by Logan Ryles
“Do you know what they call me?” Reed snapped the cylinder shut and faced Cedric. “I know you’ve heard. What’s my name?”
Cedric’s voice warbled over the bile that boiled out of his throat. “They call you The Prosecutor.”
“That’s right. They call me the prosecutor because I’m all about justice. I lay down the law. Balance the scales. Or at least that’s what I told myself so I could sleep at night. But all that has changed. I’m over it, you know? I’ve moved on to bigger things. So you can rest assured I’m not a prosecutor, and I’m not here for justice.”
Momentary hope flashed in Cedric’s eyes as he peered up at Reed, his fingernails sinking into the hardwood. That hope vanished the instant Reed laid the muzzle against Cedric’s forehead and cocked the hammer.
“I’m an executioner. And I’m here for revenge.”
“No . . . please . . .” New sobs escaped Cedric’s throat as he stared down the barrel and into Reed’s cold eyes.
“Who hired you?” Reed spat out the question like a bad taste in his mouth. “Was it Oliver Enfield?”
Cedric shook his head.
“So, who was it? Give me a name, and I’ll make your death quick.”
“Please . . . don’t kill me. I have a family.”
“So did she!” Reed screamed and kicked Cedric in the stomach. The man fell forward, coughing and spluttering over the carpet.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. I never had a name. I only dealt with Salvador.”
Reed gripped the revolver, wondering if he could believe Cedric, then decided that it didn’t matter. “I should kill you. You deserve to die. Do you know that?”
Cedric convulsed on the floor and didn’t answer. Reed grabbed him by the hair and screamed in his face. “I said, do you know that?”
Tears streamed down his face as Cedric nodded. “Yes…yes. I do. I deserve to die.”
Reed released him, and spat on the floor. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. It just so happens I’m going to let you live, because you have a job to do. Do you understand me?”
Cedric nodded emphatically. “What do you want?”
“I want them to know who’s coming for them. I want them to know they rattled a cage they should’ve never touched. Go back to your bosses, and tell them Reed Montgomery has declared total war. Do you understand me?”
Cedric nodded again, sweat dripping off his sharp cheekbones.
Reed lowered the weapon, relaxing his finger off the trigger. He stared at the man on the floor, then walked away. Cedric gasped for air behind him, and Reed heard his hands hit the floor. A soft, metallic click echoed through the room.
In one fluid motion, Reed spun around, and the gun bucked in his hand as he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into Cedric’s chest and sent him crashing to the floor as the pistol fell from his hands.
Reed holstered the revolver beneath his shirt and leered into the security camera on the ceiling. He lifted one hand and pointed into the lens. “I’m coming.”
Two
2:30 p.m.
McEwan Hall
University of Edinburgh
Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom
“A tradition of excellence in both academic achievement and the pursuits of human development is core to the most sacred values of this institution, and has been since our founding. When calling to mind some of the greatest examples of students who have embraced these values with their entire souls over the course of my forty-year career, the young man who will speak next will most certainly be among the first names I remember. He is a sterling example of work ethic, dedication, and a relentless desire to understand and push the barrier of knowledge as we know it. For the twenty nineteen graduating class of Edinburgh Medical School, please welcome for the first time . . . Dr. Wolfgang Pierce!”
The old hall erupted in cheers from the hundreds of guests and students. Many of the voices that called out in excitement reflected accents from all over the world—Australian, Spanish, Indian, Polish—but the slender white male who mounted the steps was unmistakably American. With high cheekbones and a bold brow, his body language was consumed by overtones of excitement as he smiled at the crowd and waved at his fellow students. The spring in his step spoke to his youth—not more than thirty-five, at most—but the quiet confidence that followed him as he stepped behind the podium felt older, more collected.
Wolfgang rested his hands on the worn mahogany. As the cheering died out, the hall was again swallowed in stillness and genuine anticipation, as though the guests in this hallowed place actually cared about what Wolfgang would say next. His fellow students knew him not just as the academic king of the university, but as a friend—a smiling face with kind words at every class.
“Thank you, Dean Rostier. And thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your generous welcome. My name is Wolfgang, and I’m from New York.”
Before he could continue, another eruption of applause broke from the student body. He smiled warmly and nodded at them, waiting for the disruption to die out before he cleared his throat.
“I came to the University of Edinburgh after completing my graduate studies at Cambridge. Over the past three years, I have experienced the most sincere and overwhelming joy being a part of the outstanding program this university administers in the interest of advancing medical science. I consider myself to be amongst the most fortunate people in the world to have learned here and contributed to ongoing medical research. Today, as we gather to celebrate our achievements and prepare to take the next steps in our careers, I want to tell you a personal story. Something very dear to me.”
The silence in the hallway was so perfect, Wolfgang could hear the softest breath in the back of the room. Excitement and nervousness warred with the practiced calm in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t like crowds or stages, and he enjoyed delivering a speech even less than listening to one. But today was important—too important to worry about himself.
“As many of you know, somebody very special to me suffers from a terrible disease. Her name is Collins, and she’s my twenty-year-old sister. From the time she was born, Collins has been a victim of the genetic disorder commonly known as Down syndrome. It’s a difficult disease that hampers a person’s ability to develop, learn, and grow naturally. Although Collins should be enjoying the excitement of her sophomore year at college, she still speaks at a fifth-grade level and has difficulty reading big words or writing.”
Wolfgang swallowed and hesitated as nervousness and emotion built in his chest, but he forced it back and wrapped his fingers around the edge of the podium.
“The amazing thing about Collins is that even though this disease has robbed so much from her, it hasn’t touched her personality. She is a beautiful soul, with the sweetest and most generous temperament of any human I’ve ever met. She’s an angel. We say that often about people who are dear to us, that they are angels, but truly, Collins is born straight from Heaven. There’s not a bitter bone in her body, and I love her with all of my heart.”
Wolfgang accepted a cup of water from a nearby professor and took a slow sip.
“My fellow graduates, we’re not here for ourselves. We don’t study and research and fight for breakthroughs to build our own résumés or add awards to our office desks. We’re here because we all play a critical role in protecting the most precious thing on Earth—life itself. We all have a battle to fight, a mountain to climb, and a cause to champion. The best doctors and the finest scientists dedicate their every day to conquering those challenges and lifting those who are too weak to lift themselves. For me, my fight is Down syndrome, and my cause is the five-point-four-million human beings around the world who suffer from it.”
Wolfgang clenched his fist and rested it against the stand. His voice rose in tone, booming through the hall as he continued.
“Some will say that some dragons cannot be slain. Some mountains cannot be climbed. Some causes are lost. To these p
eople, I have only this to say: If you won’t join us, then stand back and watch us. Because we are the generation that will slay the dragon. They said smallpox couldn’t be killed. Polio couldn’t be healed. Soldiers with missing limbs could never walk again. The generations who came before us climbed those mountains, lifted us onto their shoulders, and now say to us that it is our turn. My fellow classmates, your fight begins today!”
Applause thundered against the wooden walls as the crowd stood and cheered. Wolfgang stepped away from the podium and offered a brief bow before shaking the dean’s hand and smiling at his classmates. They smiled back with rosy cheeks, alive with the thrill and glory of the moment. He knew they felt like conquerors already. Most of them probably had no concept of the gravity of his words, which was precisely why he kept his remarks so brief. They probably wouldn’t be willing to do what it took to reach those mountain peaks—or even begin the climb. But he was willing and able.
As the volume of the crowd increased, Wolfgang slipped through a door in the back of the hall and peeled off his graduation cap. He left it with the gown on an end table and adjusted his tie before stepping out into the brisk cold of the impending Scottish winter. It was so much colder than New York—so much harsher and bleaker. He wouldn’t miss Edinburgh, although he had hardly set foot on the campus over the last two years, anyway. It was time to head back to the States.
Twenty yards away from McEwan Hall, Wolfgang stopped under the skeleton shade of an elm tree and pulled his phone from his pocket. There was a missed call from an unknown number, but no voicemail. He hit redial and waited while it rang twice. Across the street, freshmen students walked between the old university buildings, knotted close together with their heads held low under the biting wind. They smiled and laughed, and the boys smacked each other on the arms. Wolfgang wondered if any of them took their studies as seriously as he did; if they understood the gravity of their role in this brief life.
Likely not.
“Wolfgang, I called you twice. Where the hell are you?”
The snapping voice on the phone was taut with the bluster of a man who felt out of control and wasn’t used to it. His South American accent was hampered by anger, causing his mispronunciations of English words to become almost unintelligible.
“Salvador, I told you before. I don’t appreciate profanity. We can speak to each other professionally, or not at all.”
Salvador spluttered and then moderated his breathing. He spoke again with anger just as strong, but with clearer words. “Very well, Mr. Pierce. Where are you?”
“Europe.”
“Europe?” Salvador’s voice cracked. “What the fu—”
Wolfgang hung up the phone. He retrieved a stick of gum from his pocket and chomped it between his teeth, flooding his mouth with mint as he resumed his surveillance of the passing freshmen. The boys still laughed and showed off while girls giggled and pretended to ignore them.
It was okay that they didn’t take much seriously right now. Life was serious enough, and their days would come, but for now, they enjoyed the simple pleasures that Collins never had—of being young and free. In a way, this very trivialness was what he fought for.
The phone rang.
Wolfgang cleared his throat and spoke before Salvador could. “Listen to me carefully. I am a contractor, not an employee. Furthermore, I am disinclined to tolerate your primitive form of communication and will terminate our arrangement if you curse again. Are we clear?”
The breath whistled between Salvador’s teeth. “You’re an arrogant little snot, aren’t you?”
“Hardly. I’m simply a man of self-respect who values the power of words. Now then, with regard to my present location. As a contractor, I am under no obligation to report to you my whereabouts or activities, and you will not challenge me on this issue again.”
“As a contractor, you have a contract,” Salvador snarled. “Are you reneging on that contract, Mr. Pierce?”
“Points for the correct application of an excellent verb. No, I am not reneging on anything. I will kill Reed Montgomery. I just haven’t done it yet. I pulled back in North Carolina because you assured me that Oliver Enfield and his men had things under control. It appears you were mistaken.”
“What happened in North Carolina has no bearing on our contract. I want him killed, and I want him killed now.”
Wolfgang indulged in a tired sigh. “Very well. I’m headed back to the States. I’ll start in Atlanta and keep you posted.”
He ended the call before Salvador could add any last-minute outbursts. The students were gone now, and a taxi waited at the end of the street. Wolfgang slid into the back seat and smiled at the driver. “Edinburgh Airport, please.”
Three
10:28 a.m.
North Atlanta, Georgia
Reed handed the Uber driver a twenty before stepping out of the Prius and into the warm sun. In stark contrast to the whistling wind and damp air of New Jersey, late fall was kind to Georgia. Orange and brown leaves skipped over the pavement, complementing the Thanksgiving decorations adorning homes and businesses. The scent of dying vegetation and a dropping temperature drifted between the buildings and breathed fresh energy into his lungs—a welcome relief after months of a thick, humid summer.
The auto shop at the corner of two residential streets consisted of a block building with hand-painted letters advertising the services its owner provided. Half a dozen beater cars were parked out front, and the pop and click of a welder rang from the garage in the back. It looked like the kind of brake-swapping, oil-changing place that had been serving cars since those roads were paved in dirt, but Reed wasn’t fooled. Hidden behind the dirty blocks and dusty yard was a precision racing shop that rivaled NASCAR’s best pits—a true hidden gem amid the bustling city.
Reed shouldered his backpack and stepped around the open gate into the fenced yard. The clicking of the welder was louder now, joined by the whine of an air wrench. Everything smelled of oil and grease—a scent Reed would buy a candle in if he could. He indulged in a brief smile, then ducked into the shop.
Mike Wooster looked up from his workbench when Reed slipped in. The big man was covered in grease up to his elbows and smudges on his face. He wiped his hands on a cloth and shot Reed a wide smile. “Welcome back. I was about to call you.”
Reed accepted the crushing handshake and glanced around the shop. A Corvette Z06 hung six feet off the ground on a lift, while a mechanic worked beneath it with a welder. Sparks rained down beneath the bright yellow car. Farther down the bay, a Porsche 911 sat with its hood open, another mechanic buried in the engine bay.
“You’re staying busy.”
Mike shrugged. “There’s a track rally in Charlotte next month. Last-minute mods. We swapped out the gears on that ’Vette. Adding long tube headers now.”
For a moment, the two men surveyed the graceful curves of the sports coupe, admiring every detail and precise crease of the bodywork. It was more than a car to them; it was art itself.
“Is it ready?” Reed asked.
Mike motioned to the back of the shop, and Reed followed him into another section of the building. Bright lights glared over a spotless double-bay garage with blue concrete floors and paint equipment lining the far walls. In the middle of the garage, Reed’s 2015 Camaro Z/28 sat alone, its black tires gleaming. Bumper to bumper, the car was a deep, seductive red, with the Z/28 badges removed from the fenders and nothing left to identify it as the jet-black vehicle that ripped through Downtown Atlanta three weeks prior.
Reed ran his hand over the hood of his car. Even though the metal was as smooth and glossy as a brand-new Ferrari, he knew it wasn’t painted. The car was still black but now sheathed in a high-performance synthetic wrap that perfectly conformed to the vehicle’s every contour—a masterpiece in every way.
“I installed the supercharger and cranked it up to twelve pounds of boost. It’s putting about six hundred eight horsepower to the wheels at full throttle. I also swappe
d the driveshaft with a carbon fiber replacement to sustain the added torque and switched out your lower control arms to help with traction issues. Oh, and I put wider wheels on the back. With that much power, you’re gonna need all the rubber you can get.”
Reed stuck both hands into his pockets, still staring at the car. “It’s perfect.”
Mike shoved a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek. “You sure you don’t wanna add some better pipes? With all that power, it could sound incredible.”
Reed shook his head. “I’m not trying to make noise. Just speed. What about the transmission?”
“Tranny should be fine. It’s well made. Just watch out for the brakes. They’re too small for this much power. You really need bigger discs, but I didn’t have time to replace them. You’re gonna need some room to stop.”
Reed nodded and pulled out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills. Mike accepted it without counting and passed Reed the keys.
“You know . . . rumor has it a black Camaro made quite a lot of noise downtown a few weeks ago.” A playful light danced in Mike’s eyes.
Reed opened the driver’s door. “Wouldn’t know about that, Mike. My car’s red.”
The metal door of the garage rattled as Mike rolled it up. Reed twisted the key, and the engine rumbled to life, flooding the small space with the voice of freedom ready to be unleashed. He tapped the gas and listened to the subtle whine of the supercharger kick in, forcing air into the motor and churning out new levels of power.
Reed shifted into first and waved at Mike before rumbling out through the yard and onto the street. Somewhere out there, north of the city and in the mountains, there was a man they called The Wolf—a killer—an assassin’s assassin. Two weeks prior, while Reed had been hunting Oliver Enfield amid those mountains, The Wolf had chased him twice in a silver Mercedes coupe with enough power to run down anything on the road.