by Logan Ryles
It was perfect. Oliver couldn’t possibly escape without exposing himself to Reed’s field of fire. The cabin was ideally defensible in that it was impossible to reach without being detected. But in that same way, it was impossible to escape without being cornered. Oliver must have known that. He must have bet on the secrecy of his forest home more than its impregnability.
That’s a bet you’ll regret for eternity, old man.
Reed left the rifle and treated back to the mortar, then settled down behind it and lifted the first red shell. It would take a few seconds for the high-explosive round to arc through the air and make contact with the cabin’s roof. Within that time, Reed could launch the second shell. The third and final shot would be in the air at the moment the second one detonated. After that, he’d have to run like hell. If Oliver had any unseen defenses in place outside his cabin, Reed’s position would be exposed and wide open to them by the time the third round left the tube. His best and only bet would be to move like greased lightning.
Reed set the first shell in the top of the tube, holding it for a moment and feeling its weight and gravity under his fingers. Looking back at the cabin where it lay in silence and stillness, alone at the end of that ridge, it was so quiet and peaceful—a happy place under different circumstances—the kind of place you never wanted to leave.
But not tonight.
Go to hell, old man.
Reed released the shell at the same moment the phone buzzed in his pocket. He jerked his hand back from the tube and lifted the second shell. The first launched with a resounding whoomp, flashing through the darkness like a giant spit wad. The second shell launched as the first crashed through the trees and landed on top of the awning. It detonated with a blast so strong the trees over Reed’s head swayed, sending dry leaves and dead pine needles showering over his back. The second shell detonated, again sending fire and fury ripping through the log walls as pieces of the pickup truck and shards of shingles rained into the ravine. Reed dropped the final shell into the tube, then stood up and dashed for the rifle.
Every part of his body pounded. Foliage exploded in a shower around him as he landed behind the rifle, lifting it and pressing his eye against the scope. The third and final shell landed outside the cabin in a blinding flash of white, sending burning phosphorous showering across the ridgetop and lighting up the area around the cabin as bright as day. The fire burned on, leaving Reed’s field of view fully illuminated and at the mercy of his rifle.
The crosshairs of the optic swept over the cabin, first to the rear, then back to the front. The roof of the cabin was blown off, and one wall caved in, now ablaze as greedy flames licked up the dry timber. In moments, the cabin would flood with smoke, and anyone left inside would be forced to flee. The truck also burned, filling the sky with a column of dark black smoke that rose a hundred yards before it began to dissipate. Everything was chaos—the ruined wreckage of two high-explosive rounds and one illumination shell.
Reed flipped off the safety and rested his finger against the trigger while checking the surroundings for any sign of Oliver attempting to flee via a hidden tunnel or a rappelling rope down the cliff. There was nothing but the crackle of the flames and the whistle of the wind as the hideout of the old killer descended into flames. Once more he swept the crosshairs over the burning wreckage, pausing over every shadow, every possible shelter. There was nothing.
Shit.
Reed pivoted the scope over the forest, through the flames and between the trees. Each inhale whistled between his teeth as fresh adrenaline pumped into his blood.
“You son of a bitch. Where are you?”
One more pass of the rifle. The scope was filled with the golden flames and the smog of smoke, reminding him of ancient Catholic paintings of Hell. Everywhere the chaos reigned, but there was no sight of humanity—nobody fleeing the smoke and running for their life into the trees.
The glint of steel caught his eye first: a white flash that reflected the moonlight and contrasted with the blazing orange all around it. He refocused the optic on the spot nestled a hundred feet from the cabin amid the trees. Bushes and shrubs clouded his view, obscuring everything but that hint of steely glow. And then there was a twitch of movement, barely noticeable, but enough to cast a shadow and reveal the full silhouette of the shape.
Oh, shit.
Fire blazed from the trees, filling the scope and blinding him a split second before a whining roar burst across the ravine. Bullets ripped through the trees all around him, shredding limbs and downing saplings in mere seconds. Dirt, rock, and forest debris exploded and rained down on all sides, fogging his vision as the minigun on the opposing ridge continued to rain fire and brimstone on his position.
Reed snatched up his rifle and broke into a run down the ridge, away from the mortar. He ripped his way through the trees and brush, clawing dirt and grime from his face. The ground quaked as small trees toppled down behind him and broken rocks rained down like hail. And still, the gun didn’t stop. Hundreds of thirty caliber slugs tore into the ridgetop as the electric gun continued to thunder. Reed’s mind began to tunnel on the path ahead, and each step further disoriented his focus.
One thought rang clearly through his panicked mind: Run like hell.
A bullet struck the ground inches from his foot, and another sent an explosion of pine bark shooting into his chest like the blast of a shotgun. A limb fell from overhead and struck him in the face. Reed stumbled and almost fell, then burst through a row of evergreens.
By the time he saw the drop-off, there was no prayer of stopping. His left foot gave way first, flying out from under him as he lost hold of the rifle and grabbed at the trees. Sticky green evergreen needles were stripped from the tree as Reed dangled in midair at the edge of the cliff. Fresh gunfire shredded the evergreens in front of him, and then he fell over the edge of the cliff and into the darkness below.
Twelve
With perfect clarity, Reed remembered he hadn’t purchased rental insurance on the pickup truck.
What a stupid decision.
Then he saw blackness again as he toppled over, freefalling down the side of the cliff. The shadowy silhouettes of trees growing from the side of the cliff face flashed past him. He saw the moon, and then the first limb struck him in the middle of his lower back. Leaves and branches surrounded him as he crashed through the tops of trees, frantically attempting to grab anything to stop his fall. The blast of the minigun was distant now, drowned out by the pounding of blood in his head. Something tore through his jacket and into his ribcage before it was torn away again, and then a larger limb struck him right in the stomach. The air rushed from his lungs as he clawed at the branch, fighting to hold on. His legs fell, and the limb slipped out of his hands as he went crashing toward the ground until his back collided with the frozen earth.
The wind was ripped from his lungs again, and the sky spun. Reed was vaguely aware of something hot and sticky seeping from his torn jacket. The fear of moments before faded into a blur, along with the vague realization that this was his fault. He had walked straight into a trap.
The minigun stopped firing, and he thought he heard an engine roar to life—a truck, maybe, or an all-terrain vehicle. Tires spun far away, but the sound carried across the empty ravine as clear as though it were right next to his skull.
Reed moved his legs, twisting one at a time to check for functionality. Pain shot through his body, but his legs still worked. Nothing was busted. He grabbed a tree and fought to pull himself into a sitting position, clenching his teeth to fight back a scream of agony. He could feel the tear in his side now, and when he placed his hand over it, fresh blood oozed between his fingers, sticking to his skin. Bits of dirt and sappy needles clung to his jacket and pants, and the dirt further blurred his disoriented vision.
I have to move. He saw me fall.
His legs were stiff as he forced himself to a standing position. Nausea and dizziness racked his brain, but now that he could stand, he managed
to focus on a tangible thought to clear his mind.
I’m alive. Where is my rifle?
He dug out a small LED flashlight from his pocket. It clicked on, but he didn’t hear the sound through his ringing ears. One foot forward, then another. The dry leaves rattled against his boots and crunched against the earth. His head still pounded, but thoughts came more clearly now.
My rifle. I need my rifle.
Reed stumbled back toward the base of the cliff and swept the flashlight through the brush. Broken limbs and felled saplings lay everywhere, looking like a tornado had just ripped through the valley. He fought his way through the mess and kicked up showers of leaves, but he couldn’t see the rifle anywhere.
A thud rang out from behind, followed by the roar of an engine. Reed switched the light off and turned back toward the first ridge he had crossed. It was too dark to see, but in the distance, the roar of the motor grew louder, followed by the flash of headlights a hundred yards out, crashing across the forest floor like a tank. He couldn’t tell if it was a Jeep or a semi-truck, but either way, it was almost on top of him.
Reed broke into a run back through the trees, rushing amid the brush and limbs, away from the ridges, and into the open valley ahead. The river churned on his right, rippling over rocks and gurgling amid the roar of the engine. A gunshot rang out, and the bullet tore through the evergreens, sending yet another shower of sticky needles raining down. Reed dug under his jacket and pried the Glock free, then fired twice. He heard glass shatter, but the engine still roared, almost on his heels now. Blood streamed down his side, soaking his jacket and seeping into his pants.
I’ve got to shake this prick.
Another ten yards of crashing through the brush, and a row of giant fir trees loomed up ahead, five yards from the river’s edge. Reed dove behind them, rolling to the ground and clawing his way beneath their thick foliage. For the first time, he turned back and peered through the brush at the oncoming vehicle. It was tall, with lights blazing, and big, meaty tires crushing everything in front of it. Definitely not Oliver. The old man had never been one to be this brash or loud. Oliver was more surgical, like Reed. Whoever the hell was driving this thing had no concern for subtlety or discretion. He was here to crush, and nothing more.
The Jeep slid to a stop fifty yards away, the big motor rumbling as the dust began to settle around the tires. Reed couldn’t see the man inside, but he could see the weapon mounted on the rear bumper of the vehicle. It was the minigun, still piping hot and smoking from the assault of ten minutes before.
He won’t leave the Jeep. He can’t. Somebody heard the mortars. Cops will be here in another half hour, and he can’t afford to be found.
Reed slid the handgun out of his jacket and rested it against the forest floor. The night sights radiated neon green as he aligned the gun with the front tire of the Jeep. A vehicle this big and robust wouldn’t be stopped by a single flat tire. It might still limp on, crashing after him, but with two tires down, the party stopped there.
The Glock popped, recoiling in his hand, and spitting a .357 caliber slug fifty yards across the valley floor and directly into the heavy rubber of the tire. The second shot came a moment behind the first. Air hissed from both tires as the engine rumbled and the driver turned toward the evergreens. Reed jumped up and dashed to the left moments before the front bumper of the vehicle, with two tires flopping against their wheels, hurtled through the fir trees.
By the time the driver realized his mistake, it was much too late to stop. The brakes screamed, but the Jeep hurtled onward, past the trees, across the bank, and nose-first into the river. Water splashed, drowning out the powerful headlights and sending a cascade down over the bank. Reed didn’t wait to see what happened next. He turned back through the trees and broke into a run, shielding his face from the whipping branches as he melted into the darkness. In the distance, he heard what he thought sounded like police sirens, but his ears still rang from the explosions and machine-gun fire of the last half hour. Either way, he wasn’t waiting to find out what it was.
His lungs and muscles burned, but the running felt good. With each powerful stride, fresh energy and renewed focused filled his mind. He could hear the sirens for sure now, coming from the south, rising and falling as the police drew closer. Another few minutes, and they would be at the cabin.
Reed stopped at the base of the cliff and peered upward, back to the place he had fallen from minutes before—a full hundred feet up a sheer wall of mud and rock. There was no way he could fight his way back to the top, and even if he somehow managed the impossible, the police would quickly blanket the woods before he could sneak the three miles back to the pickup.
He turned to the west and resumed jogging through the forest. Miles passed under his boots before he broke out of the trees and onto a narrow gravel road that he remembered from studying maps of Oliver’s cabin area. There was a hunting camp another few miles away, and with luck, there would be a vehicle he could hot-wire and use to get back on the road.
All of his gear was back in the truck. After the police cleared out, he would return to recover his weapons and work on a new plan. For now, he needed to get as far away from the mad killer as possible and figure out where the hell Oliver disappeared to.
Thirteen
Reed drove north out of Cherokee and into Graham County. The sun broke over the horizon, draping the rural mountain roads in a warm glow that reflected off the frosty tree limbs. In the tiny town of Robbinsville, the old truck squeaked like a rusty tractor as it rolled to a stop. It was a Ford, maybe a mid-seventies model, with rotten floorboards and a cracked windshield. A few years’ worth of mud and grime clung to the body panels, covering the faded bumper stickers and empty soda bottles. The power steering was gone, and the alignment was way out, making it a constant battle to keep the battered vehicle on the road. But the truck ran, and at this point, that was all he could ask for.
Still better than walking.
At a gas station, the engine died as Reed pulled the ignition wires apart. His head ached. His body ached. The muscles in his toes ached. The injuries from the chaos in Atlanta were far from healed, and the bitter wind that swept through the open floorboard of the truck served to numb the skin and make every part of him stiffen. Add to that the injuries and battering of the night before, and he felt about as worn and creaky as his ride.
He dug through his pockets and found the bottle of heavy-duty pain killers that Kelly left him. The pills tasted bitter as they rolled over his tongue and he swallowed them dry. He was reluctant to dull his mind with any opioid, but at this stage, the surging pain was a greater threat to his focus.
In a few moments, he took a mental inventory of what gear he had left on his person. It wasn’t much—most of his essential equipment had been in the backpack, and everything else was in the truck. The only thing he had on him was the knife, handgun, a few magazines, a flashlight, a fake South Carolina driver’s license, sixty bucks, a lighter, and half a dozen cigarettes—hardly the stuff of a war-ready killer. Not even any communication.
Wait.
Reed suddenly remembered his phone in the interior pocket of his jacket. The phone had vibrated right before he launched the first mortar, but at the time, he hadn’t given it a second thought. Now the reality rang clear in his tired mind: His phone vibrated only for a few critical contacts.
When he unlocked it, the first notification he got was for a low battery. He dismissed the warning and navigated to the single text message. It was from Oliver.
Nice try Reed. Enjoy The Wolf.
Reed cursed and slammed his hand into the steering wheel. He started to reply to the message, but the phone’s screen went black, and the “charge battery” symbol flashed.
Shit!
Reed had been a fool to assault the cabin so brashly. It was a rookie move—the kind that belonged in open warfare, not the art of assassination. He wasn’t even sure whether Oliver was in the cabin at all, yet he had shelled that place
and lit it up like a damn fireworks show.
I didn’t care if he was there. I wanted to make a statement. I wanted to shit on his porch the way he shit on mine. Such a fool.
He drummed his finger on the wheel and stared out the window.
Who is The Wolf? The man in the Jeep?
Reed had never heard of a killer named The Wolf. All of Oliver’s contractors had nicknames or call signs. Reed’s was Prosecutor, and he knew every other killer by theirs. The Wolf wasn’t on the list. It had to be somebody external to the company. Somebody willing to kill another contractor.
The next thought that rang through his tired mind was more chilling: Oliver wouldn’t hire somebody outside of his own company. It was contrary to the old man’s standards of operation. He didn’t trust people he didn’t control, and even though Oliver would be reluctant to set one of his own killers against a fellow contractor, at this stage it would be better than letting loose a rampaging madman with a minigun.
But Oliver had unleashed a madman with a minigun, which could only mean one of two things: Either Oliver had lost his mind, or he was no longer calling the shots. Reed remembered the contract for Mitchell Holiday, a state senator for Georgia he had been hired to kill right before Oliver turned on him. Who wanted Holiday dead? It was a question he had never been able to answer, and now it seemed more pivotal to this entire mess than ever. Somebody bigger than Oliver wanted Holiday dead, and now they wanted Reed dead.
Reed closed his eyes and thought back to his last encounter with Oliver—at Pratt Pullman Yard, in east Atlanta. It was there that Oliver admitted to his dastardly scheme to send Reed back to prison, there to be murdered in his sleep, removing him from Oliver’s list of outstanding liabilities and lose ends. But Oliver wasn’t the one who ordered the Holiday hit. No, Oliver had said the job was legitimate, ordered by the men Salvador worked for.