The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  Salvador. The shady South American who had stood beside Oliver at Pratt Pullman. It was Salvador who hired the goons that Reed killed in Atlanta. Salvador who kidnapped Banks, and represented the interests of the people who wanted Holiday dead. Salvador, not Oliver, was the link to these people—these people who would stop at nothing to destroy Holiday, and now Reed.

  And I don’t know who they are. That thought was the most terrifying of all. Reed could take on a battalion of Army Rangers if he had to, as long as he knew more about them than they knew about him. Information was his greatest asset, and right now, he had none.

  Reed shook his head to clear it. Time to get moving. This prick will be back.

  Reed dug through the glove box, dumping the contents onto the passenger seat. There was a vehicle registration, a box of replacement fuses, and a folded map of the tristate area. Nothing else.

  He pocketed the map, then slammed the box shut and stepped out of the truck, kicking the mud off his boots as he went. He glanced around the small service station and noticed a couple locals watching him from adjacent pumps. He wasn’t sure if it was his angry body language or the rattletrap truck that was drawing more attention.

  The clerk inside the store appeared much less inquisitive. He stared through the window with a dazed, stoned look, as though his mind were a thousand miles away in another universe. Reed picked up a bottle of water and walked to the counter, dropping a twenty dollar bill onto it.

  “Ten on three. And can I get some quarters?”

  The attendant accepted the money and handed Reed his change. Reed cracked the water bottle open and took a swig as he walked back out to the truck. He put ten dollars into the almost empty tank, then drove across the street to a Dollar General. A narrow metal roof sheltered a payphone next to the store. He dropped two quarters in, then dialed the phone.

  “Lasquo Financial. How may I direct your call?”

  Lasquo financial was the banking headquarters for the criminal underworld. Reed held most of his assets and loose cash with them and enjoyed the luxury of conducting business anywhere in the world with a quick phone call. After repeating his memorized series of coded phrases, he asked for Thomas Lancaster. The phone went silent for a moment, then the familiar New Orleans drawl of Reed’s personal banker rang over the phone.

  “Reed, good to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

  “Thomas, I need you to send me a couple grand by Western Union to the Dollar General in Robbinsville, North Carolina. As soon as possible.”

  “Right away. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s everything. Thank you.”

  Reed hung up and dropped two more quarters into the phone. It rang twice.

  “Winter.”

  If Lasquo was the criminal world’s banking institution, Winter was its eye in the sky. A nameless, genderless, faceless entity on the other side of the phone who answered questions that needed to be answered, found people who needed to be found and dealt information as a commodity. Reed had called Winter before when things went south in Atlanta, and Winter had been uncharacteristically unhelpful. This time, Reed wouldn’t take silence for an answer.

  “No bullshit, Winter. Where is Oliver?”

  The phone was silent.

  Reed wrapped his fingers around the metal roof over the phone. His knuckles turned white. “Listen closely. I know you know. You’ve been in on this shit from the start. Now you better start talking or—”

  “You would be prudent not to threaten me, Reed.” It was the first time Reed had ever heard emotion in the genderless tone of the ghost on the other end of the line. “I’m not your ally. Don’t make me your enemy.”

  Reed slammed his fist into the wall of the store but didn’t snap back. “All right. Fine. So, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to find the answers. That’s what you do, right?”

  “That depends on the question.”

  “How about this? Who ordered the hit on Mitch Holiday?”

  The phone was silent. Reed gritted his teeth again and waited. Finally, Winter answered. The voice was soft, and Reed almost thought he heard fear in the tone.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I launched an inquiry. My sources are . . . unhelpful.”

  “Okay, so where’s Oliver?”

  Again, Winter was silent. Reed gripped the phone until his knuckles turned white.

  “I don’t know.”

  Reed shook his head. “No, that’s not how you work. You always know, remember? Now I just burned Oliver’s cabin to the ground, and he’s not there.”

  “Good for you.” Winter sounded almost sarcastic. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Okay, then tell me something you do know.”

  “I know that if I were you, I’d stop asking questions and get lost while I still had the chance. I’ve been around a long time, Reed. Long enough to know when something smells like death.”

  “Winter!” Reed snapped. He waited, but the phone didn’t cut off. Reed relaxed his clenched fist. “Just point me in the right direction. I’ve always taken care of you. You know I’m the real deal. Cut me some slack, and I’ll cut you loose.”

  Winter’s methodical breathing hissed over the phone, and Reed waited patiently against the phone booth. Almost a full minute passed.

  “I know somebody is behind this,” Reed said. “Somebody bigger than Oliver.”

  “Yes.”

  “They want me dead. They want Mitch Holiday dead.”

  “They do.”

  “So, who are they?”

  Once more the phone was silent, and this time Reed couldn’t even hear Winter’s breaths.

  “Watch your back, Reed. Don’t call me again.” The line went dead.

  Reed cursed and slammed the handset back onto the receiver. He spat on the sidewalk and walked inside the Dollar General where the Western Union wire waited for him. Two grand, sent from a shell company out of Arkansas. Reed accepted the cash, then walked back to the truck and got in, rubbing the folded bills between his fingers as he watched the passing traffic.

  There’s a bounty on my head. The Wolf was hired especially for me.

  Without knowing who was after him, there was little Reed could do besides run and be reactionary. He didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know his tactics, although it was obvious he had a flair for the dramatic. That was certainly outside the realm of Oliver’s contractors, who would always prefer a knife to the throat over a minigun mounted to a Jeep. The Wolf was different. He was brash. And unpredictable.

  Reed tapped his finger on his knee and looked up the highway. The temperature had dropped further. An occasional snowflake drifted past the cab, landing on the ground and fading into the concrete. Even though it was hardly midmorning, there was already a small crowd of bustling locals moving in and out of the gas station and the local diner. It was fifty miles back to Oliver’s cabin—plenty of space to buy Reed a little time before he could expect The Wolf to come sniffing around.

  He wiped the exhaustion out of his eyes and started the truck. Half a mile down the road, he found a small grocery store with an empty lot behind it. He parked the truck next to a dumpster and double-checked to make sure the doors were locked, and then he lay across the bench seat. He would sleep for a couple hours, refresh his mind, and reset his battered body. Then he would regroup and resume his hunt for the kingpin killer.

  Reed’s eyes snapped open as though prompted by a gunshot. Even before he sat up, he knew he had slept much longer than he intended. A glance at his watch confirmed what he already feared: It was four p.m.

  Shit.

  It was the drugs. It had to be. He never slept that hard, especially under these circumstances. Sitting up, Reed blinked back the fog of sleep and scooped up the bottle from the convenience store. The icy water cooled his dry throat, and he drained it before taking a quick glance around the pickup. From his position next to the dumpster, Reed could see half of the main
intersection, along with a good portion of the grocery store’s parking lot. A couple women walked next to each other toward the store, while a single man in a blue jacket hurried toward his car with a bag of groceries. The sky, once bright with sunlight, was now blanketed by dark grey clouds, and flecks of snow drifted through the air and landed on the hood of the truck. Reed couldn’t tell for sure, but the wind that whispered through the cracks in the floorboard felt colder than before. The temperature was still dropping.

  He reached for his phone then remembered that it was dead. That left him with nothing but a handful of quarters and a single payphone, but there wasn’t really anyone to call. Without Winter, finding Oliver would be next to impossible. He hoped to get lucky back at the cabin, but that turned out to be a trap from the start. Oliver must have anticipated his arrival. He probably wasn’t even in the country.

  Reed’s thoughts were broken off by the sight of a silver Mercedes with jet-black windows—definitely a coupe, but it was as big as a sedan, not more than a year old, with gleaming trim and wide black tires. It rolled gracefully down the street, well under the speed limit, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the battered SUVs and rusted pickups.

  Nobody in a town like this drove a car like that. Reed sank back in the seat and laid his hand on the Glock. The pickup was fully exposed to the view of the Mercedes, and Reed felt suddenly very vulnerable and wanted to jump out, but he sank deeper into the seat and waited.

  The Mercedes rolled up to the intersection, thirty yards down the street. It stopped at the sign, its nose pointed directly at the side of the pickup. A cloud of grey vapor built behind the rear bumper, rising toward the sky as the car idled. Reed could see the man behind the wheel now. He was trim and fit, clean-shaven, with short black hair, sitting with one hand on the wheel at the twelve o’clock position, and the other out of sight beneath the dash. In the dying light, Reed could make out the veins in his neck, bulging and contracting with each breath. The quiet, collected calm of his features mixed with his narrow, darting eyes.

  There was no doubt in Reed’s mind this man was a killer. He was here for Reed. And he was ready to finish the job.

  The reality hit him just as the black eyes twitched to the right and locked with his. For a moment, the man in the Mercedes stared at him without blinking, and then a tight smirk spread across his lips.

  Reed’s hands darted to the ignition wires. The sharp copper dug into his fingers as he separated the red from the black, the blue from the yellow. The bite of wire in trembling skin hadn’t changed over the past ten years since he hotwired his first car back in Orange County. He remembered it like it was yesterday: a bright red ‘82 Firebird, belonging to a booster from a rival LA gang. He remembered the sweat that puddled in his palms as he fought with each wire, trying to ignore the frantic badgering of his stressed-out accomplice from Oakland. Even months later, after dozens of stolen cars, his fingers still shook. Over time, the tremors that ran down his arms felt less like fear and more like excitement.

  Drive it like you stole it. Nothing was more thrilling.

  Reed rubbed two exposed copper tips against each other, and a loud click rang out from beneath the floorboard, but the motor didn’t turn. A fresh shiver racked his arms, and he fumbled to pick up a dropped wire, then pressed them together again—another click, and then silence.

  Run.

  The big motor of the Mercedes rumbled from the intersection. Reed kicked the door open and flung himself out, making a quick dash for the shelter of the alley behind the grocery store. He remembered the night before—the thunder of the minigun as brush and trees crashed to the earth—fire, hot lead, and total chaos. This man was insane, whoever he was. A complete maniac. Allowing a repeat of that performance in the tight confines of this small town would result in a bloodbath of innocent civilians, and Reed couldn’t live with that. He imagined the avalanche of bullets blasting holes through the Wendy’s across the street or tearing through the Family Dollar straight ahead. He wouldn't allow The Wolf to go to war in this place. Reed would lose him first, then find his way outside of Robbinsville to a more isolated locale—someplace he could ambush and kill this rabid dog without needless death.

  Reed jogged across the street, leaving the shelter of the alley and huddling close to the front wall of the Family Dollar. Locals bustled back and forth between SUVs and minivans, their shoes knocking against frozen pavement. He felt the comforting hard plastic of the Glock beneath his jacket and tossed another glance around the parking lot for the Mercedes. It was nowhere in sight.

  Come on, you bastard. Take it out of town.

  Drops of sleet flashed past his face. Somebody honked, and a child cried. Reed ducked behind a pickup truck and turned away from the store. A mother herded her screaming toddler toward her Honda and shot Reed a suspicious glare as he stumbled past her, his gaze still sweeping the streets.

  He started back toward the main road, and then he saw it. Black on silver, purring down the street only fifty yards away, with the giant Mercedes logo glowing in the middle of the front grill. A split-second passed, then the Mercedes coughed, and the back tires spun. Reed stepped away from the mother and child and mashed his thumb against the retainer strap of his holster.

  “Chris?”

  Fourteen

  The voice sent a shockwave ripping through Reed’s body. He twisted on his heel, back toward the store. She stood outside the Family Dollar, bundled in a thick red jacket with a snow-white knit cap pulled down low over her golden hair. Her cheeks were rosy red in the bite of the wind, and her eyes, once as bright blue as the Gulf of Mexico, were now frozen sapphires, shining just as bright and beautiful.

  Banks.

  Reed’s mind shut down, and the world around him ceased to exist as he stared at her. The curve of her body beneath the jacket. Her delicate fingers curled around a plastic shopping bag loaded with groceries. She was as perfect as the first moment he met her, and in a flash, his mind was ripped back to Atlanta. Back to the hospital hallway where he looked here in the eyes and said goodbye. The hardest, most heart wrenching thing he had ever done. Walking away from a woman he cared for—cared for so deeply he didn’t believe it could be real. But it was. It had changed his world.

  Her eyes broke right through his carefully orchestrated detachment and sank into his soul. In an instant, all the confused emotions of the past few days returned—the longing, self-doubt, obsessive affection. It took all the willpower he’d ever mustered to walk away from her three days before in that hospital. And here she was, in the middle of this isolated little town, with a killer just around the corner.

  “Chris . . . what are you doing here?”

  The words had barely left her lips before Reed heard the snarl of the Mercedes, now only yards away. The car was rocketing through the intersection and roaring toward them. There could be no mistake now. The driver was here for him.

  “Get down!” Reed lunged forward and grabbed Banks, pulling her with him behind the nearest SUV. A second later, gunshots rang out across the parking lot. Reed recognized the chattering snarl immediately—rapid shots stacked on top of each other in a constant spray of lead. It was an Uzi—short barreled, nine-millimeter. Not the glovebox gun of your average North Carolina redneck.

  More gunfire roared from across the parking lot, and glass shattered from the rear of the SUV, pelting down over their heads in tiny black cubes. Reed pulled Banks lower and jerked the pistol from beneath his jacket. Twisting around the end of the SUV, he pointed it in the general direction of the Mercedes and fired twice. Another blast from the open window of the coupe sent a storm of bullets slamming into the rear hatch of the SUV and skipping against the ground.

  Reed’s infuriation grew with every twisting ache in his stomach. He grabbed Banks by the arm and jerked his head toward the far end of the parking lot. “Get up! Run!”

  Banks’s shoulders trembled, but she shook her head. “No! This way! I’ve got my car!”

  Before Reed could
stop her, Banks jumped to her feet and ran around the front of the SUV. He scrambled to follow her, weaving between the parked vehicles as the Mercedes roared again. The bright yellow Super Beetle was hidden between two pickup trucks at the back of the lot, a dusting of snow building on its roof. Banks stood by the door, fumbling with her keys, when they slipped out of her hands and hit the concrete. She cursed and picked them up, dropping the groceries.

  Reed snatched the keys from her hand and jerked the door open. “Climb in!”

  “My snacks!” Banks objected.

  “Leave them. Get in the passenger’s seat!”

  He shoved Banks through the door and piled in after her, smacking his head against the low roofline of the car. He shoved the keys into the ignition and pressed the clutch against the floor, remembering the last time he and Banks had taken a drive in the vintage German car. The car hadn’t started; he prayed this time it would.

  The motor turned over with a low whine, then coughed to life. Reed’s knees were crowded against the dashboard, spread out on either side of the steering wheel, with barely an inch to spare. The Mercedes snarled from someplace behind, and he slammed the Beetle into first gear before planting his foot into the accelerator.

  The rear tires of the little car squealed and spun on the frozen pavement. Reed swung the wheel to the right, and the Beetle shot forward, sliding between the pickup trucks and into the parking lot. Another string of automatic gunfire ripped between the trucks, and bullets smacked the rear hatch of the Beetle, shattering the back glass.

  Banks screamed, “Oscar!”

  Reed jerked the wheel back to the left and turned the car toward the street. Lost behind them, the Mercedes was amid the tangle of bigger vehicles, and the mountain walls echoed with the clatter of the Uzi and the desperate whine of the undersized Volkswagen engine. Reed shifted into second gear and launched the Beetle onto the street. The front windshield was all but obscured by frost and fog, and Reed squinted through it, shifting into third gear as the speedometer passed forty miles per hour.