by Logan Ryles
“No, but it’s there.”
“Sure, dude. Whatever you say.”
Reed adjusted the phone against his ear and shifted into overdrive. The tachometer dropped, and the rumble of the motor faded into a hum. He heard Brent slurping on something. A drink, or maybe some hard candy.
“I’m ready for the next job. How soon can you line it up?”
“Um . . . dude, you haven’t been paid for the last one.” Brent smacked his lips. “Don’t you wanna catch your breath?”
“I prefer to stay busy. What do you have?”
“I hadn’t planned on booking you. Let’s see. Well, there’s one job, but I didn’t think you’d want it. Georgia State Senator. Atlanta hit.”
“That’s perfect. Book me.”
Brent chomped down with an explosion of wet crunching. Yes, definitely hard candy. “You sure, man? I mean, that junk’s practically in your backyard. You shouldn’t shit where you eat.”
“I’m not worried about it. Just book the hit and send me the file.”
“Don’t you wanna know what it pays?”
“Nope.” Reed hit the end-call button, then dropped the shifter out of overdrive and planted his foot into the accelerator.
Atlanta: 116 miles.
“Don’t twist it so hard. You’ll strip it.” The big greasy hand fell over Reed’s, guiding him around one quarter turn of the wrench. “There. Just like that. Twist till it stops, then a quarter turn. No more.”
Reed lay on the concrete and gazed up at the underside of the engine block, painted bright red with streaks of oil and grease crisscrossing it at random. The big front tires hung six inches off the ground, just high enough for him to slip his arm under. He imagined the car falling off the jack stands and jerked his arm back as a wave of thrill surged through his narrow chest.
“Hand me that socket wrench.”
Reed felt the cool metal of the wrench between his greasy fingers. It was heavy and difficult to lift in the awkward position beneath the car. His hand looked tiny as he passed the wrench into the one of the man lying beside him. Dave Montgomery took the wrench and slipped it over a sway bar link, twisted until it stopped, then gave it a quarter turn more.
“Will it be faster, Dad?”
Dave fiddled with the linkage, running a clean rag over the bar and toward the wheel hub.
“There’s all kinds of fast, Reed. Speed is nothing if you can’t control it. Tighter sway bars are all about control. Feeling the road when you turn. Keeping the tires planted on the pavement. You understand what I’m saying?”
Reed nodded. He watched in transfixed fascination as Dave lifted a grease gun and began to lubricate the joints of the front suspension. Grease dripped off the car and splattered on the garage floor.
Dave grabbed a rag and wiped up the spill.
“Now, when you grease a car, it’s all about moderation. I used too much, and it makes a mess. These tiny brass fittings here? You can tell a lot about a man by what he calls them. An ignoramus might call them a nipple. But a real motorhead knows they’re called a zerk.”
Reed giggled. “A zurt?”
“No, a zerk.”
“That’s a funny word.”
Dave smiled as he picked up the grease gun again and began to crawl from beneath the car. Reed followed him, scraping his bare knees against the dirt. Dave held out his hand and helped Reed to his feet, then handed him the rag.
“Wipe off your hands. Time to give her a whirl.”
The rough rag ground into his palms as he scrubbed the grease away. Streaks of brown tarnished the red cloth, leaving his palms red. The green car with silver rally wheels sat with its front end lifted on the jacks, and the hood was raised to expose the big motor. Twin white rally stripes ran over the hood and the deck of the trunk. Smooth, curving fenders rose over the lifted rear suspension. A chrome badge, glued to the fender just behind the front wheel, read “Camaro” in graceful italics. Just below it, another chrome badge was accented with red trim: Z/28.
Reed touched the emblem, running his finger down the Z and beneath the numbers. His skin left a thin sheen of oil, reflecting in the dull light of the setting sun. Reed smiled, then looked up at his dad.
“Will we wash it today?”
Dave laughed. “Boy, you love to wash a car. No, we don’t have time today, but let’s turn it over and see how she sounds. Here. Hop in.”
A silver key ring flashed in the air. Reed caught it with both hands, and his knees were suddenly stiff as his fingers closed around the key. He stared down at the glistening silver, blank except for the etched Chevrolet bowtie. “Are you serious?” he mumbled.
“Of course I’m serious. Get in.”
Reed didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He opened the heavy door and piled onto the worn vinyl seat. It was warm from the blaze of the afternoon Alabama sun beating down on it through the garage door, but it felt like home. He scooted to the front of the seat and strained his left leg to reach for the clutch. His shoe slipped off the edge of the pedal, and he slid closer to the wood-lined steering wheel.
“Okay. First the clutch, all the way to the floor. Then turn it over.”
The key clicked against the tumblers as Reed slipped it into the ignition. He bit his lip and pressed the clutch to the floor. It was heavy, and he had to brace himself on the edge of the seat to force the pedal against the floorboard. Then he twisted the key. The starter whined, and the car jolted as the big motor turned over. Once. Twice.
“Give it a little gas, son. Just tap the pedal.”
Reed laid his right foot against the pedal and tapped the gas. The car coughed and lurched again, turning over twice more. The exhaust rumbled, and the motor roared to life, sending shockwaves ripping down the body of the car. Reed felt it in the steering wheel. He felt it in the pedals and through the seats. The Camaro shook and thundered; it was an awakened monster, alive and hungry.
“Dad! It’s working. It’s running!” Reed laughed and ran his hands over the steering wheel. He felt every dimple in the wood and the sharp edge of the metal spokes. He watched the tachometer dance and spike as the engine continued to cough on a bad tune. But it sounded so good. The feeling flooded his body, filling him with warmth and power.
“All right! That’s my boy!” Dave leaned through the window and grinned down at Reed. He patted him on the back, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a natural. The car trusts you. I can hear it.”
Reed closed his eyes and bit his lip. His tongue poked between the gap in his teeth. The vibrations rumbled up his spine and pounded in his head. Nothing had ever felt so good.
“Can I help you?” Dave shouted over the roar of the car.
In the distance, Reed heard tires grind against concrete. Something shone across his eyes, and he snapped them open. Red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror, and he craned his neck to look behind him. Two black cars were stopped halfway down the long driveway, and tall men in dark suits and sunglasses piled out. They walked toward his father, and one of them flashed a golden badge. Stern wrinkles lined their jaws and foreheads, as though their faces were carved in stone.
“David Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . what can I do for you?”
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back, please.”
A cold fist closed inside of Reed’s stomach. The smile faded from his lips as he stared through the back glass. The men shoved his father over the rear of the Camaro and planted his face against the decklid of the trunk. His cheeks flushed red, while his eyes widened with strain. He spluttered and tried to lift his head, but the bigger man forced him down again.
“David Montgomery, you are under arrest. The charge is four counts of securities fraud, two counts of intentional deception of a federal agent, two counts of money laundering, and three counts of deceptive sales practices of regulated instruments. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say. . . .”
The voices faded into a muted blur. Reed
’s stomach lurched toward his throat as big tears welled, stinging and burning like fire. He jerked the door handle and sprang from the car toward the bumper. The big men hauled Dave up by the elbows and propelled him toward the sedans.
“No! Dad, no!” Reed screamed, grabbed the nearest officer by the leg, and tried to shove him away. The big man leered down at him, grabbing him by the collar and flinging him onto the concrete.
“Get out of the way, kid. We’ll get to you soon enough.”
They faded away toward the cars. Reed ran after them, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he pounded the pavement. Another man, tall and menacing, appeared from behind a trash can. Dressed in muted green with a giant hard-brimmed hat, he backhanded Reed over the face, hurling him to the ground.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, recruit? You better fall in before I wipe my boot across your face!”
Reed screamed and tried to crawl away. Darkness closed around him, and metal bars sprung out of the ground, blocking his way, pressing in on every side, and forcing him into a corner. Still screaming, he beat against the bars and kicked with both feet, but nobody answered. The darkness was so complete, he couldn’t see his hands.
Then he heard a smooth, British voice just behind him. Reed whirled around to see a bald man with large ears, a broad, toothy smile, and deep grey eyes that sat over a long nose.
“Need a hand, son?” The man leaned down and offered his hand. “You’re mine now.”
Reed lurched out of bed, snatching the Glock from the nightstand beside him and jamming it toward the leering face. He gasped for air and swung the pistol around the room, searching for his target, but the man wasn’t there. He had faded into the nightmare like every one before it.
He dropped the gun on the covers, pressed his face into his hands, and gasped for air again. His skin prickled, and a shiver racked his torso, making him feel chilled under the breeze of the ceiling fan. He swung his feet out of the bed and stumbled across the loft and down the steps.
The interior of the tiny cabin was still, and he gazed outside over the darkened forest. A night-light glowed against one wall, casting shadows across the hardwood floor. Baxter lay curled up in his favorite armchair, snoring like a dragon with sleep apnea. Drool ran out of his flopping lips, dripping onto the floor in a slow waterfall.
Reed stumbled to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer. He popped the cap off against the edge of the counter, and Baxter’s ears pricked up. The old English bulldog poked his head over the arm of the chair, snorting and lapping saliva off his lips, then stared at Reed with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Sorry, boy,” Reed muttered. “You know how it is. Night thirst.”
Baxter snorted again, then hopped down from the chair and trotted to his water bowl. He lapped up a couple swallows of water, then flopped down under the kitchen table and commenced to snoring again.
Reed smiled, then stumbled back up the stairs into the loft. He flipped the nightstand lamp on, then knelt beside the twin bed and reached beneath the overhanging sheets. His fingers closed around the hard edge of a box, wooden and cold, and he dragged it out then sat cross-legged on the floor. Reed took another long pull of beer, flipped the latch open, and lifted the lid.
Mementos lay inside: a few sheets of paper, five fake passports, a spare Glock handgun, and fifty thousand dollars in cash. Reed shuffled the items aside and dug under the stack of papers. He felt the faded photograph under his fingers, recognizing it by its tattered edge, and pulled it free of the pile.
Under the soft glow of the lamp, he saw the green car sitting at the edge of a lake and shining under the sun. The chrome badges affixed to the fender glistened, half-covered by the family that sat in a neat line beside the car. A smiling Dave Montgomery on the right, leaned next to his wife with one arm wrapped around her shoulders. Reed sat on his lap, barely six years old, his legs crossed much the same as they were now. The three of them radiated in that picture in a way that no amount of sunlight could fabricate. It was calm and perfect how they huddled together in front of that old sixty-nine Z/28. A family together. Safe.
Reed blinked back the stinging in his eyes and shoved the photo into the pile of papers. He tipped the beer bottle up and gulped down the last few pulls of fizzy alcohol. Back in the box, he retrieved a small notebook about three inches tall with a rubber band holding it closed. He pulled the band off and flipped it open, stopping at the first page. His tight handwriting covered the page in condensed notes.
March 17. Nova Scotia, Canada. Paul John Grier, age 37. Terminated by affixation with vehicle exhaust. Body left for the police. One down, twenty-nine remaining. I feel as though I died with him.
He flipped a few more pages and then stopped at another entry, this one dated for June seventh of the following year.
Marie Florence Thomas. Age 49. Panama City, Panama. Terminated by precision shot, five hundred yards. Body fell into canal. Confirmation of death obtained by secondary contractor. Twelve down, eighteen to go. This was the first woman.
Reed lifted a pencil from the box and flipped to the first blank page. He took a deep breath then scratched a new entry onto the yellow paper.
October 29th. Max Chester. Middle name unknown. Delaware Bay, United States. Terminated by use of alcohol, fire, and drowning. Also had to terminate unknown man there with him. Both bodies lost to sea. Twenty-nine down, one to go. I’m almost free.
Reed stared at the note, rereading it once, then he shut the book, wrapped the rubber band back around it, and pushed the box beneath the bed. His phone dinged from the bedside, and he scooped it up. A notification lit the screen beside Brent’s name. He unlocked the phone with his thumbprint and opened the message.
Hit confirmed. Details to follow.
Three
The lights of the midtown nightclub were almost blinding. Reed sat at the bar, leaning over the counter, and staring into the muddled depths of a Jack and Coke. The ice melted slowly, and the surface of the drink pulsated with each pounding thump of the music.
Reed tipped the glass back, draining the contents, then slammed it back on the counter and nodded at the bartender.
“Make it a double.”
A spunky young woman with a heavy Boston accent replaced his glass and poured three fingers from a bottle of Jack.
“Got a new Kentucky bourbon on special tonight. Wanna mix it up?”
Reed smiled and shook his head. “Last one, Jen. Gonna call it a night.”
“You should stick around. We’re playing live music later.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The screen glowed, illuminating a text message from a contact labeled “O.E.”
Call me.
Reed hesitated over the text, twisting the glass between his fingers and listening to the ice cubes tumble over one another. He dreaded this moment and the conversation it promised. For twenty-nine kills, his boss had maintained close tabs on Reed, checking in with him every few weeks and offering advice and training. Even knocking him over the head now and again, ensuring he was performing at the top of his game, every time. It was a strange relationship the two of them formed. Oliver was both master and friend, slaver and mentor. As the bodies piled up and Reed worked his way down the hit list, Oliver allowed him increased independence and allocated him larger paychecks.
For three years I served the U.S. Government, and I never felt as respected as I do by a total, black-hearted killer.
Reed mashed the call button and held the phone against his ear.
Oliver answered with just the hint of an English accent, abrupt but kind. “Reed. We should talk.”
Reed lowered his head, covering his left ear.
“Oliver. It’s not a great time. Can I call you back?”
“It’s important. I want to talk to . . . about . . . kill . . .”
“I can’t hear you. Oliver . . . you’re breaking up.”
The voice faded and crackled on the other end of the line. Reed
squinted at the phone and saw one bar illuminated in the top corner of the screen.
“Oliver, I’m gonna call you back in ten, okay? I can’t hear you.”
As the music stopped and the flashing lights faded, Reed drained his glass, dropped a fifty on the counter, and nodded at the bartender.
“I’ll catch you later.”
He pressed his way into the crowd, glancing toward the corner stage as he heard the manager rambling into the microphone.
“A sensation. A Madonna of our time. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome the incredible Sirena Wilder!”
The manager stepped back and clapped, and the room erupted in a gentle rumble of applause. The lights focused on the stage as the manager melted into the shadows, and just as Reed started to turn back toward the door, he saw her. The club fell silent, and the girl stood in front of the mic.
Reed was frozen in the middle of the crowd, and his breath stuck in his throat. He stared over the bobbing heads as the girl picked up a guitar and settled back on a stool. She brushed long blonde bangs from her view and ran her fingers across the strings. The club was breathlessly silent as the gentle melody of the guitar rippled through the audio system. Her face shone softly in the lights, and she stared at her fingers, strumming gently and rocking back and forth on the stool.
When she smiled at the crowd, Reed’s heart skipped. She had narrow, graceful features, and her high cheekbones highlighted rosy dimples. Her bright smile shone from her crystal-blue eyes, which were deep and soft, as though nothing ugly or sad had ever touched her life. She was tall and curvy, with just a hint of pudge, and she wore a spaghetti-strap top and jeans with torn-out knees. Her feet, encased in yellow converse sneakers, were tucked under the stool. Her hair fell in gentle waves over her bare shoulders, shining in the stage lights, showing just a hint of red amid the blonde.
Pressing back through the crowd, he sat down at the bar without taking his eyes off the stage. He rapped on the counter with his knuckles, and the bartender chuckled and slid him another whiskey.
