Overwatch

by Logan Ryles

  “That’s something you can tell them yourself. I’m not getting in the middle of your contract. It’s nothing personal, but I won’t go down with you.”

  Reed felt fire flood his veins. “Are you shitting me?”

  “You might be ready to flush your career, but I’m not. These people are serious, Reed. You made a commitment. If you walk out, we can’t work together anymore.”

  “Fine. Nice knowing you.” Reed threw the phone into the passenger seat, punched the dash, and cursed again.

  Why him? Why Banks? Just one shot away. Three pounds of pressure applied to a performance trigger—that was all that stood between him and the open highway.

  What the hell have I done?

  The high-rise wasn’t visible from where he was parked, but he could still see her face. It was forever burned into his memory. He’d never met a woman like Banks, and he didn’t know why he felt this way, but there was no turning back now. Everything was on the line. He had to see her again.

  Ten

  Leather met leather with a wet thud. Sweat sprayed from the glove, showering the white bag in a blast of hot drops. Reed danced back on his right foot, shifting his weight over the ball of his left, before lunging forward again.

  Whoomp, whoomp. Each stroke jarred his shoulder. Wet hair hung in his eyes, further blurring his bloodshot vision. Another combo to the middle of the bag. Then a headlock. Two death kicks with his left shin. Another stroke on the side of the bag, just where the temple would be. Each blow fell faster than the last. The chain that suspended the bag creaked and jerked against the rafters, threatening to give way under the onslaught of enraged strokes. Reed danced back on his toes and drove a right cross, followed by a left hook, straight into the white leather. He breathed through his mouth between each blow. A hiss, and then a thud. Always in that order. So close together, the sounds melded into an indistinguishable roar, like distant thunder masked by torrential rain beating down on a metal roof.

  Shhh. Whoomp. Whoomp. Two distance-testing jabs. Shhh. Whoomp. A blow strong enough to crush bone.

  Reed stumbled back, allowing his jaw to fall slack as he gasped for air. His naked torso glimmered, and the blood pounding through his veins sent waves of dizziness through his brain, only subjected to reason by larger waves of adrenaline. Power and chaos were always at war with each other for total control of his body.

  The light bulb mounted on the cabin wall shone over the back porch. As the bag continued to swing and creek, Reed collapsed against the rail. The night wasn’t warm—not for an October night—but after half an hour of incessant pounding, he would have sweated in a snowstorm.

  “Baxter! Bring me a beer.” Reed peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto a nearby table.

  The back door hung open. Toenails clicked against hardboard, followed by the scuffling, snorting sound of the bulldog sinking his teeth into the towrope attached to the refrigerator door. Rows of brown beer bottles were conveniently stowed in the lower door pocket, right at eye-level for the grouchy pooch. A few seconds passed, then Baxter appeared on the back porch with the neck of a beer bottle between his yellow teeth. He dropped it on the rough-sawn decking of the porch, then snorted and lay down.

  Reed took a moment to wipe thick streams of doggy saliva off the bottle before popping the lid against the rail.

  Cold and fizzy. The light beer stung his throat and erupted like explosive sandpaper against his tongue. God, it tastes good.

  Reed waved the bottle at Baxter. “That’s a good beer.”

  The bulldog raised one eyebrow at him, then snorted again.

  “No. We’ve been over this. No beer for you. That’s animal abuse. Do I look like a criminal to you?”

  Baxter closed his eyes as though the effort of staring at the quiet trees around the cabin were just too much strain. His bottom teeth jutted out between his lips, gleaming with slobber under the faint light. In spite of his disgruntled appearance, Reed knew he was content. This was his favorite time of day.

  Reed finished the beer, then flung the bottle at the punching bag. It bounced off and spun into the darkness, crashing into the leaves. Waves of tension rushed through his chest, causing his muscles to tighten.

  I was so close. One shot. One trigger pull. It was almost over.

  Oliver would call. The kingpin killer would demand answers. There was no excuse for backing out of a hit. It simply wasn’t done. Oliver’s contractors always delivered. It was the hallmark of his company—their core belief. Whatever happens. Whatever it takes. Finish the job.

  “I don’t have answers,” Reed spoke between dry lips. The lie tasted stale as soon as it left his tongue. Obvious and cheap. Oh, he had answers. He knew exactly why he didn’t pull the trigger, but it wasn’t an answer he could offer Oliver.

  Reed could hear him now—the words snapping off his tongue like darts full of venom. “You did what? You backed out over a cheap bitch?”

  Reed stood up and placed his palms over the railing.

  Does she love him? The thought snapped through his mind with all the explosive energy of an atom bomb. So clear, and so obvious. Does Banks love Holiday? Are they together? Does she smile and laugh with him the way she smiled and laughed on top of the parking garage?

  Each thought stung a little harder than the last. Reed slammed his closed fist into the railing, then drove his toe into the rough planks. Pain shot up his foot as blood dripped from a busted toenail.

  What’s wrong with me? Why do I care? Why didn’t I just pull the damn trigger?

  Once again, he saw her dancing across the kitchen, holding the wine glass between her delicate fingers. He saw the way her socks twisted when she spun over the expensive tile, and the flash in her eyes when she hugged Holiday. Was that love? Was that love in her eyes?

  Reed shouted and drove another punch into the rail, then glared at Baxter. The dog lifted his head and stared up at Reed with concern and uncertainty.

  “Three years. Three years I’ve been working this job. One trigger pull away, and I back off over some damn girl? No, don’t worry. I’ll get it done. There’s over twenty hours left. It’s just the jitters . . . we’ve seen this before.”

  Reed paced the porch, running his fingers through his tangled hair. Each footfall echoed in his tired brain like the roll of a drum, regulating his breathing and helping him to focus. He couldn’t return to the Ikea. There was too much risk in appearing there for the third time. He needed a new strategy—another place to strike Holiday. There was still time to formulate a secondary plan, but first, he would need to rest.

  Oliver wouldn’t call as long as there was still time on the kill clock. Those precious hours could be leveraged to clean this mess up, complete the job, collect the paycheck, and pack up shop—just like he planned. He’d drive far, far away from bloody Atlanta and all the bad memories it contained.

  Banks’ beautiful face crossed his mind and derailed his train of thought, sending it careening down a new path in the time it took him to blink. Her laugh, so bright and happy, was enough to light the darkest corner of Hell.

  He had to know. He couldn’t take another step without knowing who Holiday was to her. Reed jerked the phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  “Winter.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her relationship with Holiday?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Senator. Holiday.” Reed smacked his palm against the railing. “You didn’t tell me they were involved.”

  The line was silent. Reed didn’t know if he had caught Winter off guard, or if Winter was simply giving him time to stop shouting.

  “First of all,”—Winter spoke in a measured monotone—“they aren’t involved. He’s her godfather. And second, this information was notated on page four of the report. Perhaps you didn’t read the entire file.”

  Reed’s mind spun, and he blinked through tired eyes. “Godfather? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Winter paused again. Now Reed was almost sure th
e delay was meant to rebuke him.

  “Senator Holiday was close friends with Miss Morccelli’s father, who died in twenty fifteen. The details are all in the file.”

  Reed lowered the phone and stared into the trees, reviewing the memories one at a time. The way Holiday smiled when she entered the room, how he hugged her from the side and kissed her on the head. His casual demeanor as he handed her the wine.

  Of course they weren’t together, but they were clearly close—in a father-daughter way. Or, in this case, a godfather way. She knew him well, was familiar with him, and was possibly even close to him. Holiday was a safe place for Banks—a kind, loyal friend.

  And I was going to kill him.

  Reed jammed the phone against his ear. “Who ordered the hit?” Once again, silence hung on the line, but this time Reed wasn’t having it.

  “I know you know. Who ordered the damn hit?”

  “This is thirty, isn’t it?”

  The sudden question sent an icy chill down Reed’s spine. He pressed the phone against his cheek and wrapped his fingers around the railing.

  “What?”

  “This is your thirtieth kill. They call it the freedom bell.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I’ve contracted with Oliver Enfield’s company for a long time, Reed. I’ve seen a lot of good contractors come . . . and go.”

  Tension shot down his arms as he dug his fingers into the wood. “What does that mean?”

  Winter didn’t answer. The silence was so thick, Reed felt as though Winter was sitting beside him.

  “Who ordered the hit?” he shouted into the phone.

  When Winter replied, the monotone was gone and replaced with a hint of menace.

  “Watch your back, Reed. Freedom has a nasty bite.”

  The line clicked off. Reed’s hands shook as he pried the phone away from his ear and stared at the blank screen. Winter had never broken character before and never expressed interest in him as a killer.

  Winter had never expressed a warning.

  The breach in behavior sent a sting ripping down Reed’s back—an army of fire ants digging into his skin.

  Why the warning? Who ordered the hit?

  Reed snapped his fingers at Baxter and walked back into the house. Everything about this contract felt different and wrong. A voice in the back of his head whispered at him between the blasts of noise and chaos, and he couldn’t discern the words, but he heard the voice, muffled and confused.

  Mitchell Holiday might well deserve to die, but Reed wasn’t taking the shot until he knew why. It was time to jerk back the curtain and find some answers.

  He would start with Banks.

  Eleven

  Glistening globes of dew still clung to each blade of browned grass, even as the sun arced toward its noon-time high, bathing Decatur in welcome warmth. The cough-rumble of the Camaro felt as blasphemous to the peace of the morning as a raunchy laugh in a graveyard, and Reed switched the car off and sat in silence as he surveyed the duplex, tired and old with peeling paint. Bits of sunbaked shingles lay in the flowerbed at random. Plastic jack-o’-lanterns guarded the entrance, their crooked smiles leering at Reed as if they knew why he had come, but they just didn’t give a damn. A stray tabby cat bounced across the porch and around the house, chasing a butterfly between the bushes. But there were no people, no laughing children or bustling adults. The neighborhood, which consisted entirely of battered duplexes and brick apartment homes, was as cold and unfriendly as a warzone—decay and despair, and too little of everything.

  A couple of teenagers wandered out of a side street, bouncing a basketball and talking in subdued mumbles. Reed waited for them to pass within easy earshot of the car, then he whistled. “Hey. You guys know a blonde girl who lives here?”

  They stopped and stared at him as though he were an invader, armed to the teeth and ready to burn down what was left of their battered home.

  So then, Banks wasn’t home. A twinge of defeat bubbled in his stomach, or was it just disappointment? Maybe he should go back to Atlanta and check in at the nightclub. But it didn’t open until late afternoon, and anyway, if Banks left home to run errands, she would most likely do that locally. One of the numerous shopping centers or farmers markets in the area were likely destinations for a morning shopping trip.

  It was a good bet. He spotted the yellow Volkswagen fifteen minutes later, parked in front of a Bank of the States branch. He parked the Camaro a hundred yards away in an adjoining supermarket lot and jogged toward the bank. He wasn’t sure what his plan was. Maybe he would pretend he was at the bank on personal business. Make it out to be a coincidence. Then ask her out to lunch and talk to her. Find out about Holiday. Figure out what the hell was going on.

  His thoughts trailed off as he passed the Beetle. He stopped and looked at the rusty antique, remembering the rumble of the underpowered engine—the squeak of the suspension at every turn. The way Banks drove with reckless abandon—as though she were the only person on the road—the perpetual smile on her face, and the way the wind tossed her hair.

  The front door of the bank slammed shut as a customer walked out. Reed swallowed, looked back at the Beetle, then walked toward the door.

  The bank was cold and sterile, and gaudy marketing covered the walls. Glass offices lined the perimeter of a crowded waiting area. A line of a dozen impatient customers stood in front of the counter, and the tellers looked distant and detached, as though they were present in body only. It was such a stark contrast to the five-star banking experience Reed was accustomed to through Lasquo Financial. The building was more like a title loan office than a bank.

  “I don’t know where it came from. It’s not my money. That’s the problem!”

  Reed immediately recognized the thick Southern accent laden with emotion and frustration. Banks, with her back turned toward him, was sitting in one of the glass offices to his right. An overweight man with a thinning hairline and cheap glasses sat behind the desk, a look of exhaustion covering his chalky features.

  “Ma’am, I realize you’re upset. If you calm down, I’m sure we can figure this out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out. There’s twenty-five thousand dollars in my account that doesn’t belong to me. Take it out, please.”

  “Um, well, it’s not that simple.”

  Banks rubbed her temples. “Why not?”

  “For starters, that would leave you overdrawn. You were overdrawn when the wire posted to your account.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ll pay the overdraft this weekend. It’s been a rough week, okay? In the meantime, take the money out of my account. You guys should be more careful where you stick money.”

  The banker looked ready to shoot himself. “Ma’am, I already told you. We don’t ‘stick money’ in people’s accounts. The wire was made payable directly to you, with your account number notated. We credited it to your account accordingly.”

  “Well, I don’t want it!” Banks smacked the desk with her palm.

  The banker sat forward, rubbing his eyes with a shaky right hand.

  “Miss Morccelli, it’s unfathomable to me that a person in your position would be so opposed—”

  “My position? And just what is my position, exactly?” There was a tinge of indignation in her voice.

  The banker backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying—”

  “That I’m a broke-ass overdrafter? That’s it. Close my account. I’m not dealing with this. I don’t need anybody’s help!”

  Reed stood still by the door, transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of him. He wasn’t sure how he expected Banks to respond when twenty-five grand appeared in her account out of nowhere. Stupidly, he assumed she would be grateful and apply the windfall toward her medical debt. He now realized how arrogant and belittling that assumption had been, but he was still taken aback by her vehement refusal to accept or even entertain a handout. It was fiercely independent. Aggressively p
roud.

  Ridiculously attractive.

  An annoyed voice grabbed his attention.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A short woman wearing a crooked name badge leered at him. She looked utterly done with life.

  Reed realized he was standing in the middle of the lobby with his hands in his pockets. “No. I’m good,” he said as he rushed through the front doors.

  He was a fool for assuming Banks would just take the money. More than that, he was an asshole for tracking her down. She was independent and didn’t want to be babied, which explained why she was the goddaughter of a millionaire and still drove a rattle-trap of a car and was in debt up to her ears. She didn’t want the help. She had it covered.

  He wasn’t about to walk away from the fiery Southern girl with a reckless-abandon approach to life. But he had to find a way to orchestrate destiny without pissing her off. This wasn’t a great start.

  Before he could start the engine of his Camaro, his phone vibrated in his pocket. The dark screen said “UNKNOWN.”

  Reed hesitated, then hit the answer button and said nothing while he waited for the caller to speak first.

  “You screwed up, Montgomery.” The voice was computerized, like that of an automated answering machine.

  “Who is this?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t like being let down, Reed. Somebody who feels very let down by your failure to kill Senator Holiday.”

  A rush of warmth flooded Reed’s cheeks and his heart rate accelerated. The sounds and distractions of the supermarket parking lot vanished around him.

  “Look, smartass. I never fail. I also don’t deal with anyone over the phone. You got a problem, call my broker.”

  “Your broker? I’m afraid your broker is quite indisposed at the moment.”

  “What? What the hell—”

  His words were drowned out by a bloodcurdling scream. The agonized voice of terror and pain flooded the phone, echoing as though it came from an amphitheater. Reed jerked the phone away from his ear as he caught his breath. The screams continued, ripping through the phone as though they were voiced straight from Hell. Pleas for mercy were mixed with dull groans and shrill shrieks, all fused into one horrific chorus.