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chain-and-padlock sealing it up and pulled the door open.
    The stink was thick and human, feces and urine and BO.  That was good; it meant his property was still alive.  Tanner stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and walked over to the cage that took up half the room. 
    The man behind the bars was huge, closer to seven feet tall than six, with an enormous beer gut and muscular arms covered from wrist to shoulder with tattoos: Harley-Davidsons ridden by naked women, screaming demons in sunglasses, sinuous dragons wrapped around tumbling dice.  His bushy orange beard was matted, filthy, and shot through with gray.  He was naked save for a metal helmet with a visor that covered his eyes securely strapped to his head, and his range of motion was severely limited by the chains fastened around his wrists, ankles, and waist.  The bucket in one corner was giving off a great deal of the smell. 
    The giant was on his feet, swaying slightly from side-to-side.  Tanner could hear heavy industrial death-metal leaking from the headphones inside the helmet.  He wondered how much of the man’s mind was left.  Well, he was still alive--that was the important thing.
    Tanner sat down at the desk on the far side of the room and turned on his computer.  It was amazing where you could get Internet service these days, especially if you were willing to invest in satellite equipment. 
    He connected to the net and got to work.  First he checked on how his investments were doing—as a financial analyst, that habit was so ingrained as to be automatic.  No fires to put out, though the economy continued to thrash like a dying animal; the sabbatical he’d recently decided to take was looking more and more like the first step in changing careers than a brief respite from the trenches.  No matter—he had enough squirreled away that he could stay afloat for some time, and his new hobby had opened up some interesting new possibilities for revenue flow.  Not that he could implement any of them at the moment, but he was willing to bide his time. 
    And in the meantime, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

C HAPTER F IVE
     
Remote: I use technology.
The basis of my control system is a series of small, shaped charges of plastique held firmly against the body. Steel cables sandwiched between riveted leather straps hold them in place.  That’s the deterrent part of the package.
The compliance part is more complex, and more important.  Some of the modules attached to the harness contain electronics, which ensures constant contact between myself and my instruments—or, as I call them, my drones—electronics that use both Bluetooth and cellular technology to link me to a small spycam and microphone concealed on the drone’s person.  There’s also a taser built into the harness, in case the drone needs to be persuaded in a moment of weakness.  That rarely happens, though; I choose my instruments carefully.
    “Sonofabitch,” Jack whispered.  “He can’t be serious.”
Jack: I find it hard to believe you could maintain control in such a situation.  What if your drone tries to alert someone to what’s going on?
 
Remote: I’ve considered every eventuality.  They’re required to keep their hands in sight at all times; I allow no texting or writing of notes.  During the period I control a drone, my attention is absolute; I am with them every second until they complete their task. 
But the key to my success is neither intimidation nor complete control; it’s
information
.  
I’m sending you a video file.  It’s the same one I have each of my drones watch when I first acquire them.  They wake up from being drugged, usually in a hotel room, with a note taped to one hand that says “You are strapped to a bomb.  Watch this DVD if you want to survive.”
     
    ***
    The screen showed a graphic of a harness, with straps that cinched around the waist, thighs and neck.  The voiceover was machine-generated, but it was an