by Logan Ryles
The cabin was a shadow in the darkness. Reed parked the stolen SUV in the driveway, then pounded up the steps and shoved the door open. Baxter was snoring on the rug in the living room. He jumped to his feet when Reed burst in, and erupted in angry barks, running to the window and snarling at whatever invisible threat had awakened the monster inside his human friend.
Reed jerked the drawers of his desk open and dumped a pile of books and papers on the kitchen table. He pulled a map of Atlanta from the stack and unfolded it, tracing his finger through the streets of downtown until he stopped at the intersection of Andrew Young International Blvd and Peachtree Street. He stared at the block, his mind racing like a freight train careening off its tracks.
191 Peachtree. Right in the heart of the city.
His heart thumped, and he reached for the bottle of Jack sitting on the desk. After a deep swig, he looked back at the map.
There has to be a way to draw them out. Find a way to corner them.
If he attempted to breach the fifty-story skyscraper at that intersection, he would be in handcuffs with his face in the concrete as soon as he exposed the body. Maybe Salvador even had a few Atlanta cops on the payroll. Perhaps they were standing by, even now, waiting to catch a killer attempting to hang a body off the side of an Atlanta landmark.
Reed checked his watch. Six fifteen. This wouldn’t be his first operation executed under the torment of a ticking clock, but this one felt different. The strain on his nerves wore at the corners of his focus, infringing on his ability to think outside the box.
They need a spectacle. They need me cornered. So, I have to corner them. What if I do it? What if I hang him off the tower? If he were unconscious, maybe . . .
No, that was moronic. Salvador wanted Reed caught, and executing the ridiculous assignment as instructed wouldn’t result in Banks’s release. They would kill her. The only way for this to end would be for Reed to turn the ambush into a counter-ambush somehow. Find a way to catch the tiger by the tail and run him back to his cave.
Reed took another sip of whiskey. What if he traced the call and found out where it was made? No, anybody smart enough to block the caller ID would be smart enough to avoid being traced. He had to lure the tiger out. Catch him in the open.
That’s it. It’s so simple.
He didn’t have to lure the tiger out. The tiger would already be out, on the prowl, waiting and watching to make sure Reed was caught. Reed had evaded captured twice, and Salvador couldn’t afford to fail again. He would have men planted downtown—not in the tower, but close by within easy viewing distance.
I’ll draw them out. If they think I’m escaping, they’ll have no choice but to expose themselves. I’ll need to see them before they see me. Someplace close. Someplace tall.
Back to the map. The surrounding blocks were marked with tiny icons, indicating the towers that built the Atlanta skyline. He traced the streets around 191 Peachtree, moving out in every direction. Then his finger stopped at the intersection of Peachtree and Luckie Street.
Perfect.
The pine planks of the cabin floor creaked under his boots as he ran through the kitchen and into the pantry, back through the fake wall, and down the narrow steps into the basement. The single lightbulb still glowed overhead, illuminating the dust that hung in the air. He snatched an empty backpack off the wall and began sweeping gear off the shelves and into the bag. A chest harness with a rappel slide, five hundred feet of static climbing rope, a case holding four encrypted radio headsets, a lock pick kit, a bottle of water, and three magazines loaded with twenty rounds each of .308.
The last item of his gear lay in a case on the table: the sniper rifle. It was heavy under his tired and battered grip, but the weight comforted him. It was his weapon of choice—a precise instrument of judgment. God knew this judgment was long overdue.
After closing the entrance to the basement, Reed whistled for Baxter. The bulldog bounded off the couch and trotted into the kitchen. His little eyes blazed with curiosity, and maybe just a hint of fighting fury, almost as if the dog were saying, Come on, we can take ’em!
Drool dripped from Baxter’s bottom lip, and he cocked his head in confusion. Reed knelt beside him and scratched behind his ears, then rubbed him between his shoulder blades, right where he liked it. Baxter groaned and dropped his butt on the floor.
“Yeah. Guess you know it’s going down. In case I don’t come back . . . Well, you go get that Frenchie, friend.”
Reed patted him on the head, then walked out the front door. The last thing he needed was a little ground support, and he had a pretty good idea where to find it.
Reed loaded the gear into the SUV and drove back into the city. It took him over an hour to fight his way through traffic and back to where he left the Camaro. After parking the SUV, he retrieved a roll of hundred-dollar bills from the Camaro’s glove box and laid them in the seat of the Toyota before pressing a sticky note on top of the money. He picked up a pen from the console and scrawled a brief note on the yellow paper.
Sorry for everything.
The adrenaline from the maddened afternoon began to wear off, and the extreme pain from his injuries started to rip into his body again. His stomach and chest ached like hell from the bullet strikes on his body armor, and each breath sent a streaking pain shooting down his right side—probably from cracked ribs. The bruising would be a lot worse in the morning, and his whole body would be stiff, assuming he lived that long.
Reed shifted into gear and roared back onto the freeway. The engine shook, and the exhaust growled like all the demons of Hell reciting a war chant. He loved that sound. It helped him focus on something other than the pain in his body and the strain on his mind. He loved that car. God, let it be in one piece when this is over.
The familiar hallmarks of Buckhead faded into those of Midtown. Reed exited the freeway and turned the car past the Ikea and toward an older part of town. As he passed a gas station, he stepped on the brake and lowered the windows, surveying the streets and small parks. It took him ten minutes to find a homeless man lying on a park bench; a worn blanket was stretched over his thin body. Reed stopped the Camaro at the edge of the park and climbed out, then pulled a Panthers jacket over his shoulder holster and jogged to the bench.
“Excuse me.”
The man sat up and waved a dirty fist at Reed. “Leave me alone! Can’t a man sleep in a free country?”
Reed held up one hand. “Chill. I’m just looking for Vince. Do you know him?”
With narrowed eyes, the man tilted his head to one side. “Who’s asking?”
Reed drew a couple twenties from his pocket and held them out. “Here. Take this. Where is he?”
The homeless man curled his lip. “You think I’d rat on a brother for forty bucks? Go to hell!”
He stood up and shuffled toward the park.
Reed cursed and started to follow, but a crackling voice rang out from behind him.
“Well, well. If it ain’t mister big shot, harassing an honest American down on his luck. You’re way out of regs, Marine!”
A short, stocky man with his arms crossed stood twenty feet back. He wore a tattered Falcons hoodie, but his hair was neatly cut, and his face cleanly shaved. He didn’t look older than thirty-five, but he had dark eyes and a brutal scar that ran down his left cheek.
Reed took a cautious step forward. “Vince? That you?”
The stocky Marine laughed. “You said get a haircut.”
Reed sighed in relief. “I’ve been looking for you, Sergeant.”
“Well, you found me. What do you want?” Vince was abrupt, but there was no aggression in his voice. Reed offered his hand, and Vince shook it once, then tilted his head to one side and waited.
Reed cleared his throat. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m mixed up in some shit. It’s not legal. Somebody I care about is in trouble, and I need your help.”
Vince continued to stare, his face blank and emotionless. Reed saw the spider
web of scars tracing his neck and scalp. A burn mark twisted the flesh beneath his right ear, and discoloration marred his shaved cheeks.
Leftovers from the IED?
Vince grunted. “Who’s asking?”
“A fellow Marine,” Reed said.
The answer seemed to satisfy Vince. He unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket. “What do you need?”
“I need a diversion. If you have some friends, I could use their help, also. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Vince let out a low whistle, and Reed looked up to see a small group of men, all dressed in shabby, torn clothes, materialize out of the darkness around him. Their faces were cold and hard, one man was missing an arm, and another wore an eyepatch. They were all filthy, but they all sported impeccable haircuts.
Vince waved his arm as though he were presenting an Olympic medalist. “Meet the rifle squad, Jarhead. Somebody need their ass kicked?”
Reed indulged a small smile. “I’ll take care of the ass kicking. I just need help with the smoke and mirrors. I have to warn you; somebody could spend the night downtown for this.”
A ripple of condescending laughter passed through the small crowd.
“You mean a warm bed and a hot meal?” somebody said.
“Fair enough. I’m just saying, the police are certain to turn up.”
Another ripple of laughter. Reed deemed it to be a good sign and jerked his head toward Vince. The sergeant stepped a few feet away from his men, and Reed lowered his voice.
“I have to make sure you understand. There could be use of deadly force.”
Vince motioned to the men now standing in a circle, their hands in their pockets while they talked quietly. “You see that kid over there?”
A scrawny young man with a neck tattoo stood on the edge, huddled over in a threadbare sweatshirt. He laughed at a joke, but the mirth didn’t make it to his empty eyes.
“That’s Private Becker. He’s from Milwaukee. Served in Iraq and got shook up pretty bad. Has all kinds of mental shit going on.”
Vince reached into his pocket and drew out a cigarette. He lit it with a brand-new Zippo lighter and took a long pull. After blowing smoke out through his nose, he continued.
“Two nights ago, this gangbanger from across town jumped Becker. Tried to take his blanket. Cracked a rib.”
Vince met Reed’s gaze and spoke without a hint of hesitation. “We crushed his skull and slung his body in a dumpster.”
The sergeant’s battle-weary face gleamed in the soft glow of the street lamps. Reed wasn’t sure what he expected when he first met Vince, but this wasn’t it. This was cold. Brutal.
Vince took another long pull of the cigarette, then sighed. “America has left us with nothing except each other, Corporal. But what we have, we look after. So cut the shit and tell me what you need.”
Reed dug the car keys out of his pocket. “Well, Sergeant. Can you drive a stick?”
Twenty
As Atlanta’s business district closed shop and commuted home, the nightlife of the old city began to stir. The highways, loaded to capacity with overnight shipping traffic, wound their way through Atlanta like giant snakes, one red and one white. Lights flashed from nightclubs. The spire of the Bank of America building, and the crowns adorning the top of 191 Peachtree glowed with amber fire, lighting up the night sky with a blazing reminder that the Empire City of the South was as vibrant and alive as ever.
It was the alive part that bothered Reed the most. There would never be an ideal time to execute a plan this bold in the heart of downtown. But at nine p.m., with cops patrolling the downtown streets, couples walking hand-in-hand between ice cream shops, and city buses rolling in and out of their downtown garages, the deck felt stacked against him. Reed’s only advantage was the shield of nightfall, but even the darkness was beaten into submission by the blazing streetlamps and flashing headlights.
Reed stood at the edge of the park, huddled close to the shadows, as he stared up at the impending mass of 191 Peachtree, rising from the concrete jungle five hundred yards away. The granite-faced tower stood 771 feet tall, dominating the skyline with imperial majesty. The crowns sitting on top of the building looked like haunting beacons against the grey sky, shining in golden light from the powerful lamps housed within. Everything about the structure boasted power and stability.
Empire.
Reed ducked his head and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. He still wore the Carolina Panthers jacket and carried a duffle bag in his left hand. It was less conspicuous than the rifle case, but it accomplished the same task. The familiar rush of adrenaline flooded his system as he stepped across Centennial Olympic Park Drive and started down Luckie Street. It was a feeling he’d felt twenty-nine times before, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just the weight of impending death tugging at the edge of his focus; the stakes were bigger this time—as was the stage.
A bicycle cop whirred down the sidewalk, and Reed nodded a brief greeting before hurrying past. Dark solar panels adorned the block to his left, lined in ghostly rows under the dark sky. One block farther on, the Holiday Inn Express rose from the sidewalk, its windows gleaming with yellow light as cars passed quietly in front of it along Cone Street. A homeless man stood on the corner, his gaunt cheeks caving in under sharp cheekbones. Reed handed him a ten-dollar bill before he could ask, then he accelerated his pace.
Two more blocks passed under Reed’s combat boots before he stopped at the corner of Forsyth and Luckie Streets and tilted his head back.
The Equitable Building dominated the block with 453 feet of tower. Everything about it was dark. Ebony sheathing framed heavily tinted windows. Black doors guarded the main entrance like gates to Hell. Only the tall letters, glowing in soft white light and gracing the top of the tower broke the pattern: EQUITABLE.
The building looked like the corporate headquarters of a billionaire mob boss—strong, silent, and brooding.
Reed shifted the backpack on his shoulder.
This is it. You can’t lose this time. Everything rides on this moment.
The thin wire headset was flimsy over Reed’s ear, and he twisted the mic close to his mouth, breathing into it until the radio activated. “Vince, you with me?”
“Who’s Vince? This is Falcon One, your driver.”
“Right. Of course. And my tower team?”
“Call them Falcon Two. Falcon Three has the van. What about you?”
“Prosecutor,” Reed said. “My call sign is Prosecutor.”
“Roger that, Prosecutor. We’re standing by.”
The earpiece clicked as Reed muted it. He hurried around the corner and onto the tower’s service alley. Shadows danced under the street lamps as a decorative tree swayed in the night breeze. Machinery hummed from the loading dock, and a black cat scampered across the alley. But there were no people. No security. Reed moved deeper into the shadows and climbed onto the loading dock. His torso erupted in waves of pain as he pulled himself back to his feet. The injuries burned beneath his skin, sending bursts of agony into his skull. The dock wavered under his feet, and Reed leaned against the wall to steady himself. He’d suffered bruises and broken ribs before. There was little to do besides suck it up and press on.
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.”
Reed hesitated. “Your point?”
“We’ve got time to kill. What’d you get court-martialed for?”
The plastic cover snapped off, exposing a small c
ircuit 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.
Reed spoke around the flashlight. “Let’s just say . . . the right thing and the legal thing aren’t always the same.” Reed spoke around the flashlight.
Vince grunted. “So, you did the right thing, and you went to prison for it.”
“Yeah.” Reed’s focus blurred for a moment. He paused over the card reader as momentary flashes of that dark night in Baghdad reentered his mind. They were as fresh as the moment they transpired. The gunshots. The bodies on the ground. The resulting whirlwind of a court-martial, a prison sentence, the hopelessness of death row, and then, Oliver. Reed’s one chance at freedom.
“Thirty kills in exchange for your freedom.”
“Wanna tell me what went down?” Vince asked, jarring Reed out of his thoughts.
Reed blinked his way back into focus and cleared his throat. “Not really.”
Vince grunted again. “I get it. 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.”
Reed’s thoughts cleared as 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.
