The Tanner Series - Books 1-11: Tanner - The hit man with a heart

by Remington Kane

  He emerged from the building with the shotgun held up and found the crew leader helping his wounded man along. They were moving around the air-conditioning unit and away from the window.

  Tanner and the crew leader fired at the same moment and Tanner felt a tug at the left sleeve of the Yankees jacket, while the blast from the shotgun just barely reached its targets and blew holes in their feet and ankles.

  Both men tumbled to the ground as they grunted in pain. Tanner pumped and fired again from a dead run, the blast hitting one man in the throat, killing him, while a stray pellet stung the left shoulder of the crew leader.

  The crew leader fired, and the bullet passed through the spot where Tanner had been. But Tanner had dived to the ground while releasing the shotgun and had rolled to the crew leader’s left.

  The crew leader had to shove the last of his men out of the way to make a shot, and that gave Tanner all the time he needed to free his gun, take aim, and fire.

  The crew leader let out a scream, dropped his gun and used both hands to check out the devastation inflicted on his face. Tanner’s shot had entered the man’s left cheek and made a neat hole. It had exited the right cheek in a spray of blood, teeth, and tongue.

  The crew leader rose to his knees with eyes full of pain and horror, as his fingers turned crimson after touching his wounds. The man then mumbled sounds that were meant to be words but emerged as mere guttural grunts.

  When Tanner stood over him, he saw the terror in the man’s eyes turn to hate.

  Tanner nodded, placed his gun against the man’s forehead, and ended things.

  Afterwards, he stood listening for several minutes.

  It was an early Sunday morning and the warehouse district was as quiet as a graveyard. If not for the subdued hum of the traffic drifting over the sound wall from the turnpike, the night would have been filled with only the sound of crickets.

  The hacker, Tim Jackson, had disabled the building’s alarm system and Tanner supposed that there was no one close enough to have heard the sound of gunfire.

  After detecting not a hint of a siren, nor seeing the flash of police lights in the distance, Tanner walked back toward the entrance to go in search of Jackson.

  He had just saved the man from certain death. If he was right, Tim Jackson could return the favor. The hacker was the key to Tanner surviving the war with the Conglomerate, for this was the information age and the right info was worth more than a thousand guns.

  Tanner shed the pinstriped Yankee apparel and crunched broken glass beneath his boots as he reentered the building.

  He found Jackson twenty minutes later, cowering beneath the desk in the shipping manager’s office.

  The young man gazed up at Tanner with wide brown eyes as he shivered with fear.

  “Please… don’t kill me.”

  Tanner offered his hand. “We have to talk.”

  52

  Batmen & Robin

  SUMMERVALE, NORTH CAROLINA

  Outside the main gate of the Reynolds Lumber Mill, Jerome Green poured the last of the coffee from his thermos. He swallowed the lukewarm liquid in two gulps. Gripped in the crook of one arm was the sign he was carrying. The sign read—REYNOLDS IS UNFAIR!

  Jerome was black, athletic, thirty-seven, and the married father of three children. He had worked at Reynolds Lumber since college when he put in full-time hours during the summer.

  Carter Reynolds, the former octogenarian owner of the mill, had been one of Jerome’s best friends, despite the difference in their ages, but after Carter’s death two years ago, everything changed at Reynolds.

  Carter’s widow, Arleen, had promoted Jerome from Office Manager to General Manager, but Arleen died of a stroke just a month after her husband’s death, and the mill passed on to a grandson who sold it to an out-of-state corporation.

  Jerome and everyone else at the mill were given a steep reduction in pay. Those that complained were told to leave, while those who stayed were worked harder.

  That was when Jerome called his older brother, Rafe. Rafe Green was a former army MP who became a union organizer. With his brother’s help, Jerome was determined to unionize Reynolds and make it a good place to work again.

  The New York City corporation that owned the mill fought against unionization, but a large majority of the workers voted for it during an official and state-monitored election.

  When Jerome asked for a meeting with management to discuss contract talks, the new owners demoted Jerome instead, and that caused the rest of the workers to walk out and form a picket line.

  The strike had been going on for three weeks. In that time there were two minor skirmishes between the strikers and the security professionals hired to protect the property.

  Tonight, there would be a third skirmish; one instigated by a different breed of professional, the professional thug.

  Jerome was watching the gate with two other men to keep out replacement workers. Although he was their unofficial leader, he volunteered to work an overnight shift like everyone else.

  He was thinking about the trip to the zoo he planned to take with his kids later, when the five men in ski masks came out of the woods swinging baseball bats.

  Jerome used his sign and knocked one of the men off his feet, but he was hit from behind by another man. The blow from the bat caught him just above the left elbow, and he felt his entire arm go numb.

  After that came the blows to the head, followed by pain, followed by blackness.

  Inside the building, a college freshman named Robin Murphy was gawking at the security monitors, while wincing in sympathy at the beat down he was watching.

  Robin was a handsome boy with dark hair and green eyes, tall, but with a thin frame.

  “Oh Jesus, they’re going to kill those guys.”

  For all its brutality, the violence didn’t last very long. When the three union workers lay broken and unconscious, Robin roused himself from shock and reached for the phone on the desk to call for the police and an ambulance.

  Before he could even touch it, it rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Robin, this is Mr. Trent from New York. Do you remember me?”

  “Yeah,” Robin said. He remembered Al Trent. Al Trent had arrived in a limo and was wearing a suit worth more than Robin’s entire wardrobe, so yeah, he remembered him. He also remembered wondering how a man only a year or two older than himself had made so much money and become so important.

  “You’ve had trouble there tonight, yes?”

  “Yeah, five guys just beat the crap out of the men who were picketing.”

  “I see, and have you called anyone yet?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t call, it’s being handled, but what I do need you to do, is to open the gates wide. We have new workers coming in.”

  “Scabs?”

  “Strikebreakers, men who appreciate the chance to work.”

  “Oh, all right, but are you sure an ambulance is coming? Because man oh man but those guys took a beating.”

  “Did you see who beat them?”

  “Not really, they were dressed in black and wore masks.”

  “Well then, it could have been anybody. And to answer your question, yes, an ambulance is on the way. In fact, three of them, but never mind that, just go open the gates, and Robin?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Turn off the camera at the gate for an hour or so. If anyone asks, it malfunctioned.”

  A long moment of silence passed, then Robin asked a question.

  “Are you telling me to erase what happened, the beating?”

  “Not at all, the police need to see that footage, but I am telling you to turn it off now.”

  “For about an hour?”

  “Exactly.”

  Robin reached over, hit a switch, and the gate camera cut off.

  “I just shut off the camera, Mr. Trent.”

  “Good man, and remember one more thing, I never called tonight.”

  “Oka
y, but you’re sure the ambulances are coming?”

  “I guarantee it, now go open the gates.”

  The ambulances had arrived by the time Robin got the gates open. They scooped up Jerome Green and his companions, U-turned in the gravel lot, and rode off just as two large trucks appeared. The trucks were following a Black Hummer and stopped at the gate when the Hummer’s driver paused to speak to Robin.

  The driver had a New York accent. He sent Robin a grin. Robin had seen the man before but didn’t realize it, because at the time, the man had been wearing a ski mask and wielding a bat.

  “You talked to Al Trent, kid?”

  “Yeah and he said new workers were coming. Is that you guys?”

  The man and his four companions laughed and one of them slapped the driver on the shoulder.

  “Hear that, Joe, you could have a new career.”

  The driver smiled and talked to Robin again. “Nah, kid, the new workers are in the trucks. Once they’re inside, lock those gates.”

  Robin nodded that he understood, and the small caravan entered.

  When the men in the trucks got out, Robin noticed two things about them. They were all Chinese and they all looked scared and desperate.

  The driver of the Hummer walked over and gripped Robin’s shoulder. He was about forty, with average looks, but Robin could tell by the man’s grip that he was strong. When he spoke, his eyes never left Robin’s eyes or even blinked.

  “When the cops come, tell them what you saw and give them a copy of the security tape. We’ll be in that building toward the back with the new workers. Don’t mention us to the cops or anyone else, got it?”

  Robin nodded and then followed it with, “Yeah.”

  “Good, and here’s a little something for you.”

  The man stuffed money into Robin’s shirt pocket and walked away.

  When Robin saw that he had been given a thousand dollars, his eyes grew wide.

  He stared after the man with a sick feeling in his stomach, while wondering what the hell he had been dragged into.

  53

  How Much Did He Eat?

  Tanner took Tim Jackson to a 24-hour truck stop in Bordentown, New Jersey, and the two of them talked over cheeseburgers.

  Jackson was twenty-three, white, of short stature, and possessed a genius IQ. He had been a hacker since the age of eleven and had used his skill for both fun and profit.

  That all ended when he inadvertently accessed one of the Conglomerate’s offshore accounts.

  That was nearly a year ago, and in that time, the Conglomerate had searched for him, trying to figure out who it was that reached through the internet and dared to rob them.

  To that end, they employed their own hackers, and three weeks ago Tim Jackson, AKA Rom Warrior, became known to the Conglomerate.

  Skilled at disarming run-of-the-mill alarm systems, Jackson evaded the first man sent to kill him by breaking into a building and using on-site security cameras to stay out of reach and escape. That proved useless tonight with the five-man team, who could cover all exits. If not for Tanner’s interference, Jackson knew he’d be a dead man.

  “I want to thank you again for saving me, Tanner, but I am curious about why you did it. You say you want me to steal info for you. What kind of information?”

  Tanner looked at Jackson with admiration. The kid had come within minutes of dying and still ate enough for a man twice his size. He had three cheeseburgers, onion rings, French fries, a chocolate shake and two pieces of rhubarb pie. That appetite was a good sign, he would need nerve to do what Tanner wanted him to do.

  “I want you to go undercover,” Tanner said.

  “Undercover? Where?”

  “At MegaZenith in New York City.”

  Jackson squinted at him. “You’re not a cop, so are you a spy?”

  “I’m what you would call a hit man.”

  Jackson laughed, raised his milkshake to his mouth, then stopped moving, as he studied Tanner’s face.

  “Shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  Tim Jackson put down his milkshake and leaned back in his seat to ponder over Tanner’s revelation.

  Tanner gave him time to think things over and gazed around the truck stop. It looked like a slow night. Less than a dozen customers were present and most of them were seated at the counter, where a flirtatious waitress with large breasts held court. She seemed to be addressing most of the men by name. Tanner guessed that they were regulars, such as truckers who drove the same long-distance routes week-to-week.

  Tim let out a sigh and Tanner brought his gaze back to him.

  “If you were going to kill me you would have done it by now, so what is your game?”

  “The Conglomerate wants me dead, but I plan to make that too expensive for them. If you can get into MegaZenith and get what we need to blackmail them, they’ll be forced to leave us alone.”

  “What is it you’re after?”

  “Their books. They likely call it something else, but they must keep records of their financial transactions, their real financial transactions. Once we have that, we’ll have them.”

  Jackson had been slurping his milkshake through a straw as he listened, but Tanner’s words caused him to cough and sputter.

  After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he spoke to Tanner in a measured tone.

  “I don’t know how computer savvy you are, but what you want is impossible. If those records exist, you can be certain they’re protected by high-level encryption. That’s something that even I couldn’t break.”

  “You could if you had enough time though, couldn’t you?”

  “Maybe, but it could take years to break such encryption, and even then, it would be sheer luck.”

  “Luck would have nothing to do with it. By going undercover at MegaZenith, you might gain access to information that can help you break their encryption.”

  “Let’s say you’re right, but that also means I’ll be going inside a place where the order to have me killed came from. What if I’m recognized?”

  “You’ll be hiding in plain sight; they’ll never connect you to your false identity.”

  “Still, they want me bad enough to send five guys after me; they won’t stop until I’m dead.”

  “That’s true, but you’ll also be put on the back burner soon.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Tanner smiled without warmth. “I’m about to become their top priority.”

  54

  The Sharpe Sisters

  In the SoHo district of Manhattan, Sara Blake entered the storefront office of an independent newspaper called Street View.

  The weekly paper began as a blog written by two college students who were sisters, Emily and Amy Sharpe.

  The Sharpe sisters had a taste of fame and success years earlier when they were the first to report on a blockbuster story.

  A friend of theirs mentioned that she thought her boss was crooked. The boss in question was a well-respected man with an honorable history who seemed beyond reproach. This man managed a hedge fund worth over twenty billion dollars.

  The Sharpe sisters went back to writing their daily blog that dealt with Wall Street, and which specialized in giving a financial world view from a twenty-something perspective.

  Their friend returned to them in tears one day with the news that she had been fired. Apparently, her boss had heard that she was spreading rumors and sullying his reputation.

  When the friend opened her purse and produced several documents she had copied from her employer’s files, the Sharpe sisters realized that their friend was telling the truth.

  They went with the story on their blog and lit a firestorm in financial circles. By the end of that day, they were neck deep in threats of lawsuits and defamation charges by the fund manager’s attorneys.

  The sisters then posted the documents their friend had supplied them with and all hell broke loose on Wall Street.

  The SEC, the FBI,
and every major news outlet became involved. Within a week, the fund manager was vilified and in cuffs, while the Sharpe sisters became celebrated and admired.

  That was eight years ago.

  Since that time, Street View had become just another financial blog limping along, but it had also enabled the Sharpe sisters to eke out a living in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

  Emily Sharpe looked over at her sister, Amy, and then back at Sara Blake.

  “Would you say that again, please?”

  “I said I’d like to buy Street View and that I’m willing to keep you on as managing editors and contributors.”

  “But we’re not selling,” Amy said. Like her older sister, Amy was a dark-haired beauty with blue eyes and a thin, but shapely, figure. Both women were unmarried, although Emily was divorced after a brief marriage that occurred during college.

  Sara smiled at the sisters. “I have information that will blow the financial world away, but it’s an emerging story and I may need your help in developing it fully.”

  “Are you a journalist?” Emily asked.

  “No, I’m a former FBI agent; however, I did minor in journalism in college.”

  “Just how much were you willing to pay?” Amy asked.

  Sara mentioned a figure as well as the salary the sisters would receive, and Emily and Amy exchanged another look as their eyes widened. They then asked Sara to excuse them as they retreated to a corner of the small office to talk.

  The offices of Street View had once been a boutique that specialized in handbags. It was a narrow space a dozen yards deep, with a bathroom and closet in the rear, beside a door that led to an alley where deliveries were off-loaded.

  There were two desks toward the back that faced each other, while in the front was a reception area with several chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa. It was this area where Sara was meeting with the Sharpes.