The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  “Sir . . . you need to stand up. Come with me.” A police officer’s eyes were filled with compassion as his firm but gentle grip descended on Reed’s arm. “Sir, stand up, please. We’ll get you help.”

  Reed watched the stretchers as they vanished inside the van. The last glimpse of the bodies faded inside, and the doors crashed shut.

  “Can you tell us who they were? We haven’t identified the bodies.”

  Reed forced back the tears and ran his tongue over dry lips. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he spoke, he didn’t recognize his own voice. The toneless words sounded as though they came from another world. Another man. “Her name is Kelly Armstrong.”

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry.” The officer patted his arm. “Come with me. You need medical attention.”

  A soft whimpering rang from beyond the fire engines. Reed’s eyes snapped open, and he looked back toward the burned-out house. He heard it again—barely audible but strong.

  “Baxter?”

  Reed pushed past the policeman, around the firefighters, and through the rubble of the house toward the burned-out backyard. He heard the whimper again—stronger this time. He grabbed a picnic table half-consumed by the scalding flames, and pain shot up his arms as the embers of the dying fire burned into his skin. With one powerful push, he threw it back and looked down.

  Baxter’s short brown hair was singed from the fire, and his big black eyes were bloodshot as he stared up at Reed. Swollen red burn marks crisscrossed his skin, and his breaths came in short, whistling bursts. He lay on the ground, barely moving, his paws and legs blackened by ashes and soot.

  Reed scooped the big dog up, holding him close to his chest as tears streamed down his cheeks. “It’s okay, boy. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.”

  The bulldog whimpered again and pressed his wrinkly face close to Reed’s chest. He smelled of ashes and smoke, and his skin trembled when Reed touched the burn marks, but he didn’t fight as he settled into Reed’s arms.

  Reed turned back to the street but stopped as he saw the officer step forward, his head tilted toward the radio clipped to his uniform. The cop nodded once, then reached for his gun. “Sir, stop where you are. Put down the dog.”

  Reed didn’t wait for the gun to rise from the holster. He dashed back through the ashes of the home, slipping through the backyard as men shouted behind him. With Baxter clutched in his arms, he ran through the yards of half a dozen homes before dashing between two houses and reaching the Escalade.

  Shouts and sirens rang out, but Reed ignored them as he swept the revolver aside and set Baxter into the passenger seat. The tires spun, and the SUV slid around again, back toward the open street. Sirens faded behind him, wisping away as quickly and elusively as the smoke into the black sky.

  Reed didn’t try to hold back the sobs that racked his body. His arms shook as the tears streamed down his face. He could still see her small, burned body lying on that stretcher. Faceless. Nameless. Her unborn baby inside of her. The reality that it was his fault was inescapable. He had brought Kelly into this and made her fiancé and her innocent baby victims of his own failures. And these people, these shadows behind the curtain, these demons who called the shots, held Oliver on a leash, and released murderers into the world—he didn’t know why or what they were protecting, but it was obvious they would stop at nothing to get what they wanted

  Baxter sat up in the passenger seat, his beady eyes fixed on the bloody revolver lying on the floorboard. His lip curled up over his jutting teeth as his chest rumbled into a deep, menacing growl. Reed placed one hand on the big dog, sinking his fingers into the singed hair and soft skin.

  There was nobody left—no allies, no friends. Banks was gone. Holiday was dead. Winter had cut Reed off. There was only one choice before him—only one road to travel. He blinked back the tears and clenched his fingers around the wheel. “Don’t worry, boy. We’re going to kill them. We’re going to kill them all.”

  Total War

  Book 3 in the Reed Montgomery Series

  For my parents, Tony and Karen

  Who dedicated their lives to their children.

  One

  12:42 a.m.

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  Morgallo Casino

  Present Day

  “Are you here to check in?”

  The woman behind the counter wore a red velvet vest, black satin pants, and shoes that gleamed under the casino lights. Her hair was knotted behind her head, exposing the tight skin of too many facelifts and not enough vitamin D. The smile she wore couldn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes or the disinterest in her tone.

  Reed pushed his aviator sunglasses closer to his eyes. He laid the metal business card on the counter, and the casino lights glinted off its glossy black surface, shining on the emblem of a silver badger etched in the center of the card.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Muri.”

  A shadow of emotion broke the exhaustion in her vacant gaze. Or maybe it was excitement. Trepidation?

  They so often look the same. I wonder if she knows what kind of man she works for.

  The woman smiled again, nodded once, and disappeared through a doorway. Reed replaced the card into his pocket and leaned against the counter. The edge of the granite bit into the back of his sport coat, colliding with his bruised back. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, the flashing neon lights were only partially muted. The shrink of slot machine levers melded with the clinking ring of the dials as they spun like Ferris wheels on crack. A craps table on the far side of the room was crowded by a dozen men in collared shirts, half-drunk, leaning in, and shouting as the dice bounced over the scarlet felt. The faint odor of flowers wafted from an air freshening device buried in the vents of the overhead AC unit, a clever design that subdued the chaos and tension of the room and further facilitated reckless spending.

  What a masterpiece. And people wonder why the house always wins.

  “Sir?” The woman returned to the counter.

  Reed stood up with a soft grunt as his aching muscles objected to the movement. Her smile was gone now. Two large men with emotionless stares accompanied her, both dressed in dark grey suits that bulged with their oversized arms and barrel chests.

  Why do all mob goons look the same?

  “These men will escort you to Mr. Muri.”

  Reed stepped around the counter. The first goon pushed the door open and led the way into a hall while the second fell in behind Reed. Flashes of orange and blue from the casino floor vanished into a sterile white of LED overheads glaring onto the floor and walls. The hall reminded Reed of a sick ward in a hospital or a research facility—bare minimum in every way with plain metal doors and cheap linoleum flooring.

  The house doesn’t waste money, either. Another reason it always wins.

  Except for today. Today, everyone would lose. It was why Reed left Georgia and drove twelve hours to be there. It was why he jacked himself up on caffeine pills before leaving the rental car in an alley and slipping up to the casino like another drunk tourist—casual, but fully alert and ready to kill.

  The house isn’t winning today. Today it will burn.

  Twin silver doors blocked their path at the end of the hall. The lead goon punched a button on the wall, and the elevator opened immediately, revealing an interior decorated with mahogany panels and gold rails. Gentle elevator music drifted down from invisible speakers. Reed walked in and waited while the two men swiped ID cards, then mashed an unmarked button at the bottom of the panel. The doors glided shut, and they turned on him as the car began to descend.

  “Arms up.” The command was as blunt and bland as the man who grunted it. Reed lifted his arms while the men felt down his legs, around his waist, and over his ribcage. The big hand running up his side stopped at the suede leather holster with the oversized revolver tucked inside. The retainer strap clicked, and the weapon fell into the goon’s fingers.

  The men looked down at the massive handgun.
Even with a short, four-inch barrel, the .500 magnum revolver dwarfed their large hands. As the first man lifted the gun and raised both eyebrows, the gaping, fifty-caliber muzzle stared Reed in the face

  Reed shrugged. “Bear hunting.”

  They sneered at him, and the revolver disappeared beneath one man’s sport coat as the elevator bell rang and the doors rolled open. Reed was shoved forward into a hallway that couldn’t have been more different from the stark white of four floors above. More mahogany panels framed dark red carpet, gold trim, and brass light fixtures. Shadows clung to the corners, and the big feet of the two men behind him barely made a sound as they propelled him down the hallway toward the tall oak door at the end. Both men placed their thumbs against a black panel mounted next to the doorjamb, and the lock clicked.

  This Muri guy really thinks he’s something. All middlemen do.

  The door swung open without a sound, and once more, the meaty hands pushed him forward. Reed stumbled across the carpet onto a thick rug, his vision temporarily blinded by the flash of lights overhead. Built into the walls of the large room were tall bookshelves, and a giant leather couch was situated behind a glass table stacked with liquor bottles. A quick survey of the occupants revealed a tall, thin man in a suit standing in one corner, a whiskey glass in one hand, and his black hair plastered against his scalp. Only one other person occupied the parlor, and he faced Reed from the comfort of an oversized leather couch, one leg crossed over the other, and round glasses mounted over a pointed nose. His face was worn and pale, with a network of scars tracing his left cheek and leading up to his ear.

  Reed heard the door click behind him, and he tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket, brushing out the wrinkles left by the thick fingers of the two goons. One thug handed the revolver to the man on the couch, who surveyed the weapon, then motioned toward a chair sitting across from him. Reed adjusted his sunglasses again, then took a seat.

  “Welcome.” The man’s voice was smooth, laden with a thick Swiss accent, but he spoke with the relaxed tone of a person comfortable with English. “Charles, won’t you pour our guest a brandy?”

  The tall man with the black hair lifted a bottle of brown liquor, then handed Reed a tumbler textured with diamond stipples. The first sip revealed the unmistakable smoky smoothness of a high-dollar brand—something old and rare.

  “Thank you.” Reed lifted the glass toward the man on the couch and was answered with a slight bow.

  “Whom do I have the pleasure of hosting?” The voice was still calm, but an air of directness slipped into the tone.

  Reed set the glass on the table and popped his knuckles. “Call me Chris. It’s not overly important who I am.”

  He shrugged—slight, and disinterested. “Fine. What can I do for you, Chris?”

  “I understand you’re in the business of providing contractors. Specifically, the criminal kind.”

  The room fell silent. Reed was vaguely aware of the two big men standing to his left, and Charles stepped behind a tall armchair, his hands falling out of sight.

  Probably to a gun or a knife. As if either will save him.

  The man on the couch smiled. “You’re quite mistaken. I’m a simple businessman. A casino owner. Nothing more.”

  Reed leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He flipped the card from his pocket and onto the table, then returned the smile. “No, you’re not. You’re Cedric Muri. The goon broker.”

  The smile on Cedric’s face faded as he eyed the card with the glowing silver badger. He took a long sip of brandy, then returned his gaze to Reed. “Where did you get that?”

  “From a dead man. Big fellow, cross-eyed. Carried a rather large Smith and Wesson revolver. The one you’re holding, as it happens.”

  Cedric’s gaze snapped to the weapon, then back at Reed. Fire blazed in his eyes, and he dropped the brandy onto the table. He sat forward. “Why are you here?”

  “We’ll get to that in just a moment. First, I need some information. Besides the big guy I killed in North Carolina, you also hired out some East European thugs to a South American prick named Salvador. While I was busy carving them up in Atlanta, one of them mentioned your name. So, my question is, why are you supplying soldiers to the people who want to kill me?”

  Cedric’s lips lifted into a smile. “Reed Montgomery. The assassin.”

  Reed nodded. “That’s me, although I’m trying my damnedest to retire. People like you are making it difficult.”

  “That’s because people like me are threatened by rogue assassins like you.”

  “You wouldn’t be if you had stayed out of it. Those two Europeans I mentioned kidnapped a young lady on behalf of Mr. Salvador. I happen to like her, a lot. And then, of course, there are the men I gunned down at Pratt-Pullman Yard in Atlanta. None of these shitheads were proper assassins. None of them were Oliver Enfield’s men. So they must’ve been yours, and you’re going to tell me who paid for them.”

  Cedric drummed the tips of his fingers against each other, producing the only noise in the still room. He lifted one finger and motioned toward Reed. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Montgomery. I’m sure Mr. Salvador will pay handsomely for your head.”

  Reed lifted the brandy glass and drained the contents. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  The floor creaked under the weight of one of the big men, whose reflection Reed saw flash in the gold railing behind Cedric. As he leaned forward to deliver a death blow, Reed sprang from the chair, and without turning around, grabbed him by the arm. With a quick heave, he bent forward and dragged him over his back. The goon sailed over the chair and crashed against the tabletop in an explosion of glass. A gunshot cracked from behind Reed, snapping against the wooden walls and reverberating in his ears. Cedric dove to the carpet as Reed followed him and Charles vanished behind the minibar.

  The revolver’s grip filled Reed’s hands as he jerked it off the floor and spun it toward the thug lying amid the shattered table. With a quick pull of the trigger, the room erupted into an explosion. The man on the floor convulsed as his head was blasted apart under the smashing impact of the 350-grain projectile. The shockwave that tore through Reed’s arm sent him hurtling back against the floor as though a horse had kicked him. Glass tore through his jacket and into his shoulder, sinking into flesh so bruised he barely felt the cuts. Reed redirected the revolver and fired again, sending the second goon crashing to the floor.

  Two more shots tore through the paneling that sheltered Charles, sending shards of wood spraying over the floor amid the broken liquor bottles. The gunshots ceased. Reed picked himself up, dusted off his cheap suit, and rubbed his sore shoulder. The handgun kicked like nothing he’d ever fired before. His hand ached, and his ears rang from the thunderous blast.

  But it damn sure gets the job done.

  The two fallen gunmen lay still and silent, with none of the twitches or residual fighting power he was used to men having after he shot them in the chest with his .357 Sig. The Smith and Wesson 500 was the cannon of the handgun world. The last word.

  A gasping, rasping sound leaked from behind the couch. Reed rubbed his thumb against the Smith and shoved the couch out of the way, exposing the groveling figure of Cedric Muri on the floor behind it. Slobber and spilled brandy coated the hardwood floor beneath him, and he scrambled backward as Reed advanced.

  “You should’ve worked with me, Cedric.”

  “Please . . .” Cedric held out his hand. “Let’s discuss this!”

  Reed squatted on the carpet and grabbed Cedric by the hair, pulling him forward and shoving the Smith’s muzzle against his neck. Patience and self-restraint vanished from his body as renewed rage replaced it, quickening his heart rate and making his hand shake against the handle of the gun.

  “Listen to me, you fuck. Last week, a house burned down in Canton, Georgia. Two people died. Were your men involved?”

  Cedric choked and struggled against the gun. “I don’t know!”

  Reed shoved t
he gun harder into his throat. “Like hell you don’t know. Tell me!”

  “I swear I never know what my men are hired to do! I’m just a business—”

  Reed smashed the revolver against the side of Cedric’s skull. “Shut up with your excuses and third-party innocence. Do I look like I care?”

  Once more, Cedric clawed at Reed’s arm and tried to look away.

  Reed slammed his head back against the couch and screamed into his face. “Look at me like a man when I’m talking to you!”

  Cedric shuddered, then slowly turned his head toward Reed.

  “Were your men responsible? Answer the question.”

  Reed had stared into a lot of eyes in the moments preceding a kill. Sometimes those eyes were a hundred yards away, viewed through a scope. Sometimes they were only photos—images of the people he was hunting. In none had he seen such total terror like the complete, consuming fear that filled Cedric’s.

  The shuddering, fragment of a man on the floor nodded his confession.

  Reed threw Cedric against the floorboards and stood up. “Do you know her name?”

  Cedric just sobbed.

  “I thought not. Her name was Kelly Armstrong, and she was a good woman. I don’t suppose you know what that means, but it’s an incredibly rare thing to find anyone good in this world. Kelly was the best of the best. Your men torched her house and burned her alive. Not at your orders, I’m sure, but you were complicit.”

  Reed lifted the revolver and opened the cylinder. He ejected the spent fifty-caliber casings, then fed new cartridges into the weapon. Cedric gasped for air; his wide eyes fixed on the handgun.