Survivor

by Logan Ryles

  Survivor

  Book 5 in the Reed Montgomery Series

  Logan Ryles

  Copyright © 2020 by Logan Ryles. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  SURVIVOR is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919214

  Published by Ryker Morgan Publishing.

  Author portrait by Anna King.

  Cover design by German Creative.

  The Reed Montgomery Series

  Prequel: Sandbox, a short story (read for free at LoganRyles.com)

  Book 1: Overwatch

  Book 2: Hunt to Kill

  Book 3: Total War

  Book 4: Smoke and Mirrors

  Book 5: Survivor

  Book 6: Death Cycle (launches July 15, 2021)

  Book 7: Sundown (coming soon)

  Visit LoganRyles.com to receive a free copy of Sandbox.

  For my brothers:

  Adam, Isaac, Noah, Micah, Samuel, and Benjamin.

  When life draws a line in the sand, be brave.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Ready for more?

  About the Author

  Also by Logan Ryles

  End Page

  One

  Livingston Parish

  Louisiana

  Gordon often marveled at how lucky he was. Some men worked because they needed to pay bills, needed the health insurance, or needed to escape bitter home lives. Other men worked for the money. Maybe they worked in the oil fields or one of the tall bank towers in downtown New Orleans. Maybe they hated their jobs but the paychecks were too tempting to refuse.

  How many men were lucky enough to go to work because their most animalistic passions drove them to? Gordon didn’t know, but he guessed there couldn’t be many, and that made him a lucky man. Sure, he was paid and paid well. And sure, he needed the money. A cocaine habit, a penchant for fine wines, and a raging sex addiction kept him broke despite the generous paychecks. At least the sex addiction was assuaged by the nature of his work—or inflamed by it.

  Two cars waited in the parking lot behind the isolated lake house when Gordon piled out of his Range Rover. At five foot flat and well over two hundred pounds, he was wheezing by the time he made it to the back porch of the home, and he kicked irritably at the napping stray dog. The mutt whined and slunk off, leaving Gordon to cast an appraising glance at the cars as he fiddled with his keys.

  A Porsche 911 and a Bentley, both late models, both black, were polished to a shine under the dim glow of the moon. While the Bentley reflected a much wealthier driver, Gordon was more interested in the Porsche. Despite its beautiful curves and clean lines, the 911 was bland in the way only a rental car can be. Exotic, but subdued, as if the person driving it failed to appreciate what he was driving. Mud was splashed against the fenders, and there were smudges on the windows—the sorts of blemishes that no true car enthusiast would tolerate on such an exquisite machine.

  No, the Porsche wasn’t driven by a car person. It was driven by a man with so much money that he wasn’t accustomed to driving at all. He was probably used to riding in long limousines in big cities all around the world. The Porsche was this man’s idea of incognito mode, which was a further testament to how far out of touch he was. He actually thought a Porsche was a working man’s car.

  Both drivers were unthinkably rich, but only one of them was noteworthy. The man in the Bentley didn’t care who saw him because nobody would know who he was. The man in the Porsche was more than rich—he was an icon. And for that reason, his visit to the little lake house nestled next to the brackish, stinking waters of Lake Maurepas promised him a lot more risk than the man in the Bentley.

  Nevertheless, the risk was worth it. The same animalistic desires that drove Gordon to work every day also motivated this notorious man to risk everything and visit the little lake house.

  Gordon understood that. He appreciated it and was very happy to take advantage of it.

  The screen door swung open on rusty hinges, and Gordon stepped into a wide kitchen on the other side, fully stocked with all the required materials to keep Gordon’s guests happy. Cooking utensils, pots and pans, and an oven. None of it was used, of course. The guests rarely stayed long enough to eat, and if they did, Gordon sent his assistant, Sid, into town to collect gourmet carryout. Only the best for the clients of the house by the lake.

  Beyond the kitchen was a dining room and a wide-open lobby, where the two men waited, avoiding eye contact, each pretending the other wasn’t there. Gordon greeted each of them by the fake names they gave him when booking their “experience,” then smiled and ushered them out of the living room, down the hall, and to the large oak door that was bolted with a padlock.

  Gordon unlocked the padlock and led the men ten steps down a stairway into the darkness before flipping on a light. The basement of the house was built inside two steel shipping containers, because the lake-side Louisiana soil was too soft to sustain a traditional concrete basement. The containers had been combined, and their insides finished with insulation and drywall, while their outsides were coated in industrial paint to forestall rust.

  The middle of the basement consisted of a short hallway with three doors leading out of it—one on either side and one at the end. The doors on each side led to small, hotel-like rooms, each with a large bed, plush carpeting, and thick walls that made them all but soundproof.

  The third door was thick, built of steel, and locked with a bolt. On the far side of it, the hallway continued, with more doors. But these weren’t built of mahogany, and they didn’t conceal hotel suites. They were built of steel, hiding windowless cells beyond.

  Gordon ushered each man into a hotel room, smiling but remaining silent. Most of his clients preferred not to speak. It was an absurd attempt at anonymity, which was wasted on Gordon. He usually knew exactly who his clients were, or he could guess. In most cases, he didn’t care. Money was money, no matter who it came from. But on occasion, Gordon booked a guest whose identity was more than noteworthy; it was valuable. Such was the case with the man in the Porsche, who now stepped into the left-hand suite without a word and began to undo his tie as Gordon closed the door.

  G
ordon knew exactly who he was, in spite of the carefully orchestrated fake identity the client provided. He was, in fact, the CEO of one of the largest banking corporations in the world, and his visit to the little lake house would profit Gordon a great deal more than the petty booking fees the man had paid.

  Gordon lumbered back up the steps, heaving the entire way. As soon as he cleared the doorway, he snapped his fingers, and Sid appeared out of the darkness like an apparition. Gordon’s assistant was skinny, pimpled, and altogether unpleasant to look at, but he was loyal, and like Gordon, he understood the animalistic appetites of their customers.

  “They’re ready. Bring in the escorts.”

  Sid slipped past Gordon without speaking, disappearing down the stairwell. Gordon wiped sweat off his lip and breathed a long sigh, then turned down the hallway and walked to the end, where a wide stairwell led upward to the second floor. He cast a wary eye into the dark corners of the hallway, more out of habit than suspicion, then gently pressed on the wooden panel beneath the stairwell. It swung back with a soft click, providing just enough room for Gordon to squeeze through.

  The space on the other side was barely big enough for him. He settled onto a stool and shut the panel behind him, his fingers brushing against the sound-deadening foam that protected a casual sneeze from exposing his position. This was the most delicate part of his entire operation, the part that, if it were ever discovered, would cost him his life.

  A narrow desk filled the space directly in front of him, with three computer screens lining the wall behind it. A mouse, a few joysticks, and a pair of headphones lay on the desk. He settled the headset over his flabby ears and clicked the mouse a few times. The screens came to life, filling the tiny room with a bright blue glow and revealing crystal-clear images of the two hotel rooms beneath him.

  Mr. Bentley stood impatiently by his door, already fully disrobed. Gordon gave him a casual glance, then directed his attention to Mr. Porsche. A shoeless Porsche still wore his shirt and pants, but his coat and tie were neatly folded on the nightstand. He stood with his eyes closed, oblivious to the carefully hidden cameras and microphones above him, a subtle smile of impending gratification hovering around his lips.

  Gordon indulged in a smile of his own. The hotel suite, unbeknownst to its occupant, was identical to a Bangkok hotel room that Mr. Porsche had stayed in four months prior while on a layover between Shanghai and Sydney. Every detail—from the wallpaper, to the nightstands, to the pattern of the carpet—had been painstakingly replicated. It was vital that absolutely nothing about this footage be traced back to the United States.

  The door to the hotel suite opened. Gordon saw Sid’s skinny fingers appear around the jamb, and Mr. Porsche’s eyes flashed greedily. Then a third figured appeared. It was a young girl, maybe twelve years old, with raven hair and grey eyes. She was slim—almost malnourished—and her hands trembled. She was clearly of Scandinavian origin, perhaps Danish. Gordon didn’t know for sure, but he was well aware of her market value.

  The door clicked shut, and the girl backed against it, her lip trembling. She wore a yellow sundress, and her hair was held back in a braid—all per the client’s specifications, of course. Sid had dressed her personally two hours prior.

  Mr. Porsche grinned a wolfish expression. An animalistic one. He ran one hand over his mouth, then started toward the girl.

  Gordon reached down to his keyboard and hit a solitary red button.

  Record.

  Two

  Rural Arkansas

  The room was almost pitch dark, but after hours of sitting alone, Reed could see pretty well. A security camera was mounted near the ceiling to the right of the door, with a tiny red light glimmering beneath the lens. After a while, that lonely glow felt like the sun itself, and Reed avoided looking directly at it.

  Other than the camera, the chair he sat in, and the steel table he was handcuffed to, the room was empty. It had been that way for over sixteen hours.

  After facing off with Gambit in the woods outside the Alabama prison, the big man that had stood next to Gambit disappeared into the trees, dragging David Montgomery with him. Another large man appeared out of the shadows, a sniper rifle cradled in one arm. Reed’s shoulders slumped when he saw the rifle. He should’ve expected there to be a sniper.

  He walked straight into the crosshairs of that weapon, completely exposed. From the moment he had seen the model car and the crimson drops of blood on the floor of David’s prison cell, his tactical awareness began to fade. In hindsight, that was obviously Gambit’s intention. The car, the blood, the fire alarm, the disorientation . . . it was all part of a carefully orchestrated ploy to knock Reed off-balance. To make him negotiable.

  Reed twisted his wrists in the handcuffs. Had he been manipulated? Maybe. But some things couldn’t be faked. David was there, right in front of him. Reed had seen the gleam in his eyes when David recognized his son. He saw the momentary flash of excitement and fatherly love.

  And what about the car? Gambit could have pulled some old records and discovered that David Montgomery owned a nineteen sixty-nine Camaro Z/28, Rally Green with white stripes. Probably anyone could dig that up, but Gambit couldn’t know the extreme significance of that car to David or Reed, or the relationship they shared. Gambit couldn’t know how many hours the two of them spent tinkering under the hood or cruising back roads together.

  Gambit couldn’t have planted the toy car. David must have kept it in his cell, a memento of his past, and his son. And if David kept the toy, that could only mean his mind wasn’t completely gone. Not yet. There was still something to be saved.

  Reed’s hands began to tremble as he thought about it. He clenched his fingers, pushing back the pain and the memories and focusing instead on the moment at hand. Leaving that prison and walking away from Banks and into the clutches of his enemies should’ve been a lot harder than it was. It should’ve broken him. But it didn’t. In fact, it was the easiest decision he had made in weeks.

  Banks would be safe now, protected from his private war by distance and ignorance. Meanwhile, he was closer to David than ever before. He could rescue him, restore his mind, and find out what he knew. There would be plenty of time to crush his own enemies after he saved his father.

  Footsteps tapped from beyond the door. Reed kept his eyes closed, bracing himself against a flash of unwelcome light. It made sense—Gambit would want to keep him disoriented and knocked off-balance. Why else had he left Reed imprisoned for so long? It was a game.

  A chess move, Reed thought. Was Gambit a chess man? Did that explain the curious pseudonym? It had to be a pseudonym. Nobody names their kid Gambit.

  The door groaned open, but there was no flood of light. Reed waited a moment, then heard the door shut. He was surprised to see Gambit standing in the dark with both hands crammed into his pockets. There was no trace of malice in his expression, and he didn’t approach the table.

  “Glad you’re still with us,” Gambit said.

  Reed held up both hands and shook them, rattling the long chain of the handcuffs.

  Gambit smirked.

  “Come on now, Reed. The man who escaped federal prison and vanished like a ghost shouldn’t be challenged by a mere pair of handcuffs.”

  “I had a little help back then,” Reed said. His voice was toneless. None of the rage he felt against Gambit—the man who held his father—crept out of his carefully crafted facade. Maintaining control of himself was the first step in attaining control of the entire situation.

  Gambit leaned against the door and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “So you did. Enfield, right? That’s kind of his move. Or was his move, I should say. Pluck a killer out of prison, employ them, run them into the ground.”

  Reed didn’t comment. He knew where this was headed and didn’t feel like playing along. Oliver Enfield was a monster of a man, but so was Gambit.

  Gambit tilted his head to one side. “Enfield had a deal with you, right? He usually did that. A
certain number of kills in exchange for some big favor. Freedom, in your case.”

  “Thirty kills,” Reed said.

  “Ah, thirty kills. How many had you completed when, you know . . . you backed out?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Gambit appeared shocked, but Reed doubted it was genuine. He probably knew all of this already and was just fishing for something else.

  “You gave up so close to the end. Wouldn’t it have been easier to . . . finish the job?”

  Reed smirked. “When the Holiday hit was ordered—by your boss—Oliver knew it was my last job. He knew I planned to quit afterward, so he set me up. He was planning for the FBI to bust me and cart me back to prison. But you already knew that. I bet you know all about me, which is why you went to the trouble of getting me here—to leave me in the dark, chained to a table.”

  Gambit returned the smirk. “I like to hear things from the horse’s mouth.”

  Reed didn’t respond. He stared Gambit down, waiting for the man to break under the silence. It didn’t take long.

  “Here’s the thing, Reed. Like I told you in the woods, I have a job for you. A delicate job. A job that really . . . really needs to be done.”