by Logan Ryles
Reed reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the wire, lifting it out and unwinding it, leaving the strand hanging at his left side in a gently curved strip. “Blazer!”
The muscular Latino looked up immediately, squinting through the yard lights, and took a half step forward.
Reed called again. “Blazer, don’t you remember me?”
Another few yards closed. His face was scarred, betraying the hardened features of a longtime resident of the prison. He stopped five feet from the fence and glowered at Reed. “Who the hell are you, man?”
Reed forced a laugh. “Dude, it’s me. Travis. From back home?”
Blazer took another step toward the fence.
The gaps in the chain-link were just large enough for Reed to slip his wrist through, and he held out his hand, fingers open, waiting to shake. “Blazer. . . . Don’t break my heart, man. I don’t have friends around here.”
The Latino squinted and leaned forward another two inches. It was two inches close enough.
Reed shot his arm through the barrier and dug his fingers into the collar of Blazer’s jumpsuit, then pulled him in until his head crashed against the chain-link fence. With a flip of his left wrist, Reed ran the wire through the fence and around Blazer’s neck, catching the tail end with his right hand and pulling it back through the chain-link. Blazer twisted and shouted as he tried to break free.
With the wire closed around his throat, Reed pulled back and jerked in one powerful motion. It sliced right through the skin and cut through the windpipe, sending a spray of blood over the loose gravel as Reed finished the stroke and released the wire. Blazer collapsed to the ground, and Reed stumbled backward. His hands were sticky, now coated with a thin layer of blood. The body lay on the ground, the arms still twitching as Blazer’s empty eyes stared heavenward. Everything was over as quickly as it had begun—in mere seconds, the life faded from those empty eyes.
What the hell have I done?
For the first time, the thought of cameras came to mind. Guards posted on surveillance. Other prisoners. Who might have seen him? He fell to his knees and began to grind dirt against his palms, rubbing away the gunky crimson of death. He was only vaguely aware of other prisoners shouting and running away from the prison block. Every noise and sensation was dampened, muted by the reality sinking into his bones.
I just killed a man.
“Well, what do we have here? A little bitch, all by himself.”
Reed scrambled to his feet and whirled around. Two big men stood behind Milk, only ten yards away. Rigo appeared out of the crowd to join them, his lips lifted into a deadly snarl.
Mud crumbled beneath his bare feet as Reed stumbled back, kicking out and swinging with his left hand. His missed, and Rigo darted in, sending a swift kick to his stomach. The world spun, and Reed lashed out, connecting with somebody’s face before a sharp object sliced into his arm and he suffered another blow to his wounded stomach. The leering sneer of the cross-eyed Hulk appeared in the corner of his eye just before a massive, meaty fist came crashing down, straight into the base Reed’s skull.
The greasy smell of the room reminded Reed of hydraulic fluid or engine oil. It was distinct. Heavy. It didn’t smell like the prison. His arms, neck, and most of all, his skull hurt as he fought for consciousness. Agony washed over him, the claws of a dragon digging into his flesh and ripping the muscles straight off the bone.
“Give him another.”
Like the bite of an insect, something stung his arm and burrowed into his skin. Warmth flooded his blood, and his mind began to clear. He could see a dim light in the otherwise dark room with metal walls and that thick, greasy smell. He sat in a chair, unrestrained at a metal table. Two men bustled around behind him, and two more sat on the far side of the table. He recognized the man on the left right away. It was the short, stocky man from the prison. The one who vanished then reappeared in the brown pinstripe suit. He didn’t know the second man, tall and lean, with a carefully trimmed beard, and not a hair on his scalp. His green eyes flashed, and the stub of a thick cigar glowed between his fingers.
I didn’t smell the cigar.
It was such an odd thought, such a pointless thing to notice, especially since he smelled it now—thick and sweet.
“Welcome to the land of the living, Number 4371.”
Sarcasm tainted the familiar voice of the man on the left. Out of his pinstripe suit, he now wore a tight black T-shirt and silver chain necklace with a dangling golden crucifix.
Reed raised his fingers to his face, rubbing his tired eyes. “Where am I?”
“Right where I promised you’d be. You’re on the outside, Reed. You’re free.”
The fight outside the prison. The staged fire. The feeling of the wire slicing through skin as it tore through Blazer’s throat. A sick feeling settled into his stomach as every detailed memory flooded back into the forefront of his mind.
“You’re wondering how you did it.”
For the first time, the man on the right spoke. His English had just a hint of refined London drawl. He looked to be in his late fifties, Reed thought, with a mostly white beard and some wrinkles, but his eyes were still strong. Still potent.
“That’s always the question,” the man continued. “How did I do it? How did I kill a man in cold blood?”
Everything felt as though it were happening in slow motion, just quick enough for Reed to make sense of one action is it related to another.
“I’ll tell you how you did it, Reed. You did it because it’s who you are. You’re a born killer. A natural wielder of justice. That’s how you killed those contractors in Iraq, isn’t it? Because they deserved to die. That’s how you’re going to kill the next thirty contracts I hand you.”
The words rang clearer now, and the mental fog began to fade. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Oliver Enfield. I operate an independent contracting agency. We supply professional killers for hire.”
The words were so frank, so direct, that Reed knew he should’ve felt surprised, but he didn’t. The only thing he felt was confusion. “You got me out of prison?”
“I did.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is, and it happened. It’s all a matter of influence. Something you’ll come to find I have a great deal of.”
“They’re coming for me. Whoever you are, they’re coming for you, too.”
Oliver laughed. It was a deep, confident sound. Not at all uncomfortable, either. It was more like the warm chuckle your grandfather makes when you tell a cheesy joke.
“Reed, when I say it’s all a matter of influence, what I mean is, everything is a matter of influence. Nobody is coming for you. In fact, as of this moment, nobody knows you exist. Your record is gone. The court-martial files. The prison manifest. Even you’re fingerprints. Like I said, I am a man of tremendous influence.”
The words made sense, but they didn’t quite compute. The claims were either too radical or too absurd to feel true.
“What do you want?” It was the only question Reed could think of.
Oliver took a puff on the cigar, then faced Reed dead in the eye. In an instant, all the warmth and gentleness faded from his features, replaced by cold calculation.
“I want you to do what you do best. I want you to kill. And you’re going to do it for me.”
The room was suddenly quiet. The man in the black T-shirt interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, staring at Reed without blinking. The goons in the background stood out of sight, also silent.
“I already did that,” Reed said. “He’s dead. The Latino. I cut his throat.”
“Yes. A very nice piece of work, too. We’ll have to work on your subtlety—because you don’t have any. But in the meantime, suffice it to say that I’m impressed.”
“Okay. Good. So you let me go now like you promised. He’s dead. You got me out of prison. We’re done.”
Oliver puffed on the cigar again. “No, Reed.
We’re not done. One life gets you out of prison. Thirty more keep you out of prison. I’m not looking for a one-time hit inside a pen full of the world’s most violent killers. I could have done that myself for free. I’m looking for a lethal weapon to join my growing enterprise. Somebody ruthless. Somebody like you.”
Reed clenched his hands over the table. “I’m not killing thirty people for you. He said I kill and I walk. That was the deal!”
Oliver exchanged glances with his companion then ground the cigar against the tabletop. “If that’s how you feel, I can have you back in prison before nightfall. They’ll put you straight into solitary while they prepare a trial for the murder of Paul Choc. They don’t know you did it, but I’ll make sure they learn. You’ll never make it to trial, and you won’t have to worry about death row. I own half that prison. By the end of the week, you’ll be in a white body bag, lying in the morgue.”
There was no deceit in Oliver’s stone-cold eyes. No bluster. This man was absolutely serious. He would kill Reed in a heartbeat, and without a second thought.
Oliver tapped his finger on the table, and narrowed his eyes at Reed. “They tell me you have a word for what you did in Iraq. They say you called yourself a prosecutor.”
Reed didn’t answer. He returned the stare with as much confidence and bluster as he could muster.
“I like that word,” Oliver said. “I like the spirit behind it. The idea that you can pursue justice independently of a corrupt judicial system. That’s pretty much what my company does all year long.” He leaned forward. “Come with me, Reed. I’ll make you the scourge of a world that is long overdue the sword of justice. I’ll make you rich. I’ll make you terrible. I’ll make you more deadly than the strongest spec ops soldier on the planet. I’ll give you a home and a purpose and something to call your own. I’ll make you more than free. I’ll make you God. I’ll make you the Prosecutor.”
Reed sucked in a long breath through his nose, and the muscles in his back began to loosen. A calm swallowed his soul like the eye of a hurricane passing over a storm-battered city. It wasn’t peace. It didn’t feel like security. It just felt like a momentary reprieve from the blast of the storm—an opportunity to find shelter.
“Thirty kills?” He asked.
Oliver’s mouth twisted into a glistening smile. “Thirty kills.”
Nine
Three years later.
43 Miles Northeast of Atlanta
Orange flames licked up the side of the cabin, racing along the darkened stains of gasoline that saturated the timbers. Sparks and pine splinters fell from the walls, raining down on the wet earth beneath. The rain that fell through the trees in a gentle shower wouldn’t stop the blaze, but there was no danger of the fire being blown into the surrounding trees. Within minutes, the roof began to creak, then it collapsed into the living room amid a rush of sparks.
Baxter whimpered. His bottom teeth jutted out, and his head tilted to one side as he watched the flames. Reed patted him behind his ears, feeling the greasy hair matted between the rolls of fat that hung to the bulldog’s neck.
“I know, boy,” Reed whispered. “We knew it could end this way.”
The dog snorted and pawed the ground, then stood up. Without a backward glance, he walked down the hill toward the pickup truck parked at the end of the driveway. Staring into the flames a moment longer, Reed watched his longtime home disintegrate. Not for the first time, his aching mind wandered back to Banks—the stunning blonde he met at a nightclub only hours before all hell broke loose, and Reed’s world feel apart. He saw her eyes, her smile, the way her whole body glowed when she sang. He imagined her lips on his, and remembered the way they tasted. How she felt. The way she made him feel.
He closed his eyes. Ignored the cold wind on his back conflicting with the warmth of the fire on his face. It took every ounce of willpower and determination to walk away from Banks. To leave her out of this hellish war he had fallen into. He opened his eyes and clenched his jaw. The aching in his heart to find her again, to be with her, couldn’t wash away the burning reality of who he was, and what he had to do. No matter how desperately he longed to hold her again, just for a moment, there was a deeper, more burning desire in his heart. A desire for vengeance.
Without another glance, Reed shouldered the backpack and started after the dog. Each step brought new resolve to his mind. New anger. For three years, he believed a lie. Believed that after thirty brutal kills, he would be a free man, with nothing but a wide-open road in front of him. That was the snake oil that Oliver Enfield sold him when he shook Reed’s hand and designated him Codename Prosecutor. Reed wanted to believe it was for real—a genuine opportunity for belonging, for something bigger than himself. But at the end of the day, that too had faded into a lie as quickly as the cabin turned to ash behind him.
Two days had passed since the train wreck in east Atlanta when Reed first learned that his mentor and employer had sold him out to an unknown enemy. Reed returned to his cabin to scrub the place, removing anything and everything that could be traced back to him. He packed the bulk of his gear into the trunk of the Camaro, then stashed the car in a storage shed. He paid in cash and gave the clerk a fake name and South Carolina driver’s license. Nothing could be traced back to him. The FBI would search for the black Camaro last seen at the site of the Peachtree Tower. Of course, Reed removed the license plate before that operation, but the car was still too conspicuous for him to risk. The black pickup truck from the rental car company would be easier to hide in and easier to ditch if things went sideways.
Based on Reed’s plan, things were almost certain to go sideways.
He opened the door of the pickup and Baxter jumped in, landing in the passenger seat and settling down for the ride. Reed tossed the backpack in the rear seat on top of the rifle case. The pack contained his standard rush kit, loaded with everything he needed to vanish. Fake IDs, straps of cash in three different currencies, survival gear, spare burner cell phones, and enough ammunition to lay down a battalion of Marines. Or maybe a kingpin killer and his army of goons.
Gravel crunched under the tires of the truck as it bounced down the unpaved road back toward town. It took almost twenty minutes to reach the blacktop again, and Reed turned southwest toward Canton. The sun crested through the treetops, blazing through the thinning clouds and into the pickup, covering his bruised skin with welcome warmth. As the mile markers ticked by, more cars joined him on the ever-widening highway. The daily grind of metropolitan Atlanta was underway, bringing fresh bustle and noise to drown out the chaos of days before.
Baxter rested his head on his paws and stared into space. A trail of drool drained from his bottom lip and onto the seat, but he didn’t snore like he usually did while relaxing. His whole body was still and quiet.
Large brick houses lined the streets of a neighborhood, complete with postage-stamp lawns, brown privacy fences, and identical Bradford pear trees. All the driveways were pressure-washed white, and the few cars that sat outside the garages were all new and clean, white and black, mostly SUVs and sports sedans with the occasional Japanese minivan mixed in. It was a quiet Caucasian neighborhood, still asleep prior to the impending rush of weekday life.
The truck squeaked to a stop in front of a home at the end of a cul-de-sac. The flowerbeds in front of the brick were packed with bright fall colors, and the lawn was clean and raked. A black sedan sat in the driveway with a blue bumper sticker plastered just beneath the left tail light: My Cat Should Be President.
Reed switched the truck off and admired the car and the house and the perfectly clean yard. It looked peaceful. Maybe not happy. Definitely not exciting. But certainly peaceful. The kind of peace that a quiet, simple, boring life promises.
He checked the gun under his unzipped jacket, then walked across the lawn and up the spotless sidewalk to the front door. The neighborhood was quiet and calm, making his knuckles sound like gunshots as they collided with the door. He shoved his hands into his pockets
and waited, drawing a deep breath of the fall that was much colder than a typical November morning in North Georgia.
Moments ticked by until he heard the soft patter of footsteps and then the thump of a forehead resting against the door. The peephole darkened. The chain rattled in its slot, then the bolt snapped back. The door glided open on silent, greased hinges.
Kelly wore hospital scrubs and tennis shoes, both a minty green, and her thin brown hair was swept back behind her ears. She stared into Reed’s eyes with silent, reserved calmness, then sighed and stepped back. “Come in.”
A tasteful assortment of accents and framed pictures hung on the walls of the home. Dim light shone from the living room, glinting off the dark-brown tile. He didn’t see a cat, but a bowl labeled “kitty dinner” sat on the floor next to a water dish. Coming from someplace upstairs, Reed heard the sound of water splashing in a shower and the muted tone of a man singing. He pulled the coat a little tighter over the gun and followed Kelly down the hall and into the kitchen. With each step, uncertainty overwhelmed his confidence. He’d never been there before, and he hadn’t seen Kelly since she patched him up after the train wreck. Before that, it had been almost twelve months. But the way she walked—the look in those dark eyes—it still made his head go light. He remembered when that feeling was the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning, but now it only ignited guilt.
Kelly led him into the kitchen, and without a word, she filled a coffee cup from the pot and passed it to him. Reed sipped it in silence while she propped her elbows on the counter and calmly watched him.
“Seems like you’re back on your feet, in spite of my directions.”
Reed shrugged. The hot coffee warmed his chilled fingers.
“Leg healing up okay?”
“Yep.” Through the back window, he saw a flowerbed and a swing set, new and still glistening with bright paint that the first summer would burn into dullness. One child’s swing with tiny straps hung from the bar. It was yellow.
