by Logan Ryles
For the first time in her life, she was truly, absolutely alone.
Thirteen
Holly Springs National Forest
North Mississippi
The sun rose well over the trees before Banks emerged from the basement. Her body ached with exhaustion, and her face was streaked with tears, but the sunlight felt good on her skin, like the kiss of heaven.
She turned back and opened the second door, then held out her hand. Kelly took it and followed her up the steps and onto the porch. The shorter woman cast a wary glance around the property, no doubt looking for Lucy, but Banks gave her hand a soft squeeze.
“Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
The ice in Kelly’s glare melted for a moment as she faced Banks, and she nodded. Banks pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped inside the living room.
Wolfgang was still tied to the chair, his face a cross between disgust and simple boredom. He looked up when they entered and grimaced when he saw Kelly. Banks shin-kicked him.
“Ouch! I’m sorry! I didn’t expect . . . to see that.”
Banks led Kelly to the couch and motioned for her to sit down.
“Are you hungry?”
Kelly nodded again, and Banks walked into the kitchen. She could hear the shower running in the background, mixed with the gentle soprano of a woman singing Bob Hope. Lucy had a great voice—unassuming but confident. Banks glanced back into the living room to see that Wolfgang was nodding his head to the song, a gentle smile framing his face.
Outstanding. Everybody here is a lunatic.
She found bread and peanut butter in the pantry and made two sandwiches, then poured milk from the fridge into a plastic cup and walked back into the living room.
Kelly stared hungrily at the plate but waited until Banks sat down before accepting it. Banks sat and smiled, watching her gulp down the food. The first sandwich was gone in seconds, and Kelly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before giving the second sandwich a greedy glance.
Banks pushed the plate her way. “Go ahead. I made it for you.”
Wolfgang grunted from the chair a couple feet away. “Don’t worry about me. I’m full, actually. Just ate a steak dinner. Ribeye, eight ounce. I’m not a pig.”
Kelly sneered at him and picked up the sandwich, taking a slow and dramatic bite.
“Everything about you is cruel and unusual punishment,” Wolfgang muttered.
The shower cut off, but the song continued. Lucy was moving through Hope’s biggest hits, selecting some of Banks’s favorites. She remembered what it felt like to sing—what it felt like to enjoy a song and get lost in the music and not be burdened by the weight of the world crushing down on her soul. It had only been a few weeks since she sat on that stool at the club in Atlanta. It felt like years.
Sirena Wilder was her stage name. She remembered what it felt like to be Sirena—always broke, usually lonely, and exclusively semi-depressed. But Sirena was never on the run for her life. Never at a loss for anything except the next meal.
Banks looked down at her bruised hands and sighed. She didn’t feel like singing now and wasn’t sure if she would ever feel like singing again. Maybe Sirena was dead, a casualty of this strange, brutal world she found herself lost in.
Footsteps tapped in the hallway, mixed with a gentle whistle. The whistle stopped abruptly, and Banks heard the metallic shriek of Lucy’s sword clearing its scabbard.
“What the hell?”
Banks spoke without looking up. “Put it away, Lucy. Banks spoke without looking up. She was hungry.”
Lucy took a cautious step into the living room. She wore a towel wrapped around her torso, which would’ve been too short on both ends for Banks, but encapsulated Lucy like a burrito. Her red hair dripped from between her shoulder blades, and she held out the blade toward Kelly.
“She’s dangerous, Banks,” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Put it away, now!” Banks snapped. “Kelly isn’t going to hurt anyone.”
“I concur,” Wolfgang said. “Honestly, tying people up in general is barbaric—”
Lucy backhanded him across the face, and Wolfgang blinked as though he’d just been hit by a fly swatter.
“Relax, Spider-Chick,” Kelly muttered, her voice hoarse but clear. “I learned my lesson about fighting you. You can put the cheese knife away.”
Lucy lowered the blade and backed across the room, settling into a chair across from the couch. She crossed her ankles, her attention fixated on Kelly until she caught sight of Wolfgang staring at her exposed knees. She flicked the blade toward him, and Wolfgang winced.
“Please don’t!” he said.
Kelly snorted a short laugh. “Who the hell is this dweeb?”
Banks walked into the kitchen and found bread to make more sandwiches.
“He calls himself Wolfgang Pierce.”
“Wolfgang Pierce. Sounds made up as hell,” Kelly said. “What are you in for, Mr. Pierce? Cross up with Spider-Chick, did you?”
“Stop calling me that,” Lucy snapped. “It’s belittling.”
“Well, you kinda look like a Spider-Chick. Skintight leather, moves like a cat, and the sword.”
“More like a samurai,” Wolfgang muttered.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Samurai were men, you moron. I’m just a sassy redhead with a blade.”
Kelly grunted. “Spider-Chick, like I said.”
Lucy raised the sword, but Banks reappeared into the room with a plateful of sandwiches. She set them on the coffee table, then selected one and plopped down on the couch. “Will all of you shut the hell up, please? God, you’re like a bunch of old people at an ice cream social.”
Lucy and Kelly exchanged wary glances, then they leaned forward and lifted sandwiches off the plate, retreating immediately back to their seats and still glaring at each other.
“So, about that steak . . .” Wolfgang said, licking his lips. “There weren’t any sides.”
Lucy sighed and flicked her sword. The tip sliced through the tape that restrained Wolfgang’s right hand, passing only a millimeter from his skin but leaving him without a scratch.
“If you so much as twitch the wrong way, you’ll lose your head.”
Wolfgang tore his arm free and stretched for a sandwich. “You know, you’re kinda sexy with that blade.”
Lucy ignored him, and for a moment, all four of them were silent as the sandwiches faded from the plate. Kelly leaned back and belched so loud Banks thought she heard the window panes rattle. Banks shot her a surprised glance.
Kelly shrugged. “What? It’s not like I’ve got a dainty image to protect.”
Red tinged the edges of Kelly’s dark eyes, and she looked down at her hands.
Banks decided not to say anything, and instead, finished her sandwich. The room was silent again, but this time there was the definite air of uncertainty in it, as though everyone was waiting for somebody else to make the first move.
Banks decided to take control before Lucy did something provocative with the sword.
“Now that everybody has met, I think we can agree that we’re all here because of Reed.”
The tension in the room skyrocketed, and Banks shifted on the couch and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Lucy, you were trying to protect him. Wolfgang, you say he has something you need. And Kelly, well. . . .”
“I want to carve his heart out,” Kelly finished. Her tone was deathly cold and one-hundred percent sincere.
Lucy sat up, and the sword clicked against her armrest.
“That’s not gonna happen, honey.”
Kelly sneered. “What’s your angle, Spider-Chick? Another girlfriend?”
Lucy bristled. “Reed is an associate of mine. He saved my life, so I’m returning the favor. Clear enough for you, pumpkin?”
“Honey, pumpkin . . . what are you, Aunt B?”
In a voice layered with ice, Lucy said, “You really like to call
people names, don’t you?”Lucy’s voice was layered with ice.
“Not always, but when I do, I don’t sound like a backwoods redneck with three teeth in her head.”
Lucy sat up, the sword already rising. Banks leapt to her feet and held out both hands. “Stop it, both of you! I don’t care what your angles are, you’re only hurting people!”
“Easy for you to say,” Kelly snapped, her voice trembling with emotion. “Your house didn’t burn down around your ears. You didn’t watch your fiancé roast to death right next to you. You didn’t . . .”
Kelly broke off, her voice sounding thick and weak. Her hands broke out into a series of tremors, and she settled back into the chair, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Banks glowered at Lucy until the redhead settled back into her chair.
“Give me the sword,” she said, holding out her hand. Lucy shook her head, and Banks stamped her foot against the floor. “Give me the sword!”
Lucy flinched, then reluctantly held out the weapon, handle first. Banks took it and placed it in the kitchen, then returned to the living room.
“Look, I hate Reed, too. He hurt me . . . deeply. He’s destroyed my whole life. But there’s a bigger picture here.”
Banks spent the next few minutes walking the three of them through everything that had happened since she met Reed: the kidnapping in Atlanta, the train, the events in the mountains, the gunfight with Oliver Enfield, and then Nashville—the hidden fraternity, their dark secrets, and their lost members.
She concluded with confronting Dick Carter in Wyoming before journeying back to Alabama to find David Montgomery.
“I was working with Reed because I need to know what happened to my daddy.” Her voice trembled, but she kept going. “He was everything to me, and he was stolen. I don’t believe he was killed by a drunk driver. I have to know the truth, and then I have to crush the man responsible. Reed was helping me get there.”
Silence filled the room. Lucy stared at Banks with a sympathetic pucker of her lips, and Kelly just glared at the wall. Her hands continued to tremble, the endless nuisance of her damaged nerves. But there was more to it, also.
Kelly bolted to her feet and snapped. “So you lost your daddy? I lost everything! Sing your sad song someplace else, bitch!”
Lucy jumped up, already moving to intercept Kelly as the deranged woman flung herself at Banks. The room filled with all three of their screams as Wolfgang slung himself sideways, crashing to the floor out of their way. Kelly’s first blow rocketed toward Banks’s nose but was deflected at the last moment as Lucy head-butted her in the ribs. The three women clattered to the floor, sending the plate spinning across the room. Fists, legs, and three colors of hair mixed in a swirl as punches were slung and teeth were bared. Banks felt a knee slam into her stomach, knocking the air out of her. She rolled free as the ceiling spun overhead, then she landed on her side and saw Kelly hit the floor on top of Lucy, her right fist drawn back, ready for a punch.
“Don’t!” Banks shouted.
The punch started to fall. Kelly leaned forward, gritting her teeth, aiming straight for Lucy’s china-doll face.
Then, a low whimper rang out from down the hallway, and toenails clicked on the hardwood. Kelly stopped cold, mid-blow, and looked up. Feet pattered across the hardwood, followed by another whimper.
Kelly’s hand fell to her side, and she whispered,
“Baxter?”
Reed’s old bulldog erupted into a gallop, busting out of the hallway with a happy yelp. He jumped over Lucy’s head and fell into Kelly’s lap. The two tumbled to the floor as the dog continued to bark and lick Kelly’s disfigured face.
Banks hauled herself to her feet, then helped Lucy up. The redhead started toward Kelly, but Banks held her back.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Look . . .”
Kelly sat on the floor, her arms wrapped around the dog in a bear hug as she leaned into his shoulder and sobbed like a child.
Fourteen
Hwy 49 South
Arkansas/Louisiana State Line
It took Gambit most of the day to secure the items on Reed’s wish list. The pistol, rifle, ammunition, and cash were the easiest. The car took longer. Reed expected that and was even surprised when Gambit hauled him out of the underground bunker and into the fading light of a setting sun to a brand-new BMW M2 parked under the shade of Arkansas trees.
It was the exact model Reed had specified—a Competition Coupe with a twin-turbo six-cylinder engine producing 405 horsepower. Not so raw or loud as his Camaro, but plenty quick. The car was equipped with a six-speed manual transmission, black interior matched to the exterior, and Louisiana license plates. No sunroof.
Gambit tossed him the keys and offered a dry smirk. “Don’t wreck it, Reed.”
“I’ll do whatever I want, Gambit. It’s my car.”
Inside the trunk, Reed found the rifle waiting in a foam case. It was new, but somebody had already disassembled it and cleaned away all the factory grease. Shorter than a regular M1A, the Scout Squad was a semi-automatic battle rifle chambered in the heavy-hitting .308 Winchester. Normally, Reed would’ve preferred a custom-built AR-10–style modular rifle for any precision shooting needs, but he neither trusted Gambit to competently construct one, nor did he have the time to wait. Out of the box, the M1A Scout Squad was accurate out to three hundred yards or so, equipped with the Buris long-eye relief scope that was carefully packaged in another box, as instructed. Three hundred yards would be plenty for what Reed needed to do.
He checked the canvas bag next to the rifle case and found the Sig handgun, along with magazines for both weapons, loaded with the ammunition he requested.
“Are you satisfied?” Gambit asked.
Reed shut the trunk and motioned to his leg. “The monitor. Take it off.”
Gambit laughed. “I don’t think so. We still need to keep an eye on you, after all. And if the monitor goes off course or offline, well, you know what happens.”
Reed glared him down, then climbed into the car.
“You have three days, Reed. Don’t disappoint me.”
Gambit shut the door, and Reed gunned the motor, turning south.
Two hours later, a blue road sign welcomed him to the Pelican State. Reed swerved around a semi-truck and took the next exit, steering toward a truck stop. There was plenty of gas in the Beemer’s tank, but there was something else he needed.
The little car bounced between trucks on its way to the pump, where Reed topped it off with premium gas before walking inside. Peeling out a hundred dollar bill from Gambit’s supply of running money, Reed purchased a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a prepaid burner phone—something he could communicate with outside the scope of Gambit’s knowledge. Then he piloted back onto the highway and turned south.
He would start in Baton Rouge, find the Governor, and get a bearing on her activities. Gambit would be watching carefully, and he might even have people on the ground. That would be annoying but not detrimental. If all of Gambit’s men were tall, broad, and as dumb as rocks like the ones in Arkansas, Reed would see them a mile away and have no trouble dealing with them.
He powered on the phone, allowed it to cycle through its setup process, then punched in a number from memory.
“Jose’s Greek Gods for hire. This is Jose.”
“T-Rex, it’s Reed.”
“Prosecutor, baby! How the hell are you? Still keeping up with that sexy mama?”
Reed sighed. T-Rex was his go-to arms dealer, a loud, obnoxious, and altogether annoying individual who drew enough attention to himself to invite a federal invasion. Yet, he slipped enough hardware in and out of Mexico to lay down a National Guard installation.
T-Rex was a study in the oxymoron and the poster boy for any politician who wanted to impose stricter border regulations. Reed wasn’t sure he trusted him, but he could certainly rely on him to deliver. To that end, T-Rex had never failed.
“I’m getting along, T-Rex.” Reed dodged
the loaded question about Banks. T-Rex met her at their last encounter, and it was no secret that he harbored a powerful, if strictly physical, crush. Not that Reed could fault him for his good taste. “I’m calling because—”
“You need something. Of course. You know I got you, baby. What can T-Rex get you today? I picked up some nice automatics last night. Israeli stuff, no numbers.”
“Actually, I was looking for something a little more explosive.”
T-Rex chuckled. “Oh, you need the boom-boom, eh? You know I got you. What kind, and how much?”
“C4. And . . . a lot.”
“C4, eh? Hmm. I got some in stock, I think. Medium-grade from Mexico. A bit dirty. Smokes a lot.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll take ten pounds.”
T-Rex erupted into a string of Spanish cursing, and the phone hit the floor. A moment later, he retrieved it. “Ten pounds? What the hell are you up to, Prosecutor?”
“The usual. Chaos, en masse. Can you hook me up?”
“You know I can, baby. But seriously, that’s a lot of juice. Better be careful.”
“I know what I’m doing, Rex. I’ll take the ten pounds, a remote detonator and, well, this might be a lot to ask, but . . .”
Reed let the comment hang, and he heard T-Rex sniff derisively.
“What, you think I ain’t got it? Baby, if it can be got, T-Rex can get it. What do you need?”
“It’s just, you know, I was hoping you could deliver long distance.”
“What, truck it for you across state lines? You’re a crazy mother, Reed. No doubt!”
“I’ll pay extra. It’s not that far. You’ve moved stuff for me before.”
“Sure I have. Guns and ammo, some grenades maybe. But ten pounds of C4?”
“I need it in Baton Rouge. Tomorrow morning, if at all possible. I’ll give you three grand.”
T-Rex sighed. His ego was taking over, just as Reed hoped.
