Chapter Nineteen
Tanner
“Idon’t understand, Mr…I’m sorry, what did you say your name was, again?” This is the fourth time the businessman standing less than two feet away has tried to get my identification.
“I didn’t.” And what he doesn’t seem to understand is that I won’t. It’s not how this works.
In fact, I shouldn’t even be here but something’s not adding up. Yesterday’s phone call from my commanding officer, Captain Surry, didn’t sit right with me, which is the only reason I’m meeting a potential client face to face.
Well, face to helmet. No fucking way I’m showing myself to these pricks.
“Right. As I was saying, I don’t understand why you’re refusing our business. Isn’t this”—the man, Cary Lindberg—because I do my fucking research—does a slow, up and down perusal of my body, clearly finding some kind of connection between my attire and my job—“what you do?”
“No.” Even my answer is cryptic. The guy doesn’t need nor deserve my reasons or explanations, he’s just a middle man, barely worthy of my attention.
It took some time and effort, but once I got the phone number linked to Gerald’s security gig, I found the investment bank. Cary is a manager, nothing more.
I don’t kill for sport and despite what my shrinks have repeatedly told me, I refuse to let my nature lock me up for the rest of my life.
Contrary to popular belief, prison doesn’t rehabilitate, it only allows people like me to hone their skills and give them the challenge to do better next time.
Once inside, I’ll die there. Fuck that, I’m not risking it for this asshole. Or any asshole, really.
The only person I’d proudly walk into prison for is Berkleigh, and even then it would have to be for her protection.
“Hmm, a man of few words.” Cary looks at his two goons, brows raised like a two bit comedian waiting for his entourage to respond. Chuckling, those idiots give him exactly what he wants.
I’m bored. I’ve said what needed saying so I raise my right foot, fling out the kickstart to my single-cylinder four-stroke dirt bike, and stomp hard enough for it to come back to life on the first try.
Thank fuck. My ego wouldn’t have taken a faulty start very well, especially in front of an audience of dickheads.
Cary tries talking to me but I pretend I can’t hear him with the engine going. To be fair, between the full helmet and the raw, choppy outbursts coming from the mufflers, I can only decipher his intent. He wants me to turn off the bike and listen to more of his bullshit.
It’s not gonna happen.
In a practiced move, I wrench the handlebars to the right just as I throw my weight forward, keeping a tight hold on the brake that keeps the front wheel in place.
Behind me, the back wheel chews up the dirt and small rocks before spitting out mud and water from a small puddle, and in a perfectly executed arch, paints the three men in earthly colors.
Behind the helmet, my smirk grows wide as I take in their outrage.
One is swiping at his pants, frantically trying to clean up, while the other is rubbing his face from a dollop of dirt that’s landed on his cheek.
Cary, however, is staring at me through the side mirror and his indignation is like a living, breathing thing.
Any other day, I would welcome the distraction of a good fist fight, and if I’m lucky, knives would be involved, but I’ve got my woman waiting at the house and these stooges aren’t worth the time apart from her.
In fact, I hated leaving her side this morning after yesterday’s events but I honestly thought this was important. Lesson learned.
Just as I’m tapping the lever to shift into first gear so I can fly out, his hand shoots out, fingers latching onto my arm. That mother fucker dared put his hand on me and now all bets are off.
Flinging the bike to the ground, I don’t give a fuck where it lands.
If I’m lucky, it stalled, but as far as I’m concerned, it could be spinning in a demonic circle with the throttle stuck in a Hollywood-worthy position and I wouldn’t care.
All I know is that I move like a viper and within two seconds, I’ve got one hand around his throat, squeezing the oxygen out of his trachea, while my other hand is palming a Glock 41 currently pressing against his cheek bone.
With a rough push, I’ve got him against the trunk of a red maple.
I don’t speak, don’t utter a single word, but my fingers squeeze hard enough to make his eyes bulge.
Digging more and more into the fragile flesh of his throat, I contemplate the moment I shatter his windpipe.
I anticipate the thrill of seeing this entitled little shit close his eyes for the last time.
The distinct metallic slide of a semi-automatic handgun, most likely a Beretta M9 or a 92FS since they’re popular with most gun owners, tells me I’m not the only one packing.
These two models are identical so there’s no way for me to know which one is digging into the side of my neck, right below my helmet.
I grin, even though no one can see me. Things just got a whole lot more interesting and therefore fun by my standards.
“Release him, asshole. Ain’t nobody around to hear you die.” The taller one of the two goons has a strong, New York accent, like he’s been living the mafia life or maybe watching The Godfather on repeat for the last thirty years.
To be clear, I’m in a bit of a pickle here to say the least. Both of my hands are busy, each ready to kill a motherfucker, and my helmet isn’t exactly helping my agility, but I suppose that’s what makes this situation fun.
I don’t have a whole lot of options that don’t involve a bullet through my carotid but if I play my cards right, I may walk away with just a flesh wound.
Guess we’ll see if I make it out of this alive or not.
Slowly, I release my fingers from around Cary’s throat and the smug look on his face only makes me regret my decision.
Taking my finger off the trigger, I raise both of my hands in the air and take a step back.
Then another. When I take a third step away from Cary, the mafia wannabe makes his second biggest mistake. The first being that he threatened me.
“You all right, sir?” That tiny bit of distraction is all I need to get myself out of this unfortunate situation.
Before Cary can answer his bodyguard, my helmet is connecting with his skull hard enough to knock him out.
Somehow, I’m quick enough to grab his gun before he drops it but the other guy is now pointing his own Beretta—got that one right—straight at my helmet.
Thankfully, I’ve got two and they’re each pointing at a different asshole.
“Well, this escalated rather quickly.” Cary straightens his jacket, attempting and failing to wipe off the mud my rooster tail stunt sprayed all over his lapels.
“I don’t like being touched and I sure as fuck don’t like being threatened.” I’m starting to question my life choices because wearing this helmet is not practical in the least. Problem is, my hands are a little tied up at the moment.
“Gerald, lower your gun.” At the sound of the name, my attention goes straight to the man aiming the Beretta at my face.
Gerald. Why does that name ring a fucking bell?
Cocking my head to the side, I rack my brain for the information I know is there.
“But, sir, are you sure?” Is this guy a former client?
No, that feels completely off. Maybe he was military?
That idea is quickly squashed as my gaze runs up and down his form.
His stance is off, definitely not trained to kill by the government.
His focus is subpar, not even worthy of a cadet.
He’s a hired gun and barely good at even that.
“Yeah, yeah. Mr…well, I still don’t know his name, will do the same as soon as he realizes we’re not here to kill him.”
Raines. Gerald Raines.
Motherfucker.
Cary was wrong, it didn’t escalate quickly earlier but it’s about to, faster than he could ever anticipate. This is the guy who got flagged on my surveillance system the night Berkleigh was raped and left for dead.
There were three men that night, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess that he and his two sidekicks were responsible for hurting my Sweet Bee.
“Why did you want to hire me?” My voice is low, my venom sharp.
“I told your employer. I have a bit of a problem on hand and need it taken care of.” I checked the mark, he was no one dangerous, no red flags and no priors.
That’s why I refused the job. I don’t kill normal people or for shits and giggles.
I kill the scum of the earth. Essentially, I kill people like myself.
From the corner of my eye, I see Gerald lowering his gun and I don’t hesitate.
One bullet from the chamber flies out of the barrel and carves a perfect circle in the middle of his forehead.
I take a deep breath at the satisfaction of seeing red liquid oozing out and spilling down the sides of his nose before he even hits the ground.
“Well, that’s unfortunate.” I’m about to put a bullet through Cary’s skull when his next words stop me in my tracks. “If you kill me, she’s dead.”
Needless to say, I didn’t kill him, but I did knock his fucking ass out, drop him in the trunk of his car, and after swiping the keys of the car from the dead prick, I drove straight to my place.
To be clear, my people-ing skills have a definite limit and I reached it about five seconds into the conversation with Cary fucking Lindberg. His hand on me was the drop that cleared the way for the tsunami of what-the-fuck-up-ness that is my pure, unadulterated rage this very second.