The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  Reed grunted. “Yeah. Several times. What did you do?”

  Holiday shook his head and closed his eyes. “Protected a friend. Somebody I would’ve died for. And then . . .” The words blended into the whistle of the wind on the water. Holiday took another puff on the cigar, then tilted his head toward Reed. “You sure we haven’t met before? I swear there’s something familiar about you.”

  Reed forced a smile and looked away. “You probably saw me at a fundraiser. I have some business down in Savannah.”

  “No shit. Well, proud to represent you.”

  “No offense, Senator. I voted for the other guy. But I’d vote for you next time.”

  Holiday laughed and jammed the cigar between his back teeth. “There won’t be a next time, kid. If I ever get out of this cabin, I think it’s time I retired and found a quieter life.”

  Reed watched him out of the corner of his eye, studying Holiday’s every movement. The twitch of his eyes, the way he rubbed the railing with his right thumb. He radiated stress like a nuclear reactor.

  “Well, I need another beer,” Holiday said. “Can I get you anything?”

  Reed knocked the ashes off the end of the cigar, then extinguished it against the railing. “Actually, I was hoping I could borrow your vehicle. I need to run to town and get some fresh clothes.”

  Holiday raised an eyebrow. “It’s not going to end up in a ditch like my phone, is it?”

  Reed laughed. “I promise it won’t, Senator. And I’ll grab you some beer while I’m out.”

  Holiday’s eyes lit up at that, and he waved the cigar toward Reed with a drunken flip of his hand. “You’ve got my vote, Chris Thomas! Here”—he dropped his keys into Reed’s hand—“get a case.”

  Reed dumped the cigar into the snow, then jumped off the deck and hurried around the cabin to a jet-black Land Rover, mud and snow clinging to the fenders. It beeped once when he hit the unlocks, then roared to life as he slammed the door. He slid it into gear, then turned back down the drive and toward the highway.

  It was time to find some answers.

  Twenty-One

  Forty-five miles east of Lake Santeetlah lay Cherokee, North Carolina. Predominantly a tourist town, it was the closest city of significance that could promise the refitting Reed required. It took him over an hour to negotiate the narrow, slick mountain roads, but once he reached the city limits, he replaced his clothes at a department store, then purchased new bandages, over-the-counter painkillers, and a toothbrush.

  A quick trip to a convenience store bathroom allowed him to change clothes, wash the wound in his side, and wrap it in gauze.

  At an Internet café, he sat down at a computer with a tall cup of coffee. In spite of the full night’s rest, he could feel the wear and tear of the last few days dragging at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to pull him down. It was already growing dark outside as the building bank of clouds suffocated the sunlight. Within the hour, full darkness would fall, making it even harder to keep awake and alert.

  Holiday made a comment on the porch that finally connected two dots Reed had struggled with all afternoon. When Banks mentioned her father, Francis Morccelli, the name rang a bell, but he couldn’t place the memory. Holiday’s brief mention of a friend he tried to protect brought to mind Reed’s last intense conversation with the senator, back in the trailer outside of Atlanta. Reed had kidnapped Holiday and interrogated him in that trailer while wearing a mask, but during the process, Holiday asked a peculiar question of his own. He said, “Did you kill Frank?”

  Frank must’ve been Bank’s father and Holiday’s frat brother. Reed remembered Winter mentioning it two weeks prior when Reed first began to dig into Banks’s identity. Winter had said Frank and Holiday attended Vanderbilt University together, birthing a friendship that lasted into their professional lives. Banks believed her father died at the hands of a drunk driver. But Holiday’s morbid question while lying on the floor and staring into the eyes of his potential killer indicated otherwise.

  Why does Holiday think Frank was murdered?

  Reed searched online for “Dr. Francis Morccelli.” The resulting listings were overwhelming—much as he anticipated. He narrowed the search by adding “New Orleans” to the field, and found a local news article detailing the accident, dated June of 2013.

  Dr. Francis D. Morccelli of Tupelo, MS, was tragically killed last night around 12:45 a.m. when an intoxicated driver lost control of his vehicle and hit Dr. Morccelli three blocks off of Bourbon Street. Dr. Morccelli is survived by his wife, Samantha, and his daughter, Banks.

  Reed scanned the remainder of the article, but it recorded nothing helpful about the incident other than intended police investigations. He searched again for follow-up articles. Why were you in New Orleans, Doctor?

  “He was always driving up to Nashville.” Banks’s words echoed in his mind, and he placed his fingers on the keys again. “Dr. Morccelli, Vanderbilt, research, 2013.”

  This time the results were much more specific. Research papers written by Frank were all available for public consumption on Vanderbilt’s website. Apparently, Frank often partnered with Vanderbilt on research projects but wasn’t directly employed by the university or the hospital. He specialized in pharmaceutical research and had a great many radical theories about the possibilities of DNA-inspired synthetic drugs.

  “…the epicenter of my theory is this—a genetic disease is, by its nature, caused and extrapolated by the mutant, damaged, or underdeveloped genes of the host subject. These genes are the factory wherein diseases of all sorts are birthed and fostered. People with healthy genes don’t struggle from these illnesses. Why? The secret is in their DNA. They are wired and written differently from unhealthy people. It follows, therefore, that if we can synthetically replicate DNA that is healthy, and form that into an active agent that will replicate those healthy cells, we can rewire unhealthy DNA and breathe fresh life into a broken species.”

  Reed took a deep sip of coffee and scanned the remainder of the article. It was a transcript from a talk Frank delivered to a research class in 2012.

  Well, that doesn’t sound at all like a mad scientist.

  Another article was titled Cancer: The Secret to Replicating Cells, by Dr. F. D. Morccelli.

  So, Doc . . . you had a fascination with genetics. What did Mitch need to save you from?

  The remaining articles were about various research projects. The most recent was dated twelve months before his death and detailed a special research grant from a medical company named Beaumont Pharmaceutical. For a research scientist, that seemed like another day at the office—certainly nothing that appeared murder-worthy.

  If Frank was killed by the same people who were after Holiday, the link between them had to be the reason for their assassinations. But, assuming Morccelli’s death six years before wasn’t an accident, why wait this long to follow up with Holiday?

  He was still in on it. Whatever shit show this is, Holiday has been working for them ever since. It’s the only reason he would still be alive.

  Reed sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin while staring at the screen. The reality of what he was looking at sank in slowly, then took hold of his mind. Oliver wasn’t the villain here. Oliver was just another pawn. Somebody darker and bigger and lost in the shadows lay behind the curtain, calling the shots. They presumably killed Frank, and they now had reason to kill Holiday.

  These people weren’t killers, though. Criminals, for sure, but not hit men. That’s why they hired Oliver to get the job done, and Oliver passed the contract to Reed. When he realized that Reed had no intentions of continuing employment after his thirtieth kill, Oliver decided to set Reed up and have him thrown in prison for the Holiday murder.

  There to die.

  It hit Reed so hard he sat forward. Paul Choc, the Latino he killed in prison to secure his freedom. Was Choc another one of Oliver’s henchman who refused to continue employment? Somebody Oliver needed to be rid of?

&nbs
p; This was a system. A machine for Oliver. Hire new people, run them until they quit, and then burn them. Only now, Oliver had lost control. He had failed to burn the Prosecutor, and whoever Oliver was hired by had turned elsewhere to finish the job. They had turned to The Wolf, this third-party assassin, and deployed him to destroy Reed by any means necessary.

  Reed cleared the search history on the computer, then waved at a nearby barista and held up his phone. “Hey, do you have a charger for this?”

  The kid pointed to a bank of wires along the far wall, then shuffled off without further comment. Reed jammed the charger into the phone, then leaned against the counter. If Holiday was in on it, he must have screwed up or outlived his usefulness. That would explain the sudden desire of the shadows behind the curtain to end his life. Either way, Reed was no longer comfortable leaving Banks with the drunken senator. He was probably harmless himself, but he was also a target, and not a very streetwise target at that. A cabin on the lake with an open wall full of windows was a dumb place to hide. A sniper of subpar skill could take out the senator from across the lake in broad daylight, and the FBI would have nothing to do about it. It was only a matter of time before Oliver, or whoever the hell was after Holiday, made another attempt. Banks needed to be gone before then. He would drive back to the lake and make arrangements to secure her somehow.

  Reed closed the door of the coffee shop’s restroom. It smelled like too much bleach sloshed at random over the tile floor. On his way to the urinal, he did a double take of himself in the mirror. He looked like hell—messy hair and grime on his skin, and dark bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes.

  This job is killing me, one way or the other.

  “Welcome to Evan’s.” It was the sulky kid behind the counter.

  “Thank you.” The voice was clear and strong, late-twenties, brimming with confidence. “I’m Wolfgang.”

  Reed started, then zipped his pants as he stood in front of the urinal and waited.

  Wolfgang. That’s too much of a coincidence.

  “I’m looking for my friend,” Wolfgang spoke again, more casually this time.

  Reed pictured the handsome man in the peacoat from the day before. Imagined him leaning against the counter, drumming his fingers on the tip jar, and shooting the cashier a wink.

  “He’s a big guy,” Wolfgang said. “Brown hair. Real bad case of RBF.”

  Reed reached under his jacket and unholstered the pistol.

  “He’s in the restroom.” The kid spoke without hesitation or interest.

  Shit.

  Reed press-checked his handgun and laid his finger on the trigger. Feet clicked on the hardwood floor, and somebody laughed.

  “Great. Thanks, man.”

  “Hey, dude, what the fu—”

  The kid’s voice was broken off by the thunderous roar of a gun. The latch to the bathroom door exploded, sending shards of metal flying into the mirror as the door blew back on its hinges. Reed instinctively ducked as bullets tore through the wall just over his head, shaking the walls with each deafening clap.

  With his hand cocked around the doorframe, Reed fired blindly toward the attacker. The smaller caliber handgun snapped like a popgun next to the bellow of whatever the hell was being fired at him.

  Glass shattered, and the screams that ripped through the café were joined by the clatter of chairs colliding with tables. Reed jumped up and pivoted around the door. Already swinging with his left fist, his knuckles connected with the metal slide of an enormous handgun just as The Wolf pulled the trigger again. The gunshot detonated, and the shock wave of the bullet passed by Reed’s head as the muzzle flipped upward. Blood streamed from his ear, and every noise around him turned into ringing.

  The man standing directly in front of him was of average height, just under six feet. His hair was close-cropped, and his eyes were crystal blue—deep and penetrating, like sapphire stars. He wore a black trench coat over a full suit—the same suit Reed had seen him in the day before outside the Mercedes. But the most striking thing about his appearance wasn’t the suit, or the eyes, or even the fucking ridiculous handgun he held. It was his smile. No, it wasn’t a smile. It was a full-blown grin. And not the menacing, evil grin of a mob boss in a movie. This was more like the wild, unbridled grin of a kid with a new bike. Pure, genuine joy.

  Reed assimilated the entire scene in a millisecond and dismissed it all. He twisted his right hand and pressed the trigger of the Glock. It recoiled in his hand, and the bullet tore through the trench coat, just above the waistline, but he didn’t hear the shot. The grin faded, and those crystal eyes flashed in pain. The man stumbled back, coughing and grabbing at his side as Reed followed the shot with a swift punch to the shoulder, knocking him farther back into the café. The gun clattered out of The Wolf’s hand as he fell onto the floor, his face still awash with pain, but no blood seeped from the coat.

  Body armor.

  Reed kicked a chair out of the way and followed him, raising the Glock to align its sights with his forehead. He never got the chance to fire. The man on the floor twisted with blinding speed and swept his right leg against Reed’s ankles. He stumbled to keep from falling, catching himself on the counter, but before he could adjust his aim, Wolfgang was already on his feet and spinning toward him. The grin was back, flashing at him a millisecond before a sweeping roundhouse kick knocked the Glock out of Reed’s hand and sent his face crashing into the counter.

  The room spun as Reed pushed himself up and snatched the Ka-Bar from underneath his shirt, then lunged toward The Wolf with an aggressive sweep of the blade. The man ducked and dodged the stroke with ease, then followed it with a rabbit punch to Reed’s chest. The blow struck him with surprising force, knocking the wind out of his lungs and sending him stumbling backward.

  “You don’t disappoint, Montgomery. They told me you were good.”

  The Wolf paused, then reached into his pocket. A snapping sound rang out through the café, barely puncturing the ringing in Reed’s ears. The bright outline of a switchblade knife glistened in The Wolf’s right hand.

  Reed steadied himself and adjusted his grip on the Ka-Bar, holding the weapon at shoulder height and keeping his eyes locked on his attacker. He spat blood. “I was a Marine.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You know what the Marines say about knife fights?”

  The Wolf grinned. “Let me guess. . . . Don’t get in one?”

  “That’s right. Because everybody gets hurt.” Reed jumped a fallen chair and threw himself toward Wolfgang. He kicked up with his right foot, landing his boot into the man’s knee as he swept the Ka-Bar toward his attacker’s throat. The blade of the Ka-Bar missed The Wolf’s neck and tore into his jacket, shredding it and drawing blood from just above his body armor. The switchblade clattered to the floor a moment before they both followed, rolling onto the hardwood in a death lock. Reed fought to raise the knife still clutched in his right hand, but The Wolf’s crushing grip closed around his wrist and kept tightening, squeezing the blood from his veins and paralyzing his fingers.

  Reed rolled onto his back, and all he could see was The Wolf, leaning over him, his face still alive with that delighted grin. The knife’s gleaming tip dangled inches from Reed’s throat, and all at once, everything faded. He saw Banks’s face again. The bright, honest smile. The way she touched his chest. Her gentle words and radiating warmth. It felt like home.

  Home?

  Wolfgang bore down on him, pushing, shoving, driving his knife closer to Reed’s jugular with every passing second.

  I want to go home.

  Wolfgang threw his shoulder into Reed’s arm. The knife twitched, then fell half an inch closer.

  Twenty-Two

  Reed flailed out with his left arm, searching amid the table legs and spilled bagels. He backhanded a coffee mug and sent it spinning across the linoleum, then his fingers closed around something metallic—a spoon. He rammed the utensil into Wolfgang’s temple, digging through the skin and s
ending a stream of blood spurting over the floor. The Wolf shouted and released pressure on the knife, crashing to the floor beside Reed. The Ka-Bar clattered down behind him, and Reed jumped to his feet, though he could barely see through the blood and adrenaline. As he searched for either gun on the floor, he heard The Wolf struggling to his feet behind him.

  Reed grabbed the nearest chair and turned, swinging wildly. It was a lucky stroke. The metal chair slammed into Wolfgang’s upper arm, knocking the switchblade from his hand again, and sending him crashing backward. Reed dropped the chair and dashed for the door, scrambling for the Land Rover keys in his pocket as he rushed into the parking lot. The all-too-familiar sound of sirens rang in the distance as he jerked the driver’s door open and jumped inside.

  Wolfgang appeared in front of the SUV, the giant handgun clutched between his fingers. He raised it, the grin returning as he laid his finger on the trigger. Reed ducked and shoved the vehicle into gear, slamming on the gas as the handgun thundered again. The bullet busted through the windshield as the tires bounced over the curb and the bumper collided with Wolfgang. Reed kept his head beneath the dash as he shifted into reverse and planted his foot into the accelerator again.

  The big British motor rumbled, and the tires spun before catching on the frozen pavement and launching him backward. Reed sat up and turned the wheel to the right before slamming on the brake. The SUV slid into the street, the nose swinging around until he faced the oncoming lane of traffic. The top-heavy vehicle swayed as he completed the turn, and for a moment, he thought it would roll.

  Reed threw the shifter back into drive and shoved the pedal to the floor, lurching the SUV forward in a screaming chorus of tires and swerving onto the main avenue of the tiny community. One headlight was out, and there was a big dent in the hood, but the Land Rover drove with surprising force. In mere seconds, the speedometer crossed sixty miles an hour as Reed turned around a tight corner, narrowly missing an oncoming police car. Blue lights blinded him, illuminating the inside of the SUV as bright as day. He jerked the wheel back to the left, sliding around the rear bumper of the squad car and redirecting the Land Rover down a new street.