by Logan Ryles
“Well, come along! I’ve got this outstanding spot a mile down the street. The onion rings are, simply put, absolutely scrumptious. And don’t get me started on the duck pâté en croûte.”
Reed shot a glance around the riverside park. The commotion of two men thrashing around in the shallows, desperately trying to assassinate one another, hadn’t garnered the attention of any locals. Only The Wolf stood on the bank, dripping water like a sopping dishrag as he started toward the city.
He’s got my freaking gun.
The thought ignited strange, irrational anger inside of Reed. A basic instinct deep beneath the whistling breaths and aching chest told him he should be more concerned about his near-death experience, or perhaps it was the fact that the man who delivered that experience was himself still breathing. But somehow, the only thing that seemed pressingly important was the revolver jammed deep inside The Wolf’s pocket. Reed felt like a kid whose favorite toy had been stolen on the playground. It was a deep, instinctive outrage.
I’m taking my gun back.
Reed broke into a run up the hillside, wheezing and clutching his stomach the whole way. His head erupted with pain, making the shadows around him dance with every step, and his swollen throat throbbed as though a hot poker were being repeatedly rammed up and down it.
I’m going to rip his head off!
The Wolf walked in mechanical strides that kept him a dozen yards ahead. Reed followed him up the hill, where they walked past the anchored Southern Belle and then through the trees for a mile along the riverside. An occasional car drove by, headed toward downtown, but the streets were otherwise silent and shrouded in darkness.
“Now, understand.” The Wolf spoke in a clear, chipper tone. “This place closes at midnight. I have an arrangement with the sous chef, a rather rotund fellow from the New England coast. Grills a cod on white rice like you wouldn’t believe.”
The Wolf tilted his head back and groaned at the sky, then wagged his finger toward Reed. “Anyway, my point is, be polite. Rumor has it you have quite the temper. Dust off your manners, or you can hit up White Castle.”
Reed stumbled to a stop. He tried to speak past what was left of his throat, but the sound came out as a gurgle.
The Wolf lifted an eyebrow. “This is what I’m talking about. That’s brutish.”
The riverside restaurant was a small building constructed off cedar shingle siding with a metal roof and gas lighting on the exterior walls. The parking lot lay vacant except for a handful of cars in the employee parking section. The Wolf approached without any sign of hesitation and rapped twice on the front door.
Reed leaned on the wall and gasped for breath, his heart still pounding from the strangulation twenty minutes before. He eyed the bulge of the revolver in The Wolf’s pocket and calculated the prospect of retrieving the weapon before The Wolf put him on the ground. It was beyond question now that Reed’s hand-to-hand combat skills were far inferior, and whatever bizarre set of rules had prevented The Wolf from killing him before, Reed didn’t think they would save him a second time. He would have to wait for the right moment.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open. A short Asian man with tiny glasses peered out, squinting at The Wolf a moment before a wide smile spread across his face. “Ah, Mr. Pierce! Such a pleasure. Please, come in.”
The Wolf bowed, returned the greeting, then motion Reed ahead. “After you, Mr. Montgomery.”
Reed reluctantly slipped through the door and into the dimly lit restaurant. It was decorative—far more so than the humble exterior would have indicated. Gold trim lined the bar, and glistening chandeliers hung over the main dining room, casting dull pools of yellow over tables covered in soft white cloths. Staff bustled about the room, vacuuming the floors, replacing the tablecloths, and dusting the wall decor, but the Asian man motioned past the main dining room and led them to an alcove at the back of the restaurant with massive windows that overlooked the river. He bowed and gestured to a two-person table with large, leather-cushioned chairs.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll let Alphonse know you’re here. Would either of you care for a towel?”
Reed glanced down at the muddy river water pooling around his boots, then grunted and plopped down at the table. The host sighed and disappeared into the kitchen as Reed shot The Wolf a glare. “So, you’ve chased me through the mountains, tried to obliterate me with a minigun, strangled me within seconds of my life, and now taken me out on a date. I think it’s way past time you introduced yourself.”
The Wolf sat down across from Reed and picked up a folded napkin from the table. With the soft cloth, he brushed the mud off his hands, then dabbed at his forehead before refolding it and replacing it on the table. He smiled. “You’re so right. Where are my manners? I’m Wolfgang Pierce, professionally known as The Wolf. I’m an assassin for hire.”
Reed snorted. “Is that right? You know, I’m something of an assassin myself, only I actually kill people. I don’t take them out for steak.”
Wolfgang laughed. “Is that what you would’ve preferred? Because we can go back to the river, and I can drown you again.”
Before Reed could answer, footsteps thumped against the carpet, and a short man with an immense potbelly appeared, dressed in a white apron with a floppy chef’s hat perched atop his bald head. When the chef saw Wolfgang, his eyes lit up, and a smile spread across a mouth that contained less than half the usual ration of teeth.
“Mr. Pierce! What an unexpected delight. How go your studies?” Laden with a thick French accent, his babbled words almost blended together.
Wolfgang bowed and returned the smile. “Excellently, Alphonse. Thank you for asking. I actually graduated yesterday.”
Alphonse snapped his fingers. “Ah, then it is Doctor Pierce!”
“Ha, I wish. I still have a dissertation to write, but the diploma is secured, as it were. Alphonse, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Mr. Reed Montgomery of Atlanta. He’s joining me for dinner tonight.”
Alphonse redirected his gaze at Reed, but instead of a bow and smile, his expression turned critical, and he folded his fingers over his gut.
Reed leaned back in his chair and scowled. “What the hell are you looking at?”
Wolfgang clucked and shook his head. “Now Reed, I told you. If you curse again, I’ll be forced to kill you.”
Alphonse broke out into a raucous laugh and slapped himself on the leg. “That’s funny,” he said. “Because he actually kills people for a living!”
Wolfgang joined in on the merriment, smacking the table before wagging a finger at the chef. “Alphonse, you are too much! You’ll have to forgive Reed. His manners are a great deal less refined than ours.”
Reed switched his glare between Wolfgang and the chef. What the hell is going on here?
The Asian man appeared with a couple of rolled towels. Reed used one to wipe himself down as best he could, and Alphonse bowed again before bustling off to the kitchen. The Asian man introduced himself as David and offered to take their drink orders.
“I’ll have black tea,” Wolfgang said. “With a spoon of cream and a pinch of peppermint.”
“Very good, sir. And you?”
“Whiskey,” Reed said. “A lot of it.”
David raised an eyebrow, but Wolfgang waved his hand dismissively, and the waiter retreated to the kitchen.
“I imagine you’re thinking of a way to kill me,” Wolfgang said, unfolding the cloth napkin and laying it over his lap.
“I just want my gun back.”
“It’s a little overkill, don’t you think? A Smith and Wesson .500 Magnum is a bear gun.”
“I could say the same about that .50-caliber Desert Eagle you tried to blow my brains out with back in North Carolina, you thug.”
Wolfgang sighed. “Don’t act so butthurt, Reed. It’s only business. You should know that.”
“You tried to run me over in a Jeep!” Reed snapped.
Wolfgang laughed and lifted his water gl
ass. “Ah, yes. I forgot about that. You run like a jackrabbit.”
David returned to the table with a cup of tea on a saucer, and a small tumbler with two shots of whiskey on ice.
Reed drained the tumbler before it even hit the table and handed it back. “You’re gonna want to bring the bottle.”
Once again, David shot Wolfgang a sideways look, and Wolfgang nodded.
As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Reed leaned forward across the table and glowered at Wolfgang. “All right, we’re all impressed. You’re fancy, refined, and the chef loves you. I want to know who hired you to kill me.”
Wolfgang sipped his tea, then tapped a finger against the side of the cup. “Don’t you know?”
“Would I have asked if I did?”
“Hmm.” The teacup clicked back against the saucer, and Wolfgang stirred the jet back tea with a silver spoon. “Usually, people know who they’ve crossed.”
“Dude, I’ve crossed so many people, I’ve lost count. Any one of them could want me dead.”
“Occupational hazard,” Wolfgang said. “You certainly dealt with Oliver.”
“I did. Along with his henchmen and the person who sold him those henchmen.”
“Cedric Muri.”
“Yes. Do you work for him?”
“Who? Muri? Absolutely not. I don’t work for anyone. I’m a free agent.”
Reed sneered. “Nobody’s a free agent in this business. Everybody has a boss.”
Wolfgang shook his head. “It’s regrettable that this has been your experience because it’s simply not true. I work for myself, take the jobs I want, decline the jobs I don’t. It leaves me plenty of free time to pursue my interests.”
“Isn’t that nice.” Reed crossed his arms. “I’m sorry if I seem cold, but you did try to strangle me just a moment ago, and you also tried to kill somebody very important to me. I’m not in the mood for banter.”
“If you’re talking about Banks Morccelli, you should know that I would’ve never hurt her. The grenades were necessary to dislodge you off the cliff, but you were the one who put her in harm’s way. I cannot be responsible for collateral damage when you use women as human shields.”
Reed’s blood boiled, and he slammed a closed fist against the table, sending silverware raining down over the floor. Wolfgang didn’t react, but sat with the teacup in one hand and stared at Reed.
“Did you do it?” Reed hissed. “Did you burn Kelly?”
Wolfgang set the cup down, wiped his mouth, then shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I would never kill somebody that way.”
“But you’d blow them up with a minigun. You’d gun them down in a coffee shop.”
Wolfgang stared off with vacant eyes, as though he had left the restaurant and his mind were now far, far away. “Reed, I don’t want to compare rap sheets. We’ve both done some unspeakable things, and we’ve both had our reasons. As an independent contractor, I operate under my own rules. One of those rules is that I don’t kill people between midnight and six a.m. That’s my choice. I would enjoy a civil dinner with you, one professional to another, but I’m not going to continue tolerating these outbursts.”
Reed’s breaths hissed through his swollen throat. He accepted a full glass of whiskey from David and drained it, deadening the ache of developing bruises on his body. The preposterousness of Wolfgang’s erratic behavior didn’t register with him. The Wolf was eclectic in the extreme, and perhaps he had reason to be. Or maybe he was simply weird. Either way, Reed couldn’t kill him right now, and he wasn’t going to wait around for Wolfgang to kill him.
Reed stood up, dropping the towel on the table. “Tell your boss, whoever the hell he is, that I’m coming for him. I’m coming for them all. I will not rest, I will not die, until I have destroyed every person responsible for Kelly’s death and Banks’s torment. Nobody will stop me. Not you, not Salvador, not the entire U.S. military. Take that as my declaration of war.”
Wolfgang twisted the teacup in his hand. His fingers turned white against the porcelain, and for a moment, Reed almost thought he saw sympathy, but that light faded, replaced by iron and darkness.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Reed. I’m sorry we fell on opposite sides of the ditch. You’re a good killer, and if you allowed yourself, you might even be a good man. But next time I see you, I’m going to kill you.”
Their gazes locked, steel clashing against steel, and Reed walked out of the restaurant without another word.
Twelve
Maggie never liked the governor’s mansion. Large, white, and inspired by all things plantation, the official residence of Louisiana’s executive leader was downtown, only a couple miles from the Capitol. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the grandeur and status of the oversized residence, and she certainly enjoyed the private chef and quiet study, but it just didn’t feel like home. It was too fancy, filled with too many breakable things, and altogether too clean.
Most nights, Maggie was forced to sleep at the residence by virtue of its proximity to the Capitol. Late-night paperwork and administrative tasks kept her at her official office until midnight or later, and early-morning meetings began as soon as the sun crested over the mighty Mississippi. But some nights, when the workload bore too heavy on her tired shoulders, she slipped away from the crowds of aides and media reporters and took a long drive south of the city, into the swamplands of Louisiana.
The old family lake house sat on the shores of Lake Maurepas, a brackish catfish lake with an average depth of fewer than ten feet. People from out of town found the lake to be both smelly and ugly, but Maggie loved the calm and simplicity of the swampy landscape. Frogs croaked in the darkness, the wind rustled through the grass, and the occasional alligator crawled past the back porch, migrating from one muddy inlet to the next. It was home, even if it felt less private with the burly state policeman standing guard outside.
As the sun melted into the pines, the moon took over, filling the night sky with a blue glow that reminded Maggie of late night ’coon hunting with her father. When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the howl of the hounds and the crash of the brush as the two barged ahead, shotguns at the ready, alive in the hunt.
She missed everything about those simple days. When she went to law school and first considered running for political office, it was out of frustration more than passion. After years of watching corruption in Baton Rouge overrun the simple, low-income families of her community, she wanted to make a statement—defy the system.
Funny how such a small spark could start a wildfire. And it wasn’t just the people around her who burst into flames—Maggie herself became consumed with the campaign. The more she learned about the status quo in Louisiana’s capital, the more frustrated she became, and the harder she campaigned. Her only goal had been to pressure the older, more mature candidates into appreciating the needs of her neighbors.
By the time she won the nomination, it was too late to turn back. Even when she accepted the concession call from her opponent on election night, she still clung to the hope that after a single term, she could have accomplished enough to hand the reins over to someone else and open the small community law practice that she always dreamed of. She wanted to live a simple life, a calm life, be the friend of the people.
Those fantasies were long dead now. Baton Rouge was a machine—a vortex—a suction that pulled you in and pulled you down, regardless of the odds. She still didn’t want to be here, but she believed more than ever that it was her responsibility to serve the people, and that obligation refused to allow her to leave.
Maggie sat on the edge of her bed, and through her narrow window, watched the moon glinting off the water. Every few minutes, her guard would pass by, a shotgun swinging from one hand. Fish splashed from the lake’s surface, conducting elaborate flips before vanishing into the murky water again. Everything was so calm.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Her dreams were selfish. She knew that. Her old man would be ashamed of her if he
knew how badly she wanted to throw in the towel after only ten months of serving as governor. There was still work to be done—still justice to be served.
“A Trousdale never quits.” Her father said it a thousand times. It was her mantra and what pushed her through college and brought her out of law school. Surrendering was never an option.
Maggie lay back on the bed, kicking off her flats, and resting her head against a worn pillow. It was cheap, like everything in the cabin. This was the mansion of minimum wage—the palace of a working-class family. Nothing was nice, but everything was wonderful.
A creaking sound erupted from down the hall. Maggie’s eyes snapped open, and she held her breath, listening carefully. She recognized that distinct grunt. It was the sound the third floorboard in the hallway made when somebody stepped on it. She used to avoid that inlay when she was a teenager and snuck out at night to meet her boyfriend by the lake. It was a unique sound—one she shouldn’t have heard in an empty house.
She turned and looked out the window, still holding her breath while she waited for her guard to walk by, but he didn’t pass. Only the wind rustled through the grass.
Then she heard it again.
Maggie set her feet on the floor and opened the nightstand drawer. An old Colt .38 Special revolver lay in the bottom, a thin layer of dust clinging to the metal cylinder. She depressed the release switch and checked the five bullets housed within before snapping the cylinder shut and creeping toward the door. Her fingers trembled, and sweat pooled on her lip. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she heard heavy breaths on the other side of the door and a faint scuffling sound, like a boot scraping a baseboard.
Maggie ducked into the shadows behind the door and held the revolver next to her ear. A few seconds dripped by, and the guard still didn’t pass outside. She heard the soft squeak of metal on metal, and the doorknob twisted.
Her heart flew into her mouth, and she inserted a shaking index finger through the trigger guard. The knob twisted again, and the latch clicked, then the door swung open on silent, greased hinges, and a single black boot landed on the floor without a sound.