The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  His lungs were ready to collapse as he ground to a halt next to the Camaro. Banks hung limp in his arms, her strength fading into the clutches of her affliction. He opened the passenger’s door and set her inside, locking the seat belt in place before he slid across the front hood of the car.

  A blast of gunfire chattered against a Confederate memorial statue sheltering the Camaro. Reed cursed and dug the Sig from his pocket, unleashing three rounds. The puny pop of the handgun was insufficient to defy the fully automatic bursts, inaccurate though they were.

  The shadows of two men began their approach. Reed slung open the driver’s door and piled inside. Banks clutched the handle and groaned, and her head twitched.

  “Hang on, Banks. We’re getting out of here.”

  Reed shifted into first and stomped on the gas. An unearthly bellow burst from the engine, the familiar thunder of the big V-8 mixed with the whine of the supercharger. Both rear tires squealed, and the car launched out of the parking lot. Reed swung the wheel to the left, and the back end of the vehicle pivoted outward, sending clouds of tire smoke and bits of asphalt shooting into the air.

  The two gunmen in the shadows—masked, tall, and wielding submachine guns—were now joined by a third. The Camaro hurtled straight toward them, leaping a speed bump and slicing through the parking lot with no sign of stopping. A panicked shout rose from the lead gunman, and he dove out of the way just in time to miss the car. Reed jerked back to the right and slid toward West End, slapping the shifter into second. Headlights flashed behind him, and a black pickup truck with fog lights mounted over the roof barreled out of the trees. Its motor howled, and he recognized the whine of a supercharger.

  Shit. I juice up, and they juice up. Can I win for a change?

  Sweat coated the steering wheel, and his hands trembled as he worked the shifter and dumped the clutch, swerving around a garbage truck and whistling through a red light. Businesses, restaurants, and parked cars blurred around him as the Camaro kept climbing past eighty miles an hour. The truck was only a quarter-mile behind and barreling toward him.

  A green sign ahead displayed an arrow pointing to the right: 440 WEST.

  They won’t keep up on the highway.

  Banks groaned, and her head rolled toward him. He placed one hand on her neck, bracing her as he swerved in front of a sedan and turned toward the onramp. Darkness clung around the road, shrouding his view. Yards away from the ramp, a stopped car in the middle of the road came into view. It blocked his path onto the highway as its flashers blinked a steady rhythm of yellow. Reed shouted and jerked the Camaro back to the left, hopping over a bump in the road and sliding back onto West End Avenue, still hurtling like a rocket.

  He could hear the bellow of his pursuer, even over the howl of the Camaro. There could be no mistake—this guy was going to run him to ground.

  “All right, bitch,” Reed hissed. “You asked for it.”

  He downshifted into third and pushed the pedal to the floor. The front end of the car lifted away from the pavement, and every part of the car shuddered, sending shivers through Reed’s body. A red light flashed from the dash, alerting him that the car had reached redline. He power-shifted into fourth and clung to the wheel, watching the speedometer pass one hundred ten.

  “It’s not just a car, Reed.” Dave Montgomery’s distant voice echoed in his mind, a memory from ages gone by. For a moment, the plastic dash and Alcantara trim of the fifth-gen Camaro was replaced by the hard metal and vinyl of Dave Montgomery’s 1969 Z/28, and Reed was transported back to his first drag race—the way the car lifted free of the ground as Dave Montgomery slammed his foot into the gas while his eight-year-old son sat in the passenger seat, screaming with joy. “It’s art, son. It’s you, the motor, and the open road.”

  The blur of Midtown Nashville returned, and Reed clung to the wheel. He ignored the speedometer. Nothing mattered but the open road—this moment between himself, the car . . . and Dave Montgomery.

  By the time he saw the bus, it was too late. The intersection loomed directly ahead, a sign reading White Bridge Pike. Small brick buildings clustered together on either side of the street. In the distance, a hospital towered in the sky. Reed saw it all in the same millisecond the long city bus pulled into the intersection, only yards ahead, loaded with elderly people sitting behind dirty windows. In the split second it took his mind to register the blocked pathway ahead, his foot was already slipping off the accelerator, colliding with the brake, and pressing toward the floor. The front tires of the Camaro screamed, and the car fishtailed as Reed jammed harder against the brakes, but the vehicle barely slowed. Smoke poured from both front wheels as the brake pads ground and slipped against the rotors.

  “Watch out for the brakes. They’re too small for this much power.” The mechanic’s warning about the Camaro’s undersized brakes echoed in his mind a moment too late.

  The bus flashed closer, and the world slowed around him as he made eye contact with a passenger in the rear of the bus, her grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes filled with terror as she saw the car rocketing toward her like a cannonball. Reed snatched the emergency break and sent the car spinning toward a wall of buildings.

  Twenty-Five

  The moment before the Camaro made contact was one Reed would never forget. Even though he wasn’t looking at Banks, he saw her face as clearly as the first night they met. Her shining eyes, the bright smile, every gorgeous thing he loved so much about her, right beside him.

  The Camaro collided with a tree first. The rear bumper of the car crashed against the towering oak, and a shower of metal ripped across the pavement as the car skidded across the sidewalk. A fire hydrant exploded, and glass rained down around them. The air was alive with the odor of burnt rubber and oil, and the seatbelt cinched down around Reed’s neck. He reached out for Banks as the Camaro continued spinning, bouncing off a retaining wall, and hurtling toward another tree.

  The hood of the car popped upward, and both airbags blasted into the interior of the car. Everything descended into a daze of crunched metal and smoke as the car finally screeched to a stop and Reed pried his hands free of the steering wheel. His ears rang. Everything around him danced in a confused blur, and through the haze he heard his own voice, calling for Banks. But he couldn’t see her.

  Fire erupted from the engine bay, and the reek of burning carpet filled his nostrils. He clawed at the seatbelt, clicking it free of the latch, and slammed his shoulder into the bent door of the car—once, twice. On the third strike, the door swung open, and Reed spilled out onto the concrete, gasping for air.

  Where’s Banks?

  Panic overtook his mind, and he was vaguely aware of streetlights glimmering around him people shouted. But none of that mattered. He stumbled back toward the car as flames continued building in the engine compartment, licking their way toward the gas tank at the rear of the car.

  My God, no. Don’t take her.

  He slid around the rear of the car and reached the passenger’s door, crunched together and impossibly distorted. He slammed his unprotected fist into what remained of the window, clearing out the shards of glass. Banks lay inside, slumped forward with a trail of blood dripping from her forehead. Reed leaned through the window and fumbled with the seatbelt, clicking it free as black smoke clouded his eyes. He could hear the roar of the pickup truck now, hurtling down the avenue half a mile away.

  “Banks, come on. You’ve got to help me!”

  Her head twitched, and she turned toward him. Her face was covered in soot, and her body so weak she could barely hold her head up, but she wriggled toward the window. Reed leaned back and pulled, clearing her shoulders of the window frame, then her stomach. The car shuddered against his efforts as flames filled the cabin. A cry of pain erupted from her swollen lips, and they crashed to the pavement. Heat flooded his face, singing his hair as smoke clogged his throat. Banks lay on top of him, limp and unconscious, but breathing.

  “Baby, don’t let go,” he whi
spered. “I need you. God help me, I need you.”

  The truck behind him screamed to a halt, and three men dressed in black, wearing ski masks and wielding submachine guns, piled out. They stomped toward him in slow motion, the smoke of the car fire drifting around their tall frames and making them appear ghostly, like the villains of a slasher movie.

  Reed choked for air and rolled over, stumbling to his feet and clawing for the Sig. It was buried in his pocket, hopelessly tangled by fabric. Snot drained from his nose as his lungs continued to flood with acidic smoke. The three men drew closer, closing the gap between the truck and the burning car. The lead man was shorter than the rest, and under the ski mask, Reed made out the dark tinge of olive skin. He wrapped his finger around the trigger, raised his weapon, and trained it on Reed.

  Reed released the handgun, abandoning it in his pocket, then took a step forward, placing himself between the gunman and Banks. Everything slowed around him. Smoke drifted from his lips as he breathed out, exhaling the smog from the car fire. He stared into those dark eyes, and for a moment, the world grew still.

  This is it. This is how it ends.

  The glare of lights and the roar of a motor burst through the stillness. A split second of confusion flashed across the dark gaze of the gunman, and he turned toward the sound as a Mercedes coupe rushed toward them. The bumper of the big car rammed through the two rear gunmen, shattering their bodies in an instant and sending their guns flying.

  Even before the car stopped, the driver’s side door flung open. Wolfgang appeared in all black, his giant Desert Eagle pistol swinging from one hand. But he didn’t turn toward Reed. He turned toward the short, olive-skinned man.

  The gunman raised his weapon and clawed at the trigger, spraying shots around the scene of carnage. Wolfgang’s giant handgun thundered, spitting a bullet through the smoke, and the slug crashed through the gunman’s shoulder. The weapon fell from the man’s fingers as he screamed and crashed to the pavement. Wolfgang followed him, shoving right past Reed and snatching his victim off the pavement with one powerful arm. Reed watched as The Wolf pivoted on his heel and slammed the gunman against the side of the Mercedes. With a quick flip of his fingers, the ski mask was ripped away, exposing the brown features and terrified eyes of the face beneath.

  It was Salvador. Reed would have recognized that panicked face anywhere. The face of the man who kidnapped Banks, threatened Reed over the phone, and was the author of the fallout in Atlanta. Salvador, the only definite link between Reed and the shadowy men who wanted Mitchell Holiday assassinated.

  Wolfgang shoved the mass of the Desert Eagle into Salvador’s throat and snarled in his face.

  “No!” Reed shouted. “I need him!”

  Reed jumped over the bodies and rushed toward the truck, his mind pounding in a confused swirl of desperation. Every step was agony, as though he were dragging himself through quicksand. Wolfgang’s words warbled and echoed, distorted by Reed’s frayed consciousness and pounding head.

  “Where is she?”

  Salvador shook, and Wolfgang backhanded him, shattering his nose and sending blood streaming over his lip. “Where is my sister?”

  Salvador’s eyes were bloodshot and draining tears, his face reddened under another brutal blow from The Wolf, but he didn’t speak. The muzzle of the gun was jammed harder into his throat, closing off his windpipe.

  “Collins!” Wolfgang roared. “Where is she?”

  Reed slid to a stop and clawed at the gun in his pocket. It finally tore free of his pants, and he raised it, directing the muzzle toward The Wolf. “Wolfgang!” he gasped. “Don’t do it. I need him to talk!”

  Wolfgang glanced at Reed. Their eyes met, and fire clashed against fire. For a moment, Reed thought he might redirect the Desert Eagle away from Salvador and toward him—The Wolf’s original target. Instead, he ignored Reed and turned back to the South American.

  “Kill The Prosecutor,” Salvador hissed. “And I’ll tell you.”

  Wolfgang sneered and cocked the hammer of the giant gun. “If you wanted him dead, you should have never touched my sister.”

  The Desert Eagle twitched then thundered. Blood exploded from Salvador’s thigh, and Reed reached out his hand and started forward.

  “Don’t kill him! I need to know who he’s working for!”

  “Stay back, Montgomery!” Wolfgang swept the gun toward Reed, stopping him in his tracks. Salvador writhed in pain, trying to collapse against the concrete, but Wolfgang held him suspended against the car

  “I can do this all night.” Wolfgang breathed malice over Salvador, placing the gun back against his stomach. “Where is my sister?”

  Salvador coughed, spitting up saliva, then nodded. “She’s in an apartment . . . Detroit . . . Oak Ridge Place . . . unit B7. She’s safe, I swear.”

  Wolfgang dropped Salvador and raised the barrel of the oversized handgun.

  Reed started forward again. “Don’t!”

  The Desert Eagle thundered, and Salvador’s face exploded in a spray of blood. Reed stood over the dead South American, his hand trembling as he lowered his handgun. He stared down at the crumpled body and felt desperation take over. It blocked out his fear and panic, and nothing but defeat filled his mind.

  Wolfgang stood next to him, staring down at the body, then spat onto the corpse. He turned toward Reed, and for a moment, neither one spoke. The soft breeze that swept over the crime scene carried the stench of blood and sweat and burning rubber. The Camaro burst into a total blaze as gasoline ignited, boiling the air around them.

  “I’m sorry, Montgomery,” Wolfgang said. “We all have rules. He broke mine.”

  “I needed him alive!” Reed snapped. “Who hired you to kill me?”

  Wolfgang looked back down at the body and motioned with the gun. “He did.”

  Once again, the silence descended around them, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Reed raised his gun, pointing it toward The Wolf. “You said you were going to kill me next time we met. I can’t let you do that.”

  Wolfgang stared down the barrel of the gun to the blackened face of The Prosecutor. His finger relaxed around the trigger of the Desert Eagle, then he holstered it.

  “It’s after midnight,” he muttered. “Good luck, Montgomery.”

  Without another word, Wolfgang turned back toward his car. The big German motor roared to life, tires howled against the pavement, and the coupe rocketed away into the darkness.

  Reed slumped to the group and rested his face in his hands. His body racked with dry sobs as the gun toppled to the ground beside him. The stench of blood that filled his nostrils was so familiar now, he didn’t even notice it. He didn’t recognize the carnage, or the chaos, or the death that hung around him like a cloak. The wreckage of war. And yet, in this moment, the weight of it all crashed down on him like a load of bricks.

  Footsteps tapped on the pavement, soft and slow. Banks staggered toward him, clutching herself, and pinning the burned and tattered clothes to her body as she surveyed the carnage with a blank face. She stopped a few feet away, then picked up his fallen gun.

  The ache returned to Reed’s heart, piling on to the defeat he already felt. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  She looked down at the gun, then frowned. Her voice was weak and cracked. “What are you talking about? We’ve still got work to do.”

  Reed motioned toward Salvador’s body. “He’s dead, Banks. He’s gone. Whoever he worked for…they’re lost now. Another shadow.”

  She gazed at the mutilated corpse for a moment, then turned back to Reed. “And what about David Montgomery?”

  A knot tightened in Reed’s stomach. The name ripped through his heart and shattered every reality he had carefully constructed over the last nineteen years, every lie he ever crafted to forget the man who was his father.

  “He’s alive,” he whispered.

  “And you know where he is?”

  Reed closed his eyes, then nodded slowly. “I do.”
>
  “On your feet, then. This isn’t over yet.”

  The gun clicked, and Reed opened his eyes to see Banks’s outstretched hand. Her face was still damp, and her fingers trembled, but there was steel in her eyes. Relentless resolve.

  “I’ll let you know when you can quit, Reed Montgomery.”

  Reed felt the blood return to his head. He pulled himself to his feet and caught her just in time to keep Banks from collapsing. She huddled close to his chest as he cradled her in his arms and stumbled toward the pickup truck. In the distance, the ever-present howl of sirens roared toward them. He cast a look around the blood and bodies piled near the truck. There was no way to hide the massacre, so there was only one option left. Keep running.

  He laid Banks into the passenger seat of the truck, then hauled himself in behind the wheel. In the distance, locals gathered around the stopped bus, watching with gaping mouths. They would need therapy. After tonight, a lot of people would need therapy—one of the many costs of the bloodshed. But that didn’t change the inevitability of it all. There was no other choice, no other way out of the twisted hell he found himself in. Salvador might be dead, but it was now clear how trivial a tool Salvador really was—a minion of a much larger villain still hidden in the shadows. The secrets he unearthed in The Parthenon would cost a great deal more blood before this was over.

  More than that, it was personal now—more personal than Banks or Oliver could have ever made it. It wasn’t about avenging the woman he used to love, or protecting the woman he would always love—now it was about him.

  David Montgomery was there when this serpent was born, and Reed Montgomery would be there when it died.

  Twenty-Six

  Bank of America Plaza

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Gambit could feel the twist of tension in his stomach, and the dampness on his palms. His feet dragged over the carpet in spite of his efforts to walk normally. With each step toward the elevator, the weight on his shoulders grew heavier.