Tanner- Year One Page 2

  The term militia was a misnomer, as the group was in many ways more of a commune. The majority of the members pooled their resources, had a bartering system, and were close-knit. They lived in peace and just wanted to be left alone.

  Nick Cannon disliked the static nature of the militia and thought they could do better than scrape by. When his father, who was the group’s former leader, passed away, Cannon was placed in charge by the militia’s council. Cannon was later voted in by the people who were ignorant of his true nature.

  Nick Cannon began assembling a group that he referred to as his Inner Core. The new members to the militia would be loyal only to him.

  These men weren’t farmers or tradesmen, they were ex-cons and mercenaries, hard men, thieves. There were only a handful of them, ten in all, this included one woman, and they made up a small fraction of the group. Still, the heists, drug dealing, and gun running they engaged in brought in more money than all of the militia’s tamer activities.

  The other members of the group weren’t fools. They were aware that Cannon had chosen to engage in illegal activities. However, it was assumed that it consisted of dealing in marijuana and smuggling unlawful, untaxed cigarettes. Had they known that Cannon’s group was involved in violence, he would have been excommunicated from the militia, founder’s grandson or not.

  The truth was far worse, for Cannon had recently crossed the line into involving himself in the sexual enslavement of women.

  The drug running, weapons sales, and occasional heists his Inner Core was involved with hadn’t been the gold mine Cannon thought they would be. That was why Cannon was tangled up in a new scheme, one both sinister and simplistic, although it had involved taking on a partner.

  Meanwhile, the earlier crimes hadn’t gone unnoticed by the authorities.

  When a former member of Cannon’s Inner Core mercenaries was facing hard time for severely beating a man in a road rage incident, he negotiated for leniency by talking about the group. Until that moment, Nick Cannon and his band of thieves had flown under the law’s radar.

  That had been a turning point in more ways than one. Not only had the group become a target of interest to the authorities, but they also turned to murder. The man who had spoken to the cops was killed in a hit and run “accident” while out on bail. Cannon’s right-hand man, Logan, had been behind the wheel of the pickup truck that killed the man.

  Scrutiny caused Cannon to scale back his activities, which shrank his profits. That changed when Cannon became the partner of a woman with five times his followers.

  Her name was Shasta Shah, and she ran a cult. The two groups were neighbors in the out of the way area where they had their respective compounds. Their borders were separated by less than a mile of forest.

  Nick Cannon’s group concentrated on staying independent, while Shasta Shah’s group focused on Shasta Shah. The cultists ranged in age from toddler to seventy-four-year-old grandmother, but they all had one thing in common, they worshiped Shasta Shah.

  For her part, Shah thought her followers were the greatest of fools. They actually believed wholeheartedly that she was the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian goddess named Saisis. Saisis was a name Shasta had made up on the fly while running a con with her late aunt.

  More than a thousand of the faithful slaved away on a daily basis to grow food, make clothing, and create hand-crafted items to sell. This was after they had signed over all their worldly possessions. Every nickel of profit went into the account of Shasta Shah.

  However, like Cannon, Shah’s desire for wealth was insatiable. It was Shasta Shah who saw that they could do more together than by themselves. She had seduced Cannon into an unholy partnership that had them on their way to gaining the riches they craved.

  “What happened to Cory?” Nick Cannon asked Sullivan. Cory was the name of the dead man lying inside a New York City morgue.

  “There was a problem,” Sullivan said. He and the two men with him were standing in Cannon’s house, inside the office. The three-story home was at the center of the compound, which was enclosed by a chain-link fence. The fence was patrolled night and day and the front gate always had a guard on duty.

  After Sullivan explained what had happened in the bar, Cannon sank into the chair behind his desk.

  “Can this be traced back to us?”

  “Cory wasn’t carrying I.D., and no one will report him missing. He’ll be just another John Doe found in New York City.”

  “Was he ever in the service or arrested?”

  Sullivan hung his head as he answered. “That’s a yes to both, but I still don’t think Cory can be traced here.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s been hanging around the base lately and was all gung-ho about the group, but he still had an apartment somewhere. The cops will check that out and hit a dead-end.”

  “Okay, good, and what about the city, is everything ready?”

  Sullivan grinned. “Robbie came through for us. He rented the warehouse, put in the cots, and stocked the place with food. You can start sending the sheep to the city when you’re ready.”

  “Sheep” was the name the members of the militia gave to the followers of Shasta Shah’s cult. Her members spoke of the woman as if she were a goddess. Shah had carefully fostered that image and kept her flock of true believers brainwashed.

  Nick Cannon grinned at Sullivan. “It’s too bad about Cory, but you did good.”

  Sullivan cocked his head as curiosity etched his features.

  “How much are we raking in, Nick? If you’re paying to set up a place for that cult in New York, there must be big bucks in selling women.”

  “You don’t need to know the nitty gritty details, Sullivan, but I’ll tell you this, there’s money in it, and you and the other men here will be getting a cut. Hell, why wait? You’ll each get a bonus of five-hundred dollars on the next pay period.”

  Sullivan grinned at the news and Cannon was glad to see the curiosity leave his eyes. He hadn’t lied, there was huge money to be made by the pact he had with Shasta Shah. Once they really got things up and moving, they would make millions, and with far less risk than gunrunning or drug deals.

  Sullivan and the others filed out of the office, and Cannon reached for his phone to call his partner.

  Shasta Shah studied her face in a mirror, as always, she liked what she saw. The thirty four year old was model perfect. As a child in Los Angeles, her beauty had been put to use and she appeared in many print and TV ads, selling anything from diapers to swimwear. After her parents died in a plane crash, young Shasta was sent to live with her mother’s aunt. The old woman claimed to be psychic, but she was a con artist.

  By the time Shasta was twelve her aunt had involved her in dozens of confidence games, including one in which young Shasta was touted to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian goddess.

  In the twenty plus years that followed, the con grew, gained believers, and morphed into a cult. Shasta’s aunt died three years earlier, but she lived long enough to see her niece worshipped by hundreds of the faithful. Every time the old lady witnessed it, she laughed like hell.

  As for Shasta, she used her followers. There were over sixteen-hundred of them at her compound and many more scattered across the country. With the internet growing and the power of infomercials increasing, she would soon draw additional thousands to her, possibly millions worldwide.

  Despite that, Shasta was dissatisfied and sometimes pitied herself. Being a cult leader wasn’t as glamourous as people imagined. Some years she was lucky to clear two million dollars.

  It was true that as a “religion” Shasta’s “church” enjoyed a tax-free status but that didn’t mean there weren’t expenses.

  Much of the money accumulated by the church had been used to build the golden palace she lived in. The one-hundred and eleven-foot-high structure sat at the center of the cult’s compound. Its gleaming spiral design could be viewed from miles away. It had every luxury Shah craved and she lived in it
alone, with her followers slaving away to keep it cleaned and maintained.

  Shasta rose from her vanity and walked over to look out her balcony doors. In the distance she could see the fields where corn was ripening. Some of her people were out in the fields and pulling up weeds. For their hard work and dedication, they would receive two skimpy meals during the day and a thin mattress to sleep on at night. Better yet, they would never have to think their own thoughts or feel responsible for their lives. They had given their lives over to the goddess, to Shasta Shah, and she had sworn to take care of their every need and cherish them forever.

  Idiots!

  Shasta’s phone rang. The caller I.D. told her it was Nick Cannon phoning. She sighed, rolled her eyes, then answered in a cheerful manner.

  “Hi, Nick, I was hoping you’d call.”

  “I’ve got news, baby. Everything is set up in New York City.”

  “And what about the money?”

  “That won’t happen until after we hand over your people.”

  “And how much longer will that take?”

  “Maybe another two weeks or so, my man Logan is setting up the deal with the buyers now.”

  “Why does everything take so long?”

  “We’re dealing in bigger numbers now. Be patient a little longer and we’ll both be richer than we ever dreamed.”

  Shasta smiled. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

  Outside Shah’s bedroom, one of the faithful was busy scrubbing the marble staircase. Her name was Kate Wyman. Before joining the cult, she had been a computer programmer.

  In Kate’s left ear was a flesh-colored device that allowed her to listen in to Shasta Shah’s phone calls. She had joined the cult in an effort to find out what had happened to her little sister, Joy. Joy had stopped calling after joining the cult, then months later, she returned home claiming to have left the cult behind her. Weeks after returning home, Joy walked out of their mother’s house and disappeared.

  The authorities investigated and declared that Shasta Shah’s cult had no culpability. The cult claimed that Joy had left them and ended all contact. Kate had to admit that her sister seemed to have put that part of her life behind her. And even if she hadn’t, the cult had no reason to track her down and abduct her. It was said that new members were joining Shah’s cult every day.

  Shasta Shah was a sociopath who cared only for herself. Her goddess schtick seemed ridiculous to Kate, but the woman conned the gullible into believing her lies.

  Still, Joy had never before been so easily taken in. It boggled Kate’s mind whenever she thought of her baby sister worshipping at Shasta Shah’s feet. How could anyone fall for such nonsense? Then again, in the United States alone there were over five-thousand cults. The search for meaning in life often took seekers down perilously wrong roads.

  The police were unable to tie Shah’s cult to Joy’s disappearance, but Kate didn’t believe it. Something had happened to Joy when she was inside the cult. Kate was determined to find out what that was, and now she knew that the nearby militia was involved somehow.

  Not everyone in Shasta Shah’s compound was a sheep. Kate was a wolf, and she wouldn’t give up until she discovered what had become of her little sister.

  Back in New York City, Tanner met Pullo at the diner again in the afternoon for a late lunch. He had news. He had figured out the meaning of the tattoo.

  “The Liberty Boys Militia?” Pullo asked.

  “Yeah, they’re a small group in western Pennsylvania. I found a photo of the same tattoo after several hours of searching on the web last night.”

  “What does a militia do?”

  “This one has been peaceful and kept to themselves as far as I can tell, but that may have changed.”

  “Are they located near that leather goods shop in Altoona?”

  “I’m not sure, but they have a base somewhere in western Pennsylvania. That means the man you want will be surrounded by his friends.”

  “And those friends will have guns, but that don’t matter, Tanner. The bastard who killed Al will pay.”

  “I hear you, but we can’t just walk into a military-style compound and start blasting away. We’ll be outgunned.”

  “What’s your plan then?”

  “I don’t have a plan, not yet, and we still have to identify the guy in the morgue. To do that, I think we need to go to Altoona and look at the customer records of that leather goods shop. They should have the customer’s name on file.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Sam and tell him I need time off.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “No, Sam liked Al too.”

  “One more thing,”

  “Yeah?”

  “Those men may have been in that bar for a reason, maybe they were meeting someone there, or someone that worked there.”

  “I know that bar, and I don’t think any of the staff—wait a minute, yeah, there’s a bartender that works there named Robbie Vespa.”

  “What about him?”

  “These militia types, they’re always talking about how rotten the government is, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Robbie Vespa is the same way. I bet that guy can recite the U.S. Constitution to you from memory too.”

  “If they were all militia members then maybe they were there to see Vespa.”

  Pullo took out his cell phone. “Let me call the bar and see if I can get his address.”

  The conversation was a short one. The bar had no address for Vespa but said that he would be working that night.

  “That was Al’s partner I talked to, he said Vespa will be in between nine and closing.”

  “Why so late?”

  “He’s a part-timer, and Al always let the female bartender leave early so she could put her kids to bed.”

  “I guess we’ll talk to him then, do you want to meet back here?”

  “That works for me,” Pullo said, “and thanks, Tanner. I feel like we’re going to track down the guy that killed Al.”

  “We’ll get him. People always think they can hide, but they can’t, not forever.”

  “Where did you learn this stuff?”

  “I had a mentor,” Tanner said, as he thought of Spenser. The last time he’d spoken to him, Tanner was pleased to learn that Spenser was no longer walking with a cane. Thoughts of who had caused Spenser’s injuries flooded Tanner’s mind. He pushed them aside. He refused to think of her. He couldn’t think of her.

  Pullo placed money on the table. “I’ll pick up the tab on the meals while we hunt down Al’s murderer, and remember, I’ll be paying you too.”

  “I remember,” Tanner said, but he didn’t care about the money. He was grateful to be busy. Being busy kept his mind off the past, off of thoughts of… her.

  Tanner left the diner with Pullo. There was a billiards parlor across the street, Pullo pointed at it.

  “Do you shoot pool?”

  “It’s been a while, but I like playing.”

  “We could kill some time in there until we have to be in the bar, if you don’t have plans.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The two men spent the afternoon and early evening shooting pool, while growing closer.

  4

  Quick On The Draw

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK JULY 2004

  Robbie Vespa walked into the tavern and found the surviving owner staring at him with an odd look on his face.

  “What’s up, Mr. DeAngelo?”

  The older man just nodded back at him while continuing to stare. George DeAngelo had been thinking since Pullo had phoned to ask when Robbie would be in. DeAngelo’s thoughts had been about the night his partner was killed. Thinking back, he’d remembered that the men who’d caused the trouble had sat at the bar and spoken to Robbie Vespa when they first entered.

  Vespa wondered why DeAngelo was glaring at him. He checked his watch. He was sure he was not only on time but early. He was right, he had arrived twelve minutes before he was sc
heduled. Still, the old man’s stare was unnerving.

  “You did tell the cops everything you know about the men that killed Al, didn’t you, Robbie?”

  “Yeah, not that it was much.”

  “You said that the three that ran off had accents like they were from the deep south, but the guy that was hitting on the woman didn’t talk like that.”

  “Yeah, um, he must have been from somewhere else.”

  “Uh-huh,” DeAngelo said. “The thing is, no one else remembered them talking like that either.”

  Vespa moved past the old man and went behind the bar, where he tied on an apron. The bartender he was there to replace cleared away a table and said her goodbyes. Vespa handled the other few customers in the bar then proceeded to cut up lemon and orange slices for the drinks. Whenever he looked up, he saw DeAngelo staring at him with suspicion in his eyes.

  Something’s not right.

  Vespa finished his chore and poured a new arrival a mug of beer. As he made change, he palmed all the folding money from the cash register, then headed for the office. Vespa knew from previous bouts of snooping around that there was petty cash kept in the desk, along with a gun. Vespa tucked the gun in his waistband, pocketed the envelope holding the cash, and headed for the door to the alley. He was aware that Al Bellini had mob ties. The last thing he wanted was to have the man’s friends link him to the murder. He would lie low until he was able to leave the city and head back to the militia.

  Outside the bar, Tanner and Pullo were walking toward the entrance after having arrived in the area on a subway train. The street was quiet, and the traffic held back by a red light. As they approached, Robbie Vespa stepped from the alleyway. He and Pullo spotted each other at the same time. Pullo called to him.

  “Hey, Robbie, I want to ask you a few questions.”

  A look of panic blossomed on Vespa’s face. He ripped the gun from his waistband but never got the chance to use it. Both Tanner and Pullo had pulled their weapons and shot the smaller man. Vespa dropped to the ground with a wound to the chest and head.