Survivor

by Logan Ryles

  Reed twisted on the bed and lifted a small plastic bag off the pillow. It was full of odds and ends he had picked up the previous day at an electronics store—a small spool of copper wire, some solder, a soldering iron, and a pair of insulated cutting pliers.

  He plugged the soldering iron into a nearby outlet before setting it on the nightstand and picking up the pliers. There was really no way to ensure that this would work. Reed’s knowledge of electronics was somewhat rudimentary, but then again, the basic concept of an ankle monitor wasn’t exactly rocket science. It was a GPS unit designed to track him and issue an alert if the circuit surrounding his leg was broken, so the key to removing it without triggering the alert would be to ensure that the circuit was never broken or grounded.

  Reed grabbed the pliers by their insulated handles, ensuring that his skin never came in contact with the metal. He wasn’t sure if touching the metal band beneath the nylon would trigger the alert, but it might. Better to be safe.

  The pliers sliced through the nylon with relative ease, and after thirty seconds of effort, Reed exposed the band.

  It was copper, just as he suspected, and not particularly strong, but highly conductive, ensuring that any interruption in the circuit would be detected.

  The soldering iron was hot on the nightstand. Reed unspooled twelve inches of the wire and stripped away the end of the plastic insulation with the pliers, then gently touched the tip to the exposed copper band and paused.

  Nothing happened. At least, nothing noticeable.

  The red light continued to blink every five seconds. Reed exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and picked up the soldering iron. It took only a few seconds to solder the wire to the band, ensuring a secure and conductive bond between the two. Reed rotated the monitor 180 degrees and made a similar cut on the other side of the nylon strap before repeating the procedure with the other end of the wire. In less than ten minutes, the operation was complete, and he sat back to regard his handiwork.

  The circuit was now secure, with electrical current flowing from the monitor into both the copper band and the wire, theoretically ensuring that if either the wire or the band were cut, the other would assume the full load of the current and prevent the circuit from breaking.

  It made sense, logically, like diverting the flow of water from a pipe before cutting into the pipe. At face value, it should work.

  Reed sighed and picked up the pliers. There was only one way to find out. His entire plan hinged on being able to ditch the monitor.

  A few quick cuts tore away the nylon in the middle of the band. Reed paused a moment longer, ensured his hands weren’t touching the metal part of the pliers, then bit his lip and cut through the band.

  For an agonizing four seconds, he waited for the red light to blink and then for the phone in his pocket to ring. He waited for Gambit’s goons to kick the door open and rush in.

  The red light blinked. Reed exhaled again, his shoulders dropped, and he laid down the pliers. Another ten seconds passed, and the red light blinked twice, five seconds apart. Reed gently grabbed the severed ends of the nylon strap and pulled them away from his leg. The twelve inches of wire provided sufficient wiggle room for him to pull the entire apparatus over his ankle and around his foot.

  And then he was free.

  He set the device on the bed and watched it for a minute longer, counting twelve separate flashes of the red light. Nothing had changed, and as far as he could tell, the current from the monitor continued to flow through the copper wire, unobstructed by the severed copper band.

  Reed rubbed his ankle. It felt damn good to have the monitor gone, like taking off a rucksack after a long march. He placed the monitor gently inside the plastic bag from the electronics store and wrapped it up. The bag would provide some minor protection from any disturbances that could trigger the alarm, but he would still need to be careful. Anything could happen.

  He stood up and stretched, then rotated and looked down at the bed. Lying there in a neat pile were several small boxes, all labeled in tiny black letters that formed Spanish words, and on the corner of one box, Reed saw the insignia of the Mexican Army.

  T-Rex had arrived only hours before to deliver the pricey cargo: ten pounds of C4.

  Nineteen

  State Capitol Building

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  “Of all the vile habits, God hates the bottle the most!”

  Maggie could still imagine her deceased grandmother sitting in her armchair, a copy of the Times-Picayune folded over one thigh, and her outstretched finger wagging in the air. “Of all the vile habits, God hates the bottle the most!”

  It was an odd sentiment for anybody living so close to Bourbon Street to hold, but then, Margery Trousdale, Maggie’s namesake, wasn’t from Louisiana. She was from old South Georgia, deep in the heart of peanut fields connected by quiet dirt roads, where the Southern Baptist Church—not the Roman Catholic Church—presided over the religious affections of society.

  And to a Southern Baptist, murder itself was not so great a crime as a sip of whiskey.

  Imagine if she saw me now, Maggie thought. She tipped her glass back and drained the last drops of Johnny Walker from its bottom. They tasted stale in her mouth, either because she’d been staring at the glass for the better part of an hour, or because she’d already consumed four glasses.

  Margery Trousdale would be soul-crushed, Maggie knew. The old woman was no fool. She knew her family and even her Catholic husband was no stranger to the bottle, but she didn’t lecture them out of anger. To Granny Marge, her passionate lectures were an expression of tough love. She would turn a blind eye to the occasional case of beer at a gator grilling party, but if she had ever seen her drunken granddaughter slouched over the executive desk of the highest office of the state, well. . .it was a good thing she had already passed on because that would’ve done her in.

  Maggie fumbled for the bottle and dumped the last few swallows into the glass. The room around her was quiet, darkened by the fall of night around the old city.

  Coulier had gone back to Texas, claiming he had some urgent family matter to attend to, but Maggie had never heard him mention a family before. He probably just wanted to slip away quietly before the fallout, and she’d probably receive a signed copy of his resignation in the mail before the end of the week and never see him again.

  Could she blame him? She wanted to. Dammit, she wanted to. It was Coulier’s idea to rig the closure of the port and launch into the mad, desperate attempt to track down an invisible criminal syndicate headed by the shadowy man known only as Gambit. Wasn’t it Coulier’s idea to board that ship, the Santa something? Wasn’t it Coulier’s assumption that Gambit’s operation would orbit around the Port of New Orleans in the first place?

  It was certainly Coulier’s idea to frame Dan Sharp for the entire mess, and did he frame him for the death of Attorney General Matthews?

  She didn’t think so. As sloppy, destructive, and unhelpful as Coulier had been, what possible motive could he have for sabotaging Sharp to that degree?

  None of this was Coulier’s fault. She wanted to blame him and call the news and spill her guts and pin everything on his shoulders, but she couldn’t. As many times as she reached for the phone, she always stopped. Another overused adage from her grandmother rang in her ears every time, as loud and sharp as if the old woman were sitting next to her:

  “A leader is responsible.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the damp lip of the glass. Margery Trousdale was always ranting about leadership, always fussing about failed politicians and executives and community leaders. To her credit, she didn’t just rant, she took action whenever possible, leading projects and campaigning for better leaders.

  Maybe it was Granny Marge who inspired Maggie to run for office, to make a change, to challenge the status quo. If so, it was ironic because Margery Trousdale would have shit a brick at the thought of a female governor.


  Maggie smiled longingly at that thought. What she wouldn’t give to see her old Granny again. She would tell her absolutely everything—every sordid detail and poor decision—and she’d ask her what a true leader would do and what a wise governor who loved her state more than life itself would say. Would she resign? Would she admit to everything?

  Or would she stay in the fight?

  The phone rang on her desk, dull and distant. She blinked back the intoxication and let it ring three more times before reluctantly lifting it to her ear.

  “Governor Trousdale.” She instantly kicked herself for answering the phone with slurred words. What if this were the press or an investigator?

  “Maggie?”

  The familiar Cajun warble of her mother rang over the phone, and Maggie felt a wave of relief wash through her.

  “Mama, it’s me.”

  “Oh, god, Maggie. I’ve been calling all over for you. You still in the city?”

  For her mother, any place other than the swamps was “the city.” In a further twist of irony, Maggie’s entire family held greater suspicion of danger in the city than they did for the gator and snake-filled swamps they called home.

  “Yes, Mama. I’m still at the Capitol.”

  “You should come home. You need to eat. I’ve got a big kettle of gumbo. Your brother went out today and caught some shrimp. You need to eat, Maggie.”

  “I’m not hungry, Mama.”

  “Is that Maggie?” She heard the gruff, grizzled voice of her father, then the phone clicked as it was switched to speaker.

  “Hey, Daddy,” Maggie mumbled. The phone clattered around as her father held it up to his ear. He had no idea how a speakerphone worked.

  “Maggie? They been talkin’ about you on the news again. That smug son of a bitch on the Foxes channel. I'ma ’bout to send your brother down there to kick some ass.”

  Maggie couldn’t resist a smile. “No, Daddy. He’s a journalist just doing his job.”

  “Well, he’s got a mighty smart mouf for a gernalist. Says all kinda long, fancy words I never heard of. Sumptin’ about conspiracy and corruption.”

  Maggie leaned back in her chair and blinked back tears.

  “Yeah, Daddy. I know.”

  Another rustling sound of plastic against cloth, then the calm drawl of her little brother’s voice rang over the phone.

  “Hey, sis, it’s Larry. You’re off speaker. You okay?” Larry was better educated than his parents but still maintained the same simple soul.

  Maggie wiped her eyes. “Yeah, bro. All good. Just got some stuff to figure out.”

  “I saw the news. They’re saying some stuff about Uncle Dan. Something about murder.”

  “It’s not true. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Okay, I knew it wasn’t. Uncle Dan wouldn’t hurt a swamp rat. But really, you should come home for a bit and clear your head. You can’t get work done on whiskey alone.”

  That was Larry, wise beyond his years. Calm and perceptive. And so trusting.

  “I hear you, Larry. Can you put me back on speaker?”

  Another rustle, then the phone beeped.

  “We’re all here, sweetie,” her mother said.

  Maggie swallowed and closed her eyes. Every moment was mental torture, but she had to say it. It was the only right thing to do.

  “Listen, I need to tell you all something. I’m going to New Orleans tomorrow. We’re reopening the port.”

  “Maggie, that’s wonderful!” Her mother’s enthusiasm was unbounded. “I knew you’d get people back to work.”

  “’Bout damn time,” her father grunted. “Folk got bills to pay!”

  “Guys, please. I’m not finished.” Maggie braced herself. “Tomorrow . . . well, I’m going to say some things on TV. Things that I have to say. Things that may be hard for you to hear. I just want you to know that I’m saying them because they’re true, and I have to tell the truth. But I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.”

  The line was silent. The phone clicked off of speaker, and she heard her mother’s soft breath. “Maggie? What are you talking about?”

  “I love you,” Maggie whispered. She hung up and slumped over her desk, her face falling into her hands. There was no holding back the tears now.

  Twenty

  Tupelo, Mississippi

  T-Rex was exhausted. It had been a bone-grinding sort of day, beginning at six in the morning in Memphis, when he started his van and drove six hours to Tyler, Texas, to pick up a new batch of cheap and dirty Mexican C4. He drove five more hours to Baton Rouge, where he delivered the C4 to The Prosecutor in an empty parking lot behind a grocery store. Reed was quiet and uninterested in discussing the blonde woman T-Rex had last seen him with, which was disappointing because T-Rex hadn’t forgotten about her. He often found his thoughts drifting back to her gently swaying hips and sassy smile, or the glint in her eyes when she slapped him.

  He wasn’t going to lie about it; he liked it that way—rough and sassy. T-Rex made plenty of money, and women weren’t difficult to come by, but that only made his exploits bland and easy. He liked a challenge. He longed for a true fireball like this blonde, all piss and vinegar, with all the right curves in all the right places.

  As it turned out, the gods of desire and ecstasy smiled on him. T-Rex could hardly believe his luck when an unknown number rang through one of his burner phones, and he answered it to hear the smooth voice of the blonde on the other end.

  Her name was Banks. Reed had abandoned her, she was lonely, and she had been thinking about him all day long.

  T-Rex turned north out of Baton Rouge and crashed toward Mississippi like a bat out of hell, hardly containing his excitement. It took five hours to reach Tupelo, and his eyes stung with exhaustion by the time he finally rolled into the little city, but it was going to be worth it. He was sure of that. He imagined slow dancing with the blonde in the secluded hotel room she selected, wrapping his arms around her neck and kissing her, soft and slow. They would sip true Mexican tequila and finding their way out of their clothes.

  The van squeaked to a halt in the back of the motel parking lot, and T-Rex ran his tongue over the palm of his hand before slicking back his wavy black hair. Normally, he’d want to shower and put on something nice before meeting a lady, but perhaps she wasn’t a lady, and she was just as easy as the others. She certainly sounded hot and heavy on the phone. Had he completely misjudged her?

  Tomorrow he might call her as bland as the rest, but tonight he would make love to her the way only a suave gentleman from south of the border knew how.

  Something clicked against the window, and T-Rex jumped. Banks stood just outside the van, her long hair hanging loose next to flushed cheeks. Her lips were lined with thick red lipstick, and she was dressed in a revealing black dress, the kind of thing suited to a cocktail party or a late-night rendezvous at a cheap hotel.

  T-Rex recoiled for a moment at the sight of her nose. It was purple with bruises that traced their way beneath her eyes—altogether unpleasant to look at.

  Then again, there was plenty else to look at. Had Reed beaten her? Was that why she called him?

  That bastard.

  T-Rex clicked the door open and slid out, deciding at once to ignore her nose and enjoy the rest.

  “Oh, baby. You lookin’ fine tonight!”

  Banks smiled seductively, then placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, only half an inch from his ear. Her voice was soft and warm.

  “Come on, baby. I’ve got a room ready for us.”

  T-Rex almost ran across the parking lot, holding her by one hand and tripping on the curb outside the first floor of rooms.

  “Easy, baby,” Banks murmured. “We’ve got all night.”

  She stepped ahead and led him down a hallway to the back of the hotel. Another row of doors waited over a dirty sidewalk, their frames painted in peeling orange paint. T-Rex slowed down and followed her to number 18. Banks slid a plastic key into the lock and pushed the door open, then stepped
back, her hips swinging ever so slightly as she moved.

  T-Rex felt his heart rate quicken, and he rushed forward, grabbing her by the hand. The two stumbled into the dark room, and the door shut behind them.

  “The light switch is on the left-hand wall,” Banks whispered. “Turn it on for me?”

  T-Rex tripped and stumbled, feeling for the switch until he found it and flipped it on, flooding the room with light. He blinked as his vision adjusted, then his heart leapt into his throat.

  A tall, slender man stood inches in front of him, his arms crossed and a smug smile covering his face. T-Rex recognized him immediately as the stranger from a few days prior—the man who wanted to know about the cell phones T-Rex sold Reed.

  T-Rex blinked in confusion, and the man’s smirk widened. Something moved in the shadows behind the man, and T-Rex saw a third figure—a woman, dressed head-to-toe in a black robe, with only her eyes visible.

  T-Rex squealed and stepped back. “What the hell kind of party is this? Baby, I’m kinky but—”

  His shoulder blades slammed into the wall, and T-Rex flinched as a razor-sharp blade brushed his shoulder and came to rest only a breath away from his throat. A short, petite woman with flaming-red hair pulled back into a ponytail stepped out of the shadows next to him, pivoting to his front while keeping the blade near his windpipe. She wore a skintight suit and had a sword strapped to her hip.

  T-Rex glared to his right. “Aw, man. What the hell?” T-Rex’s face broke into a glare, and he glanced to his right.

  Banks stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, smirking.

  “Sorry, baby.”

  T-Rex snapped, “Is this a robbery? You want my stinkin’ money, bro? This is sick! I drove all the way from . . .”

  He trailed off, and his eyes narrowed as his gaze switched from one face to the next. He folded his arms.

  “What do you want?”

  The redhead smirked. “I want you in bed, on your back, all spread out and helpless.”