Survivor

by Logan Ryles

  “I lost him,” Kelly said. “He had a car. Black BMW, local plates.”

  Lucy glanced at Banks, who looked broken, like a woman run through a car crusher. For a moment, Lucy tried to imagine what Banks felt, but it was difficult. She’d never been in love, herself. Not since she watched her father burn alive in the mangled wreck of his Indy car. Since that day, Lucy found it easier to suppress all feelings of positive emotions and embrace only the burning fire that drove her along to her next kill—her next balancing of the scales.

  But the pain in Banks’s face . . . she understood that. Maybe not for the same reasons, but certainly in an abstract way. It was the pain of loss, betrayal, and confusion.

  “What do you mean, you lost him?” Wolfgang panted. “Reed was here?”

  “Unfortunately,” Lucy said.

  Wolfgang ran a hand through his hair, and the four of them were silent for a moment.

  Kelly spat into the grass.

  “I’m going to gut him like a dog.”

  Banks’s voice cracked with sudden anger. “Shut up!” She bolted to her feet and delivered a rabbit punch to Kelly’s sternum.

  Kelly stumbled back, choking for air as Banks followed up the punch with another shove, hurling the shorter woman into the grass.

  “I’ve had enough of you, you bitter, nasty, hateful woman!”

  Kelly sat on the grass, sprawled backward. The headdress rippled over her ragged breaths, and tears stained it a darker shade of black.

  Banks’s hands shook as she jabbed a finger at Kelly.

  “I don’t know what that was about, but it wasn’t what it looked like. You hear me?”

  Lucy stood and grabbed Banks by the hand. “Calm down. You’re drawing attention.”

  Banks waved Kelly away with a disgusted flick of her wrist and sat down again.

  Kelly picked herself up and straightened the burka.

  “You’re not the only one he’s hurt, you know!”

  Lucy held up a finger. “She’s right. You need to calm down.” She turned to Wolfgang.

  “Where the hell did you go? We lost you on the street.”

  Wolfgang twisted his neck until it popped, then slumped forward. “There was a commotion. I followed an instinct. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it? Listen, hotshot. I’m very worried about it because I still don’t trust you. What did you find?”

  Wolfgang chewed his lip.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to—”

  “No more bullshit!” Banks stood up and jabbed a finger in Wolfgang’s face. “I’m sick and tired of the games. This is my mission. You’re here because I invited you. Get with the program, or get the hell out!”

  Wolfgang deflected the jabbing finger with his forearm and turned to Lucy.

  Before Lucy could intervene, Banks started shouting again.

  “Don’t look at her! You work for me. What did you find?”

  Again, Wolfgang hesitated, then sighed and motioned toward the parking lot where they left the Mercedes.

  “Not here,” Wolfgang said. “We’ve drawn enough attention.”

  Banks stomped after him. Lucy sighed and followed after her as Kelly trailed them.

  When they were back inside the luxury coupe, Banks turned to Wolfgang.

  “All right, spit it out.”

  Wolfgang rubbed his temples as if he were fighting back a headache or just restraining himself.

  “There’s a building down the street. Some kind of business registration service. Reed was there, I guess, because the usual chaos marked his path. A guy was taped up in a chair, and I freed him and asked him what happened. He said a big guy came in and wanted an address, so I got the address. It’s a house or something outside of town.”

  Banks frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Nobody answered, and she slammed her hand against the dash. “I said, what does that mean?”

  “It means he’s hunting!” In an uncharacteristic snap that caused the three women to stiffen, Wolfgang said, “It means he’s hunting!” He twisted to face them, his knuckles turning white around the wheel.

  “I don’t know what he’s after, but it isn’t the governor. Reed’s running somebody or something to ground.”

  “What is it?” Lucy said.

  Wolfgang looked away. “How should I know? Do I look psychic?”

  “You should know,” she said, “because you talked to Reed, as we’ve already established. You’re still bullshitting us, Wolf.”

  Lucy wasn’t actually sure if Wolfgang knew or not, but she still had the uneasy feeling that there was more to the story. Wolfgang was shielding something, or somebody, and she would have much preferred to dig out the truth without Banks and Kelly present. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Wolfgang rubbed his temples again.

  “Wolf?” Banks pressed. “What do you know?”

  “David Montgomery,” Wolfgang said softly.

  Lucy frowned at the name, but Banks seemed to recognize it.

  “They have him, don’t they?” Banks asked.

  Wolfgang massaged his temples and nodded.

  “Who’s David Montgomery?” Lucy asked.

  “His father,” Kelly said.

  “He asked you to get rid of me, didn’t he?” Banks asked, her voice softer now.

  Wolfgang nodded again.

  Banks sat quiet for a moment, then buckled her seatbelt. “Drive.”

  Wolfgang looked up. “What?”

  “Drive!”

  “Where?”

  “To that address, genius. If Reed is looking for David, we’re going to help.”

  Wolfgang shook his head and lifted a finger. “You see, this is exactly why I won’t tell you stuff. Whatever Reed is mixed up in, you can bet it’s gonna be bloody. If these people have his father, they’re not gonna give him up easily. There will be serious fireworks.”

  “Fine.” Banks unbuckled herself. “I’ll do it.”

  She reached for the door handle, but Wolfgang grabbed her arm. “You don’t have the address!”

  “Nope, but I have a pistol, and I know there’s a guy down the street who has the address.”

  Wolfgang turned to Lucy, his grip still on Banks’s arm. Lucy sighed and motioned for him to release her.

  Banks pivoted in the seat to face the group.

  “I don’t care what you saw on the street just now. Reed is in trouble and backed into a corner. He owes me answers as much as any of you, and . . .”

  Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “And I’m not letting this go. I’m going to that house. Are you coming or not?”

  Lucy and Wolfgang exchanged another look, but there was nothing left to be said. Banks was impossible.

  Wolfgang threw up his hands, his old sarcasm returning like a sudden burst of fireworks.

  “Fine! Geez. Women . . . You guys are a royal, never-ending pain in the neck.” He punched the start button, and the big German engine roared to life. “The address is outside of town, near some lake. We’ll be there by nightfall.”

  Thirty-Eight

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Gambit had never felt panic like the kind of mad, animalistic fear that gripped him now. For almost five years he played Aiden’s dangerous game, working for a network of criminal organizations that orbited around a single, deadly operation. It was profitable—insanely so—but more than that, it gave Gambit a purpose. He was a man of power, a man of resources. It made him feel like a puppet master working behind the curtain, pulling the strings, and making people dance like madmen.

  It didn’t bother him that Aiden stood behind him, pulling his own strings. The drug of control, influence, and power was something Gambit had been addicted to since grade school, always rising to the top, taking the lead, and calling the shots.

  He couldn’t quit; he never had the chance. Being a manipulator brought him to life like nothing else, and Gambit had tried plenty of real drugs in search of a substitute that offered l
ess potential to destroy his life. He’d never found one, which left him here in the precarious position of being the king of a glass castle, only a blow away from shattering.

  And yet, he never believed that would happen. Wasn’t he in control? Couldn’t he manipulate his way into more and more power until he finally bit the dust?

  That was the plan, but in this moment, all the manipulations felt worthless. Gambit made a critical, deadly error. He underestimated somebody, overestimated his influence over that individual, and now he was backed into a corner.

  Reed Montgomery was off the leash.

  Gambit hurried down a flight of stairs and into the dank basement of his temporary New Orleans operation center. David was in a chair in a corner but not tied up; he didn’t need to be. In spite of what Gambit told Reed, David was far from competent. His brain was fried harder than an egg on a flatiron, and there was no hope of restoring it. Sure, from time to time, there were glimpses of humanity that crossed behind David’s glassy eyes, helped along by a hint of stimulating narcotic. Reed had been witness to that hint of humanity in the woods of North Alabama, and he fell for it hook, line, and sinker. It was the perfect manipulation . . . until it wasn’t.

  Gambit snapped his fingers at the two goons lounging in the background, reading porn mags and smoking cigarettes.

  “On your feet!” he growled. “We have to move.”

  They hauled themselves up, dropping the smokes on the concrete and stomping them out. Handguns glistened from their belts, along with combat knives and extra magazines. These guys weren’t exactly spec ops soldiers, but Gambit was confident in their ability and absolute willingness to gun down anybody who got in their way.

  That was enough. He hoped.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated, and that animalistic fear in his stomach erupted into a hurricane. Gambit checked the caller ID, and his worst terror was confirmed. It was Aiden.

  He hesitated only a moment, then hit the answer button. As much as he wanted to crush the phone under his shoe and run for the hills, he knew better. There was no place on this planet that he could hide from Aiden. Now, his only hope was to somehow turn this situation on its head—to bury Governor Trousdale and Reed Montgomery with her.

  “Yes?”

  “Explain.” Aiden’s single word was laced with a calm menace.

  Gambit didn’t have to ask what it was that Aiden wanted explained, and he didn’t dare embellish the details or pad the reality.

  “Montgomery is out of control. Trousdale is still alive. Montgomery has her, and he’s demanding an exchange for David.”

  “Your plan?” Aiden’s voice was barbed with enough edge to slice through a block wall.

  “I’m setting him up near the lake. He won’t make it out alive.”

  “Good. Kill David and the governor, also.”

  Gambit swallowed. “Yes, sir. I will.”

  “I don’t have to remind you what’s at stake here. If any of the three survive the night, I recommend that you do not.”

  An icy claw sank into Gambit’s soul, digging in and clutching him in the deepest parts of his being. It was fear and panic and desperate hope all balled into one until he couldn’t tell the difference between the three.

  Two Montgomerys and one Trousdale. Either they all had to die . . . or he did.

  The phone clicked off before Gambit could say anything more, and he motioned to his men. “Move him! Into the van, now. Take all your combat gear.”

  As the two goons began to haul David up the stairs, Gambit selected another phone contact and hit the dial button. The line connected on the third ring.

  “Gordon, it’s Gambit. I’m headed your way. We need the house.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Lake Maurepas

  Livingston Parish, Louisiana

  The last three days faded into a blur for Gordon. The little house by the lake had processed six clients in total—most of them were there for the same raven-haired Scandinavian girl that Mr. Porsche had flown all the way from Australia to “experience.” The girl was a hot commodity, but Gordon would have to rest or retire her soon. Some of the clients were more violent than others, leaving bruises or even cuts. Of course, Gordon charged them extra for that, but each blemish reduced the girl’s value. At some point, there would be a decision to make: give the girl to a particularly brutal, even murderous client, and cash out before burying her body in the swamp, or let her recover for a couple weeks before putting her back on his dark web homepage for a lower price and then repeating the cycle.

  The decision would be based entirely on supply. If another fresh, clean girl was available, he’d bury the Scandinavian without a second thought, just like he had so many girls before her.

  Gordon unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open over his considerable gut as he waddled across the kitchen to fix a sandwich. Two clients were downstairs in the hotel rooms—a Japanese guy with the Scandinavian, and some backwoods redneck from Arkansas with a blonde girl a couple years older. The redneck was rough; Gordon doubted the blonde would survive. And that was okay because he already knew the redneck could pay. The blonde had been around almost a month anyway.

  Gordon cracked a beer open and slurped down half of it before indulging in a deep burp. Neither of the clients downstairs were the videotape kind; they were ordinary. Move them in, deliver their experience, and cut them loose. Gordon’s boss was unlikely to be pleased with so many of these “ordinary” clients, as they drastically increased the overall risk of the operation. But Gordon was making a killing, and what his boss didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Sid wandered into the kitchen, his dark eyes darting from one end of the room to the other with restless unease. Sid was a rodent, a creature of dark alleys and small, grimy places. But like a rodent, Sid possessed a remarkable instinct for survival, and that was the chief reason Gordon kept him around.

  “We need to slow down,” Sid whined. “This makes six clients in a week. You’ll spoil the product.”

  Gordon burped and shrugged. “I can get more.”

  “What if the boss finds out?”

  “I’ll worry about the boss. You just do what you do . . . facilitate. Don’t forget, you’re getting a big commission this week.”

  Sid nodded a couple times, then he wandered out of the room again.

  Gordon finished his beer and was about to lay out bread for another sandwich when a dull buzz erupted in his pocket. His heart rate quickened, and he snatched the phone out. A pop-up message on the screen read “Call.”

  That message was only displayed when a call rang in through his secure landline, and only one person ever called that line: the boss.

  Gordon dropped the bread and hustled into the hallway, his breath whistling in ragged heaves between steps. He checked over his shoulder, then opened the hidden panel beneath the stairwell to the second floor, and slid inside.

  A red light blinked next to the phone on the desk, but there was no ring.

  Gordon settled into his desk chair and struggled to catch his breath, then scooped up the phone and held it to his ear.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “Gordon, it’s Gambit.”

  There was a stress level in his tone that Gordon had never heard before. It was almost a panic.

  “I’m headed your way,” Gambit continued. “We need the house.”

  Fresh sweat broke out over Gordon’s forehead.

  “Right now?”

  “Did you not hear me? I’m headed your way.”

  Gordon’s mind raced. He wasn’t supposed to have clients at the house right then, and Gambit knew that. These clients were purely extracurricular, off the books. Gambit, and whoever Gambit worked for, wasn’t getting a cut off of them. Gordon and Sid split the profits 70/30, which was fine—they’d done it many times before. But they’d never been caught.

  “I just mean . . .” Gordon hesitated, “I just mean that, well . . . it doesn’t seem safe, boss. We gotta keep this place a secret, you k
now?”

  “I’ll worry about that, you pig,” Gambit snarled. “Trust me, anybody coming to that house tonight won’t be alive to talk about it tomorrow.”

  The phone trembled in Gambit’s clammy hands, and he started to speak again. But if he told Gambit the truth now, there was no reason why Gambit wouldn’t replace him the following day, or worse, eliminate him.

  No, he couldn’t tell Gambit. He had to handle this.

  “Okay, boss. When will you be here?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  The phone clicked off, and Gordon lumbered to his feet, crashing through the paneled door.

  “Sid!” he shouted. “Sid, get up here!”

  Sid appeared out of the shadows of the basement stairwell, his rodent eyes flashing in the dim light.

  “What is it?” he whined.

  “The boss is on the way. We’ve got to clean things up.”

  “Clean things up? What do you mean? Kick them out?”

  “No,” Gordon swabbed sweat off his head as he chewed on his lip a moment. “Move the redneck upstairs. We’ve got a white guy booked for next week—one of the boss’s clients. We’ll tell the boss he came early.”

  “But what about the other client?”

  “Tell the Japanese guy we’re treating him to an extra hour, then bar off the basement. We’ll tell the boss there’s been a leak downstairs and that we’re hosting clients upstairs.”

  Sid tore at his greasy hair with both hands. “What if the boss hears something? What if the Japanese guy finishes early?”

  Gordon wiped his forehead again, then pushed Sid toward the basement door. “You stay down there. If the Japanese guy becomes a problem, kill him.”

  Forty

  Lake Maurepas

  Livingston Parish, Louisiana

  Reed lay prone in the damp Louisiana dirt, nestled just behind a rotting log, and squinted through the scope of the Springfield. Two hundred yards away, the house by the lake sat in almost total darkness as the sun vanished behind the leafless trees. A yellow glow shone through windows on the second floor, and Reed could see the shadows of at least three people, but he couldn’t make out faces.