One Hundred Years Of Tanner

by Remington Kane

  The murder of Jimmy Maloney was a challenge.

  It was Frank Recti’s way of taunting Tanner.

  “Look what I can do, Tanner,” Recti was saying. “Look what I can do and know that there’s not a damn thing you can do to hurt me in return.”

  Frank Recti was betting that he could kill Tanner before Tanner could kill him, and yes, the odds were in Recti’s favor.

  O’Connell turned back and stared in the direction of Recti Construction, as a fire ignited in his breast.

  He was a man, yes, but what sort of man? Was he a cautious man? A man who weighed facts and considered every angle before acting? Was he ready to give up and let the world chip away at him?

  In the old days, when gold was used as currency and coins were first made of the substance, bits of the coins were chipped away and melted into gold ingots.

  The smaller coins retained their monetary value, but they were no longer truly worth what they had been before being debased.

  O’Connell wondered if ignoring Recti would be the same as chipping a piece off himself, of debasing himself, and making himself less than what he was.

  He had faced tough odds fighting for freedom in Ireland, while in the army, and when carrying out hits. He had killed targets who were well guarded and had walked away unscathed.

  Wasn’t Recti just another hit? Just another thug to be clipped?

  No, he wasn’t, because Frank Recti knew his capabilities and would be ready for him the way that no other target ever had been.

  A memory returned to O’Connell then, one that had taken place in Ireland.

  In 1902, he had been a bookish kid and a quiet lad, but he had also been a tough boy who enjoyed working the farm and hunting.

  When a new family moved in nearby, the sons turned out to be bullies. They were the Donnelly brothers, Cormac and Brennan, and large young men they were. The Donnelly brothers put fear in most just by looking in their direction, and they had beaten up more than one unfortunate soul who dared to talk back to them.

  One day, they came across O’Connell as he was leaving the general store. He had just purchased a new book of poetry.

  The general store was the kind of place where old men sat out on its porch and played board games or cards while telling lies about the old days.

  The elder Donnelly brother, Cormac, who was the bigger of the two, snatched the book from O’Connell’s hand, then brayed with laughter when he saw what it was.

  “He’s reading poetry,” the thug said, declaring it as if the book were about a taboo subject.

  O’Connell was only seventeen at the time, and a head shorter than either man. Without hesitation, he demanded that he be given his book back.

  One of the old men on the porch spoke up. It was said that he was a hundred if he was a day.

  “Give the lad back his book now. He’s the sensitive sort he is.”

  The old man had been trying to help, but the Donnelly boys roared with laughter.

  Cormac Donnelly tore the book in two with his ham-sized mitts, then tossed the pages at O’Connell’s feet.

  “Let’s see if we can make the sensitive lad cry,” Cormac said.

  O’Connell looked down at his book, and when he raised his head, he locked eyes with Cormac Donnelly.

  The big man saw something in O’Connell’s gaze that made the look of mirth leave his face.

  Brennan, the younger brother, hadn’t glimpsed the fire in O’Connell’s eyes, as his brother had, and he reached out with both hands to shove him.

  O’Connell gripped Brennan’s fingers while thrusting a knee into his midsection. Brennan bent forward as the air left his lungs. While still gripping his fingers, O’Connell gave them a vicious twist, dislocating several of Brennan’s digits.

  Cormac threw a punch at O’Connell’s head, but he was as slow physically as he was mentally. O’Connell let go of Brennan’s hands and sent a series of blows at Cormac, most of which connected with his nose.

  O’Connell avoided a roundhouse punch by ducking under it and followed that with a hard uppercut to the side of Cormac’s head. The blow stunned the behemoth and he dropped to one knee. As he struggled to get up, O’Connell busted his nose, then kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards.

  Brennan bellowed with rage and charged at O’Connell. O’Connell met his charge with one of his own and sent stiff fingers into the man’s throat. That took the fight out of Brenan, who gagged and moaned that he couldn’t breathe.

  “If you can talk, you can breathe,” O’Connell told him, then kicked him on the side of the head.

  As O’Connell was picking up his ruined book, Cormac Donnelly made it to his feet. Blood dripped from Cormac’s broken nose and ran down his shirtfront. O’Connell stared at him, daring him to fight again.

  The big man had had enough. He helped his brother up, and the two of them staggered away.

  O’Connell heard a chair scraping on wood as it was pushed back. When he turned to look at the porch, he saw the old man who had spoken earlier.

  The arthritic man struggled up from his seat to lean on a gnarled wooden cane. He stared at young Keane O’Connell as if he were an enigma. He had thought O’Connell a gentle soul but had viewed his ferocity when provoked.

  The old man tilted his head and asked a question.

  “What sort of man be ye, lad?”

  O’Connell grinned at the old-timer.

  “I’m the kind of man who doesn’t run from a fight.”

  Thirty-six years later, Keane O’Connell stared off into the distance as he remembered that day. He then closed his eyes and came to a decision.

  When his eyes opened, he was Tanner, and only Tanner.

  Tanner smiled and made a gun with his fingers. After pointing in the direction of Frank Recti’s office, Tanner dropped his thumb in a pretense of pulling a trigger.

  “Bang!” Tanner said.

  He laughed as he got back into the car and headed off to kill Frank Recti.

  20

  A Man Like None Other

  On the roof of a building across the street from Recti Construction, Tanner slid an icepick into the base of a man’s skull, then, he gave the makeshift weapon a violent twist.

  The sniper fell toward the roof along with the rifle he’d been holding. Tanner caught the rifle, but let the man drop.

  The rifle was Russian-made, a Mosin-Nagant M91. Tanner took it with him as he headed back down the fire escape.

  He reached the alley at the side of the building in less than a minute. The climb up the fire escape had taken considerably longer, as he’d had to remain silent and go undetected. There had been two snipers, and the other one was just as dead as the man he had killed with the icepick.

  Tanner returned to his stolen car. He had found a gas station that was still open out on the highway and had filled his tank.

  He put the icepick to work once more, by crawling beneath the car and opening a gash in the side of the fuel tank. Afterwards, he climbed into the car and drove toward the glass front doors of Recti’s building.

  The driver and bodyguard stood out in front of the building while smoking cigars. They gawked at Tanner as he jumped the curb and sped toward the glass doors.

  The doors gave way, but their metal framing slowed the vehicle, and Tanner thought a part of his plan might not work.

  He had aimed the car at a display case on the left of the lobby, where miniature models of several buildings were on view.

  Tanner wasn’t interested in the models, but he needed to have the driver’s side of the vehicle sitting astride the base at the bottom of the display case. The tilt would cause the fuel leaking from the gas tank to flow toward the office, and he was counting on the gas to help even the odds.

  The impact with the doors had been tremendous, but Tanner had been ready for it. He recovered his balance by the time the driver-side tires came to rest atop the base of the display, then grabbed up the weapons he had on the seat.

  He rol
led out of the car and brought up the weapon in his hands, as a bullet pinged off the vehicle’s roof.

  Tanner had already been firing at the man who’d fired the shot. It was the bodyguard who had been standing outside with the driver. Tanner fired several shots from the Thompson submachine gun he was holding and ventilated the bodyguard and the driver.

  Before the men’s bodies fell, Tanner turned and emptied the rest of the magazine at the doorway of Recti’s office, where several men had just stepped out.

  Tanner then dropped to the floor, grabbed up a second Thompson, and fired at the legs of the next group of men to leave Recti’s office. They fell amid cries of pain and Tanner changed the magazines on both weapons.

  He stood then, ready to advance on the office and kill Frank Recti, but a bullet ripped through his left side. Tanner fired the Thompson even as he spun around to drop to his knees. There had been a man hidden on the landing of the stairs, and Tanner caught him in the stomach right before the gun ran dry.

  The man dropped his rifle, which slid down the stairs, then he crawled out of view to a corner of the landing.

  When Tanner looked down at himself, he was shocked by how much blood he’d already lost. He had little time to assess his wound, as more men slipped from the office. They peppered the vehicle Tanner was behind and bits of glass and leather flew about.

  The elevator chimed, disgorging more men. Within moments, Tanner was outnumbered a dozen-to one.

  “Take him alive if you can. I want to torture the bastard.”

  Those words came from Frank Recti. Who was staying out of sight in the office.

  Tanner popped up and sent a short burst of gunfire at the office. This time his target wasn’t the open doorway, but the plaster wall beside it, as Tanner tried to guess from where in the office Recti’s voice had originated.

  There was a yelp from beyond the doorway. Tanner smiled, hoping he had hit Recti somewhere vital, but Recti’s next words dispelled that notion.

  “My ear! The bastard shot off a chunk of my ear. Fuck taking him alive. Kill that bastard. Kill Tanner!”

  Tanner reached into his pocket and removed a wooden match, after flicking it with his thumb to ignite it, he tossed it beneath the car.

  The tendrils of gasoline that had spilled across the lobby floor gave birth to flames and several men started screaming.

  Tanner bolted for the space where the lobby doors had been, as behind him, Recti’s men were in a panic over the spreading fire.

  Once outside, Tanner felt a wave of weakness come over him. When he looked down, he saw that his left pant leg was turning red from his own blood.

  If he didn’t take care of the wound in his side and stop the bleeding, he would die.

  He took in a deep breath and headed for the car parked at the curb. Relief swept over him when he saw that the driver had left the keys in the vehicle.

  His pant leg was so wet with blood that the seat beneath him made a squishing sound as he sat. He had to get away, had to find a doctor, and he had to do it without being followed.

  The rear windscreen exploded as shots from a revolver blew it apart, but Tanner already had the car moving.

  The revolver was joined by a machine gun, and Tanner felt the impact of the bullets as they ripped apart the seat back on the passenger side. The tires on that side of the vehicle went flat, and Tanner had trouble controlling the car as he made a right turn at the next corner.

  He reached behind him and winced when he felt the jagged exit hole the bullet had made above his hip. The wound was leaking blood with every beat of his heart, and he forced himself to grow calmer, to slow his pulse.

  That lasted for only seconds, then he caught sight of a car making the same right turn he had made, only the other vehicle was moving so fast that it took the turn on two wheels. That car was followed by another set of headlights, and the vehicles closed in on him while riding abreast of each other. They were in a business district on a Sunday night, no vehicles were parked along the curbs, and they had the street to themselves.

  Tanner had no doubt that Frank Recti was in one of the vehicles pursuing him, and given their speed, they would catch up to his damaged car in no time.

  He had two choices, stand and fight, or run and hide. Recti would be expecting him to run and hide, but Recti was the target, the prey, not the hunter.

  Tanner stomped on the brakes and nearly flipped his vehicle as he attempted a tight turn. The un-inflated rubber on one wheel came off, but the others caught traction.

  He pushed the limping Packard to its maximum speed and headed back toward the men chasing him, while leaving sparks in his wake. As he neared them, Tanner fired the Thompson machine gun, which seemed much heavier than it had earlier.

  His boldness worked, and one of the cars veered away and slammed into an abandoned storefront. The entire vehicle entered the shop. Tanner thought it looked as if it had been swallowed by Jonah’s whale.

  Someone in the other vehicle fired out the back window as he drove past, and Tanner felt a stinging sensation beneath his right shoulder. He’d been hit again.

  The slug had passed through the seat and embedded itself in a back muscle. When he reached behind to touch the area, he could feel the metal slug beneath his torn skin.

  Once again, the chase was on, but now it was one on one.

  The Packard was listing to one side and Tanner had to struggle to keep the car from running up on the sidewalk.

  The vehicle behind him had turned and was rocketing toward him. Tanner waited until the car’s headlights illuminated his interior, then he slammed on his brakes.

  The driver behind him reacted with lightning speed, but in the instant it took the man to brake, he had covered the distance between them. A body flew out of the windshield of the car behind Tanner and landed on the trunk of the Packard.

  The thud of flesh hitting steel jarred Tanner, rousing him. He had hit his head during the crash and had been disoriented.

  As he scrambled out of the car and onto the Packard’s hood, Tanner saw Frank Recti limping his way toward him, identifiable by an outline of wild hair.

  Recti must have been in the vehicle that had crashed into the shop. Two other men were with Recti, one of whom was carrying a shotgun.

  Tanner’s machine gun was empty and there was no time to switch magazines, but Tanner still had a loaded pistol, a Walther.

  He fired at the two men who had survived the crash with the Packard. Their brains leak out onto seats that were already red with their blood.

  Recti and the other men shot at Tanner with their Tommy guns, but they were too far away and the slugs from their choppers went wide or fell short.

  A wave of dizziness washed over Tanner. It was the blood loss. He moved on unsteady legs toward a service station and kicked open the office door just as a bullet shattered the window beside him.

  Tanner entered the shop and moved toward the garage where the work was done. There were no vehicles inside, and everything smelled like grease.

  A form flitted briefly past a small dust-covered window. It was one of Recti’s men moving to the rear of the shop to block Tanner’s exit out that way.

  Tanner lowered himself behind a massive steel toolbox and loaded his last magazine into the Thompson.

  Recti called out to his two remaining men.

  “There’s a puddle of blood in the car. Tanner is bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  It was true. And he was growing weaker with each passing minute.

  The handle on the back door jiggled and Tanner turned his head to look at it. As he did so, the sound of glass crunching underfoot came from the counter area.

  Tanner was trapped and outnumbered, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he came up with a plan.

  “Mikey?” Recti called.

  “Yeah?” came a reply from behind the rear door.

  “We rush him on the count of three. Kill anything that ain’t us.”

  “He’s a dead man now, boss,” M
ikey said.

  Tanner fought against another wave of dizziness, gripped the Thompson, and waited to triumph or die.

  21

  Trench Warfare

  Recti reached the count of three and Tanner heard the man at the rear kick in the door. Recti and his other man both carried machine guns with huge ammo drums attached.

  They fired in a cross pattern while the man at the rear door used a pump-action shotgun to fire into the deeper shadows of the garage.

  Frank Recti ran dry first, then squinted about as he searched for Tanner’s corpse. The other machine gun ran out of ammo the same time that the man at the rear door used his last shell.

  The holder of the shotgun was a stocky man with a moustache. He was bringing out a loaded pistol when Tanner fired a burst at his head. The rounds all but obliterated the man’s skull.

  The other man with Recti turned to run and Tanner shot him in the back. Recti had seen where Tanner was firing from and had freed a gun from a holster on his belt.

  He never got to use it.

  Tanner stitched a line across Recti’s stomach and the mob boss’s weapon went flying.

  The garage had a pit in its floor that was used by the mechanics to work on cars. A different kind of mechanic had put it to use and accomplished a different sort of work.

  It was reminiscent of the battles O’Connell had fought while in the trenches in France.

  Tanner climbed out of the pit after three attempts. His strength was waning, while his vision was blurry. He picked up the gun Recti had dropped and shot the other wounded man, killing him.

  Recti lay on his back, still alive, but with his eyes clenched and teeth gritted against the agony of his wounds. The left ear looked deformed and bloody from the damage one of Tanner’s earlier shots had caused.

  Recti opened his eyes when Tanner pressed the man’s own gun against the middle of his forehead.

  “Million… A million dollars if you let me live,” Recti said.

  Tanner said nothing, and in his silence, he gave an answer.