by Logan Ryles
She nestled the little instrument over her legs and gently strummed. The melodic sound was both louder and sweeter than Reed anticipated. He closed his eyes as she began to play a little faster.
“City lights, city skies. The only love I know, the only place I call home. Wherever I go, these lights hold my heart. They shine in my dark. They love me so.”
The world fell still around him, and he watched her. Each twist of her small hand. Her wide, beautiful smile as she sang each line. It was as though he had vanished, and she was lost. Alone in a world that only she knew.
Strumming slowly, she gazed out at the skyline and sang just loud enough to carry a tune over the ring of the instrument. She repeated the song twice, singing softer each time.
Finally, the ukulele fell silent. Banks hugged it against her body and leaned forward, still gazing in the distance. For a full five minutes, she just sat, staring at the lights and the gleaming towers. Huddled beside her on the edge of the wall, Reed still watched her. Her shoulders, bare under the night breeze, rose and fell with each slow breath. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, but she didn’t shiver.
How can she be so comfortable with herself and so free in the moment? What does that feel like?
Baxter and a dirty, lonely cabin were the closest things he could call “home,” but he never minded that. It had always been temporary. Life was always about the next job—the next bloody checkmark on the hit list.
Get to thirty. Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught.
They were such dry, empty ambitions. Did Banks have ambitions? Did she dream at night of being free? Of not having a gun over her head? No. She already embodied freedom, as though nothing and nobody could ever tell her she wasn’t alive and as free as the wind.
Is it that simple? Is there no deeper reality behind those blue eyes?
Banks looked toward him as though she knew his thoughts, then pulled him in and kissed him on the lips. Softly. Slowly. Reed’s heart skipped and then rushed to life. His fingers trembled as he leaned into her. Her soft lips tasted of daiquiri.
God, she can kiss.
Banks drew back and slid her hand down his thick, powerful arm.
“Thank you, sailor boy.”
Stunned, he looked into her deep, beautiful blue eyes and caught his breath.
“For what?”
She poked him in the arm. “For shutting up and enjoying the view.”
Five
The cell phone’s loud buzz woke Reed, and he shoved the blankets off his legs. A hint of sunlight glowed through the east-facing window of the cabin, but the living room was still dark. Quiet. Except for Baxter’s snoring, of course. The big bulldog slept on his back in front of the stone fireplace, his legs sticking straight up in the air, and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Reed rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked down at the phone. O.E. Shit.
He hit the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Prosecutor.”
“Reed. You never called.”
Oliver’s voice snapped just a little, like a distant thunderclap, a mixture of annoyance and indifference. Reed’s stomach twisted, and a hot lump welled up in his throat. There was no avoiding it now. “I’m sorry. I was occupied.”
Reed stumbled to his feet and climbed down the steps, accidentally tripping over Baxter on his way to the coffee machine. The big dog snorted and rolled to his feet, bursting into a chorus of barks and charging straight for the sliding glass door. He slammed face-first into the clean glass and stepped back, snorting and swaying on his stubby legs before he fell over sideways and commenced to snoring again.
Reed decided to let Oliver initiate the inevitable. “What did you need?”
“Are you drunk?” Oliver’s tone softened a little, almost as if he gave a crap.
“No. Just a little hungover. I was out relaxing last night.”
“You show your face too much, kid. It’s gonna bite you in the ass one of these days.”
Oliver was always saying things like that. Coming from a man whom Reed had only met in person twice over the last two years, Reed wasn’t too concerned with the judgment. He knew how to look after himself.
“Everybody needs a little fresh air, Oliver. You could use some yourself.”
“I guess you deserved a drink. That was a hell of a job up in Jersey, and the client was very satisfied. It should unlock quite a bit of future business for us.”
Reed wasn’t sure what to say to that; it was always strange discussing death in terms of sales and customers, as though Oliver were running a lemonade stand and struggling to discover the perfect balance of sweet and sour.
“Thank you.” It was the only thing Reed could think to say.
“I understand you accepted a new job. The Holiday hit.”
“That’s right. Just waiting on the file from my handler.”
“Excellent. This is a big one, isn’t it? Thirty?”
Here we go.
“That’s right. This is thirty.”
“That’s incredible, Reed. I knew you’d do well, but I have to say you’ve impressed me. You’re a hell of a killer.”
Reed leaned against the counter and picked up a bottle of whiskey. He took a long sip straight from the bottle and gazed out the front windows of the cabin. The sun rose over the Georgia pines, lighting up the surface of the forty-acre lake lying between the foothills. A glowing mist clung to the surface of the water as the sun began to burn it away.
Banks. He could still feel her kiss on his lips and smell her soft, intoxicating perfume. He could hear her voice and the melody of the ukulele. She left right after kissing him. She had flipped her legs back over the wall, poked him in the ribs, and winked. She’d said, “I like you, sailor boy,” and without a backward glance, she slung the ukulele over her shoulder and disappeared into the elevator. Reed wanted to follow her. He wanted to chase her down, beg her to stay, and spend the whole night with her. Somehow, he knew not to try.
“I think you should take a vacation.”
Oliver’s sudden comment jarred him out of the daydream, and Reed rubbed his eyes. “I’m glad you say that, Oliver. Actually—”
“You should check out the Caribbean. It’s hot down there. Girls half-naked all the time. Get some drinks, bathe in the sun. Rent a sailboat. It’s important to recharge. Keep your balance. You’ll roll back in here twice the killer you left as.”
This is it. I can’t put it off any longer.
Reed set the bottle on the counter. “Oliver, I’m retiring. After this hit, I’m done. The contract is up. I’m gonna walk.”
The line fell silent. The hot lump swelled in Reed’s throat, and he shoved a cup under the spout of the coffee machine, watching while it filled. He dumped a healthy shot of whiskey into the mug, then stepped over Baxter and slid the door open.
When Oliver finally spoke, his tone was subdued and soft. He almost sounded old and tired. “I’m disappointed to hear that, Reed.”
The wicker rocking chair next to the door had seen better days. Reed eased into it and propped his feet on the porch rail, relishing the wave of relaxation that settled over his body. The coffee was scalding hot, but it felt good on his throat. For weeks he had dreaded this conversation, but now that they were having it, it didn’t seem so scary.
“I’ve worked hard, Oliver. I’m very grateful for what you’ve done for me, but a deal is a deal. I’m holding up my end.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong. Your contract was never meant to be terminal. Of course, you’re free after Holiday, but you’ve got a good thing going here. Your salary doubles now, and there are opportunities for advancement. You could run this company. You’re that good. Don’t walk away when you’re just warming up.”
Reed sipped the coffee and stared at the lake. He leaned forward and set the cup on the wicker table beside him. “Oliver, it’s not something I’m willing to discuss. You saved my life. Gave me a second chance. I’ll never forget that, but I’m f
inished after this job. I just want to rest and open up a garage someplace. Work on cars. I’ve had all the bloodshed I want.”
Oliver sighed. “You’re a stubborn one, Reed; I’ll give you that. I’m gonna be damn sad to see you go.”
A tinge of remorse loosened the knot in Reed’s stomach. “I’m very grateful for everything, Oliver. You’ve been good to me. It’s just my time.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Oliver’s voice snapped back to his old, confident, commanding tone. “All right, then. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll get your release file.”
Reed tapped the end-call button and finished the coffee. Baxter snorted from the other side of the open door, then stumbled out onto the porch for his usual scratch between the ears. He groaned and leaned against the wicker legs of the chair. Reed wondered if Oliver was anything like the old bulldog—tired, grouchy, and losing his edge.
He lifted the phone back to his ear and heard it ring three times before the voicemail kicked in.
“Brent, it’s Reed. Hurry up with the kill file. Thanks.”
Back in the cabin, Reed picked up the bottle of Jack and settled onto the low stool in front of his laptop on the kitchen table. With a few clicks on his keyboard, he navigated to Facebook. He never used it for personal applications, but maintaining a couple fake profiles allowing him to access and research online identities—usually of his next target.
Clicking over the search field, he typed “Banks Morchely” and hit the return key. The results were slim and mostly consisted of business pages for various community banks around the country. No personal profiles matched the beautiful blonde from the night before.
Reed took another sip of Jack and stared at the screen. He snapped his fingers and returned to the search bar. Of course. If her last name was Italian, the ch sound would probably be spelled with double C’s—like Gucci.
Reed typed “Banks Morccelli” into the search field again and drummed his fingers on the table. The internet connection this far off the beaten path was shoddy at best.
A short listing of personal profiles joined the lineup of community banks. Reed scanned them, then allowed his mind to drift back through the haze of whiskey to the night before. The way her cheeks turned rosy when she smiled. The flash of her eyes in the shine of the streetlight. Every gentle curve of her body. The intoxicating way her shoulders moved when she danced.
None of the pictures on his screen matched the memory.
He shut the laptop and stumbled to the kitchen, where he heated a skillet over the stove and opened a can of sloppy dog food.
Baxter snorted and leered at a pile of goopy dog food that had spilled on the kitchen floor. Reed held an empty dog chow can in one hand, and the can opener in the other. Baxter’s bowl, still spotlessly clean, sat against the wall two feet away.
“Sorry, boy. Kinda hungover this morning.”
After Baxter shoved his face deep into a new bowl of food, Reed returned to the skillet and cracked a couple eggs over the iron. As they began to bubble, he stared, thinking about the way her hair fell over her shoulders. Her goofy, half-sly wink. Her damn Volkswagen.
Reed reached for his phone, then stopped himself. No. This was silly. He didn’t have time for this. He had a job to do. The last job. There was no room for emotion right now.
Reed flipped the eggs onto a plate and dropped three strips of bacon into the pan. Baxter appeared out of nowhere, sniffing and snorting. Reed smirked at him and tossed him a piece of raw bacon. The dog slurped it down like spaghetti, then collapsed on the kitchen rug and began to snore again.
Reed stared down at his pet.
“She would like you,” he mused. He wondered what she would say to the dog. Imagined how she would scratch him behind the ears and plop down on the floor beside him. Pull out the ukulele. Maybe sing a song about fat, grouchy dogs.
Reed wondered where she lived. If she had a boyfriend. If she was really from Mississippi, or if she was just passing through. Maybe she would head to Nashville or New York, keep singing, and become famous. Maybe he’d never see her again.
Reed dialed his phone, and a flat, toneless voice answered on the other end.
“Winter.”
Reed didn’t know if it was a man or a woman on the other end of the line. He never could tell. He wasn’t sure what Winter’s ethnicity was, or where Winter called home. In fact, he didn’t know anything about the “analyst” who so often conducted his background checks, research projects, and scavenger hunts as he executed his diverse contracts. Winter was a ghost who knew all, yet couldn’t be known. The ultimate eye in the sky. The omnipotent librarian.
If something was going down anywhere in the world, Winter knew about it. If somebody was missing or hiding, Winter could find them. If a billion dollar piece of weaponry was stolen and buried in the jungles of Africa, Winter could pinpoint it. If a whispered conversation took place in a bunker a mile underground, Winter could find out what was said.
Winter wasn’t a person. Winter was a force of nature. Hence the name, maybe.
“I need you to pull a file for me. A person.”
“Whose account do I charge?” Winter’s voice was as toneless and neutral as ever.
“Mine. This isn’t a contract. It’s personal.”
“Very well. What’s the name?”
“Banks Morccelli. Female. American. Currently residing in Decatur, Georgia. I think.”
Reed heard Winter scratching on a notepad.
“What do you want to know?” The voice sounded more than a little cryptic.
“I’m not sure. Just . . . if she’s a real person. Or an alias. Whatever you can find.”
“Very well. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone clicked. Reed chewed his bottom lip as he stared out the glass door again. He wondered if it was right, or if it was an invasion of privacy. An intrusion. Maybe even stalking. It didn’t matter. He had to know.
Six
Brent called back fifteen minutes later to inform Reed the kill file was available on his secure email drive. The broker’s typical charisma sounded muted, as though he were sick, or maybe just tired.
The email drive Reed used for work was triple-encrypted and housed on an international server. It wasn’t impregnable, but isolated enough to minimize casual governmental surveillance.
He opened the file and scanned the contract. $300,000 for the successful assassination of Mitchell Holiday, without any link to the contracting party. An additional $27,000 paid as a rush fee to complete the job in the next seventy-two hours, and a $100,000 bonus for a “conspicuous prosecution of contract, rendering the target maliciously slain by intentional methods.”
In layman’s terms, they wanted it to be messy.
The bloody footnote bothered Reed the most. It wasn’t unusual to receive a special request regarding the method of assassination, and there was usually some form of qualifier or requirement tacked onto the contract. The last agreement requested that he mask the scene from any indicators of a professional hit, which was why he burned the boat and left the gun in his victim’s hand. If any evidence remained after the boat sank, none of it would point back to a third party’s involvement.
The request for a conspicuous and rushed death was both atypical and concerning, however. It indicated an emotional decision to kill made by somebody who was either rash or desperate. Rash and desperate people were dangerous. They made poor choices, defaulted on payment, and were an absolute liability if they became cornered by the police. The payment wouldn’t be a problem. Brent always collected in advance. But something about the hit felt wrong. It was too . . . forced.
He scrolled past the outline and stopped at the target profile—Mitchell Thomas Holiday. State senator for Georgia’s third district, covering the Atlantic Coast south of Savannah. He was a graduate of Emory University with a master’s in political science and owned a thriving logistics company based out of his hometown of Brunswick.
Holiday was single, with no ex-wives or children. He was handsome, in his late forties, and had thick, salt-and-pepper hair, a good build, and the kind of smile that won elections—eight of them, ranging in significance from Brunswick town council, to the mayor of Brunswick, and then state senator. This was to be his last term. He had already announced his intention to retire and focus on “other pursuits,” although a few pundit blogs named him as a potential candidate for governor.
Reed leaned back and ran his hands through his long hair as he stared at the picture.
“What did you do, Mitch? Why do they want you dead?”
Why do you care, Reed? Cap the SOB, and you’re done. It doesn’t matter why they want him dead.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something in the pit of his stomach. Was it curiosity or foreboding? It was difficult to tell the difference.
The third page listed specific information about Holiday’s habits and residence. Not surprising, Holiday owned both a mansion in Brunswick and a condominium in downtown Atlanta, which he used while the general assembly was in session. The Senate was in session for another few weeks, which meant Holiday should be in town.
After memorizing the downtown address, Reed shut the computer and twisted his neck until it popped. He’d take a trip downtown to do some scouting and formulate a plan.
He had seventy-two hours.
The Camaro purred like a jungle cat as Reed directed it around the gentle curves of Highway 9 out of Dawsonville. Dawson County was beautiful in late October, with amber leaves drifting down off the foothills and blowing across the asphalt. In spite of the shedding trees, it was warm, and Reed drove with the windows down. Chevrolet released the 2015 Z/28 with air conditioning as an option—an idea that was almost certainly cooked up by some track enthusiast who lived in the northern extremes of Michigan. Reed’s car didn’t have the A/C option, and during the long Georgia summers, riding almost anywhere was an exercise in masochism. Over time, Reed had come to accept and even appreciate the simplistic beauty of riding in a car with no frills. The motor shook, the exhaust rumbled, and the windows stayed down. It was as authentic an American car experience as money could buy.
