by Logan Ryles
Reed ignored her, swerving around a semi-truck and taking I-10 west toward the swamps outside of Lake Pontchartrain.
“What are you doing?” Trousdale snapped.
“Saving your life, believe it or not.”
He braced himself for a sarcastic comeback—something he’d become used to from Banks—but Trousdale only frowned, then wiped the back of her bound hand over her chin.
“Why aren’t you taking me to the Capitol? Why did you tie me up?”
Fair questions, but he wasn’t prepared to answer them. “I’ll explain soon. Right now, I need you to remain calm. I won’t hurt you.”
“Are you a trooper? I don’t think you’re a trooper.”
“No questions.”
Reed took an exit that led toward the lake, quickly diving into quiet roads overhung by the drooping limbs of giant trees. Swampy undergrowth surrounded them as they drove farther away from the highway. Reed checked the phone Gambit had given him to ensure he still had a signal. Gambit had already called twice. Reed would answer the third call.
Maggie’s heart pounded, but she refused to let the fear show. She sat in the passenger seat next to her captor and kept her arms relaxed, her hands in her lap. The man was well over six feet with broad shoulders and a soldier’s expression of cool focus. Ex-military, for sure. Something hard and exclusive. Army Ranger? Maybe. But Rangers operated in groups, as did Navy SEALSs and Delta Force. This man was a freelancer—somebody comfortable working alone.
One thing was certain—he was highly trained, and whatever the hell he was up to, it was premeditated. Everything from the bomb blasts to the expedited rescue to the flawless extraction from the city was smooth and sequential. This guy was smart, but he’d made a crucial mistake—he failed to blindfold her. Maggie knew south Louisiana like the back of her hand, every swamp and dirt road, every riverlet and lonely trailer sitting on stilts above muddy ground. This was her home, she knew exactly where she was, and she knew exactly where to hide.
If this guy turned his back for even a moment, she’d be gone like the mucky wind of the swamps, vanished into the trees.
The BMW ground to a halt on the side of a backcountry road, sliding to the side as the tires lost traction on the mud. All around them, tall trees drooped spidery limbs over shallow pond water, with the dying shades of summer green undergrowth slowly collapsing into the mud. Fallen logs rotted against each other, and the occasional fish flipped out of the deeper sections of water to catch a passing bug. Fifty yards away, a small alligator worked his way between the swamp debris before slipping into the water and disappearing from sight.
This was Livingston Parish, situated northwest of New Orleans, and it was the dumbest possible place this man could’ve taken her. This was her home and oldest stomping ground. Her family’s old lake house was only twenty miles away. Friends with shotguns and hair-trigger tempers were all around her. This man would be lucky to survive the night.
The ratcheting sound of the BMW’s handbrake ripped through the cabin, and the man turned to her. His eyes were dark, but not as cold as she expected.
“You want another water?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, thanks. Be nice to pee, though.”
A flash of amusement crossed his face. “Nah, Governor. You can hold it.”
“Governor?” She forced a short laugh. “Dude, I’m the press secretary. You screwed up.”
His smirk never faltered. “Nice try, but your picture is all over the news. I know exactly who you are.”
Well, it was worth a shot. Maggie leaned back in the seat and lifted her hands in an exhausted, disgusted flip.
“Okay, then. What do you want? Money? Shoulda nabbed a movie star, dude. We’re all poor as dirt down here.”
He didn’t respond, but he held her gaze.
She could see something swirling behind his dark eyes now. Confliction? Hesitation? Or was it simply calculation?
A buzzing sound erupted, and for a moment, the man didn’t move. He let the phone buzz twice more, then lifted it from his pocket and nodded at her.
“Stay here.” He stepped out of the car, lifted the phone to his ear, and turned his back.
Maggie felt hope leap into her throat. She watched as he took three steps away from the car, his back still turned, the phone held to his ear, then she reached for the door handle and gently pulled it with her bound hands. The heavy German door swung back on silent hinges.
She could hear the man speaking.
“. . . I think you have a very good idea where I am. Still tracking me, right?”
One foot out, and then the next. The soles of her combat boots squished in the mud, and she glanced over her shoulder as she began to slip toward the nose of the car.
“She’s dead.”
That gave her pause, and she glanced back again. Dead? Why would he say that?
“Yeah, I’m sure. Did you see the blast or what? . . . Yeah, I know there was smoke . . . Shoot her? I never said I was gonna shoot her. Why does it matter? She’s dead.”
Maggie turned away and leaned forward, lowering her shoulders and slowly stepping through the mud, trying to keep the squishing sound to a minimum. She worked her way down the edge of the road, keeping close to the trees and ready to dash into the swamp at a moment’s notice.
“Look, you shithead, I did my part. I want my father back. Don’t make yourself my next target, Gambit.”
Maggie froze, then turned back. The name rang through her mind, ripping like a bullet. Gambit. The man she met in a Baton Rouge restaurant only a week prior. A well-dressed man with a suave smile who had threatened her entire family. A man who represented the shadowy, hidden organization Maggie had taken office to destroy. A man who personified corruption in Louisiana.
The animal instincts deep in her psyche screamed for her to run and make for the swamps. To find help and get away.
But her captor was standing right there, and he knew where Gambit was.
This man tried to kill you, a voice in her head said.
But he hadn’t. All he’d done was kidnap her and then lie about it to Gambit. What did that mean? Who was this man?
He snapped the phone shut, then she saw his shoulders roll back in a frustrated, self-contained gesture. He turned straight toward her, and even as the voices of self-preservation screamed for her to run, Maggie didn’t move.
“We need to talk, Governor,” he said, his voice betraying no surprise to see her outside the car.
She relaxed her tensed body and nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe we do.”
Twenty-Seven
New Orleans, Louisiana
They made it to the outskirts of Baton Rouge before Lucy spoke up from the back seat, directing Wolfgang to turn back onto the highway.
“Why?” he demanded. “The arms dealer said Baton Rouge.”
“A bomb just went off in downtown New Orleans,” Lucy said. “They think the governor was killed.”
The cabin of the Mercedes fell deathly quiet for a moment, and Wolfgang looked into the rearview mirror.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Banks asked with a slight quiver in her voice.
The other three exchanged looks, then Lucy shrugged. “Maybe not. We have no way of knowing.”
“But he did just buy ten pounds of high explosives,” Kelly growled.
The cabin fell silent again, and the Mercedes turned southeastward. An hour later, they saw the smoke rising over the Big Easy as the scream of fire engines and police cars filled the air. Wolfgang piloted the coupe as close to the scene of the explosion as possible, but they were quickly stopped by barricades of cops and emergency vehicles. Wolfgang slid the car into a parallel spot, and they piled out, moving down the sidewalk and ducking through the crowds of panicked pedestrians, shouting first responders, and elated reporters. Another two blocks down the street, and they slipped through a barricade before topping a slight rise and obtaining a clear view of the Port of New Orleans.
The smoke rose from a
spot on the dock only yards from the water. The shattered remains of what may have been a podium lay all over the concrete, while firemen surrounded the mess and showered water on the debris. A bulletproof shield that had surrounded the podium was blasted black with smoke, and flames still licked at the edges of a burned-out dockside shed ten yards away.
Banks stood at the front of the group, staring out at the chaos as a cold hand of fear wrapped around her stomach. Did Reed blow this place up like a terrorist would do?
“Chaos and destruction,” Kelly said, her voice a low snarl behind the burka. “May as well be his signature.”
Lucy shoved her on the arm.
“Shut up, Kelly, before I shut you up.”
Banks took a half step forward, then stopped as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
They rented adjoining rooms in a slummy hotel north of the city. The clerk behind the counter barely gave the four of them a second glance as Wolfgang paid in cash. The man’s attention was distracted by the broadcast on the nearby television, detailing the explosion at the governor’s press conference.
Wolfgang and Kelly took one room, and Banks tossed her single backpack on one of the queen beds in the other, slumping down and staring at her tennis shoes, now torn and dirty. They were nothing like her rows of cute converse back in Atlanta.
“I’m gonna get some food, I guess,” Wolfgang said, standing in the doorway between the two rooms. “Any requests?”
Lucy appeared from the bathroom, her makeup removed, and her face still glistening with water from the sink. “How about Japanese?”
Wolfgang stared at her a long moment, his eyes growing suddenly soft and distant.
Lucy flicked her hair irritably.
“Don’t gawk, asshole. We all look like aliens without makeup.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s . . . nothing. Japanese. Got it.” Wolfgang turned away quickly and disappeared through the door.
Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped across the room to sit next to Banks.
“That was weird.”
Banks shrugged. “He’s a weird guy.”
“Yeah, I guess. How are you, honey?”
“I’m good.” Banks fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “Just hungry, I guess.”
Her voice betrayed the lie in her words.
“You care about Reed a lot, don’t you?” Lucy asked.
“No. I mean . . . maybe, at one point. I just want to know what happened to my father.”
Lucy nodded. “I understand that. I lost my father, too, years ago.”
Banks looked up. “How?”
“A wreck. He was a race car driver.”
“No kidding? NASCAR?”
Lucy laughed. “No. IndyCar. Much faster than NASCAR and much less protection.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lucy shrugged.
“It happens. Plenty of drivers have died. Except . . .”
Lucy stared down at her hands, then sighed. “Except it wasn’t an accident. His fuel lines were sabotaged. A fire broke out in the engine bay. He never had a chance.”
“Oh my god. Did they find out who did it?”
Lucy’s heartless smile sent a strange chill into Banks’s heart.
“Nope,” Lucy said. “But I did. And I dealt with it.”
Banks hesitated. She had a pretty good idea what “dealt with it” meant, but she had to ask. “You mean . . .”
“I took them to the woods, tied them to trees, doused them in racing fuel . . . and set them on fire.”
The smile never wavered from Lucy’s face, but Banks saw pain and anger behind it.
She looked away. The absolute dichotomy of this woman stunned her to the core. Lucy was so sweet and gentle, yet there was an absolute monster just beneath the surface.
“So, you’re a killer, too,” Banks muttered. “Like Reed.”
Lucy nodded. “I worked with Reed, but unlike him, I wasn’t forced to take the job.”
Banks remembered what Reed had told her about his “arrangement” with Oliver Enfield—thirty kills in exchange for his freedom from death row.
“See, for me,” Lucy said, “I have a magnum opus. It’s a Latin phrase meaning—”
“It means great work. I read Charlotte’s Web, too.”
Lucy laughed. “Yes, that’s a great book. Anyway, I believe I have a calling, and that is to rid the world of people like those who killed my father. The bullies, gangsters, and twisted men and women who extort and harm and ruin people’s lives. It’s why I get out of bed in the morning. I chose to work for Oliver Enfield because, well, killing bad guys is expensive. I needed a way to pay the bills.”
Banks sniffed. “How very noble.”
Lucy shrugged. “I’m not justifying myself. I choose to do what I do, and I’m not ashamed of it. Last year, I was in Thailand. This guy was running a fake adoption agency. He would ‘find families’ for orphaned children, or so he claimed. In truth, he was selling them on the black market into the sex trade. Human trafficking at its very worst.”
Banks winced. The image twisted her stomach, but she had to ask. “And?”
“And I dealt with it.” Lucy winked, but there was still no joy in her eyes.
“The police should do that,” Banks said. “Catch the bad guys and bring them to justice.”
“Sure. I’m a big supporter of the police. But sometimes things are so messed up, well, there’s only one way to fix them. And that’s what I do. I fix them. Permanently.”
Banks stared at her hands. How much had changed in the past few weeks? Last month, she would’ve called a woman like Lucy an unthinkable criminal. A serial killer. And technically, she was both of those things. Yet Banks couldn’t help imagining a world where good people like Lucy were there for innocent people like those orphans in Thailand. It wasn’t easy to stomach, but perhaps it was the best option for a broken world.
Lucy touched her hand, and Banks looked up.
“I know you love him,” Lucy said. “I saw it from the moment I first met you. That’s not something you should be ashamed of.”
“He’s a killer, Lucy. He’s a bad man. He just assassinated a governor.”
Lucy nodded, then leaned forward and kissed Banks gently on the forehead. It was almost motherly.
“Not everything is as it seems.”
Twenty-Eight
Livingston Parish
Louisiana
Trousdale remained a cautious twenty feet away from Reed, eyeing him with a semi-suspicious, semi-appraising look. He imagined this woman giving that look to a state legislature or reporters. The sort of look that said she wasn’t in the mood for bullshit but was still willing to listen.
She walked across the crunching gravel and extended her bound hands.
“Maggie Trousdale, Louisiana state governor.”
Reed took her hand. The grip was a lot stronger than her stature indicated, and she held his gaze with unblinking resolve.
“Reed Montgomery . . .” He trailed off, trying to decide what to call himself. Assassin? Estranged killer? Former Marine? Did it even matter?
He decided it didn’t and just let the sentence hang. The pucker of her lips told him she was curious, but she withdrew her hands and rested them over her waist.
“Okay, then, Reed Montgomery. How do you know Gambit?”
He didn’t expect that question, but he should have. If Gambit had contracted him to kill Trousdale, it was reasonable that Trousdale would have some idea who Gambit was. Clearly, they had encountered each other before and maybe even had dealings in the past. That was why Gambit wanted her dead, right? She had become a problem for him.
“He hired me to kill you,” Reed said.
“But you have a problem killing people.”
Reed shook his head. “Not at all. I have a problem killing good people.”
She nodded, still holding his gaze. Her stare was starting to get to him, so he turned to the back of the car and opened the trunk, producing another two bottle
s of water and a couple snack bars. He cut the tape from her hands, shut the trunk, and deposited the meal onto the deck lid. Trousdale took the bottle and drained half of it without comment.
“Typically, when I tell somebody that I’ve been hired to kill them, they have some questions,” Reed said.
“What kind of questions?”
“Stupid questions, like, are you a monster? Or . . . why?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No, you aren’t. And you already know why, don’t you?”
She eyed him—that old look of semi-suspicion, semi-appraisal returning.
Reed sighed and folded his arms. “Fine. I’ll go first, then. I’m a former Marine who was court-martialed and sentenced to death for executing five civilian contractors in Iraq. They killed one of my friends. While I was on death row, I was given the opportunity to be freed by a criminal organization in exchange for becoming an assassin in their employ and killing thirty people of their choosing. I killed twenty-nine of those people, and on the thirtieth job, everything hit the fan. They wanted me to kill a Georgia state senator by the name of Mitchell Holiday. I didn’t want to, for personal reasons. So, I blew the whole thing up, and I’ve been on the run ever since. As it turns out, there were a lot of bad guys between my boss and Gambit, but Gambit was the one who ordered the Mitchell Holiday hit. I have reason to believe that Gambit works for a criminal organization founded by five men, including Holiday, two other guys who died under suspicious circumstances, and my father. Gambit is now holding my father hostage until I kill you, because apparently, you’re getting in the way of his organization.”
Reed drained the bottle and swept his hand in an open-edged gesture. “That’s the CliffsNotes. Your turn.”
Trousdale squinted, still suspicious, but her posture was oddly calm.
He’d never encountered a person this calm when they knew they were standing next to a killer. He figured Trousdale’s nerves were made of steel.
“If Gambit has your father, and he ordered you to kill me, why didn’t you?”
