Overwatch

by Logan Ryles

  Even though the breeze dropped into the low fifties, Reed was clammy with perspiration as he approached the service door and tried the latch. It was locked, and a cheap, plastic card key reader with a single flashing light was mounted next to the door. Reed flipped his pocket knife out and began to pry the cover off.

  “So, Prosecutor.” Vince’s voice crackled over the headset. “What happened in Iraq?”

  Reed paused over the card reader. “Iraq?”

  “You said you left the Marines in handcuffs. Sounds like a hell of a story.”

  The plastic cover snapped off, exposing a small circuit board and several multi-colored wires. Reed stuck his flashlight between his teeth, and with the tip of his knife, he began removing the tiny silver screws that held the circuit board in place.

  “I’ve not had nearly enough beer to dredge that up,” Reed said around the flashlight.

  Vince grunted. “Fair enough. Backstory then. Where you from?”

  “You first.”

  “Montana! Big Sky Country. A ranch with a few thousand head of cattle. Grew up wrangling beef and raising hell.”

  The circuit board fell off, further exposing the wires. Reed slipped the blade under an orange wire and pressed his thumb over the rubber jacketing, applying just enough pressure to expose the copper wire beneath. Two more precise twists of the knife revealed the yellow and black wires. He severed the red wire next and pressed the other three together across their sides. The light flashed green, and the latch clicked.

  “Eat a lot of steak in Montana?”

  “Best damn steak you ever stuck a fork in. I’m a ribeye man myself, but I don’t mind a filet now and again.”

  Reed opened the door and hurried inside, holding the light at shoulder level. A hallway opened up in front of him. It was dark, with thick wooden doors lining either side. Storage closets, maybe. The floor was slick with wax, and his rubber boots squeaked with each footstep.

  “Amen to that. Slap it on a plate with a baked potato and salad. Beer or sweet iced tea.”

  “Iced tea? That’s Southern tradition. You from ’round here?”

  Two turns in the hallway brought Reed to an intersection with elevators and a service door. The elevators were locked by card key, as was the stairwell. He could breach them again, but unlike the dock door, these access points probably recorded entry, and there would be surveillance inside the elevators and stairwells. Reed approached the service door instead.

  “I went to high school in LA, but before that, we lived in Birmingham. My dad was from a little town called Sylacauga. I wouldn’t say I’m Southern.”

  “You said was. Did he pass?”

  Reed paused at the service door, his hand hanging over the handle. For a moment, he didn’t answer, then he reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a lock pick.

  “Something like that. My mom moved us to California. But you know . . . sweet tea follows you.”

  Vince grunted again. Maybe he knew when to stop pressing. The lock pick slipped into the keyhole, and Reed manipulated the tiny tool with practiced ease. His ribs throbbed with each slow breath, and sweat dripped off his nose and onto his boot. One twist, then a flick of his wrist, and the lock clicked.

  “You got a lady, Falcon?”

  “A lady? You take me for a motard, Prosecutor? I got a whole busload of ladies!”

  A flood of musty air rushed from the service room as Reed stepped in. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed a large storage area with mop buckets, tool boxes, and cardboard boxes littering the floor. On the far end of the room, a small door about three feet square was framed in the middle of the wall, with a row of buttons lining the wall beside it.

  “No, I’m talking about the lady. You know. The face you saw right when that IED went off.”

  Vince sighed. It was a quiet sound. Softer than his usual rumbling growl. “Danielle Taylor . . . the most gorgeous woman in Montana.”

  The twin doors of the service elevator squeaked and groaned. Reed smacked the button to the top floor, then tossed the duffle bag inside the car before bending over and cramming himself in alongside it. A shiver of misery ripped through his body with the motion. It was all he could do not to scream. Each shallow breath further inflamed his swollen and torn muscles. Every tiny movement was a bolt of lightning flashing through his torso, ripping and burning as it went.

  “Brunette?” Reed hissed the word through gritted teeth. The elevator groaned then started upward with a screech of metal on metal.

  “She was. Chemo took that. But damn, son, it couldn’t take her smile. I can still see it when I close my eyes. That’s the smile I saw when the IED went off.”

  Somewhere far overhead, the whine of the winch echoed down the elevator shaft. The cramped interior of the car smelled of oil and cleaning supplies, but the metal was refreshingly cool against his skin. There’s always a silver lining.

  “Did she make it?”

  “Oh yes,” Vince’s words were still soft. “For three years. Breast. Lung. Spine. It finally went to her brain. That’s what took her. But she gave it a hell of a fight. Not many a jarhead could’ve held on like my Danielle.”

  The radio fell silent, and Reed felt the stillness between them hanging over the invisible distance. It was the kind of stillness that falls between two old men sitting over a beer, too rich to be broken.

  “You should be proud, Falcon.”

  “Damn right, Prosecutor. Heaven is proud to have her.”

  The elevator screeched to a halt. Numbness overwhelmed the sharper edges of the pain now, providing welcome relief, but reducing his ability to make precise motor movements. He would need that precision before this night was over. The green LED letters of his watch read nine thirty-nine. Only twenty-one minutes until the deadline. His heart thumped, and he adjusted the pistol on his belt, then he pried the doors opened. A cool breeze washed over his face as he piled out of the elevator, dragging the bag behind him. Hard concrete, mixed with the grimy crunch of loose dirt, clicked against his combat boots. Reed flipped the flashlight on and scanned the space around him, taking a moment to catch his breath.

  The floor was mostly open, with half-built partitions rising at odd intervals between wooden columns. Cans of paint were stacked next to the wall, and piles of rolled carpet lay in what looked like a future hallway. Bare wires hung from the skeleton of a suspended ceiling. The breeze blew in from somewhere overhead, and the air was fresh—cleaner than the gasoline smell of the city streets far below.

  “What about you, Prosecutor? Whose face will you see right before this shit plan of yours explodes and we all wind up downtown?”

  Reed slipped between the piles of construction materials, testing the floor with his toes before placing his weight on it. A few yards ahead, the primary elevator shaft shot upward through the floor and disappeared into the ceiling. Unfinished drywall clung to the side of the shaft with gaping cracks and water damage decorating the bland white. A single door stood in the backside of the shaft. It was metal and painted brown, with clean white letters stenciled over the middle of it.

  ROOF ACCESS.

  “She’s something else, Falcon. I’m not sure I can describe her.”

  Once again, Reed pressed the lock pick into the keyhole and manipulated the tool, but this time the latch was stiff and unyielding. Reed tapped the door handle with his fist a couple times, then twisted the lock pick again.

  “Brunette?”

  “Blonde.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No. More like . . . somebody I let down. Somebody I should have protected.”

  “Hmm . . .” Vince’s thought trailed off.

  Reed guessed that the sergeant wanted to ask more, but now wasn’t the time or place.

  The lock clicked. Reed pulled the door open and hauled himself up the stairs on the other side. Twelve steps, then he reached another metal door. This one was locked from the inside, and a quick flip of his thumb defeated the bolt. As the hinges squeaked, a b
last of wind tore through the small gap, ripping at his hair and flooding his lungs with life. Another fifteen steps lay on the other side of the door, and then the rooftop. Reed sucked in a long pull of fresh air as he pressed through the doorway and stepped onto the tower’s roof.

  Atlanta lay at his feet, stretching out for miles on every side. As far as he could see, the lights of every suburb, shopping mall, and streetlamp glowed in the darkness as a star-filled cityscape of towers and hotels, office suites, and bus stations. The wind carried the distant bustle of six million residents, their barking dogs, and honking cars. A child laughed from somewhere far away, and a door slammed. Reed imagined he could hear music—maybe the thumb of a disco. He could hear the hum of a city bus. A city alive with passion and secrets.

  And there, towering in the middle of it all, as a proud monument of Southern tradition, was the 191 Peachtree building. Only a few hundred yards away, its flame-finished granite face gleamed in the light of the other skyscrapers. The shadow of each passing cloud flitted across the tinted windows, gracing the majestic structure with a light show of mottled yellow streetlight and white moonlight.

  Reed thought it was nothing short of magnificent.

  His head swam, and his legs were wobbly as he approached the edge. If you wanted to make a statement the world would never forget, dropping a body off the side of 191 Peachtree was a good place to start.

  He stopped, taking a moment to clear his mind before looking down, 453 feet below him, to the cold outline of Forsyth Street. The pavement wavered, making him feel suddenly dizzy. He stepped away from the edge and closed his eyes, releasing the tension in his muscles and calming his pulse.

  Dammit. Why couldn’t this have been a ground job?

  Reed could take the darkness, the blood, the murky water and suffocating heat, and snakes, spiders, and snapping dogs didn’t even bother him, but heights . . . heights he could do without.

  The duffle bag thudded against the concrete rooftop. Reed pried out the rifle, snapped it together, and then flipped the lens caps off the scope and locked the bipod into place. His hands trembled with anticipation as he settled down behind the weapon and lifted the butt to his shoulder. It felt good to rest his cheek against the stock, and the cool touch of polymer against his skin was more familiar and comforting than a soft pillow. He felt powerful and in control again.

  “Prosecutor to all channels, I have obtained overwatch. Operation is a go.”

  Vince’s voice sounded strong and commanding. “Very good. Falcon Two, this is Falcon One. Confirm, operation is a go. You may breach the granite dildo.”

  Reed blinked. “Granite dildo? That’s what we’re calling it?”

  A crackling laugh rippled over the headset. “Welcome back to the Corps, Prosecutor!”

  Twenty-One

  The wind bit straight through his Panthers jacket, and Reed avoided looking at the clouds, which would only reinforce the illusion that he was about to crash to the street below in a gruesome puddle of blood and gore. Instead, he focused on his position, nestling himself five feet from the edge of the roof. He lay on his stomach with his legs splayed behind him for extra stability. The cold concrete pressed into his ribcage, sending new waves of pain shooting down his spine. Normally, he would have packed a pad of some kind for overwatch duty, but there hadn’t been room for it.

  Reed flipped the scope’s illumination feature on, then swept the red crosshairs across rooftops until they came to rest on the west face of 191 Peachtree.

  Drawing in a long breath, he focused on relaxing each muscle group. First his toes, then the soles of his feet. He breathed through his mouth, relishing the relief of each muscle as it loosened. It brought moderate relaxation to his aching body, promising the possibility that he might not die from busted ribs after all. Each breath became deeper and slower than the last, and his heart rate slowed along with them. His entire body rested in a state of calm. Not comfort, by any stretch. But control.

  “Falcon Two, this is Prosecutor. SITREP, over.”

  “’Sup, Prosecutor.” The man on the other end of the radio didn’t try to fight his heavy Arkansas accent. Vince introduced him as “Snort,” a former assistant squad leader.

  “We have gained entry and are preparing to stroke this shaft.”

  Reed blinked. “Come again?”

  Vince laughed, breaking onto the radio without offering a call sign. “They’re gonna ride the elevator.”

  The radio fell silent, and Reed nestled his cheek against the stock again. He looked down at his watch. The green numerals glowed at nine fifty-two. He wanted to urge Snort to hurry the hell up, but he didn’t want to deal with the storm of innuendos that would unleash.

  Seconds ticked by. Reed swung the crosshairs down the building and toward the east, surveying the streets. A motorcycle passed by on Ellis Street, and a couple of cars cruised in front of 191’s primary entrance on Peachtree Street. The rest of the avenues were quiet. A final stillness was closing over the city, bringing with it a welcome release of tension over Reed’s nerves.

  I know you’re out there. I know you’re watching. I’m gonna run your rat ass to ground.

  “This is Falcon Two. We have reached the forty-fifth floor. All silent so far. Setting up now.”

  Reed continued his surveillance of the streets around the tower. He paused over every rooftop, every window, and every parking garage—any place that provided the slightest vantage point over the west face of the tower. He saw no one. No dark cars, no men with binoculars, and no snipers hiding in the shadows.

  One more pass, and then Reed swung the optic back to the tower and ran the crosshairs down the building. He paused at the entrance. A Chevy Impala pulled up to the front door of the office building, while across the street, two patrol cars sat at the intersection of Ellis and Peachtree.

  “This is Prosecutor. I have three police vehicles in position at the main entrance . . . possibly a fourth bearing southbound on Andrew Young. Yes, he’s pulling over. It’s a cop. Black Chevrolet Tahoe.”

  “Roger that, Prosecutor.” Snort spoke into the mic as though he were talking through a mouthful of pudding. “We are T minus ninety seconds.”

  Reed twisted his hand around the familiar grip of the rifle. The rubberized texture rubbed against his palm, loosening his muscles and reminding him of each time he pressed the trigger—the way the weapon lurched into his shoulder, and the puff of red that flashed across his scope before the crosshairs jumped upward. Sitting a thousand yards away and executing judgment on the guilty was the closest feeling to total power.

  “Hey, Falcon One,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, Corporal?”

  “That fake leg of yours can still pump a clutch, right?”

  Vince snorted. “There’s no end to the things this Marine can pump.”

  “Ooorah!” Falcon Two shouted.

  Reed rolled his eyes. “All right. Just making sure. Because if you scratch my car, I’ll take it out of your battered jarhead ass.”

  “I’d welcome you to try, Corporal.”

  The crosshairs settled over the forty-fifth floor as Reed relaxed his shoulder. The familiar buzz of his cellphone erupted in his pocket, and he pried it out to see the screen illuminated with the all-too-familiar caller ID.

  UNKNOWN.

  One tap on the green button, and Reed held it to his ear, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Reed . . . it’s three minutes ’til ten. I hope you’re not about to disappoint me again.”

  Reed gasped for air as though he had just climbed a few hundred stairs.

  “Listen . . . I’m almost done. Just a couple more minutes.”

  Salvador grunted. “Ten o’clock, Reed, or Miss Banks will be picking her ukulele with three fingers.”

  The phone clicked off. Reed shoved it back into his pocket and growled into the mic. “Falcon Two, let’s go already.”

  “Just a few more seconds . . . wiring the explosives now. This is some good junk, Prosecutor.
You must have the hookup.”

  Reed didn’t respond. He closed his left eye and focused on the floor. Behind one of the windows, he saw a shadow moving in the darkness. It was graceful and silent. Snort’s men may have lost their homes, but they clearly hadn’t lost their training.

  “All right, Prosecutor. Falcon Two is in position and ready to bust a nut.”

  “Falcon One?” Reed said.

  “Falcon One is in position and ready to roll, Prosecutor.”

  Reed settled his cheek into the rifle and took one more measured breath. The night fell still and silent, and all noises and distractions were blocked from his mind in this final moment before the storm.

  “Falcon Two, execute.”

  A half second passed, then a loud bang ripped through the quiet night. The window exploded beyond the crosshairs, raining down in deadly shards over the street hundreds of feet below. A body wrapped in dark clothes shot out of the window and fell through empty space, its feet tied by a rope that disappeared back inside the tower. The body shot out from the building with its arms dangling before the cord became taut, and the corpse fell back and slammed against the tower. Crimson blood gushed from the torso, streaming down the building as the arms hung limp next to the glass.

  Reed maximized the zoom on the rifle, focusing on the dangling body. He started at the feet then worked his way down. The legs were covered in dark jeans. The body was wrapped in a dirty denim jacket, now saturated in crimson. Fake blood from the busted reservoir inside the chest streamed over its face. The face was white, distorted by a crushed jaw.

  It was a damn-convincing Halloween prop.

  Blue lights flashed from the street below. The patrol cars parked on Ellis shot forward, rocketing to the front entrance. Officers piled out of the Impala and Tahoe, while spotlights from all four vehicles blazed over the gaping hole. Reed indulged in a brief smile, enjoying the moment of truth. It feels good to be right.