by Logan Ryles
The foothills faded into city streets, and the Atlanta skyline loomed on the horizon. Small subdivisions and urban townhomes passed on either side, festooned with plastic skeletons, tree-hung ghosts, and Styrofoam tombstones. Halloween was the following day, and the city was fully engaged in the haunted trappings of the creepy holiday. Reed found the celebratory application of death and doom to be relentlessly ironic. Every year, as Halloween swept across the country, he marveled at the millions of simple Americans who embraced a cartoonish version of death with all the zeal and commercialization they invested into Christmas. He didn’t judge them for it. How could they know how churlish the production looked through the eyes of a professional killer? Maybe he envied them and their simple joys and guarded innocence. What would it be like to laugh about fake blood on the floor and to dress up as a grim reaper? Would they laugh as much if they knew how close death might be?
His parked the car at MARTA’s North Springs Station and rode the train into the city, feeling a strange twinge in the pit of his stomach as he passed Lindbergh Center. It wasn’t the first time he kicked himself for letting her walk away. He should have stopped her. Asked for her number. Seduced her into returning home with him.
No. Something told him Banks wouldn’t have fallen for that. Was she too smart, or just not interested? He couldn’t be sure. And now, unless Winter could pull her out of thin air, he might never find out.
Maybe that was best. A gut instinct nagged at the edge of his consciousness, reminding him that attachment was the fast lane to getting himself killed or imprisoned. Again.
He departed the train at the Arts Center Station and took a taxi to The Foundry Park. Mitch Holiday owned a condominium on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise situated at 270 17th Street. Interstate 85 was less than a mile to the east, and directly across the street was a small outlet mall sandwiched between the park and the freeway. The Millennium Gate Museum was down the street next to a small duck pond, making the entire neighborhood appear deceptively calm and serene.
Reed paid the cab driver in cash and pulled a Carolina Panthers hat low over his ears before walking toward the shopping mall. He tossed occasional glances toward the high-rise, acclimating himself to the curvature of the exterior glass and the exposed framework of the post-modern building. It was beautiful, really. Exactly the kind of place a person with a healthy salary would select in North Atlanta. Not quite Buckhead, but not quite Midtown, either. A happy medium for a man who was only home a few short hours each night.
For the next hour, while settled on a metal park bench near the duck pond, Reed observed each person who passed. Locals walked dogs along the path. A crew of landscapers worked on a fall flower bed next to the museum. A mother duck and her ducklings waddled next to the waterline, quacking, and butting into each other. What do you call a mother duck, Reed wondered. A hen? That didn’t sound right.
Reed looked up at the high-rise. Through the glare on the tinted glass, he could just make out the silhouettes of residents bustling back and forth on the inside. Holiday’s unit number indicated that it was on the fourteenth floor, but he didn’t know which side of the building it was on. It would be a trick to figure that out without entering the building, and he wanted to avoid that if possible. There would be cameras, concierges, and old women with oversized handbags—too many people who just might remember him.
Reed dug a cigarette out of his coat pocket and chewed on the end, pondering his options. The most obvious place to isolate Holiday would be at his home. At the Capitol, there was a plethora of security personnel, cameras, metal detectors, and witnesses. Also, the Capitol was situated just south of downtown in a busy district with lots of red lights and one-way streets. It would be incredibly difficult to make a getaway without being trapped amid the traffic. Certainly, it would be conspicuous to kill Holiday on the Capitol steps, but given the right method of execution and the proper dramatic flair, any death would be conspicuous once CNN had their way with it.
The second option would be to hit Holiday someplace open and exposed between home and work. A sports bar or a train station. Someplace where the hit could be lightning quick with a clean getaway and minimal security. That would be ideal, and it was how Reed conducted most of his hits: learn his target’s patterns and habits, identify an opportunity, and then strike out of the shadows.
The problem with option two was the timing. With less than seventy-two hours to monitor Holiday’s daily habits and become accustomed to the places he visited, it would be difficult—almost impossible—to identify an opportunity to make a safe and effective hit. It would require a stroke of dumb luck to hit Holiday without exposing himself at all. There just wasn’t enough time to study the patterns.
That left option three, which was to hit Holiday at home. The high-rise offered minimal security compared to the Capitol, and Holiday’s whereabouts would be easy to predict and exploit. Given only a few hours of research, Reed could locate Holiday’s unit, identify an ideal method of execution, and then begin planning his escape. Holiday would be home at night, providing the cover of darkness and lighter traffic for easier extraction. The cherry on top would be the horrific nature of a senator being executed in his own home. If that wasn’t conspicuous, Reed didn’t know what was.
Reed shuffled down the sidewalk, still glancing at the building and zeroing in on the fourteenth floor. Every unit had windows, so one side of the building had to offer an exposed view into Holiday’s condo. Reed circled the building twice, examining every angle of the fourteenth floor before he realized he was making this way harder than it had to be.
He punched Holiday’s address and unit number into Google on his phone and was rewarded with a Zillow listing. The condo last sold in 2016 for $428,980. The listing contained details of the unit, including square footage, a floor plan, and pictures from the inside.
One of the pictures featured the giant wall-to-wall window that framed one side of the kitchen/living room/dining room combo. Zooming in on the picturesque view allowed him to focus on the landmarks. In the distance was a flagpole featuring a small blue flag with a yellow cross. Reed studied the flag, rotated the image, then looked up and scanned the horizon. Several hundred yards away, a blue spec flew a few feet beneath a giant American flag, mounted on top of a building.
Ikea.
Reed retraced his line of sight back toward the high-rise and settled on the fourteenth floor.
“Gotcha.”
Seven
It was a short jog to the Ikea. Reed approached the building from the north side and then turned to get a bearing on the high-rise. It stood in clear view, with no obstructing trees or buildings.
He glanced around the perimeter of the Ikea, checking for cameras, security guards, or foot traffic. The parking lot held a smattering of pickup trucks and minivans, but no police, no golf-cart security, and no rent-a-cop on a Segway.
When he made it to the rear of the building, Reed scanned the loading dock for any surveillance. The alley was quiet and littered with stray paper trash and puddles of oily runoff water. Past the loading dock, along the rear of the store, a dumpster overflowed with cardboard boxes. An access ladder for the roof clung to the side of the wall, its lowest rung hanging ten feet off the ground.
Reed hoisted himself onto the dumpster, and as his shoe squished against the damp edge, he slipped and then dug his fingers into the cold steel to keep from falling. He stumbled again as he tried to stand, then fell forward off the dumpster, flailing for anything to break his fall. His hands closed around the man cage that surrounded the ladder, and he winced as the metal bit into his skin. Flakes of rust rained down over his face and into his mouth. As his legs dangled over the concrete and the full strain of his weight descended on his biceps, something in his shoulder popped. No matter how many hours he spent in the gym, he always found a way to pull a muscle and wake up sore. Reed let go with his right hand and grabbed the lowest rung of the ladder, then began to pull himself upward. Yeah, he was gonna
hurt tomorrow.
The roof was covered in pea gravel and humming air-conditioning units, and a few spots were patched with tar. At the northeast corner of the building, Reed dropped to his stomach and crawled the last twenty feet to the edge of the roof.
A two-foot parapet surrounded the building, blocking his view beyond. Reed positioned himself onto his knees, then kept his head low as he approached the brink. The sun beat down on the white painted blocks of the parapet, and Reed shielded his eyes to view the high-rise standing to the east of the duck pond.
From a small case in his cargo pants, he withdrew a Bushnell Elite ARC range finder. The soft rubber of the scope was familiar under his fingers. He held the viewfinder to his eye, feeling just a hint of adrenaline rush into his blood. This was it—the journey leading up to the press of the trigger—the suspense and cold calculation. It wasn’t about the blood, and it certainly wasn’t about the money. It was about being untouchable, detached, and above the world with puppet strings in his hands. Was it a power trip? Maybe. Reed didn’t think about it too hard; he just enjoyed the security of being the one behind the rifle.
The rangefinder provided moderate magnification, offering him a clear view of the high-rise. Reed focused the crosshairs on the fourteenth floor of the building, then depressed the trigger on the side of the scope, activating the laser—a clear shot at 745 yards.
Reed lowered the range finder and studied the high-rise. It wasn’t quite square with his position. He viewed Holiday’s window from a forty-degree angle, which wasn’t ideal; it limited his view of the interior of the condo, and there was a chance Holiday wouldn’t expose himself at all.
On the other hand, the roof of the Ikea offered unique advantages. When the coast was clear, he could enter and vacate at his convenience. There would be almost no chance of anyone else climbing to the roof after dark. Other than a handful of security cameras mounted on the light poles in the parking lot, all of which were pointed down, there was no electronic surveillance of the rooftop. Visually, he would be covered.
Audibly, the Ikea was also advantageous. The humming A/C units would provide moderate aural masking for a suppressed rifle. Contrary to what Hollywood seemed to believe, silencers didn’t reduce the blast of a high-powered rifle cartridge to a puny pop. Even with a state-of-the-art suppression canister, the rifle would still make substantial noise. The A/C units, along with the vehicles in the parking lot, would help mask the gunshot. The sound could be excused as a car backfiring or a runaway cart crashing into a minivan. An oblivious civilian wouldn’t notice.
Last, there really wasn’t another vantage point within range on this side of the high-rise. He could use a van or find a way to disguise his position in a park, but the odds of being caught in such an arrangement were much higher, and the field of view wouldn’t be any better.
Ikea was the spot. He would set himself up a few yards behind the parapet and use a shooting mat and a bipod. A kill shot from an unseen assassin while the senator relaxed in his own home would be theatrical, and Reed would have ample time to haul ass before the police arrived.
He popped his neck and returned the range finder to its case. Before hurrying down the ladder and cat-dropping the final ten feet onto the pavement, he checked the alleyway below for any signs of associates or passing vehicles. There was nobody.
It was a Thursday, and the senator would be home sometime after dark. Reed would return to the roof with his rifle and find a place he could conceal himself on the off chance somebody joined him up there. The glass on the side of the high-rise was reinforced; it wouldn’t stop the bullet, but it wouldn’t shatter, either. With any luck, Reed would be miles away before anyone knew Holiday was dead.
Breakfast was the last meal Reed had eaten, and nausea was starting to set in. Packaged beef jerky and can of Coke from the gas station was a poor substitute for a meal, but it would have to suffice. Reed fumbled in his pocket for his wallet.
“That’ll be five-sixty.”
He nodded and checked his left pocket. Did he leave it in the car? There was spare cash in his tennis shoe, but he really didn’t want to dig that out in front of the cashier.
“Think I left my wallet in the car. It’ll just be a minute.”
“I got you, brother,” came a voice behind him.
Reed looked over his shoulder. Behind him stood a short man with a tangled beard, holding a ten-dollar bill in his right hand. He wore torn jeans and a faded Falcons hoodie that was at least a size too large.
“Excuse me?”
The man grunted and set a bottle of water and a pouch of peanuts on the counter, then handed the cashier his ten. “Semper Fi. I got this one.”
Reed frowned and shook his head at the cashier, but the half-stoned teenager was already poking the bill into the cash register.
“Semper Fi?”
Reed accepted the Coke and jerky from the man, who then smiled and gestured toward Reed’s right forearm where an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo was drawn in red ink. He pulled the sleeve of his Panthers jacket over the tattoo and grunted.
“Let me go to my car. I’ll get you your money.”
The man snorted and brushed dirty hair out of his face. “Seriously, dude. I got it. Jarheads stick together.”
Reed shrugged and turned toward the door. “Well, thanks. Have a good one.”
As he pushed through the door back into the crisp fall air, he heard the short man shuffling behind him. “Hey, you got a smoke on you? I was gonna buy a pack. Little light on cash.”
Reed sighed and dug in his pocket. He handed the man a cigarette and then started to walk away again.
“Light?”
Reed stopped half step, gritting his teeth. He crammed his hand back into his pocket, dug the lighter out, and then waited as the dirty man rolled the smoke between his fingers, dangling the tip over the golden flame.
“You look like an infantryman.” The man said. “Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“I was transport. You know, the shmucks in the trucks. Two tours in Iraq. All that jazz. You?”
Reed waved his hand. “Look, man, I’m in a rush. Just keep the lighter.”
The dirty man nodded. “All right. Catch you la—”
Before he could finish, a snapping sound rang out from his right leg, and he toppled forward with a grunt of pain, catching himself on the edge of a newspaper dispenser before hitting the sidewalk. Reed lunged forward and caught him by the shoulder, then helped him up. The man gritted his teeth as he leaned back against the wall.
“Dammit. You okay?” Reed asked.
He grunted, then took a drag of the cigarette. “Yeah. Just my leg. It’s prosthetic from the knee down. Kinda outdated, and the joint keeps breaking. I’ll take care of it.”
The dirty and torn shoe was twisted on the end of the man’s right leg, and it looked ready to fall apart. Through the torn canvas, Reed saw a glint of the rusting metal prosthetic, and ripped jeans exposed more of the damaged mechanical appendage.
Reed cursed under his breath. “What happened there?”
“What you think happened? IED in Baghdad.”
“You didn’t get disability?”
He snorted. “You kidding me? I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing for people who weren’t supposed to be giving orders. The VA considered it ‘reckless endangerment.’ I get three hundred bucks a month.”
Reed clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first such story he’d heard. Not all the refugees from the Middle East were Middle Eastern.
“Wait here.” Reed hurried around the corner and ducked behind a dumpster. He pried his shoe off, lifted the insole, and withdrew five hundred-dollar bills folded neatly together in a flattened wad.
Back around the building, he handed the cash to the slouching vet.
“Here. Go find yourself a shower and some fresh clothes. And for God’s sake, get a haircut. You’re way out of regs, my friend.”
For a minute, the vet glowered at the money then slowly reached out his right hand. Reed accepted the firm and confident handshake, simultaneously slipping him the cash.
“Sergeant Vincent Russel,” he said. “My friends just call me Vince.”
“Corporal Reed Montgomery . . . Force Recon.”
Vince raised an eyebrow. “Force Recon? No shit. Reckon your retirement is a helluva lot better than mine.”
“Not when you retire in handcuffs.”
Vince crammed the bills into his pocket. “Well then. I guess that’s two things we have in common.”
“Two things?” Reed asked, cocking his head.
Vince jutted his chin toward Reed’s head. “Yeah. You’re also out of regs.”
“Regs are overrated, aren’t they?” Reed grinned. “Roll easy, Sergeant.”
Eight
When Reed returned to the cabin, a single email waited in his inbox. The sender was labeled only as “W.” His heart raced as he sat down and opened the message. Fresh anticipation and a million questions flooded his mind. Had Winter found her? Who was she? Was anything she told him true? Perhaps the most important question wasn’t about Banks . . . maybe it was about him. Why did he need to know so much? Why did he feel so obsessed over the blonde singer with the ukulele? It was petty . . . childish . . . irresistible.
The first page was blank. The next contained half a dozen color photographs, and he recognized the girl in the pictures. Blonde. Long, swept-back bangs. Bright blue eyes. That intoxicating smile. Banks stood next to an older woman in one photo, and they favored one another. Perhaps it was her mother. Another picture showed her cuddling an orange cat on a couch. She was smiling while the cat slept.
