by Logan Ryles
“This is Prosecutor. I have four vehicles bearing down on the main entrance. Ten officers closing on your position. Move it, guys.”
“Roger that, Prosecutor. We are pulling out.”
Reed grinned.
He centered the crosshairs over the main entrance, and they hovered there as cops stormed the door. Dressed in black and clutching assault weapons and tactical shotguns, they were much more heavily armed than your average patrolman. Much too prepared to call it a coincidence.
“Prosecutor, this is Falcon One. I am ready on your mark.”
“Wait a moment, Falcon One . . .” Reed looked down at his watch and waited as the seconds ticked by. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. One minute. He focused on each flash of the digital watch, feeling the beat of the moments with every pound of his heart, and waiting until the moment felt right.
The tower was bathed in spotlights. Another patrol car screeched over the pavement from the northeast, a bullhorn squealed, and then a voice barked orders at the tower from somewhere amongst the vehicles. Noise and chaos reigned.
It was time.
“All right, Falcon One. Execute.”
A split second passed. Reed swung the crosshairs away from the tower toward the east, and the scope settled over the parking lot that sat between Ellis Street and the Georgia-Pacific Tower. Lights flashed out of the darkness, and an unearthly howl filled his ears. It was the sound of five hundred and five American horses roaring to life.
The Camaro rolled out of the parking lot, then took a gentle turn onto Peachtree Street. Reed imagined he could feel the rumble of the pavement under the uncorked exhaust, shooting up his legs, and forcing his body into the rhythm of the engine. He could almost taste the oily flavor of exhaust on the air and feel the familiar leather knob of the shifter under his palm.
The beast slipped down the street at a calm twenty miles per hour, its windows black, and its lights dark. Reed traced its path with the scope, zooming out so he could keep the surrounding blocks in view. He bit his lip, held his breath, and then swept the surrounding streets again.
His gaze caught on a glint of steel. He flipped off the rifle’s safety and hissed into the mic. “Falcon One, this is Prosecutor. Haul ass.”
Twenty-Two
Thunder ripped between the buildings and pounded off the sides of the skyscrapers as the front end of the Camaro lifted off the ground, and the back tires spun against the pavement. A familiar rush of thrill flooded Reed’s brain as the car took off, rocketing down Peachtree Street toward Plaza Park. Two more engines, higher pitched, with shrieking blasts of exhaust, screamed to life fifty yards behind the Camaro. Reed traced Peachtree Street with the crosshairs, back toward the tower, and back toward the police. This was it.
Two suited figures, bent low over Japanese sports bikes, flashed out of a darkened street. They shot through the crowd of cops without so much as a pause, then raced after the Camaro. The air was alive with the roar of the American V-8 and the hellish scream of the bikes.
Reed swung the rifle to the right, following the bikes as they turned into a curve where Peachtree passed the Georgia-Pacific Tower. The motorcycles vanished out of sight behind the silhouette of the Residence Inn, and Reed jumped to his feet and sprinted to the far side of the Equitable Building. He slid back into a prone position behind the rifle, a couple of feet from the southern corner of the tower. Barely a second passed before the Camaro’s taillights flashed across Decatur Street, crossing through the scope in a millisecond, and then they were gone again.
“Falcon One, this is Prosecutor. Take a left on Wall Street, then another left onto Peachtree Center Avenue.”
“Roger that, Prosecutor.”
Reed retraced the Camaro’s trail until the crosshairs settled over the sports bikes. The two lean figures bent over the handlebars with the practiced grace of true athletes. He could take them out—a clean shot to the back of each helmet and lay them down in the middle of Peachtree Street, but that wouldn’t bring him any closer to Banks.
Vince spun the Camaro around the corner onto Wall Street, then disappeared behind a row of buildings. The bikes followed a hundred yards behind, and no hint of suspicion or hesitation marked their turns. The men in hot pursuit of the Camaro were truly convinced that Reed Montgomery sat behind the wheel.
The intersection of Wall Street and Peachtree Center loomed ahead of the Camaro. A hundred yards. Then fifty. The car jolted and almost slid into the sidewalk as Vince negotiated a turn. Reed held his breath, then saw the back tires bite concrete and break the slide at the last moment.
“Falcon Three,” Reed whispered. “You ready?”
“I’m all yours, Prosecutor.”
Reed laid his finger on the trigger. The first bike flashed into view, crossing the intersection of Peachtree Center and Gilmer Street, right in front of Hurt Park. Reed drew half a breath, the crosshairs froze, and he pressed the trigger.
The front tire of the motorcycle exploded. Reed pivoted the crosshairs to the right and pressed the trigger again. The rear tire of the second bike burst. Both bikes slid out of control, slinging their riders into the empty street, as the powerful motorcycles spun across the pavement.
Another press of the trigger, and a bullet struck home in the left thigh of the first rider. A fourth crack of the rifle blew the second rider’s ankle apart, and he convulsed in pain. Both men clawed at their helmets, writhing on the asphalt as blood sprayed from their legs.
“Falcon Three, execute!”
A white utility van roared out of the darkness of Hurt Park, driving against the one-way arrows painted on Gilmer Street. It slid to a stop beside the two fallen men. Reed watched through the scope as a tall man wearing a ski mask jumped out. He stuck a Taser into the ribcage of each man, then dragged their unconscious bodies into the rear of the vehicle. The doors slammed shut, and the van rocketed out of the intersection.
“Prosecutor, this is Falcon Three. Be advised, I have the, um . . . people you wanted.”
“Roger that. On my way to the rendezvous. Prosecutor out.”
Reed jumped to his feet and ripped the headset off. He ran back to his bags, shoved the radio inside his backpack, and then jerked out the thick bundle of rope. Sparks flashed between the synthetic cord and his damp hands. He ran to the west face of the tower, where a bank of air-conditioning units sat in a six-foot recess on the roof. Reed hurried down the access ladder, then ran to the backside of the humming AC units. His fingers worked in a blur of sweat and rope—a quick flip, and a jerk of both arms to secure the knot. His head pounded again, but the pain was a distant memory overshadowed by the gravity of what came next.
Back on the roof, he flung the rope over the edge and watched it unravel four hundred feet down the side of the tower until it hit the ground. He didn’t have time to think about the swimmy feeling in his stomach or the wobble in his knees; everything just blurred together in a series of practiced motions—one foot through the harness, then the next foot. The cinch strap clicked against the buckle as he tightened the harness around his waist, then he slung the backpack over his shoulders, followed by the rifle on the nylon sling. Both were heavy against his back, dragging on his shoulders, and making each breath feel short and shallow. Or was that the height?
Reed set the duffle bag beneath the rope, right on the edge of the rooftop. It provided moderate protection against the sharp edge of the concrete—hardly a professional solution, but hopefully it would be enough. The rope felt heavy as he locked it into his harness, checking each connection and buckle one more time.
Surges of adrenaline drowned out the feeling of absolute terror as he approached the brink of the building. His stomach convulsed, and he fought the overwhelming urge to vomit. Some biological fire alarm wired in his brain erupted in a screaming chorus of warnings. Get back. Don’t do it. Danger! Danger!
First one foot on the edge, and then the other. Reed’s knuckles turned white as he closed his eyes, clutched the rope, and forced himself to lean
forward until it became taut. In the distance, he heard police sirens, the blare of the bullhorn, a honking fire truck, boots clapping against the pavement to the pulse of his heart so loud and insistent, he thought it might explode. Bile bubbled up in his throat, but he didn’t vomit. He didn’t jerk back from the edge.
The white EQUITABLE lights gleamed a couple feet beneath his toes. His hands shook, and he took a long breath between his teeth. It whistled like the blast of the wind in his ears. His knees were locked, and he felt frozen in time, incapable of taking another step forward.
Fuck it.
The rope slipped through the harness as Reed fell forward. His body rocked over the side of the building until he hung ninety degrees out, suspended by the rope, then continued to plunge. One foot in front of the other, he was a superhero, defiant of gravity or geometry. The rope dangled beneath him, and his heart thundered as his boots pounded down the face of the tower. With each strike of rubber on glass, unshakeable resolve overwhelmed his fear. It was anger now—the kind of anger he felt when he dominated his fears and realized how weak they truly were. He stretched out his legs and leaped forward, allowing fresh yards of rope to hiss through the harness at an ever-increasing speed. He was barely in control and only one false step away from sudden death.
His boots skidded on the slick glass, and Reed tightened his hand on the brake, feeling his shoulders sling forward and his heels fly back. Bile and spit sprayed from his lips as he kicked out at the windows beneath his feet. His toe caught the underside of a windowsill just in time to keep him from plummeting toward the ground in a total free fall. He regained his footing then pushed downward again, rocketing toward the street in a series of hopping leaps. Reed gasped for air, realizing he had been holding his breath since he left the rooftop. Windows and floors flashed past like a blurry slideshow.
The halfway point vanished beneath his feet, and he relaxed his hand on the brake, allowing the rope to slide more quickly through the harness. The brake was hot from the friction, but he didn’t let go. He pushed out from the building and released tension, plummeting down another forty feet before his boots struck the glass again.
Almost as quickly as it began, it was over. The rope ran short, and Reed free-fell the final twelve feet onto the hard sidewalk below. His knees absorbed most of the shock, and he stumbled forward, feeling dizzy and disoriented. The cool night air helped to clear his head as he stumbled away with the rifle bouncing on his shoulders. He tipped his head back to survey the tower, and euphoria overwhelmed his better judgment as he screamed and pumped his fist. “Hell yeah!”
Reed started to feel stable again and ran up Forsyth Street, pounding the sidewalk in long, smooth strides. He was consumed by full operator mode and could run through a brick wall if he had to.
Almost there. Just a few more blocks.
Sirens blared from somewhere behind him. The police force would be in a state of total chaos by now. Especially the clean cops, who were unaware of the botched setup that was falling apart and taking their city down with it. Reed hated it when clean cops got mixed up in the dealings of the dirty ones. He could only hope the smoke cleared without any casualties.
Two more blocks passed under his pounding feet. Centennial Olympic Park loomed ahead, and just before it on his right, a small parking lot stretched out between the office buildings. Reed rushed between parked cars, then spotted the utility van parked in the back corner. Its lights were off, but he could tell by the small cloud of vapor building behind the rear tires that the engine was running.
A few quick strides, and Reed stopped next to the driver’s door. His legs and chest burned from the exertion.
The door opened, and one of Vince’s displaced Marines stepped out. Fleming, a former fuel-truck driver and two-tour veteran, wore a broad smile as though he’d just won a wrestling match.
“They’re all yours, Prosecutor. I’ve got them subdued, but they’ll come around soon enough.”
Reed offered his hand, his chest still heaving. “Thank you. I owe you guys . . . big time.”
Fleming shook his hand and then shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. We don’t have a lot to lose. It felt good to have some excitement for a change.”
“It still means a lot. Next Monday afternoon, you’ll see a man sitting on the park bench where I found Vince tonight. He’ll leave a suitcase and walk away. Split it up with the guys.”
Reed handed him a black card with a ten-digit number printed on one side in silver ink. The rest of the card was blank.
“This is me. I’m one call away.”
Fleming offered a casual salute. “Good luck, Prosecutor. Give ’em hell.”
As the battered Marine disappeared around the corner, Reed shoved his gear into the van and then piled in after it. Hell was a good word for what lay ahead.
Twenty-Three
The van coughed and lurched forward. Reed looked over his shoulder to see the motorcycle riders laid out in the rear, unconscious amid shelves of electrical wire and fallen hand tools. The van belonged to a local electrical contractor, and Reed stole it from their service lot an hour before breaching the Equitable Building. Vince would leave the Camaro at a pre-arranged drop point, but for now, the van would be less conspicuous.
Once again, the phone buzzed in Reed’s pocket, but this time he didn’t bother to check the caller ID.
“What’s up, creep?”
Salvador’s smooth voice was taut with anger. “Reed, you just made a very costly mistake.”
“Help me out here, Sally. Was it a mistake to kick your goons in the nuts, or to evade your underhanded attempt to frame me? It’s difficult to keep up with your games.”
Short, hissing breaths blasted through the speaker. “All right. If that’s how you want it, cut off her hand!”
“You’re not good at blackmail, are you?”
The line fell silent. Salvador’s tense breathing paused.
“Well let me help you out. First rule of blackmail: Never threaten a person you can’t control.”
“You think I’m scared of you, Montgomery?” Salvador’s voice snapped like a bullwhip.
“Apparently not. But you’re about to be.”
“Listen, you shit. I’m about to filet this girl like—”
Reed hung up and tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat. It buzzed again, but Reed ignored it. He turned off the highway and drove through the quiet streets of a residential neighborhood, taking more isolated streets until he found a long, desolate road leading out toward a garbage dump. Dust fogged the air around him as he bounced over potholes and swerved around deep ruts, driving another three miles before stopping in front of the dump’s main entrance. A single streetlight buzzed over the gate, washing the chain link fence in a pool of orange warmth. The motor died, and the empty space around the landfill became still. Reed surveyed his surroundings for any sign of electronic surveillance, but he saw none. This far from the city, isolation ruled.
Dried mud crunched under his feet next to the van, and the air was thick with the smog of rotting garbage and pervasive diesel fumes. The motorcyclists groaned in agony as Reed jerked them through the back door and allowed them to collapse onto the ground. A few layers of duct tape bound their hands and sealed their wounds, moderating the flow of blood. Pale faces flooded with fear were framed by small features and blonde hair. European, clearly, and probably from east of Germany. One of the old Com-Bloc nations, maybe. Desperate men so long lost in the mire of the criminal underworld that they wouldn’t be recognized by their own mothers. Reed knew the type.
Quick jabs to the gunshot wounds with the toe of his boot brought both men back to full consciousness. Groans turned to screams, and they began to kick. Reed dealt each a swift blow to the jaw, slamming their heads back against the rear of the van, then he squatted in front of them and drew the Glock.
“I haven’t got a lot of time. Who do you work for, and where is Banks Morccelli?”
“To hell with you, man.”
The accent was exactly as Reed suspected—thick, Eastern European, laden with heavy L’s and rolled R’s.
Reed laid the muzzle of the pistol against the man’s left kneecap and pressed the trigger. Blood and shards of bone exploded from the leather pants, and the man screamed and jerked away, slamming his head into the back of the van. A waterfall of agony streamed from his eyes, drawing wavering lines through the dirt on his cheeks.
“I think I have your attention.” Reed’s tone remained level and focused. “Whoever talks first gets to live. Who do you work for?”
The men glared at him in defiant silence, and the one on the left groaned and shook in pain, but still didn’t speak.
“Damn you people. You’re only hurting yourself.” Reed holstered the pistol and walked around to the side of the van. He dug through the pile of tools until he located a pair of electrician’s cable-cutters—thick, heavy-duty pliers with rusted jaws. He returned to the rear of the van and placed the righthand man’s index finger between the cutting jaws of the pliers.
“What the—”
The protest was broken off by an unearthly scream as Reed squeezed until the pliers sliced through the bone. The severed finger lay on the ground in a bloody pool, and Reed moved directly to the next. The landfill echoed with shouts of total terror.
“Who do you work for?”
His victim shook like a tree in a hurricane, then beat his head against the back of the van, leaving smears of blood on the dusty white paint. Reed cocked back his fist and dealt him a swift blow to the jaw with the pliers. Bone cracked. Blood streamed down his face. Reed struck again, and the man on the left cursed in protest. Reed switched fire and beat him over the face, collapsing his nose.
“Do you know what they call me?” Reed asked. “They call me Prosecutor. Because when I’ve got a job, I prosecute the hell out of it until I get the results I want. You two dirtbags made a huge mistake getting in my way.”
