by Logan Ryles
The shotgun boomed like a cannon, and Reed dumped the empty shells and replaced them, breaking into a jog toward the elusive shadow. The blinding rage and the will to destroy overcame his awareness of the world around him, creating a tunnel that led to his next target.
The shadow faded into the forest. Reed swept the shotgun through the trees, searching for the outline of the running man. He was gone, swallowed by the storm.
Reed lowered the weapon and sucked in a breath. Only the whistle of the wind joined him in the forest now. Everything else was cold and empty. Why was life always a vapor between his fingers?
Where is Banks? I need to find Banks.
As he turned back toward the cabin, a dull orange lit the forest on the far side of the howling curtain of snow. A leaden weight descended into his stomach as he began to run again, crossing ditches and ducking under trees. As the yards passed under his feet, the orange glow clarified, joined by a trace of warmth.
The cabin was engulfed in flames.
Twenty-Four
Tall columns of smoke poured from the metal roof as fire consumed the log walls, filling the front porch, as glass shattered and a window frame collapsed. The Land Rover was also on fire, blazing beside the cabin with oily smoke clouding over the engine bay.
“Banks!” Reed dashed for the front door, but an overwhelming surge of heat stopped him in his tracks. He screamed into the fire. “Banks!”
“She’s right here, Reed!” The voice carried over the wind behind him. Strong. Defiant. Just a hint of a British accent.
Reed spun and jerked the shotgun to his shoulders, aiming it at Oliver Enfield, his former employer, longtime mentor, and personal Judas. Banks was pinned under his left arm, standing on her toes as Oliver held a polished 1911 pistol to her temple. Just beside them, Holiday knelt on the ground with his hands in the snow and his head bowed as the giant pointed a massive revolver at the back of his skull. The big man’s shirt was shredded from the shotgun blast, revealing the battered and torn surface of a Kevlar vest beneath it. His good eye glowed with devilish glee as actual drool dripped from his lip.
Reed slowly lowered the shotgun, keeping his fingers on the dual triggers of the weapon as he walked down the hillside, stopping twenty feet away.
Oliver grinned. His bald head shone in the dancing light of the flames, gleaming over a row of perfect white teeth. Tears streamed down Banks’s face as she gasped for breath under the suffocating grip.
“Well, Reed, you found me. You here to pay for my cabin?”
Reed switched his gaze from the tall killer, to Banks, to Holiday kneeling in the snow. “Let her go.”
Oliver laughed. “Who? This bitch? You know, I’ve hired a lot of military washouts, Reed, but I miscalculated with you. I thought somebody who gunned down half a dozen military contractors was a coldhearted killer, but what I failed to appreciate was the why of it all. You’re just a little superman, aren’t you? Always looking out for the little guy.”
Without blinking, and with a mind dulled beyond any perception of precise emotion, Reed stared at Oliver. He felt angry, yes, but more than that, he felt cold. For three years he surrendered his soul to this man, traveling around the world to gun down whoever he was told to kill. He never questioned. Never objected. He accepted the reality as his job, and he accepted Oliver as his boss—a man to obey, if not to trust. That had been the worst decision Reed ever made, not because it resulted in his ultimate betrayal, but because it ended here. In the snow. With Banks’s life hanging in the balance
Oliver jerked Banks’s hair back, exposing her neck. “Tell me, girl. Who did he say he was? Let me guess . . . a venture capitalist.”
Confusion and hurt poured into her soul as she looked at Reed and then squeezed her eyes shut. That pained look of desperation and fear tore Reed to his very core, shattering every confidence and justification he ever had, stripping him all the way to the foundation of who he really was: a heartless killer. A man who had sold his soul.
Oliver laughed. “Of course he did. That’s what I trained him to say. I mean, he can’t walk around bragging about being a cold-blooded murderer, can he?”
Holiday’s eyes were still clouded with drunkenness, but there was a clarity that burned through the fog—a single point of focus strong enough to draw Reed’s attention. “Did you kill him?” Holiday asked.
The years of pain and insecurity and whatever horrible secrets Holiday bore wore down his tired features, making him look years older than he was. The dark circles under his eyes were darker and heavier than before, and he sagged in total defeat. But Reed could still see him clinging to this one point of tension—the burden Holiday had carried ever since his best friend had been murdered in New Orleans. The guilt that Holiday himself was responsible.
“No.” Reed met his tired gaze with all the honesty and integrity he had left in his blackened soul. Holiday nodded once, and Reed turned back to his old mentor. “Paul Choc.”
Oliver tilted his head, feigning confusion, then he laughed. “Oh, you mean Blazer. The man you killed.”
“He was one of yours, wasn’t he? A contractor you needed to burn.”
“Killer in, killer out, Reed. It was his choice to walk away from me, just like it was yours. And he paid for it, just like you will.”
Reed spat the remnants of blood from his mouth. “Okay. Well, I’m here. What the fuck do you want?”
Oliver grinned. “Thirty lives, Reed. I want you to finish your job.”
Reed’s fingers tightened around the grip of the gun, the barrel hovered at waist-height, pointing at the gut of the cross-eyed man. Through bared teeth, he hissed, “Let her go.”
Oliver’s grin perished, and he jammed the gun deeper into her temple, pressing until Banks cried out in pain. Streams of tears ran down her face.
“Do it, Reed. Finish your job!”
The senator looked at Reed with steady, unblinking eyes, and slowly, Reed dropped the barrel of the shotgun over the groin of the giant, over Holiday’s face, and then centered it on his chest.
“Don’t. . . . Please don’t do it.” Banks sobbed, her neck twisted as Oliver drove her head into his shoulder with the pressure of the pistol.
“Pull the trigger, Reed, or I’ll pull mine.” Oliver’s expression reignited into a vicious smirk.
The desperate pleading in Banks’s eyes tore straight through Reed’s heart like a rifle bullet, making him go weak at the knees. The snowflakes that fell against her elegant features faded quickly to raindrops as thunder echoed overhead. She looked so perfect, even with the pain that dominated her face. She looked like everything he never knew he always wanted
Oliver jerked upward, lifting Banks off her feet by her neck as she choked and scratched at his arm. “Do it, Reed!”
The senator still stared at Reed, but a calm settled over his tired eyes. He nodded once. “Save my goddaughter.”
The giant cursed, his guttural voice booming over the wind. He jammed the barrel of the massive revolver into Holiday’s back and pushed him forward onto his hands and knees, his head bowed directly beneath the twin muzzles of the shotgun.
Reed settled the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and stared down the barrel at Holiday’s forehead. He placed his index finger over the front trigger and closed his left eye, then drew in a deep breath.
Banks fought against Oliver’s grip and reached out for her godfather. “Please . . . don’t . . .”
“It’s okay, Banks.” Holiday’s voice was soft. “I love you.”
Holiday’s left hand twitched, and his palms settled into the slurry of snow and mud. His left index finger rose and tapped down. Once. Twice.
On the third tap, Reed spun to the left at the same moment Holiday launched himself to his feet. The revolver barked, and the shotgun spun upward, still swinging to the left as Reed depressed the trigger. The world around Reed descended into a chaos of slow motion. Blood exploded from Holiday’s back, knocking him to his knees even as the senator fou
ght to turn and assault the giant. The shotgun recoiled, spitting a deadly spray of lead birdshot over Oliver’s right shoulder, inches from Banks’s head. The edge of the shot pattern caught the right side of Oliver’s face, shredding the skin and flesh from his cheek and neck. The kingpin killer screamed and fell back, dropping the handgun and releasing Banks. He clawed at his face, shrieking as though he were on fire.
Reed redirected the shotgun and depressed the second trigger. The back of the giant’s head vanished into the blast of hair and brain matter as he crumbled to the ground. Reed snapped the breach open as he stepped over Holiday and toward Oliver, ejecting empty shells over his arm. He dug into his pocket for the next load, grabbed two shells, and lifted them toward the breach.
Oliver’s face was a clouded, distorted mess of flesh and bone. His right eye was gone, and a bloody socket was left behind. He launched himself forward, tearing the shotgun from Reed’s hands as they collided. They crashed to the ground, rolling through the mud as blows rained down on Reed’s exposed face. His fingers closed around Oliver’s arms, and he dug in, channeling all of his strength and anger into this moment. This man had become the monster in his closet—a lying, thieving conniver who dangled freedom in front of his nose then snatched it away at the last moment. He would rip Oliver limb from limb before he walked away.
A knife flashed, clenched between Oliver’s white fingers. It sliced through Reed’s shirt, leaving a gushing red line behind it. Reed screamed in pain, hurled Oliver off of him, and drove his left fist into Oliver’s stomach. The slick mud gave way beneath him as he followed up the punch, and Reed fell forward over Oliver as both men rolled down the steep lake bank. Icy water closed over Reed’s head as the knife flashed again and dug into his side. Oliver landed on his stomach, pressing him deeper into the water and pinning him against the mud.
Reed couldn’t breathe. Darkness closed overhead. The knife dug into his shoulder and stuck there as Oliver’s big hands closed around his throat and slammed the back of his head into the muddy lake bottom. Reed kicked and struggled, clawing for any leverage to shove his attacker off. His fingers dug through the mud for a rock or a stick, but nothing except the slimy lake bottom touched his fingers as life slipped from his lungs. Oliver bellowed, pushing Reed deeper into the mud. Each heartbeat that pounded through his skull came slower than the one before as death encroached on his consciousness.
The thunder of the shotgun rang out from the edge of Reed’s reality, and a rippling shockwave shot through Reed’s body as Oliver fell forward. The mutilated features of the killer crashed into the lake. The iron grip loosened around his throat, and Reed launched himself out of the water, gasping as he cleared the surface. Oliver flopped and screamed on top of him, but the power from his body was gone.
On the shore, Banks stood in the pouring rain with the shotgun in her trembling hands. Tears streamed down as she stared at Reed, full of so much pain and sadness. In an instant, that stare communicated all of the anger, hurt, and agony of the betrayal she felt. All of it directed at him.
Reed met her gaze and shoved Oliver back, then reached out for her. “Banks! Wait!”
She dropped the shotgun and shook her head once.
“Don’t go, Banks!”
Water splashed around him as Reed fought to his knees.
“Banks!”
She ran up the hill, vanishing into the rain and darkness, and leaving him in the shallows. Reed screamed into the howling wind, feeling his throat choked by cold and emotion and so much damn pain. His hands trembled and he started to slog out of the lake, but she was gone. In that split moment, the woman he loved slipped away like water between his fingers.
“Fuck you!” Reed hoisted his limp mentor out of the water and hurled him onto the bank. The effort almost exhausted him as ripples of agony swept down his arms from his shoulder, mixing with blood and lake water. But he didn’t stop.
The old killer landed on the bank with a grunt and looked up at him through a single bloodshot eye. His entire right cheek was gone, exposing missing teeth and a shredded ear. A tongue covered in blood lapped against the roof of his mouth as his torn lips lifted into a twisted grin. “Look at you . . . saved by a bitch.”
Reed lifted his knife and slammed it into Oliver’s stomach, digging in and twisting. Oliver’s head lifted off the bank as a scream ripped free of his mutilated throat. He coughed up blood, spraying it over Reed’s chest before his head slammed back into the bank again. Reed shoved the knife in deeper, pushing it until it slammed into Oliver’s spine.
“Who are they, Oliver?” Reed screamed over the rain, bellowing right into Oliver’s face.
Oliver spat, then gasped for air. The sound rasped and choked as blood puddled in his throat. “Don’t you wish . . . you knew?”
Reed screamed again and drove his fist into what remained of the old killer’s face. “Tell me, Oliver! Who are they? Who ordered the Holiday hit?”
Oliver rasped for air, his roving eye settling on Reed. Calm fell over the pain, and his torn lips twisted into a slight smile. “Maybe . . . you should ask . . . Kelly.”
Without another breath, his head fell back against the mud, and the life vanished from his body.
Reed jerked the knife free and threw his head back, screaming into the rain. Rage and unbridled madness overtook him, and he jumped up and drove his foot into Oliver’s ribcage, but the old man already lay still and lifeless—as dead as the hundreds of men and women who died under his command.
Reed turned away from the fallen killer and scanned the hillside, screaming again for Banks. Only the rain answered his cries, mixed with a cough and a soft voice from farther away from the water. Reed fought his way up the bank and followed the sound, running through the mud and staggering amongst the trees.
The voice came from the far side of the giant’s body. Reed slid to his knees and lifted Holiday’s head. The senator blinked once as he stared at Reed and then smiled softly. “Damn . . . venture capitalists . . .”
“Senator, you’re dying. I need you to talk to me. Who wanted you dead?”
Holiday coughed up fresh pools of blood, and he shook with a violent tremor. Then he closed his eyes.
“Senator! Talk to me!”
Holiday’s lips twitched, and Reed leaned down, pressing his ear close to the senator’s mouth.
“From end…to end.”
“From end to end? I don’t know what that means, Senator!”
Holiday’s neck went limp, and his head rolled back. Reed laid him down, then stood up slowly. He looked down at the dead senator, then back at the bloodied, crushed body of his mentor. Of all the gory scenes of carnage he had experienced in his life, this one gripped him more deeply. It sank into his heart and enflamed anger like he had never felt before.
Oliver’s last words echoed in his tired mind. “Maybe you should ask Kelly.”
Panic pushed back his anger as the reality sank in. Reed fell to his knees again and rolled the giant over. The big man’s face was gone, and his jacket fell open. Reed searched the pockets, dumping out wads of gum wrappers and a pocket knife, and then his fingers hit something hard and heavy. As he pulled it out, the light from the distant cabin fire glinted off polished metal. It was an aluminum card about the size of a credit card, painted black with nothing but a single image etched on one side: a silver badger. Reed shoved it into his pocket, then resumed his search until he found a pair of car keys with a Cadillac logo emblazoned on them. He snatched up the massive revolver lying in the mud beside the body, and turning toward the hill, he broke into a run.
Twenty-Five
Reed found the Escalade parked a hundred yards behind the cabin on the side of the road. He slammed it into gear and shoved the accelerator to the floor, spinning the big SUV around and back onto the road. He swerved past oncoming police cars as he wound his way through the mountain roads, topping hills and crashing through canyons.
Blood streamed from his arm. He tore off a shred of his shirt and ja
mmed it into the knife wound, maintaining pressure on the wad of dirty cloth as he crossed out of the lake town and blew through Robbinsville. Everything fogged around him, blurring almost out of view. It was all he could do to keep the SUV pointed straight down the road, but he didn’t relax on the speed. Only one thought pounded through his skull: Please let her be alive.
The one hundred twenty miles back to northern Atlanta blazed by him in ninety minutes, swirling into a series of highways and small towns that were more like a memory than an experience. As he crashed into the outskirts of Canton, he could already see an orange light in the back of the neighborhood and the column of smoke that blackened the sky.
Reed screeched around a corner on the narrow residential streets and slammed on the brakes. He left the revolver in the passenger seat and jumped out, still holding the shirt against his wound as he raced the last few yards down the street. Fire trucks lined the sidewalks, blocking his view as dirty, tired firemen walked back and forth between them. He pressed through the crowd, ignoring several shouts for him to stop as he slid around the last truck and faced the house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Nothing remained of the home. Black ashes were soaked but still smoldering at the bottom of fallen brick walls and the remnants of a pine wood frame. Firemen lined the edge of the lot, showering the foundation with streams of pressurized water, but it wasn’t necessary—the flames were gone, leaving only charred emptiness behind.
Three men in white plastic suits stood by two stretchers near a white van marked “County Coroner.” Reed stumbled toward the stretchers, his hands hanging limp at his sides. The ache of irrefutable reality sank into his soul as he shoved the first man aside and stared down at the small, charred body on the first stretcher. He collapsed to his knees, tears gushing from his eyes as he fell forward. He couldn’t feel the hands on his shoulders or the ground beneath his legs. Racking pain ripped through his body, starting at his throat and burning through his stomach.
