Overwatch

by Logan Ryles

  The air inside the Camaro was suddenly thick and sticky, as though Reed were breathing through a straw. He held the phone against his knee, muting the hellish voice of death. Moments felt like hours, until at last the screams faded, and the computerized tone took over.

  “I sent you pictures. You have twelve hours to finish the job. Don’t test me.”

  Reed swallowed back the dryness in his mouth and punched the steering wheel. Before he could respond, the caller hung up, leaving the screen vacant. A moment later, the first text appeared. Reed’s fingers felt thick and heavy as he unlocked his phone. The ghastly image that greeted him sent waves of nausea ripping through his stomach.

  Brent.

  He lay on a concrete floor, tied between wooden posts, his face twisted into a death scream. Shreds of skin and flesh were on the floor beside him, exposing an empty stomach cavity. He was disemboweled, gutted from throat to groin.

  Blinding rage replaced nausea, and Reed jammed the car into gear and dumped the clutch. The rear tires screamed against the pavement, screeching over the howl of the engine as the rear end of the vehicle swung outward. The rubber caught, and the Camaro rocketed forward out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.

  Back toward Atlanta.

  Twelve

  “I need you to post a hit for me,” Reed shouted over the thunder of the engine. The fall breeze snapped around the mirrors and battered the headliner of the car, whipping Reed’s hair in and out of view. The wind tasted fresh and clean—a welcome relief against the smothering feeling against his chest.

  Nobody answered, and Reed rolled up the windows. “Winter, did you hear me?”

  A dry voice coughed, then Winter’s stagnant tone flowed from the speaker.

  “Who is the target?”

  “Senator Mitchell Holiday.”

  This time the pause felt heavy, as though it were laden with unspoken thoughts and conflicting emotions. Reed had no time for either.

  “Did you hear me? Can you do it or not?”

  Another dry cough. “What’s the bounty?”

  “I don’t care. Half a million.”

  Reed thought he heard the scratch of a pen on paper, but maybe it was just the squeak of whatever robotic entity Winter consisted of.

  “My service fee is twenty-five hundred. I’ll draft your account. Any special requests?”

  “Yes. I want it posted to Section 13 of the dark web.”

  The pen tapped on the notepad. Reed could hear each slow click.

  “Are you aware that Section 13 has been compromised by the FBI?”

  “I am. Post it anonymously. Ignore anyone who’s dumb enough to respond.”

  “Very well. The listing will be live in twenty minutes.”

  Nausea returned to the pit of Reed’s stomach, boiling like a jar of sour vegetable oil. Every muscle in his body was tense. He downshifted into fourth and blew past a semi-truck. The nervousness growing in the back of his mind washed over him in waves—it was something a little worse than shock, and a little less than panic.

  Brent was dead—slaughtered like a pig. It was a blatant attack on his own doorstep by a defiant challenger. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Reed wasn’t particularly attached to Brent, or to anyone he worked with, but Brent was the partner he spoke to most often. He knew Brent had blonde hair and loved mint ice cream and video games. The chatty broker was from Detroit and had a mother he sent checks to every month in a nursing home. She thought he worked for an army museum in Rome. She had no idea her son was neck-deep in the mire of organized crime, and she would never know what fate befell him. He would simply vanish, gone without a trace, snuffed out like any one of Reed’s victims.

  The thought brought renewed rage into Reed’s soul. No, he didn’t care about Brent, not personally, but a line had been crossed. A line that couldn’t be ignored. The contract had now spilled far, far beyond the realms of acceptable business practices, even for the criminal underworld. There was a debt to pay and a statement to make.

  You don’t shit on Reed Montgomery’s doorstep and walk away breathing.

  Reed snatched up his phone and speed-dialed the first contact, focusing on calming each nerve and backing away from a precipice of uncontrolled, rampaging madness. The answering machine picked up and greeted him with a single-word message: "Enfield." Then the beep.

  "Oliver." The word snapped like a gunshot, and Reed forced himself to take another breath before continuing. "We need to talk immediately. Call me back as soon as you get this."

  Reed rolled the windows down again and sucked in a lungful of air, which helped restore control back into his body. He checked the clock on the dash and counted backward to the phone call with Winter.

  He'd give it another hour, and then he would cancel the hit.

  Senator Mitchell Holiday, known to his friends and foes alike as “Fighting Mitch,” was feeling the wear of civil service. He sat down behind the broad oak desk in his congressional office and set his reading glasses on the table. His back hurt. His neck hurt. He had a headache. And his damn knee was acting up again.

  The plush leather of his office chair squeaked as Holiday leaned back. He didn’t drink at the office—not anymore, anyway—but a bourbon, smooth and strong, would’ve really taken the edge off. He laid his hands on the arms of the chair and sat perfectly still, letting the stress and strain seep out of him.

  His knee burned like fire, and he straightened his leg, attempting to relieve the strain. It was an old football injury. Holiday played for Grand Republic Preparatory School in Savannah as a running back. That was where Fighting Mitch was born. Given the chance, he always chose to run the ball straight through the defensive line instead of around. He was a sensation. Local sports commentators called him NFL talent, the pride of South Georgia. Right up to the moment the two-hundred-eighty-pound senior from Athens crashed into his shoulder and slammed him to the ground, leaving his foot caught in the soft mud. When his knee exploded, it snuffed out all ambitions of a football career in a split second.

  Grand Republic was losing that night. Down twenty-one points with an Athens quarterback who had their number. But when Holiday hit the mud, vengeful fire that could’ve won them a Super Bowl erupted through his team. He could still hear Danny McKnight shouting at the offensive line moments before the snap. He could see the explosion of glistening rainwater as shoulder pads and helmets crashed together. And then, with only seconds left on the clock, he could hear the roar of the crowd as the ball flipped between the uprights. It was the biggest upset of the season.

  Holiday would never forget that night. His teammates carried him off the field on their shoulders as Danny screamed and threw his helmet into the air. The Senators’ quarterback went on to serve in the National Guard, deployed for Desert Storm where he was blown in half by a landmine. Holiday wasn’t there, but he heard that blast in his nightmares. He imagined Danny lying in the mud, his blue eyes wide and empty, as if to say, “Where are you, Mitch? Why aren’t you here to carry me off the field?”

  Real life was so much colder than football. Upsets were never as simple as a field goal.

  The chair groaned again as Holiday sat up. He lifted a cigarette from the desk drawer and flicked his thumb against a polished Zippo lighter. Icy waves of menthol filled his lungs, loosening his muscles and easing the tension on his strained nerves. He leaned back and dragged another cloud of smoke from the cigarette. It burned and soothed all at the same time. In the temporary relaxation of the nicotine, he could still see Danny pumping his fist in the air and grinning at the crowd. Today, in this moment, Holiday didn’t feel much like Fighting Mitch anymore. He’d give anything to have Danny here, to have the whole team carry him out of the chaotic hell he called home.

  Holiday walked to the window and gazed out of the Georgia State Capitol and over the busy streets of downtown Atlanta. If he survived the remainder of the term, he would sell the logistics company. Sell the mansion in Savannah. Leave an inheritance for
Banks and disappear out west somewhere. He’d always wanted to live out west. Holiday was a wealthy man, and for all his grandeur and resources, Georgia had chained him down his entire life. Maybe he could finally cut loose and buy a cabin someplace in the mountains of Wyoming, miles and miles from anyone and everyone. Get a dog and name him Burt, for no reason at all. Drive an old, beat-up pickup truck and hunt in the summer. Write a book in the winter. He’d always wanted to try his hand at a novel, but he just never had the time.

  A trail of scarlet embers rained through the air as Holiday flicked the cigarette into a brass trash can. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, then jammed his thumb against the speaker button on his desk phone.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get me Matt Tucker.”

  As the smoke faded from his lungs, Holiday could already feel his chest begin to tighten again. The air in the big office was thick and hot, as though he were sitting in a sauna. He picked up a pen and clicked it. Open. Closed. Open again. Each snap of the pen was a small explosion in the still room. His fingers stuck against the cheap plastic, leaving smudges on the barrel.

  “Agent Tucker.” The voice, loud and jarring, crackled over the speakerphone.

  Holiday switched to the receiver.

  “This is Senator Holiday. I’m calling you in reference to our conversation yesterday.”

  After a rustle of papers from the other end of the line, Tucker’s voice softened some, but he remained all-business.

  “Glad to hear from you, Senator. Where do we stand regarding the FBI’s offer?”

  Open. Closed. The pen clicked again, and Holiday stared at the writing on its barrel. Some local pest control company. God only knew how it found its way to his desk. He ran his tongue across dry lips, then set the pen down.

  “I need assurances regarding my goddaughter.”

  “Banks?”

  “Yes. I want her left out of this. Completely. No interviews. No media. No agency attention. Nothing.”

  “You know I can’t guarantee that, Senator.”

  “Then you don’t have a deal. I’ll burn in Hell before I watch her dragged through this mess.”

  “If you don’t cooperate, you may very well get your wish. I can commit to distance from the agency, assuming you give us everything we need to know. I have no control over the media.”

  “No good, agent. You’re going to have to pull something out of your ass if you want my participation. I’ve made it clear from day one that Banks will not be involved.”

  “She isn’t involved. I don’t see the problem.”

  “It’s her father. I want the agency’s commitment that they won’t turn this into a smear campaign, and that the media will be left out of it.”

  “I’m not in charge of media relations. I’m an investigator. My job is to investigate. If you’re not willing to cooperate, you may be facing media attention of your own. Your hands aren’t clean, Senator. Don’t forget that.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m reminding you of the cards you’ve been dealt. This could be your last chance to step out of this alive. When this investigation sees the light of day, I won’t be able to protect you if you’re not on my side. Do you understand what I’m saying, Senator?”

  The room was suddenly calm, as if the world were holding its breath. Holiday sucked in the thick and stale air and tapped his finger against the desktop. His mind raced, but really, there wasn’t much to decide.

  “Banks is given protective custody. Complete isolation from the media. And Frank is a hero. Do you hear me? No smearing. The man died a hero.”

  Tucker sighed. “I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep. You either trust me, or you don’t. There are no guarantees.”

  “Then there’s no deal. Good luck unraveling this cluster on your own.”

  Holiday slammed the headset back onto the hook and clenched his fist. Exhaustion overwhelmed his mind. It was the sort of total, crushing fatigue that no amount of rest or nicotine could relieve. It was death itself knocking at his doorstep.

  He sat in perfect stillness for what must have been half an hour. Tucker would call back. The investigator couldn’t drop a witness this crucial. He would make some calls and find a way to meet Holiday’s demands. And then he would call back.

  Holiday suddenly wondered if God was listening. He hadn’t prayed in twenty years. Not since his high-school sweetheart and the love of his life, Mary Truant Anderson, wasted away on an Atlanta hospital bed, eaten alive by what should have been a curable blood cancer. None of the medications had any effect, and none of the treatments slowed it down. It devoured her body in a matter of weeks, draining her away to a mere shadow of her old self before the life breath finally left her lungs.

  It was as though God himself had sucked the life out of her and struck her down right in the prime of life, for no reason or purpose. She was a beautiful soul. A loving, kind-hearted angel. Somebody who truly didn’t deserve to die.

  If God wouldn’t listen to prayers for somebody as beautiful as Mary, there was no way in hell he would hear prayers for somebody as battered and war-torn as Mitchell Holiday. There was blood on these hands.

  The intercom buzzed, jarring Holiday back to the present.

  “Senator, there’s men here from the FBI. They want . . . Wait! You can’t go in there!”

  The door slammed back on its hinges, crashing into the mahogany wall with a thunderclap. Holiday jumped up and shoved the chair in front of him, his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in with a wave of panic. Four men wearing black suits and stern glares barged through the door. The one in the front flashed a gold badge and stomped right up to the desk.

  “Agent Wes Harper, FBI. You need to come with us, Senator.”

  Holiday clutched the back of his chair, and his knuckles turned white. He took a slow breath and forced himself to assume the diplomatic confidence that won his elections. Calm. Southern. Just a little indignant. “Agent, you can’t just bust in here. I’ve already told Agent Tucker I’m not going anywhere until my demands are met. That’s the final word on this matter.”

  Harper’s brow wrinkled. The hand holding the badge fell to his side, and he turned to one of his colleagues, who only shrugged.

  Holiday swallowed, feeling his stomach twist into a knot. The moments ticked by in slow motion.

  Harper turned back. He shoved the badge into his pocket and stepped to the side, motioning to the door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Senator, but you need to come with us. There’s been a credible threat to your life. You are now under the protective custody of the FBI.”

  Thirteen

  The fall wind blowing off the mountains brought a bite with it when Reed stepped out of the Camaro. Leaves rattled across the gravel driveway and tumbled over one another, and the chill penetrated his jacket, sending a slight shiver down his back. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kicked at the steps of the porch, knocking dirt off his shoes. Baxter lay just inside the door, snoring like a troll with a lake of drool gathering around his snout. Reed knelt beside him and scratched behind his floppy ears. Baxter’s snores became more regular, and his body fell limp under the gentle stroking.

  There was something singularly peaceful about a sleeping dog. Reed often found himself envying the simple life of his pet, and he couldn’t help but smile as he thought how far the fat pooch had come from the mangy stray that showed up on his doorstep two years before. That dog had been only days from death, and more than a little gun shy of humanity. But as the weeks passed, a strange connection developed between them. Maybe they were both beat-up and scarred and scared of the world. Maybe they both needed a friend who didn’t ask too many questions.

  The gas stove hissed and clicked as Reed flipped it on then set a skillet over the flame. He dropped a thick ribeye into the pan and was rewarded by the sizzle of red meat frying on hot iron. The little cabin was flooded with the greasy aroma of quality beef, followed by the sound of Baxter rol
ling to his feet and wobbling into the kitchen.

  “Nice nap?” Reed flipped the steak and sprinkled seasoning from an unmarked bottle over the browned side. Baxter snorted and sat down beside him, panting and staring at the pan.

  “There’s been a problem,” Reed muttered. “Somebody took a dump on our front porch. Gonna have to do something about it.”

  Grease sizzled and spat from the pan. Reed flipped the steak onto a plate and then dumped a can of green beans into a saucepan before setting it on the stove. Soon the water began to bubble and steam as the beans danced beneath the rolling surface.

  “The thing is . . . there’s this girl. I met her the other night, and I was gonna tell you about her. I don’t know, man. She’s something else.”

  Reed opened a can of dog food and kicked Baxter’s bowl out from under the cabinet before dumping the slop into it. Baxter snorted and looked at the steak.

  “You ever met a girl—or dog—who just made the world go ‘round? You know. Maybe a French bulldog. I could see you with a Frenchie. One who moves like a goddess and doesn’t seem to care about the world around her.”

  Water bubbled over the edge of the pan. Reed lifted it off the stove and dumped the water into the sink before emptying the beans onto the plate. An icy cold German lager from the fridge completed the menu. Reed sat down at the table and wiped the grease off a fork and knife from his dinner the night before. The first bite of steak tasted perfect. Tender and red, with just a trace of blood oozing from the center.

  “I don’t know, man. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got bigger problems. That son of a bitch who ordered the hit took out Brent, and I’m not sure what I’m gonna do about that yet. What would you do?”

  Baxter sat beside the table with his head tilted to one side and his lower teeth jutting out over his lip. Drool dripped down the side of his face. Reed cut a piece of ribeye from the edge of the steak and dropped it over his nose. Baxter wolfed it down in one swallow and returned to his previous pose.