The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  “Is there something else I can help with?” The impatience in her tone was evident. Reed shook his head and turned toward the door, leaving Banks to offer a quick thank-you before scuttling after him. The cold air outside the building flooded his lungs, bringing welcome relief from the stuffiness of the student hall. Once more, he scanned the brochure, but it was pointless. Holiday’s old fraternity wasn’t there.

  “What now?” Banks snapped. “Did you get the name wrong?”

  “No, I definitely had it right. The letters were very clear.”

  “Where’s the picture?”

  Reed tapped the edge of the brochure against his lip and pretended not to have heard her.

  Banks pinched his arm. “Don’t fool around with me. Where’s the picture?”

  He sighed and dug out his wallet, producing the faded photograph of Mitch Holiday and Frank Morccelli in fraternity robes. Banks snatched it away and fixated on the image. Her eyes turned red before she flipped it over and read the back.

  “See? Omega Alpha Omega,” Reed said. “I had the name right. And that does say Vanderbilt University.”

  Banks tapped the photo against her fingers. Confused emotions clouded her face, and Reed guessed it had little to do with the location of the mystery fraternity.

  “Let’s head over to the row and take a look around,” she said.

  “The row?”

  Banks rolled her eyes. “Wow, you really are a moron. The row—where all the frat and sorority houses are. Every campus has one. Look at the addresses.”

  Reed scanned the brochure again, and sure enough, several of the headquarters’ addresses were on the same street. The pamphlet’s map guided them through a series of tree-sheltered sidewalks deeper inside the campus.

  In spite of the bustle of students, everything was calm. Reed wondered what it must feel like to be one of them—jogging to their next class, the most stressful thing in the world their latest grade or midterm. In times past, he hated people like them. As a gangbanger in Los Angeles, he viewed all college kids as rich, spoiled brats who wasted their lives away with their noses crammed into books.

  Now, things weren’t so black-and-white. Jealousy tugged within him, and he wondered what his life could have been like if he’d never joined the gangs, never ran into the recruiter, and never became a Marine. Would he have gone to college? Probably not a school like Vanderbilt—who was he kidding?—but maybe a state school. He could’ve studied something like business or marketing, worked in a tall, glassy tower like the ones in downtown Nashville, dated a nice girl, and had a couple kids.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Banks’s snapping voice jarred him out of the daydream. He realized he had stopped on the sidewalk, his gaze transfixed by the crowds of students bustling by. Everything about his picture of another life, for another Reed, felt surreal and frail, built on a foundation of false realities that could never have come to pass.

  I wasn’t born to be like them. I was born for something different. Something hard.

  “Let’s move, dumbass.”

  “Look,” Reed withdrew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. “If you want to know the truth about what happened to your father, I’m the best way. I’m not asking you to like me, but I’m not your enemy.”

  “Not my enemy?” Banks wheeled on him and stepped so close he could smell her breath laden with tequila, even though he hadn’t seen her take a drink since he found her at the bar. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You lied to me. About everything. You kidnapped my uncle, brutalized him, and swept me up in this entire mess. I almost died twice because of you. If you’re not my enemy, I don’t know who is.”

  The fire that blazed in her eyes was every bit as bright and fierce as it had been the first night he met her, but these flames didn’t speak of joy and ambition and a ferocious hunger for life. This time, the dark embers smoldered with resentment.

  “I understand. Believe me. I hate myself more than you hate me. And when this is over, if you want to push me off a cliff, that’s fine. But right now, we have a chance to discover the truth, and I have a chance to punish the people responsible. They are the enemy. If you want to do it on your own, be my guest, but if you can find it in your heart to suspend your hatred for just a few days, I can help you. I want to help you.”

  She stared him down, her finger still pressed into his chest. He thought she might slap him, but she turned away. “Fine. Help me. But this doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten or forgiven.”

  They started down the sidewalk again, watching trees fade into small parks and brick buildings into old homes. Flags hung from the columns of front porches, displaying the proud symbols of a half dozen sororities and fraternities. A few homes featured Greek letters over the front doors, while a handful of kids shuffled in and out, backpacks over their shoulders, evidence of hangovers in their sloppy steps.

  None of the signs or flags matched Omega Alpha Omega. Reed and Banks walked down the street, then turned back on the other side, stopping from time to time to ask passing students if they had heard of the fraternity. Blank stares and shrugs were the most expressive responses they received, except for one shirtless frat boy, still drunk, who grinned and invited them inside.

  Banks leaned against a tree and pushed her hands into her jean pockets. Her face was flushed red again, and in spite of the breeze, sweat trickled down her neck.

  Reed moved toward her. “Are you okay?”

  She jutted her chin toward the street. “It’s not here. This frat of yours doesn’t exist.”

  “You saw the letters,” Reed said. “It exists. Or at least it did at some point. Maybe they didn’t have a frat house and they met in the library or off campus.”

  “So how do we find them? It’s a big city.”

  Reed looked back down the narrow street, his eyes coming to rest on a house three doors down that featured a blue flag with gold letters. The two-story house was white with strips of peeling paint hanging from the siding. Big windows framed the second floor, and a small skylight overhung what must have been the attic. Dead grass around the home was sheltered by untrimmed evergreen bushes, and compared to the surrounding rows of manicured homes with clean yards, the house stood out like a sore thumb. A small crowd of college kids were busy unloading a van, carting food and cases of beer into the house.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing?” Reed asked.

  Banks shrugged. “What all frat boys do. Partying, or getting ready for a party.”

  “Yeah, I know, but look at the house. It’s a shamble.”

  “So, they don’t take care of it. What’s your point?”

  Reed started down the street, walking along the curb as he surveyed the home. The paint clinging to the walls had peeled and dropped into the grass in sheets—everywhere except the fascia over the front porch. A towering oak tree sheltered the home, where the frat’s three-letter name was mounted in gold letters. Each letter was clean, with fresh paint and not a speck of dirt. A sharp contrast to the wall they were mounted against.

  The letters are new.

  Banks stumbled to a stop beside him, peered at the house, then shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

  Reed held up his finger as the clouds began to part. A sunray cut through the oak tree’s ragged limbs and spilled over the fascia. The bright light exposed the shadowy outline of a sign: Omega, Alpha, Omega. It was hung long before on that same facade, protecting the paint beneath it from the scar of the sun, and leaving its outline, even after it was torn down.

  Reed turned to Banks, and a slow smile spread across her face, spilling into her eyes for the first time since she took the stage at the bar earlier that day.

  “They’re taking over the house,” she said. “It’s been abandoned.”

  “Yes. For God knows how long. Those letters were probably pirated for use on another house years ago, which explains why nobody knew it was the old Omega Alpha Omega headquarters.”

  “We’ve got to get inside. Th
ere could be old records. Log books. Information on who else was in the fraternity that might still be alive.”

  Reed started across the street, slumping his shoulders and trying to appear as casual as possible as he approached the kids unloading the van. “’Sup, guys? Need a hand?”

  An underage redheaded teen took a sip of beer and poked his head around the back door of the van. He surveyed Reed with squinted eyes, then his gaze traveled to Banks. His demeanor shifted. “You guys students?”

  Banks nodded and offered her hand. “Yeah, I’m Sirena. We’re from Iowa.”

  “No shit!” He grinned and shook her hand. “So am I! What city?”

  She had to pick Iowa.

  “Iowa City. Born and raised. You guys prepping for a party?”

  His grin widened, and Reed checked his first assumption when he noticed the black and yellow Hawkeyes baseball hat hanging on the van’s rearview mirror.

  She’s a manipulative genius.

  The frat boy ran his hand through his short red hair. “You bet. Gonna throw a little celebration party tonight. We just got a lease on this sweet new headquarters for the frat. Dope, right?”

  Banks pretended to be impressed with the shabby building, leaning back and tilting her head up.

  “Looks great, man! Sounds like fun.”

  He nodded, still staring at her curvy body, then blinked as though his mind had come awake. “Hey, you guys should come! It’s gonna be rad. Got a DJ and everything.”

  Banks shot Reed a smug smirk, then directed a grin back at the kid. “We’d love to! What time?”

  “We’re kicking off at eight. Bring booze!”

  Banks gave him a fist bump. As they walked back onto the street, Reed caught sight of a new wave of sweat dripping down her face, now faded from red to white.

  She’s barely standing.

  “We should go back to your place. You need to rest. Then we can hit them up tonight.”

  “Oh, what a master plan. Come up with that all on your own, did you?”

  Reed wanted to cringe but rolled his eyes. “Fine. Thank you, you manipulative genius. Your skillsets of sexual mind control are unmatched.”

  Banks turned off the street, back toward the Camaro. “Hang on, shithead. You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

  Twenty

  The restaurant was quaint, dressed in white trim and built inside an antebellum home with a wraparound porch now converted into an outdoor dining space. Maggie might have been impressed under different circumstances. Even excited. Instead, she surveyed the crowd of people sitting under whining ceiling fans on the porch and wondered if they were witnesses or potential victims.

  On one side of her Tahoe, two men stood stiff-backed, surveying the downtown streets of Baton Rouge. She turned to a black-suited state policeman standing at attention next to her vehicle. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Officer O’Dell, Madam Governor.” He spoke with a Cajun accent so thick and oppressive it was difficult even for her to discern the exact words.

  She rested one hand on her hip. “Is that what your parents call you?”

  Confusion flashed behind his eyes, and he shook his head. “No, ma’am. My first name is Luke.”

  “That’s a great name, Luke. My first name is Maggie. We’ll be spending a lot of time together from now on, so let’s drop the formalities. Is that okay?”

  Discomfort radiated from O’Dell’s stiff shoulders and rigid arms like heat waves of a Louisiana bayou, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. If you prefer so, ma’am.”

  “I do. Now, Luke, I’m going to get a bite to eat. I want you to stay with the Tahoe. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Madam Governor, I’m afraid I can’t allow that. I have to accompany you at all times.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Did your commanding officer tell you that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And who do you think he reports to? Don’t worry, Luke. I can look after myself. Keep the motor running. I won’t be long.” Maggie stepped away from the vehicle and walked up the short row of white concrete steps.

  A hostess greeted her at the front door, taking a small bow and motioning her toward the door. “Just one tonight, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m meeting somebody. A gentleman.”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am. He mentioned you would be coming. Right this way.”

  The hostess led Maggie through a maze of chairs and tables, toward a small alcove in the rear. Full-length windows filled the whole wall, looking out over downtown Baton Rouge from the gentle hill the restaurant sat on.

  A tall man in a grey suit sipped tea from a white cup as Maggie approached. He set the cup down at his table and offered his hand without standing. “Madam Governor, thank you so much for accepting my invitation.”

  Maggie ignored the hand and pulled back her chair, sitting down without a word.

  He tilted his head and smirked at her, then retracted his arm and lifted the cup again. “Would you care for something to drink? Dinner’s on me.”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying for dinner. I’m here because two of my men are dead, and you reached out to my office anonymously almost immediately after. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

  The smirk remained plastered on his face. He stirred his tea with a silver spoon as the waitress approached.

  “Ma’am, can I take your drink order?”

  “Water,” Maggie said. “Thank you.”

  The waitress retreated, and the man in the grey suit leaned forward, his lips turning down into a soft frown. “May I express my deepest condolences about your men. I read about the incident in the news this morning. What a tragic accident.”

  “Accident? Is that what they’re calling it? News to me. You see, I was there. I saw the intruder. Shot him, as a matter of fact. Regrettably, he survived.”

  The smirk returned, and he adjusted the teacup on its saucer.

  “Maggie—may I call you Maggie?”

  “You may not. I am the governor.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Madam Governor, my name is Gambit. Well, that’s not my actual name, but since you prefer titles, I suppose you can use mine.”

  “Gambit, I’m on a tight schedule. I’ve got a shitload of corruption to burn out of this state. I suggest you find your point.”

  “You’re even saucier in person than you are on TV, Madam Governor. It’s a true wonder anyone ever voted for you.”

  “Oh, plenty of people voted for me. Over six hundred thousand. It just so happens none of them were scumbags.”

  Gambit leaned back in his seat and folded his hands. “Well, then, if you’re going to be so curt, I may as well cut to the chase.”

  “You really should.”

  He sipped his tea, then cleared his throat. “I represent a significant organization of tremendous influence that would very much appreciate your partnership.”

  Maggie folded her hands. “So, you’re a criminal, and you’re here to enlist me in your elicit enterprises.”

  Gambit chuckled. “No, ma’am. As you said yourself, you’re the governor of Louisiana. I wouldn’t dream of involving you in anything less than legal. What my company proposes is more mutually advantageous. We simply want to count you as an ally. On occasion, we may ask you to redirect an investigation or help us in the approval of a permit. Perhaps offer us regulatory assistance. In exchange, we will ensure that whatever political initiatives you may have are completely funded and successful—schools, roads, state parks . . . whatever you care about. We have the power to ensure you never lose an election. You can be governor for two terms, and then we might find you a home in the Senate. Who knows?” He took another sip of tea.

  Maggie straightened and placed both hands on the table. “Well, Gambit, I believe this meeting is concluded. I’m afraid you have drastically miscalculated what type of person I am. I ran for the governorship to make a statement. I didn’t even plan on winning. But I did win, and the statement that brought m
e to inauguration is that scum like you have no place in this state. If you think for a moment that I’m going to have any part in whatever sordid activities you represent, you’ve got another thought coming. My political initiatives are to destroy people like you.”

  She stood up, and Gambit’s smile faded. He stirred the tea again, then shook his head. “That’s tragically unfortunate, Governor Trousdale. I always prefer honey, but I’m no stranger to vinegar. I understand you have a family who lives in the swamps outside New Orleans. I’m sure they’re very important to you.”

  Maggie tilted her head and stared Gambit down. “My father can barely read, but he can hit a running rabbit at two hundred yards with a fifty-dollar rifle. My brother never finished high school, but he hunts gators for a living. My sister is a three-time national champion mixed martial artist. And my mom? The house was broken into last year, and she beat the burglar with a rolling pin. To my knowledge, he’s still in a coma. If you’d like to threaten my family, Gambit…well, good luck.”

  Maggie walked past the oncoming waitress and back through the front door. O’Dell stood next to the Tahoe, his hand held close to the Glock .40 caliber mounted to his hip. He opened the door for Maggie, and she climbed in without comment. As the Tahoe pulled away, Gambit stood in the window, smiling at her. It was the smile of a man who enjoyed the hunt as much as he enjoyed the kill.

  “Luke, I want protective details assigned to my family immediately. If the LSP gives you any flack about the cost, inform them that they can detract from my personal detail if necessary.”

  O’Dell nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

  She folded her hands. “You know how to shoot that thing, or is it just a belt ornament?”

  A smirk played at the corners of O’Dell’s mouth, exposing the glint of a gold tooth in place of his lateral incisor. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I know how to use it.”