by Logan Ryles
The lead man made directly for Sharp, stepping around the desk and producing a badge from beneath his coat.
“Mr. Lieutenant Governor, Agent Don Kritz, Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. You’re under arrest.”
Four other men stood back, their hands on their weapons, while a fifth stepped forward and helped Agent Kritz bend Sharp over the desk. Before anyone could speak, Kritz was reading Sharp his rights and hauling him toward the door.
“Wait!” Maggie screamed, and she rushed forward, blocking the way. “What are you doing?”
“Madam Governor, step aside.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“Into custody. Please step aside.”
She held up her hand. “Agent, I’m your governor! Charges of conspiracy do not warrant an arrest of this violence.”
“Conspiracy?” Kritz twisted his head. “Madam Governor, LG Sharp is under arrest for murder.”
“Murder?” She felt the blood drain from her face. “Who?”
“Attorney General Matthews, ma’am. I can’t comment further. Step aside.”
The six men were gone as quickly as they came, rushing out of the office and allowing the doors to clap shut behind them.
Maggie’s head spun. She stumbled back and felt Coulier catch her by the elbow.
“Coulier, my god. What have you done?”
“Nothing, I swear. The evidence was only supposed to implicate him in the conspiracy of poisoning the port.”
He helped Maggie into a chair.
She collapsed as the tears continued to flow. “My god . . . my god.”
Coulier gritted his teeth. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. It has to be a mix-up.”
She sobbed. “I can’t pardon him for this. I can’t touch this!”
The room fell silent, and Coulier placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I know. And you won’t have to. It’s just you and me now.”
Five
Holly Springs National Forest
North Mississippi
The Mercedes purred to a stop, its sleek outline little more than a shadow on the dark forest road. The headlights were off, and the brake lights had been disconnected using an aftermarket switch mounted beneath the dash. From behind the tinted glass, it was difficult to make out more than the vague shapes of tree trunks, but Wolfgang knew where he was going.
He shifted into park, then cut the engine. Other than the gentle ticking of the cooling motor, the forest road lay silent as a graveyard.
He chewed softly on a wad of gum, surveying the darkened trees for five minutes before redirecting his attention to the handheld computer in the passenger’s seat. The screen was backlit in red, protecting his natural night vision as he manipulated it with two fingers. On the computer screen, the vague mark of the cell phone signal still blinked at a location three hundred yards north off the main road. A dirt track led in that direction, with fresh tire marks in the mud.
Wolfgang rubbed his chin, his gaze switching between the computer and the dirt track, then he pocketed the device and stepped out of the car.
The night air was chilly, but a lot warmer than the snow-filled wind he left in New York State the previous day. He buttoned his peacoat, then proceeded to the rear of the car.
The red trunk light glowed softly as he retrieved his combat belt and strapped it on over the peacoat. Two large handguns—Glock semi-automatics chambered in 10mm—were strapped on either side of the belt, with a flashlight, a knife, and a choke cord joining them. The choke cord and knife were designated for primary use, while the handguns were reserved for a worst-case-scenario. He carried 10mm because it was a faultlessly reliable round, almost always delivering a kill on the first shot. Many years before, he had almost lost his life when a small-caliber handgun failed to drop his assailant after multiple shots, and that was a mistake he would never make again.
After securing the belt over his hips, he checked both guns to ensure they were chambered and ready to fire, then started into the woods, keeping the dirt track parallel to his own course about ten yards to the left. He didn’t expect any sort of electronic surveillance, but walking directly on the track would leave him far too exposed.
The moon overhung the forest, half-full, filling the spaces between the trees with silver light. On any other night, Wolfgang might have paused to appreciate the natural beauty of the forest or to wait quietly in the dark, hoping for a chance to see some kind of nocturnal animal make a star-lit appearance. He enjoyed a lot of nights like that by himself in the woods of upstate New York—probably more than was healthy, considering his astounding lack of a social life.
Occupational hazards, he guessed. Professional assassins weren’t known for their thriving circle of friends. Not the ones who enjoyed long careers, anyway.
Deeper into the forest, his own footfalls rang louder in his ears. Each crunch of a leaf or snap of a twig sounded like a gunshot, and he slowed his pace even further. It wasn’t far to the cabin now. He hadn’t checked the computer in over three hundred yards, but he knew he was close. Another bend in the track, up a little hill, and there it was.
The cabin sat alone with darkened windows and no hint of occupancy other than the dingy sedan parked next to the door. It was a hideous thing—some kind of Buick or Mercury. Wolfgang recognized Kansas license plates on the car and wondered for a moment if Reed had really driven that rattletrap all the way back from The Sunflower State.
If he had, it could mean Reed was avoiding attention, driving something forgettable. Or, it could mean that his resources were dwindling, and rapidly so.
It didn’t matter. Wolfgang would find out soon enough. He retrieved a pistol from his belt and started toward the cabin. His footfalls were silent, as carefully placed as the paws of a lynx slipping up to the cabin without so much as the whisper of grass being bent in the wind. With each step, he monitored the cabin for any signs of life—a creak from the floorboards, a glint in the window.
There was nothing. Were it not for the car, the cabin would’ve looked abandoned, and that itself was a reflection of Reed’s peculiar talents as an assassin. Homes were living organisms that reacted in strange ways to the presence or absence of occupants. It wasn’t just the lack of light or sound—an empty home felt empty when you looked at it. Reed knew how to make a home feel that way even when he was inside.
Well, Wolfgang knew a few tricks of his own, like how to make a home feel on fire.
He skipped the steps, which appeared creaky, and opted to mount the porch by rolling onto its far edge. There was no railing, and it took only a moment to regain his footing and approach the entrance. An old, torn screen door would also likely give away his presence, but a quick application of WD-40 from a small can in his pocket ensured that wouldn’t be an issue.
The main door would certainly be locked. He could kick it open and breach the house, which would alert Reed, but since the cabin was a small single-story, he probably wouldn’t have time to react. Alternatively, Wolfgang could pick the lock . . .
The door wasn’t locked. The knob twisted in perfect silence, and the door swung open without a sound. Wolfgang braced his tense muscles and raised the gun as he stepped across the threshold and into darkness.
He cleared the door, braced his shooting hand with his left hand, and started toward the kitchen.
From his left, something bright and silver flashed across his face, and a split second later, he was critically aware of that same glimmering item a millimeter from his neck, hovering in absolute stillness.
It was a razor-sharp blade only a breath away from severing his windpipe.
“One more step, and you’ll be catching your head with your hands.”
The female’s voice was perfectly calm but loaded to the brim with menace.
Wolfgang swallowed, then lowered the gun and offered a tight smirk without turning his head.
“Nasty greeting. I heard Mississippians were hospitable.”
“You heard wrong,” the voice sai
d, its speaker still shrouded in darkness. “A Mississippian would’ve shot you already. It’s lucky I’m not one. Now, drop the gun and the belt.”
Wolfgang rotated the handgun onto its side and dropped it onto the rug. It fell with a thud, followed a moment later by the belt. His smirk widened.
“I’d usually buy you dinner before dropping my belt.”Wolfgang’s smirk widened.
“Don’t flatter yourself, honey. The bigger the gun, the smaller the gun . . . if you know what I mean.”
Wolfgang could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks as the blade twitched beneath his chin.
“Move to the table, and sit down in the nearest chair. Remember, I’m a hell of a lot faster with this blade than you are with your lame pickup lines.”
Wolfgang stepped slowly toward the table, sliding a wooden chair back from the end and settling into it.
The woman followed, pivoting in front of him and keeping the tip of the blade less than an inch from his throat the entire time. He could see the weapon now. It was a sword of some type—single-edged and gently curved. Japanese, maybe. But he still couldn’t see her face.
Wolfgang held up both hands. “All right. You’ve got me in the chair. How much for a dance?”
The blade twitched with the speed of a bullet, flicking across his face and clipping the end of his nose. He didn’t feel the cut, but a moment later, large drops of blood began dripping into his lap. He recoiled as the sword hovered only millimeters from his nose.
“I’d chill with the smack if I were you.”
Wolfgang didn’t move, his gaze riveted on the tip of the weapon. Who was this person? The woman he saw with Reed back in North Carolina and Tennessee? Couldn’t be. If Reed were here, he would’ve already barreled through the room like a charging bull, cursing and blowing things up.
Maybe this woman was holding him prisoner. None of the possibilities were favorable.
“Banks, honey!” The woman’s voice rose in a gentle shout. “If you’re awake, I could really use your help.”
There was a pause, and then the woman called again for Banks—whoever that was.
A hallway floorboard creaked, followed by the thump of sleepy feet. A light flashed on, and Wolfgang blinked, his eyes flooded by the flash of white. As he struggled to regain his vision, he heard another couple footfalls and then the thunk of somebody stopping with a jolt.
“You!”
Wolfgang’s vision returned. He could see his captor now: a petite woman, no more than five feet tall, with scarlet hair and stunning green eyes. She held the sword with one steady hand while the other hand was pinned against her hips.
But it wasn’t the redhead who had exclaimed. Behind her, standing at the end of the hallway, was a taller woman with blonde hair, sleepy blue eyes, and a nose so swollen and red it looked like some kind of rotten vegetable. It was the woman from North Carolina. The woman with Reed.
Her eyes blazed with hatred, and she started forward, raising a fist.
Wolfgang recoiled and held up both hands. “Hey! Listen! Before things get out of hand, I feel like I should clarify. I wasn’t trying to kill you in Carolina. I mean, it was kind of a mis—”
“Oh, so you were lobbing grenades at me to make me feel good about myself?” Her voice cracked with emotion.
Wolfgang grimaced. “Okay, see, when you say it like that, it makes me sound all kinds of violent. Let’s get some coffee and—”
“Shut up,” the redhead said. She flicked the sword again, just beneath his eyeline, and he froze. “Banks, honey, look in the kitchen. There’s got to be some tape around here.”
Banks glared at Wolfgang, but she stumbled into the kitchen and began rifling through drawers. She reappeared moments later with a roll of duct tape and followed the redhead’s directions in securing Wolfgang hand and foot to the chair. With every pass of the tape, Banks glared daggers at him.
Wolfgang redirected his attention to the woman with the sword. There was something very peculiar going on. Reed obviously wasn’t around, but if the blonde woman was, then the redhead knew about Reed. Who was she anyway? Not another girlfriend, surely. Was Reed like that?
Banks stepped back from her handiwork and folded her arms.
The redhead pivoted in front of the chair and laid the flat of the blade against Wolfgang’s shoulder, its edge only a millimeter from his neck.
“Banks, you know this man?”
Banks nodded, her bottom lip poked out in a mild pout.
Matched with her brutalized nose, Wolfgang couldn’t imagine a more pitiful face.
“He’s some kind of assassin. I don’t know his name.”
“Wolfgang,” he said with a tired sigh. “Wolfgang Pierce. And seriously, you’ve got it all wrong.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? Well, why don’t you enlighten us, Mr. Pierce? Why are you here?”
Wolfgang assumed his most innocent smile. “Because Reed sent for me.”
Six
Rural Arkansas
Gambit stood outside Montgomery’s prison cell and drew a long breath. Stress radiated from his body, leaving his muscles feeling like violin strings that were stretched too tight, played too hard. The last few days had been a whirlwind of events, most of which had spun completely out of his control. Being out of control was an alarming sensation, and one he wasn’t accustomed to. Gambit prided himself in never losing control and always being on top. It was his greatest virtue and what made him so valuable to Aiden.
It was what kept him alive.
Gambit stepped away from the door and paced for a moment. Montgomery could never feel his stress or know how weak Gambit’s bargaining position actually was. If he did, the big killer would almost certainly take control.
Gambit could play coy with Montgomery and make little comments like “I can do this for days” all he wanted, but in the end, he was little more than a paper tiger. He couldn’t afford to waste any time in deploying Montgomery against Governor Trousdale. Things were moving quickly in Louisiana, and what began as a snag was starting to appear like a potential exposure. The LBI had just arrested Lieutenant Governor Sharp in conjunction with the Attorney General Matthews killing, which would’ve been good news if Gambit were trying to pin that death on somebody.
The problem was, he hadn’t been. Gambit paid what he believed to be a top-notch assassin to knock off Matthews—a ruthless prosecutor who was becoming increasingly dangerous to Aiden’s operation in Louisiana. The assassin claimed to be a specialist in natural death appearances, but as it turned out, he probably wasn’t a specialist in wiping his own ass. The toxicologists easily detected the poison in Matthews’s blood, which triggered an investigation that Gambit never intended to deal with. The situation had become a virtual time bomb, threatening to sink Aiden’s operation at any moment.
Matthews was now more of a loose end than Trousdale was, which was why it was so critical to send Montgomery to finish the job. Aiden didn’t know how bad things were with the Matthews investigation. If things went well with Montgomery, he would never know. Montgomery would cap Trousdale, Gambit would ensure that he was caught for it, and then Gambit would drop a few extra bread crumbs that led investigators to charge Montgomery with the death of AG Matthews also.
It was perfect, really. A disgraced former Marine who escaped from prison going on a slaughter spree against state-level politicians. First, a state senator from Georgia, then an attorney general from Louisiana, and finally, the governor of Louisiana herself. All of Aiden’s problems cleaned up, pinned on a likely suspect, and swept away into a story the media would gobble down like candy.
Gambit gnawed on his fingernails. The only problem was Montgomery, of course. He had already proven himself to be a formidable foe, both clever and efficient. Sure, Gambit never expected Oliver Enfield’s arsenal of killers to be able to knock off The Prosecutor, but he was still surprised by how absolutely ineffective they were. Montgomery was a man of prowess, with zero hesitation guarding his tri
gger finger. Gambit had a tiger by the tail, and he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
But he couldn’t wait much longer, either. With Lieutenant Governor Sharp behind bars, screaming to his lawyers and arguing with investigators, it was only a matter of time before he was found guiltless, which would redirect heat back to the case, and possibly back to Gambit.
Why the hell had the LBI arrested Sharp, anyway?
Gambit stopped at the end of the hall and pulled at his lip. He had to focus and narrow his mind down to the problem at hand. Sharp, the LBI, and all the rest could wait. Right now, he had to decide about Montgomery. He could let him off the leash now, smack his ass, and tell him to run down Trousdale. And Montgomery might do it.
Or he might attempt to double-cross Gambit and rescue David. That was the problem with holding something over Montgomery’s head—he might bite your arm off. That was what happened to Oliver Enfield, certainly, and it was why Gambit tried to present himself as the prophet of hope instead of the god of damnation.
He wasn’t sure it was working. Montgomery was such a hard man to read. In the forest outside the prison, Gambit knew he was getting to Reed; it was blatantly obvious. But now, a couple days after Montgomery had time to sit and think, had he regained control of himself?
That was another problem with further delays. It gave Montgomery more time to think. More time to calculate a way out of this.
Gambit tasted blood and realized he’d split one of his fingernails. He winced and wrung his hand, sending a splatter of crimson across the floor.
Think, dammit. He had to think. If he acted now, it might be too soon. But if he waited, so much more could go wrong.
Gambit crammed his hand into his pocket, cursing his mind into silence. He couldn’t allow the panic to take over. His very life was on the line here, and if he wanted to survive, he had to regain control.
