by Logan Ryles
Reed’s fingers felt numb over the mouse pad. Banks was even more beautiful than he remembered, and even more intoxicating curled up on the couch without makeup.
Reed blinked and reached for the whiskey. He took a deep swallow and scrolled to the next page. Her full name was Banks April Morccelli. Born January 14, 1992, so she was twenty-six and a couple years his junior. She was older than she looked, but he was relieved that she wasn’t nineteen.
Her home address was an apartment in Decatur where she lived alone. A 1972 Super Beetle was registered in her name. Three unpaid parking tickets. Her phone number and email address were both listed, but under the social media tab, Winter had typed “No accounts found.” That was strange for a performer. There had to be a reason.
As he scrolled down a little farther, he learned Banks was employed at a coffee shop in Buckhead. She graduated high school from a public school in rural Mississippi and dropped out of college at Ole Miss. There was no passport on file, and before Decatur, her last known residence was another apartment in Memphis, where she lived for three months.
The next page was labeled “Financials.” Reed scanned the tiny notations. She held a checking account with Bank of the States, and it was overdrawn two hundred and forty dollars. She had over four thousand dollars of unpaid medical bills in collections, her power bill was past due, and she hadn’t filed taxes in two years.
Beneath the financial tab were specifics on her medical record, where it showed hospitalizations twice in the previous twelve months. Prescriptions were written for various heavy-duty antibiotics. She had Lyme disease and no medical insurance.
Winter’s reconnaissance was, as usual, expedient and detailed. Reed wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he requested the file, but he wasn’t expecting the graphically clear picture that was painted before him: A girl on her own, barely scraping by, and struggling with significant medical conditions. No apparent friends or family to lean on, and no career or place to call home.
He hadn’t seen any of that in her the night before. He would have never guessed her to be broke and alone, let alone chronically sick. She seemed so happy and colorful, as though nothing in the world could dim her glow. That made her all the more irresistible.
Reed unlocked his phone and selected a contact. The phone rang once before a friendly female voice answered.
“Lasquo Financial.”
“The summer is hot, but at least it won’t rain.”
“There could be earthquakes,” she said without hesitation.
“Sure, but I have insurance.”
“Thank you, sir. How may I direct your call?”
“Get me Thomas Lancaster, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Reed Montgomery. Account ID 4871994.”
“One moment please.”
A familiar voice with just a hint of a Cajun warble answered the line.
“Good afternoon, Reed. How are you today?”
Thomas Lancaster was the senior banker for Lasquo Financial, an independent corporation that housed a network of banking services to support the criminal underworld. Headquartered in New Orleans, the company was as ghostly as the people it served. While the money itself was stored in an assortment of Swiss, Grand Cayman, and third-world banks, Lasquo provided the daily conveniences that enabled contract criminals to exchange payments, invest in the stock market, and hide their illegal wealth. It was an orchestrated masterpiece designed to circumvent federal oversight by framing itself as a financial concierge service for elite businessmen. Reed wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, and he didn’t really care.
“Hello, Thomas. Another day in paradise. Could you pull my balance, please?”
“Sure. Liquid assets?”
“Just the checking is fine.”
Reed heard the click of a computer keyboard.
“You have one million, two hundred twenty-two thousand, four hundred eight dollars, and forty-two cents available.”
“Outstanding. I guess a payment came in?”
“One hundred eighty-two thousand last night. From your last contract.”
“Perfect. I’d like to make a wire please.”
“Of course. To which bank?”
“Bank of the States.”
“The beneficiary?”
“Banks Morccelli.”
“And the account?”
Reed opened the computer again and read the fourteen-digit account number.
“How much would you like to send?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“I’ll have that out within the hour.”
“Great. And Thomas, I need it to be anonymous. Is that possible?”
Thomas grunted. “Is the beneficiary not expecting the deposit?”
“No. And I don’t want them to question it.”
“Hmm . . . well, it’s no trouble to make it untraceable. But I suspect that your average person who saw an unexpected deposit would assume it’s an error and call the bank. I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
Reed heard the banker mumble something about wire fees, but he wasn’t listening. He hung up and stared at Banks’ picture. She was everything he remembered. All the grace and charm and charisma glowed just as brightly in the photo as it had under the nightclub lights. Was it wrong to pry into somebody’s life? The question hit him like a bucket of ice water over his face. He’d never asked a question like that before, and why should he? Whenever he read a file like this, he was usually about to kill somebody. Digging through a sock drawer with noble intentions was virgin territory, let alone handing out money. Sure, he donated to several charities, although Oliver called it guilt money. But he never gave money to a specific person. It made him too accessible. Too vulnerable.
He thought about Vince and the money he gave him. This would be twice in one day that he made an erratic decision to step outside of his orchestrated comfort zone. It was dangerous, and it exposed him. It built connections he couldn’t afford to have. Each relationship was a point of weakness in a carefully crafted armor of detached invincibility.
Nine
The sky was dark and cloudless. The parking lot of the Ikea slowly emptied, and Reed waited two hundred yards away in the Camaro, watching every person who left the building. He had arrived three hours before and surveyed the parking lot, surrounding streets, and passing cars, watching every face, every police cruiser, and searching for any red flags in the quiet urban landscape.
Reed was uncomfortable with pulling this off so quickly. He didn’t feel prepared. He didn’t know the terrain and moving parts well enough. A week of watching and studying and taking notes would have put his mind at ease.
Chill out, Reed. It’s just another job—an easy one.
Reed left the Camaro across the street from the rear of the Ikea, parked in an empty lot with no security cameras or nearby structures. He shouldered a canvas bag and walked back into the alleyway behind the store. The shadows under the moon melded with his black pullover and cargo pants, helping him to blend into the alley and fade from view.
He had learned long ago that the key to sneaking around in a public, civilian environment was not to sneak. Find out where the people are. Do your best to avoid them. Act casual, and dodge any professional security or surveillance devices. The rest tended to take care of itself. People were too caught up in their own lives to notice each other, let alone an outsider.
Reed stuck his arm through the bag’s shoulder strap, then repeated his jump from the dumpster to catch the bottom rung of the ladder. Five seconds later, he slid over the parapet and dropped onto the gravel below. The roof was dark and still hummed with the rhythmic purring of the air conditioners. Even with the chill outside, the interior of the store would quickly become stuffy without the steady ventilation from the A/C units. Reed had counted on that.
He squatted on the roof next to the ladder and listened. The Atlanta skyline glimmered, and his stomach twist
ed as he remembered the last time he enjoyed that view. It was less than twenty-four hours before, but it felt like days.
Gravel crunched under his boots as he ran toward the edge of the roof. The air was thick and heavy, and his clothes clung to his body, glued by a thin layer of sweat. The moonlight that illuminated the roof outlined a handful of air conditioner units. They purred in the darkness like sleeping cats, providing just enough sound cover to mask the scrape of his knees against the gravel as he knelt at the edge of the roof. He set a small digital anemometer on the parapet, then drew a deep breath of damp Georgia air. It tasted like city smog.
The anemometer swiveled on its mount until it faced the wind, and the little blades whirred to the hum of the air-conditioning units. Reed crawled back to the bag. His hands moved in a practiced blur as he withdrew the rifle and locked the barrel into the receiver. He knew every part of the weapon better than he knew himself. The polymer magazine was loaded with twenty rounds of .308. The smooth, aluminum trigger guard curled around the stainless steel, three-pound competition trigger. Reed could put rounds on target at a thousand yards with this rifle. He never missed.
Reed pulled the lens caps off either end of the scope and twisted the power switch. His vision blurred momentarily against the red glow of the crosshairs. He settled down behind the rifle and lifted it into his shoulder, enjoying the familiar touch of the stock against his cheek. For the first time since leaving the car, he allowed himself to relax. With his eyes closed, he focused on relaxing each muscle group—his back, legs, shoulders, and stomach—drawing in deep breaths and remaining perfectly still.
Tension faded from his body with each breath, and a calm settled over his mind like a cloud passing over the sun on a hot day. This was his silent place—the moment when distractions and stressors were excommunicated from his mind and total focus took control. It was a whole-body experience that was more than just embracing the rifle; it was the moment he became part of the weapon.
Reed laid his trigger finger against the frame of the rifle and gazed through the scope. The dull lights of the shopping mall illuminated his view, and he pivoted the gun to the right until the crosshairs glided across the high-rise. He counted fourteen floors up from the ground level, stopped, then twisted the zoom control to the 30x mark.
The windows of Holiday’s corner unit were dark, but through the crystal-clear glass of the powerful optic, Reed could discern the outlines of furniture parked around the living room. Something gleamed beyond the living area—maybe a clock on a microwave or stove.
The fan blades of the anemometer still spun silently, and the LCD read six knots from the southwest. The breeze was barely detectable and would have little impact on a shot at 750 yards, but it was still useful information. The wind might pick up speed or change direction, and a miscalculation could easily lead his bullet off target.
Reed settled back into the stock of the rifle, pressing his cheek against the polymer and resuming his surveillance of the condo. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and hope Holiday showed up.
Hours passed, and the parking lot of the Ikea was desolate, with only a handful of cars still gathered around the front entrance. The wind had picked up for a while, then died off completely, leaving the night calm, though Reed wished for the wind to return. It certainly made his shot more difficult, but it provided additional masking for the blast.
Reed lay perfectly still behind the rifle, his left eye shut, and his right eye focused on the condo. Every couple of minutes he completed a sweep of the entire building and the sidewalk around it. Residents walked their dogs. Men watched TV. Women chatted on phones. Kids played video games. A young couple made love in a shadowy bedroom. None suspected that somebody might be watching them, let alone through the scope of a high-powered rifle.
Refocused on Holiday’s condo, Reed checked his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Holiday might be out at dinner or visiting with friends. Reed wanted to catch him right as he returned home, preferably in the living room where he would be most exposed. One shot to the base of the skull. Avoid the mess of trying to tap him in the bedroom, which was less visible.
A light flashed from somewhere inside the condo, and Reed’s muscles tensed. As the kitchen light flooded his optic, somebody crossed his field of view. It was a man, tall and handsome, wearing a light grey jacket and a Brave’s baseball cap.
Without looking away from the scope, Reed retrieved a car alarm transmitter from his bag, flipped a switch, and was answered by a barely audible beep.
Holiday bustled around the kitchen, smiling and talking on his cell phone. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a long sip. The crosshairs rose and fell over the senator with Reed’s every gentle breath. Holiday brought his drink into the living room and flipped on the overhead light. Once Reed’s eyes adjusted, he saw Holiday sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, still on the phone, and taking sips of wine between animated laughs.
Reed pressed his thumb against the bolt-release button mounted on the left side of the receiver. The stainless steel bolt slid forward over the magazine, stripping off the top round, and slamming it into the chamber. He disengaged the safety and set his left hand on the remote while holding the rifle into his shoulder.
Holiday’s left side was perfectly exposed to the crosshairs. Reed could make out the basic features of his face. The powerful curve of his left shoulder. The wrinkles in his jacket.
Reed lowered the crosshairs until they hovered over the base of Holiday’s skull. He reached up and adjusted the windage and elevation knobs on the scope, ensuring the optic was calibrated correctly for the distance.
Holiday set down the phone and grabbed the TV remote. The room flashed as the big flat screen came to life. Reed wrapped his hand around the grip of the rifle, rested his finger against the trigger guard, then reached down and pressed a button on the remote. The device beeped, and four seconds passed. The parking lot below erupted with the blaring of a car horn. An SUV’s emergency lights flashed as its horn blasted in a series of constant honks.
Reed pressed his face against the stock of the rifle and laid his finger against the trigger. Counting silently, and matching the beat of the car horn, he would fire on the third blast.
His finger tightened around the trigger, and the crosshairs fell still over Holiday’s neck as Reed drew in a half-breath and held it. His world outside the scope blurred from existence. The horn blared. Once. Twice.
Holiday turned toward the door and smiled. Reed felt the muscles in his chest tense as the senator disappeared around the corner, back toward the front door. Every blare of the car horn matched the increasing intensity of Reed’s heartbeats. He fought to restore calm to his body, removing his finger from the trigger and rolling his head back until his neck popped. As the seconds ticked by, his urge to surrender to the tension grew. Reed wanted to smash the damn car and silence its incessant honking.
When Holiday reappeared in the kitchen, Reed pressed his cheek against the stock and laid his finger back on the trigger. He took half a breath. And then he saw her.
The breath froze in Reed’s throat. He twisted the zoom to the 35x mark and stared through the glass. Her shoulder blades filled his view. Then her neck. Blonde waves fell over her shoulders, and long bangs were swept back over her ears, displaying just a shadow of rosy cheeks. Reed’s hands were suddenly damp and swollen. He lifted his finger off the trigger and peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. His lips were dry, and his vision blurred around the woman as she turned toward him.
Banks.
The world stopped spinning, and he sat in transfixed stillness as the crosshairs hovered over her smile. She laughed and accepted a glass of wine from Holiday, and he gave her a side hug and kissed the top of her head. In the living room, they sat across from each other. Her long, elegant legs were crossed, revealing torn jeans and the white laces of her red sneakers.
The corners of his vision blurred. Each breath burned in his chest, bu
rdening an already pounding heart. He pivoted the crosshairs back to Holiday, settled them over the base of his skull, and then touched the trigger again.
One shot. Then I’m finished. I can’t help that she’s here.
One breath. Two. He realigned with every blast of the car horn. The crosshairs twitched over his target, even though Holiday hadn’t moved. His breaths were shorter and more labored as tightened his finger around the trigger . . . and then stopped. He shoved the rifle away from his shoulder and rolled onto his back, covering his face with both hands. “Shit!”
He lay on the roof. Whoever owned the SUV silenced the emergency alarm, and the parking lot fell quiet again.
Reed’s hands shook as he disassembled the rifle, crammed the parts back into the bag, and then cursed as the magazine and bullets spilled over the gravel. He shoveled everything into the bag, and then slipped his arm through the shoulder strap and jogged to the ladder. The hangover headache from hours before returned as he dropped off the bottom rung, and every pound of his boots on the concrete echoed in his head with intensifying pain as he made his way back to the Camaro.
He dialed Brent.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Cancel the hit.”
“Um, what?”
“The Holiday job. Cancel it. I’m out.”
“Reed, whatever happened, just walk it off, okay? We can—”
“I said cancel it, dammit. This isn’t a debate.”
Brent was quiet for a moment. Reed slammed the Camaro’s door shut and fumbled in the passenger seat for a bottle of water, but there was nothing except the empty Coke can from earlier that day.
“Reed, listen to me. As your broker. You’re about to make a huge mistake. This is number thirty, right? You don’t wanna back out on this one. It could send a really wrong message.”
Reed slouched against the steering wheel. He just wanted the headache to go away. “Brent, I never intended to continue past thirty. Tell them to get me another target, and I’ll finish the hit list, but I won’t kill Holiday.”
