The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  Maggie’s stomach twisted, and her head felt light. She recognized the dull grey color of the pants with soft gold trim. The boots were standard issue of the Louisiana State Police. As the intruder took another step into the room, she recognized the broad shoulders and short blond hair.

  It was Officer Maxwell. The lead guard of her nighttime detail.

  Maggie lowered the revolver, her arms growing steady as she watched Maxwell walk away from her, toward the bed. An unholstered pistol hung from his right hand, reflecting moonlight from its polished black barrel. The bed was saturated in shadows, disguising the presence, or absence, of anyone sleeping within, and forcing Maxwell to take another step.

  Maggie cocked the revolver. The splitting click of the weapon shattered the stillness like a thunderclap. Maxwell froze as Maggie took a step out of the darkness and leveled the weapon’s barrel with the back of his head.

  “Turn around.”

  Maxwell turned slowly, the gun shaking in his right hand. As he faced her, the clouds parted, spilling light over his face and exposing his features. Maggie gasped and lowered the weapon. Blood covered his cheeks and streamed from a deep cut in his chest. His face was washed white, and his eyes were as wide and dark as the lake outside.

  He took half a step forward and dropped the gun, stumbling to his knees. “Madam Governor . . . we have to go.” His words broke and hissed between his teeth. A trail of blood oozed from between his lips and dripped on the floor.

  Maggie slid to her knees beside him and caught the big policeman as he toppled forward. His weight was almost overwhelming, but she managed to prop him up against the end of the bed. He gasped for air, his body still shaking as she held him.

  “Maxwell, where’s Green?”

  Maggie saw worlds of pain and fear unleashed behind Maxwell’s watering eyes.

  “Madam Governor, I’m so sorry . . . I couldn’t . . . stop him.”

  “It’s okay.” Maggie placed her hand over the wide gash in his chest and pressed down, wadding his torn shirt into the wound. She jerked the radio from his side and hit the call button.

  “Is anyone there?”

  There was no response, and Maggie cursed before depressing it again. “I said, is anyone listening?”

  The radio crackled. “This is a secure government line. Identify yourself.”

  “This is Maggie Trousdale. I’m at my lake house. One of my guards is missing, and the other is bleeding. I need immediate medical assistance.”

  “Who now?”

  “I’m the governor, you dumb shit! Get some help out here!”

  A snapping sound rang from outside the house, and Maggie’s back stiffened as she looked up toward the window. Clouds blew across the moon, drenching the house in shadow. Among the outlines of tree limbs and bushes, she saw something hard and straight—too mechanical to be natural.

  Maxwell was unconscious now, his eyes rolled back in his head. She laid him down and scooped up the revolver before ducking through the doorway and hurrying down the hallway. Her bare feet smacked against the hardwood, and the third floorboard squeaked as she stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

  The front door hung half-open, and bloody handprints coated the doorjamb. As Maggie crept closer and pulled the door back, her heart jumped again. Green, her second LSP guard, lay dead on the front porch, his throat sliced open.

  Just past the front porch, Maggie saw a shadow out of the corner of her eyes. She spun the revolver toward it and pressed the trigger without aiming. The little .38 cracked and spat a bullet into the darkness. After a scream of pain, something clattered onto the pinewood boards of the front porch. Maggie lunged out from the doorway and fired twice more. Sticks and rocks dug into her feet as she stumbled off the porch. Heavy breathing carried through the fog, somewhere amid the sound of rustling grass and crunching twigs. The thick stench of blood invaded her nostrils as warm mud squished between her toes. Ahead, she could see the silhouette of a man running through the trees, holding his side.

  Maggie raised the gun. “Stop!”

  The shadow kept running, diving for the cover of the pines. Maggie aligned the sights of the snub-nosed revolver, cocked the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet split the air and sent a shockwave of burned gunpowder blasting back over her hand, but the running man didn’t stop. In an instant, the darkness consumed him, leaving her standing alone over the bloody ground.

  As the gunshot faded, the whisper of the wind filled the stillness, rendering everything empty and dark. Maggie dug her fingernails into the grip of the gun and searched the forest. Only shadows filled the spaces between the trees, consuming her with the gripping reality that she was alone, and they would be back.

  Thirteen

  “It’s a lot smaller than home, isn’t it, boy?”

  Baxter’s legs were splayed out over the passenger seat as he pressed his flat face close to the window and peered out at the city. Trucks and cars whizzed past the Camaro, cutting in and out from each other as they surged toward downtown.

  Nashville looked nothing like Atlanta. The skyline was half as wide, with shorter buildings all made of glass and shiny metal. It was a new skyline—the kind a millennial designed. The bulk of downtown was dominated by the thick, impending mass of The AT&T Building, a circular tower that culminated in a narrow, flat top, and twin spires that reached for the sky like bat ears.

  It wasn’t an ugly skyline, but it lacked the grandeur and majesty of Atlanta. It was too young—too polished. Yet while the city was certainly smaller, it was still so large a place to locate a solitary woman.

  Reed followed the bypass around the city, admiring the open hulk of Nissan Stadium before exiting the freeway onto 2nd Avenue. He knew very little about this city, other than that it had recently gained a reputation as a tourist destination for bars and live music. Nashville supposedly now boasted the title of “Number One Bachelorette Destination of the Nation.”

  And isn’t that every city’s dream?

  Reed drove only two blocks into downtown before the first Pedal Tavern crossed the street ahead of him—a peculiar table-on-wheels contraption with riders on both sides working pedals that propelled the bar through the streets. The passengers were drunk, of course, at ten in the morning. He didn’t make it another two blocks before he passed a tractor towing a wagon full of drunk women in their twenties, a modified fire truck with an open top, filled with the same, and more than a dozen peculiar electric scooters laden with overweight tourists. Reed had never seen so much crap on the streets—golf carts, Pedal Taverns, modified pickup trucks with extended beds full of partiers, open-top school buses with disco lights. Even some type of modified RV with a hot tub in the back, filled with bachelorettes. The bizarre assortment of vehicles and drunk tourists bridged beyond unusual into the obscene.

  What the hell is this place?

  The Camaro barked and rumbled as he swerved around a pack of scooters and moved deeper into the city. People—old, young, of every race and origin—were everywhere, packed onto the sidewalks and jostling each other between the bars. Reed wondered if this was typical of a Friday morning, and what this place must look like after dark.

  With any luck, I’ll never find out.

  Reed used to enjoy crowded places. He remembered car shows and trips to Disney Land as a kid. They took the old Camaro everywhere as a family, and he enjoyed the excitement of people packed into one place. All that changed when he stopped seeing other people as fellow tourists and started suspecting them of being fellow killers. In a place like this, thick with every type of traveling amusement seeker, any number of foreign threats could slip right in, and nobody would be any the wiser.

  But this is where she is. This is the first place Banks would go. Lots of people to lose herself in. Lots of music to block out the world.

  He pulled the car into a parking lot and cut the engine, watching the tides of people washing back and forth across the sidewalks. Two blocks down, the bright neon signs of the
bar district connected 2nd Avenue with Broadway. More people packed in next to a string of bars and restaurants, clamoring against each other to gain access. Even through the Camaro’s thick windows, the roar of voices was overwhelming, melding with the pound of a few rock bands performing on the other side of open windows.

  Baxter snorted as he peered through the windshield with stress-filled eyes.

  “I know, boy. Crowds aren’t for us, are they?”

  Reed rubbed the key between his fingers and forced out the cloud of emotions that tugged at the edge of his thought process.

  Should I be here? Would she be safer if I left her alone?

  He thought again of the last time he saw her, soaking wet, and crying on the lake bank. She didn’t deserve what happened to her in those mountains, but if it weren’t for him, she probably would’ve died there. Sure, it could be argued that he kicked things off when he accepted the Holiday contract in the first place, but it could also be argued that Holiday was going to die anyway. Somebody, somewhere, wanted the senator dead. Reed just gave them more trouble than most.

  If I don’t find her now, I may never see her again. I can’t let go like that. I can’t walk away before I make it right.

  “Get in the back, boy. Don’t want somebody thinking you’re abandoned and busting out my windows.”

  Reed cracked both windows as Baxter grunted and climbed into the back seat. It was sixty degrees outside, and with the fresh air streaming through the windows, Baxter would be comfortable and safe until he returned.

  The crowd melded around Reed as soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk, accepting him as one of their own, and crushing in so close several of them bumped into his arms. Reed held his jacket close over the compact Sig Sauer P365 holstered in his belt. The little 9mm held only ten rounds—far too little firepower for his comfort. After losing most of his primary weaponry in North Carolina, and then the revolver in Chattanooga, Reed was left with nothing but his backup weapon, and he felt altogether undergunned. After he left Nashville, he would need to refit—find a broker and secure new hardware.

  His boots splashed through mud puddles as he worked his way toward Broadway. Every bar he passed stood with wide-open doors and a heavy bouncer checking IDs at the sidewalk. Half a dozen types of music drifted through the air—pop, rock, country, classics, and even a little blues. All of the bands were good, and what vocals joined the mix were considerably better than average.

  They don’t call it Music City for nothing, I guess.

  Reed stepped around a puddle of God-only-knew-what, then followed the crowd through the crosswalk and onto Broadway. On his right, the street dropped down toward the Columbia River, lined by restaurants on both sides. What stretched out on his left really took his breath away. Three solid blocks of three-story bars packed door-to-door. Lights, signs, and decor clung to the exterior brick walls while hundreds of people surged up and down either side of the street. Taxis, Ubers, and police cars jockeyed for position along the four-lane road, with more Pedal Taverns sprinkled amongst them. A horn blared, and Reed looked to his right just in time to jump out of the way of a green tractor towing a hay wagon full of drunk women, all swaying and singing “Oh Canada” at the top of their lungs.

  What the hell is this?

  There were too many bars, dozens of them, all stacked and packed together, and that was only on this street. Each connecting road boasted more signs, pointing to additional bars and restaurants that clustered outside of Broadway.

  This could take days. She could be anywhere.

  Reed pulled himself away from the crush of people and leaned against a brick wall, taking a moment to survey the city. It made sense for Banks to want to be in a place that celebrated music this much. He wondered how many of these bands were regular attractions, and how many rotated new acts.

  She’ll be somewhere that hires new talent, where she can sing for tips like she did in Atlanta.

  “Excuse me.” Reed stepped toward a cop who stood on the corner. “Do you live here?”

  The officer shot Reed a sour look. “Unfortunately,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m looking for a place to sing. Some place that takes new talent.”

  The cop burst out laughing. He paused a moment to blow his whistle and shout at a speeding taxi, then turned back to Reed and laughed again. “You and forty thousand others. I’m afraid I’m not a record agent, bro.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more clear. A friend of mine is the new talent. She came up here to sing, and I forgot the name of the bar.”

  The officer blew his whistle again and waved his hand at a couple of kids zooming past on a pair of electric scooters. They ignored him, and he threw his hands into the air. “I swear, these damn scooters.”

  Reed cleared his throat. “So, about the bar . . .”

  “Try Sweeney’s. It’s on Third Avenue past FGL.”

  Reed nodded his thanks and stepped off as the cop resumed the whistle blowing. One block down, and two to the left, clinging to the side of a building was a large black sign with white letters: FGL HOUSE.

  Just beyond it, “Sweeney’s Saloon” was painted in gold letters on red brick. It was a narrow bar with the sort of old swinging doors that you see in cowboy movies. The bouncer blocking the doorway was big, fat, and appeared totally stoned, but he demanded Reed’s ID.

  Reed passed him a fake South Carolina driver’s license labeled “Christopher Thomas,” then ducked into the bar. It was smoky and dark inside, with tables crammed together along both walls. Servers jumped from one table to the next, handing out beers and glasses of liquor, while a scrawny kid with long, greasy hair groaned into the microphone at the stage in the back.

  Reed helped himself to a chair in the corner, leaning against the wall and inhaling a deep lungful of second-hand smoke. It took the edge off his nerves but ignited an almost overwhelming urge to smoke. He hadn’t enjoyed a cigarette in a few days, and the longing was real.

  Nobody paid the kid at the mic any attention. His style was weak, with words strung together and overwhelmed by moans that sounded more like the overtures of a masturbating teenager than a vocalist. Reed eyed him and thought how strange it was to be in a place where so many people were hungry for the limelight. He never understood that. Power made sense to him, and so did money. These were tangible, actionable resources. But fame? Who wanted to be famous? Reed spent the better part of his life trying to keep most of the world from knowing anything about him. Clamoring for attention didn’t make sense.

  The kid at the mic finally finished and dismounted the stage to a few scattered claps.

  A dusty bartender in torn-out jeans and a black T-shirt got up behind him and spoke into the mic. “Let’s put it together for Rebel Joe!”

  This time, the scattered claps were a little louder but no more enthusiastic.

  “All right, you guys. I know you’re ready to get your country on. We’ve got one more independent act—”

  From the back of the room, somebody bellowed, “Put on some real music!”

  The bartender pointed at him and smiled. “Take it easy, friend. We’ll have somebody up in just a moment. Y’all go ahead and order another round!”

  The radio clicked on overhead, pounding a popular country song through oversized speakers as a server slipped up beside Reed. “Can I get you something to drink, honey?”

  Reed’s eyes darted from one corner of the room to the next, searching for any unseen threats amongst the tourists. He replied without looking up. “Got any whiskey?”

  She laughed. “Honey, this is Tennessee. We brush our teeth with whiskey.”

  “I’ll take a Jack. Neat.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She disappeared into the crowd, and Reed folded his arms. The bustle and noise brought comfort to his ragged mind. It made him feel a little less conspicuous amid all these people. It made him feel like there was a chance he could shrink away and not be seen at all.

 
; The server brought the whiskey, and Reed sipped on it, still watching the crowd. Wolfgang would be back. More than likely, the killer had already left Chattanooga and was headed his way, blazing down the road in his big Mercedes.

  I’ve got to tie that one up. He’s been on my heels far too long.

  The whiskey tasted weak on his tongue, as though it were cut with water. Or maybe he was still drunk from the previous night. He tipped the glass up and drained it, then dusted off his pants. He couldn’t afford to wait around for what probably wouldn’t happen. There had to be a better way to find Banks.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve got a special treat for you, all the way from Atlanta, Georgia. Put your hands together for Miss Sirena Wilder!”

  Reed’s gaze flew to the stage. Ripples of polite applause rose from the audience as the radio faded, and the lights dimmed. His own eyes blurred, maybe from the saturation of alcohol in his blood, or the residual effects of insomnia, but he blinked the fog away and held his breath.

  Please . . .

  She stepped out of the darkness behind the stage, floating across the hardwood floor. A ghost of grace and beauty, her blonde waves were held back in a ponytail, and an acoustic guitar swung from a strap around her neck.

  Her eyes, so deep and bright. But Reed could see the pain in them, carefully hidden, masked behind strength and willpower. Even her insatiable ability to manage stress and ignore trauma couldn’t defeat the red streaks and black circles. Heavy makeup—dark eyeliner with bright red lipstick—coated her face, and she wore a loose T-shirt with sleeves that hung almost to her elbows.

  Banks leaned close to the mic and smiled. Reed remembered the last time he saw her on a stage, leaning into a mic. She smiled then, too, but it wasn’t like this smile. It was free and weightless—the smile that stole his heart in a millisecond.

  “How’s it going, Nashville?”