by Logan Ryles
She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a rule breaker.”
“Clearly. Ask me another.”
She pursed her lips and looked up at the tree limbs hanging over the road. “Beach or mountains?”
“Beach. All day. You?”
“Same. Florida coast. Destin is my spot. Sports or movies?”
“Sports. Football and drag racing.”
She giggled. “Yeah, don’t quit your day job. You suck at racing.”
“Well, if I had a decent car!” He jabbed at her, but she moved to the side and danced backwards, her hands in her pockets as she stared at him.
“Okay,” she said. “Now for the tough ones. Don’t think. Just answer. Red or blue?”
“Red.”
“Cold or hot?”
“Hot.”
“Men or women?”
“Wait . . . what?” He wrinkled his brow, and she laughed, her eyes alight as she skipped backward, her feet moving over the road with deft accuracy. Her laugh was so light and gentle. Reed had never heard a sound so lovely. So much like home.
He broke into a run, pounding through the pavement as she slid to the side. His arms closed around her stomach, and he hoisted her off the ground, cradling her in his arms in the middle of the roadway. Bits of fresh snowfall stuck to her hair as she stared at him, her smile wide and bright. Reed kissed her, and she kissed back, wrapping her hand around his neck and pressing in close.
Tires ground on the pavement behind them. Reed flinched and jammed his hand beneath the jacket, wrapping his fingers around the grip of the Glock. His feet were rooted to the ground as the rumble of a big motor pounded closer. A lifted pickup truck hummed down the road behind them, its diesel engine rumbling over the asphalt. Reed relaxed his shoulders and held out his hand, thumb up. The truck bounced to a stop, and the passenger side window slid down. Even from his six-foot-four vantage point, Reed could barely see inside the cab.
“You folks lost?” The big man in the cab wore camouflage hunting clothes and a bright orange hat. His wide smile was missing more than a few teeth, but he looked friendly nonetheless.
“We broke down a few miles back, and we’re trying to get back to town. Mind giving us a lift?”
“Which town ya headed to?”
Reed shrugged and smiled in the most disarming way he could. “Dunno. We’re traveling through. Not exactly sure where we are.”
Banks shoved Reed out of the way and hopped up onto the truck’s running board before he could stop her. She shoved her head into the cab and offered her hand to the driver. “Hell of a rig you got here. You ever run biodiesel in this baby?”
The big man grinned. “What, you a motorhead? Climb in, darlin’. I’ll get y’all back to the big city.”
Nineteen
As it turned out, the “big city” was Fontana Dam, a tiny community nestled in northern Graham County, with a resident population of thirty people. George, their driver, was planning to do some shopping there at the local general store, but by the time they rolled into the little community, Banks had him so warmed up talking about engines that he readily agreed to drive them another thirty minutes in the opposite direction, to Lake Santeetlah, a booming metropolis, population forty-three.
Reed rode in the back seat, jammed up next to a pile of smelly hunting clothes, while Banks took shotgun, carrying on a boisterous conversation with the George about the understated performance power of diesels and their unappreciated racing capacity.
Banks’s thorough understanding of engines was impressive and shocking. At the time, Reed assumed Banks’s opening comment to George was designed simply to disarm him and secure their ride, but he quickly realized she had a genuine interest in the subject. Her technical knowledge of motors and performance, while a lot different than Reed’s, was nonetheless enchanting.
How many times in a lifetime do you meet somebody like this? Somebody so sincere, and happy, and content with themselves?
As they piled out of the truck, George called after Banks, adding some last-minute wisdom about turbo-diesels. After Banks waved with a big smile, George turned his toothy grin toward Reed and addressed him for the first time since picking them up.
“You take care of her. You hear me, boy? Got a good un, right there!”
The truck roared and bounced off, back toward the north. Standing at the edge of the small town, Reed shot Banks an inquisitive look.
She laughed and shrugged. “What? I told you I’m a southern girl.”
The town of Lake Santeetlah sat right next to the water and consisted of a small gathering of homes and shops. Banks explained that Holiday’s cabin sat fifty yards off the water, halfway back to Robbinsville.
Once again, the sky boiled with muddy grey clouds, sweeping in from the west over the mountains. Another snowfall was coming—maybe a bigger one. Reed didn’t like the idea of staying with Banks while The Wolf was still on the prowl, but it was probably the best option if the weather took a turn for the worse. Because of the cold, there were no boats out on the lake, but Banks found a local with a pontoon boat down by the dock, and Reed paid him forty bucks to ferry them to Holiday’s place.
As the water lapped and churned against the bottom of the boat, Reed stood at the bow with his arms crossed and tried to force his mind to relax. He didn’t like crossing the open water, fully exposed this way, but he liked the idea of walking the narrow mountain roads even less. With luck, The Wolf was still snowed in ten miles to the west, and that would buy him enough time to get Banks back to safety.
“Let her go, Reed. I saw the look in your eyes when you said her name. Take it from me . . . you break hearts a lot better than you break necks.”
Kelly’s warning echoed in his mind as he glanced back at Banks sitting next to the driver, chatting it up about fishing in the winter. The pilot was as engaged with her as George had been, laughing and motioning with his hands as he disclosed all of his secret fishing spots.
She’s unlike anyone else on the planet—even Kelly.
Kelly. She was a lot of things—wild, ferocious, somewhat abrasive—but she had rarely been wrong in the two years he’d known her. Their love, for however long it lasted, felt real. Maybe it even felt like the kind of thing lifelong partnerships were made of, but looking back now, Reed could see the gaping cracks in their union. It was never meant to last, yet he put a lot of faith in Kelly’s opinion. Her condemnation of his interest in Banks shook the foundation of the longing that boiled in his soul. Ever since David Montgomery was hauled off to prison and Tabitha dragged her son to the far side of the country, Reed never felt at home. But here, standing on this boat and watching Banks laugh . . . it felt more like home than anything he remembered.
Reed rested on the railing and watched the black water ripple and churn under the pontoons, vanishing from sight beneath the deck of the boat. Life was like that: It was here, so vibrant and active and beautiful, and then it was gone, swept away, and vanishing into the darkness of the world around it.
Banks can’t be swept away like that.
He made the choice at the hospital to walk out and leave Banks standing in the hallway with tears streaming down her beautiful face. He remembered why he made that choice, and the reality of his situation sank in again.
I’ll get her to Holiday. Make sure she and Holiday will be safe again. Deal with The Wolf and deal with Oliver. And then I’ll disappear. She deserves that.
The boat’s motor whined down as the pilot allowed the pontoon to glide the last twenty yards until it ground against the muddy bank of the lake. Banks laughed and gave the driver a fist-bump, then walked through the front gate and jumped ashore. Reed waved at the pilot and followed, looking at the cabin that sat at the top of a hill.
It was nothing short of spectacular, and obviously kit-built, but still refined. Giant red logs formed an A-frame sheathed in dark green sheet metal. Glass lined the front of the cabin, facing out toward the water, and exposing a brightly lit interior on the other side.
A tall man wearing a dark grey uniform and carrying an assault rifle stood by the door, monitoring the lake as though it were the most boring view in the universe.
Banks slid her fingers between his, and he looked down at her soft white hand.
God, this woman.
She pulled him up the hill, and Reed followed without protest, nodding at the guard once before Banks opened the door.
“Uncle! I’m back!”
A clattering sound rang from the other end of the cabin, and Mitch Holiday appeared at the door. He wore dark blue jeans and a turtleneck shirt, and his hair was perfectly combed back—the picture of political composure.
“Banks!” He ran across the living room and wrapped her in a tight hug.
Reed scanned the small cabin, noting the pile of legal documents heaped on the coffee table next to an open laptop. A gas fire burned in the hearth, sending silent flames dancing amongst fireproof logs. His stomach growled, and he turned back to the senator.
Holiday still held Banks close to his chest, both arms wrapped around her shoulders. “My God, girl. I was so worried. Where the hell did you go?”
Banks grinned at him, then turned to Reed. “Oscar broke down, but look who I found!”
Mitch looked up, his eyes settling on Reed for the first time. His gaze was clouded by uncertainty for a moment, which melted under a warm smile. “Chris!” He wrapped his long and powerful arms around Reed in a big bear hug.
Reed stood awkwardly while the senator finished the hug, then watched Holiday stumble back. He moved slowly, with pain flashing in his eyes. Thick bandages were visible, wadded up beneath the turtleneck, and over the wounds he still didn’t know Reed had inflicted two weeks before, back in the trailer outside of Atlanta.
“How are you, Senator?”
Holiday sighed and looked at Banks again. His smile was so genuine. “I’m better, Chris. Got this shit patched up and getting back to work now. You can see they’ve got me bottled up here like a prisoner. But that’s part of it, I suppose.”
Banks gave Holiday’s arm a squeeze, then rushed past him toward the open kitchen. “We haven’t eaten. What’s for lunch?”
Holiday waved her aside. “Get out of here. I’m fixing lunch. Chris! You like steak?”
“Sure.” Reed sat down at the bar and bit back a grunt. Flashes of new pain pulsated through his torso, erupting from the bruises and cuts that crisscrossed his ribcage. Taking another one of Kelly’s pills would only cause exhaustion, and he couldn’t afford that. He needed to focus now.
Holiday clattered about the kitchen, throwing pots on the stove and digging in the fridge. Banks sat down beside Reed and put her head on his shoulder. Once again, he marveled at her composure and calmness. She had just been shot at, run through the woods, almost drowned, and starved to death. Yet here she was, relaxed and warm, acting as though nothing in the world could steal her peace. This woman was bulletproof. Invincible.
“Why did you lie?” Reed whispered beneath the clang of pots.
“About what?”
“What happened in the woods?”
Banks shrugged. “Because I still don’t know the truth.”
Fair answer.
Reed adjusted himself on the stool, then cleared his throat. “Could I borrow a phone, Senator? Mine is dead.”
“Mitch. Call me Mitch. And sure, mine’s on the table.”
Reed smiled at Banks, then scooped up the phone and stepped back through the door. The guard cast him a casual, uninterested glance, then resumed his surveillance of the lake. Reed walked into the woods, putting enough distance between himself and the guard to prevent his voice from traveling, and then he dialed.
“Winter.”
“Don’t hang up.”
The line went silent, then Winter snapped back with a hint of venom. “I told you not to call me again. I’m not getting involved with your little war.”
“This isn’t about that. I have another question. Legitimate business. Will you talk to me?”
Winter’s silence was noncommittal, but Reed took it as acceptance.
“I need a personnel file. Just a basic sum-up.”
“Name?” Winter spat the word.
“I don’t have a name. But I think he’s called The Wolf.”
Dead silence returned to the line, then grinding teeth resounded through the phone. “I told you, I’m not getting involved in this war of yours.”
“So you know him? Who is he?”
“Somebody you really don’t want to cross. Is that enough information for you?”
“Who does he work for? Oliver?”
Winter’s groan was full of derision and impatience. This was more emotion than Reed had ever heard from Winter.
“Oliver couldn’t afford him. He’s a free agent. A top-shelf killer. One of the best in the world, and much better than Oliver’s crew.”
Reed leaned against a pine tree. “I’m flattered.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he’s trying to kill me.”
“In that case, nice knowing you. This is the end of your rope.”
“I’m not that easy to kill, Winter. What else can you tell me?”
“Only what I’ve already told you. You’re in way over your head. Remember when I told you that? This is what I was talking about. Never call me again.”
The line clicked off, and Reed stared down at the blank phone screen.
If he’s not working for Oliver, who the hell is he working for?
Reed swiped at the number on the outbound call list, but there wasn’t an option to delete it from the history. He cursed, then turned and smashed the phone against the tree, on the third strike, shattering the screen.
Walking back toward the cabin, he kicked at the dirt, trying to make sense of Winter’s evolving behavior. Was the ghost afraid, or was Winter simply maintaining absolute neutrality?
“I dropped your phone, Mitch.” Reed set the busted device on the counter. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one.”
Holiday looked down at the phone, and a brief frown crossed his face. He flicked his hand in the air. “No worries, Chris. Grab a chair. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Twenty
Holiday never stopped talking. He sawed through his steak, rattling on about everything from Georgia politics to peach ice cream, filling the meal with a steady stream of pontifications and musings. Every time he asked Reed or Banks a question, he took so long to clarify what he was asking that the actual inquiry was lost in the weeds. Reed took a sip of the expensive craft beer, watching Holiday chew like a machine while he launched into a dissertation on coastal shipping outside of Savannah. With each key point, he tapped the tip of his steak knife on the wooden table.
He’s scared shitless. But why?
“And that’s why I support local tariffs, you see? Everybody has to get paid.”
Reed finished the beer and set the bottle on the table. “Do you spend a lot of time in Brunswick, Mitch?”
Holiday shook his head, pushing the plate back and letting out a sigh. “Not as much as I’d like. Always in Atlanta these days.”
“I thought the general assembly was almost finished for the year.”
“Sure, we are. But then there’s other work. . . . Anyway, what do you do again?”
“I’m a day trader.”
“I thought you said you invested in businesses?” Holiday’s eyes were bloodshot, betraying his increasing intoxication as clearly as the stack of empty beer bottles beside him.
Reed shrugged. “Well, you know. . . . You don’t put all your eggs in one basket, right?”
Holiday smacked the table. “Exactly! That’s what I tell people all the time. You have to diversify. That’s what I told them when . . .” He trailed off suddenly, then shook his head. “Wow, I think I’ve overindulged a little. My apologies, Chris. Would you like dessert? I was thinking maybe some peach—”
“Actually, Senator, I was hoping you had a cigar handy.”
Holiday’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights, and he broke into a grin. “A cigar man, eh? I knew I liked you. Let me fetch my humidor, and we’ll step out on the porch.”
Banks smiled and patted Reed on the hand. “I’m going to take a shower in something other than a creek. See you in a minute.”
She kissed him on the cheek, letting her lips linger a moment longer than was necessary. That warm rush flooded through his body again, and he closed his eyes. Then she squeezed his arm and walked toward the bathroom.
Holiday reappeared from his bedroom holding a small wooden box and a Zippo. Reed returned his smile, then stepped out onto the front porch. The guard had moved farther down the lot toward the lake and joined an identically dressed man carrying a shotgun. It was barely one in the afternoon, but the boiling clouds blocked the sun, leaving the surface of the water a churning black beneath the wind.
Reed accepted a cigar and snipped the end off with his teeth, then dangled the tip over Holiday’s outstretched lighter. The smoke tasted sweet and strong, definitely Cuban, and well-aged. Reed took a long puff and wished like hell it was a cigarette instead.
“So tell me, Mitch. How long do they expect you to be up here?”
Holiday rolled the cigar between his fingers, then took a slow puff. “Who knows, kid. Nobody talks to me.”
“Do they have any leads, at least?”
“Yeah . . .” Holiday stared at the lake with empty eyes. “Got some guy on videotape. The guy who busted me out of the FBI office. Working on running him down now.”
“Well, I hope they find him.”
Holiday just stared at the water over the front rail of the deck, wearing only the turtleneck, but not shivering in the cutting cold.
“Why do you think they want you dead? Some legislative business?”
“No, nothing like that.” He stuffed the cigar back between his teeth and puffed, long and slow. Reed decided to wait for him to speak, trusting the alcohol in Holiday’s blood more than he trusted his own ability to worm out the truth.
Holiday spoke in a low monotone, still staring into space. “You ever do something you think is the right thing . . . and it just kind of . . . becomes something else?”