeeping duties while the afternoon was contained within the tight confines of the cell. Usually, the guards would let them out for an hour or so in the yard right after lunch, but sometimes an entire day would slip by without leaving the prison block.

  The short man had vanished like a ghost. Reed spent days searching for him amid the crowd of prisoners and uniformed guards, but he was gone as quickly and suddenly as he appeared. Stiller had never seen him before and gave Reed a twisted frown when he asked. None of the other prisoners would talk to Reed. They avoided him like the plague, knotting around Milk in the yard and giving Reed long, foreboding glares.

  “They’re plotting,” Stiller warned. “Probably because of the shower fight. Milk was banged up pretty good. He can’t lose rep over you.”

  The wind that howled over the high block walls brought spits of snow with it. Reed leaned against the chain-link fence and folded his arms, watching the goons across the yard. Milk sat in the midst of them, his eyes flashing death at Reed. Without a word, the pale prisoner lifted a long index finger and ran it slowly across his throat.

  “Bastard,” Reed whispered.

  “You need allies, man,” Stiller said. “The COs won’t do anything until there’s a fight. By then it could be too late..”

  Reed didn’t reply, and he stared Milk down as he adjusted his feet against the hard-packed dirt of the yard.

  Stiller sighed and leaned against the fence, facing through the chain link to the next prison yard. “What’s your deal, Reed? You’re dark, man. Like there’s a hurricane just beating you to pieces from the inside.”