Pay The Penance (Mechanic Trilogy Book 3)

by Rob Ashman

  ‘If we can connect the money transactions from Nassra Shamon to Sheldon Chemicals we have game on.’

  Lucas nodded and cracked a smile.

  Harper continued, ‘We need to dig deeper into our new friend Gerry Vickers, because a thought occurred to me while you were off playing IRS investigator.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re looking for someone who can lay their hands on the latest military hardware, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, San Diego is homeport to the Pacific Fleet, the biggest US naval base in the States.’

  13

  The Nassra Shamon bandwagon was gathering pace. Mills had failed to make headway with the hotel murders or the drug-related killings and his reputation was crumbling around his ankles. The discovery of Nassra Shamon had given him a face he could chase, even if he had no idea where the woman was.

  Mills was determined to crack this one and was throwing his weight around. Moran, on the other hand, was busy trying to work out how to stop her career from being tossed onto the bonfire. How could she distance herself from the investigation into the killing of Ramirez? If she was right, and Nassra Shamon and Mechanic were the same person, then arresting Shamon could bring Moran’s employment and liberty to an abrupt end. However, if she was right, then she also held the trump card. The chance of Mills getting anywhere near Shamon was virtually zero.

  ‘New work orders,’ Mills barked as he entered the office. ‘I need to shuffle people around to cover the bases.’ He allocated new roles and tasks to the team. ‘Moran, I want you on the money. Find out about Shamon’s financial affairs.’

  Shit, she knew exactly what she was going to find. She was backed into a corner and could see no way out.

  The phone rang, it was Harper.

  ‘Give me your details caller and I will ring you back,’ Moran said fighting the urge to tell him to go to hell. She made her way to a side office and closed the door.

  ‘What do you want now?’ she spat into the receiver.

  ‘Good morning to you too.’

  ‘Look, Harper, I did what you asked. Give me a break.’

  ‘You did, and that proved very useful. And now you need to help us again.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We want you to run a name through the system: Gerry Vickers. He owns a business called Sheldon Chemicals operating out of San Diego. Turns out it’s a subsidiary of Helix Holdings. He came up on the list you sent.’

  ‘What’s so special about him?’

  ‘He’s different, that’s all.’ Harper was keen not to give anything away.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘The usual – last known address, any previous, known associates, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I gave you that before.’

  ‘Run it again. There has to be more to this guy than what you sent us.’

  ‘This has to be the last time. Things are hotting up around here and I’m struggling to keep a lid on this.’

  ‘Hotting up how?’

  ‘They’ve identified Nassra Shamon as a possible murder suspect and have launched an all-hands investigation.’

  ‘Murder? Who did she kill?’

  ‘A man called Ramirez. With the spotlight on her it’s only a matter of time before the forensic accountants are all over Helix Holdings, then your guy Gerry Vickers will be next, and the direct line to Mechanic will be dead.’

  ‘Shit, you need to bury it.’

  ‘Don’t talk stupid. All that whisky must have rotted your brain. I can’t bury information like that.’

  ‘We want Gerry Vickers to ourselves, you need to find a way to delete those records.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? The woman is a murder suspect, do you honestly believe that’s possible?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe, what’s important is what are you going to do about it?’

  Moran fell silent, beads of sweat forming on her upper lip.

  Harper continued to turn the screw. ‘You told me that you believed Nassra Shamon and Mechanic were the same person. If that’s true, and it increasingly looks like you’re right, you don’t want your uniformed friends getting to Vickers first. If they do, I will be the least of your troubles.’

  ‘I can give you seventy-two hours max, then that’s it. After that, I will have to give up the account details. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘I need the info about Vickers fast.’

  ‘I’ll get you what you want. Give me an hour and I’ll fax anything I find to the usual number, but this has to be the last time.’ She banged the phone down.

  Sitting alone in a side office she could hear the noise of intense activity taking place outside. Mills was whipping the troops, and himself, into a frenzy. She had to get creative if she was to buy herself seventy-two hours.

  An hour later the fax machine in the public records office churned out a single page. The lady behind the desk said, ‘Twenty cents, please’. Lucas fished around and put the coin in her hand.

  He and Harper sat in the quiet zone reading the document.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Harper.

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘You sure you’ve not left more on the printer?’

  ‘No, that’s all of it.’

  ‘We got a name, an address and a driver’s licence. That’s not much to go on.’

  Lucas was thinking, then the obvious went off in his head like a grenade. ‘We have everything we want right here.’

  ‘But there’s jack shit to go on.’

  ‘Precisely. It’s like this guy exists in name only.’

  Harper had the same grenade moment.

  ‘A fictitious company run by a fictitious man.’ Harper paused. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Moran said we gotta move fast because the cops are looking for Nassra Shamon in connection with a murder. She will delay giving them the financial records but she figures we have seventy-two hours tops. I told her to delete them but she won’t play ball.’

  ‘Better get a move on and book a flight.’

  Moran perched on the corner of a table and glanced at her watch: 7.15pm. Her desk looked like a fire hazard with paper sprawled into every corner. The office was deserted. In front of her lay a computer printout with the three payments to Helix Holdings highlighted in yellow, the last one made the day before Shamon killed Ramirez and the cop. The line below was the entry for the following day, it said Account Closed.

  She stared into the middle distance playing with scenarios in her head. How could she put the brakes on? How could she delay without making it obvious?

  The conference door across the hallway banged against the doorstop snatching her from her thoughts, Mills blundered in.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Didn’t know anyone was still here.’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’

  ‘How you getting on with the Shamon accounts?’

  Moran slid the printout under the mound of paper.

  ‘There’s something screwy with the transactions. I remember looking at this before, when we first investigated the cop found dead at her apartment. It was all in order, but now the account has been corrupted with a bunch of weird shit. I need to get hold of the bank first thing tomorrow to straighten it out.’

  ‘Okay. You sound tired, get yourself home.’

  ‘Yeah, I was just packing up.’

  ‘Me too.’ Mills swung his arms through his jacket and picked up a briefcase.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ Moran blurted out.

  Mills looked like she’d asked him to lend her a million dollars. Moran could see the cogs spinning as he tried to make sense of the request.

  ‘Er, well, yes, I suppose so.’

  It was not the enthusiastic ‘Oh, yes please’ response she had expected.

  ‘Look, if you’re busy that’s fine, I didn’t fancy going home straightaway.’

  ‘No, listen, that
would be good. I could do with a beer.’ Mills was recovering well.

  Moran grabbed her bag and he held the door for her.

  ‘You have a favourite place?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not been here long enough.’

  ‘I know a bar that’s nearby, it does fantastic ice-cold beer with chips and salsa.’

  Moran walked down the corridor, making small talk, clutching her bag to her chest. If she was going to delay spilling the beans on the Shamon account, she needed to be on the right side of the guy who was going to ask for it. She was not looking forward to the evening, no matter how cold the beer or good the chips and salsa.

  14

  The taxi door swung open and Mechanic looked out across the hotel concourse. The concierge stared at her legs as they emerged from the back seat, the hem of her dress rising ever higher as she slid out. The sequined material shimmered under the spotlights piercing the darkness above. She towered over the gawping man in her stripper’s heels.

  Two men in monkey suits swished open the double glass doors and Mechanic made her way through reception, her heels announcing her presence as she crossed the marble floor. Business types stopped their inane chatter as she slinked into the lounge bar. The throw around her shoulders hid little of her cleavage and her legs seemed to go on forever. Her short blonde hair was now long and auburn while the green contacts electrified her eyes.

  The hotel smelled of honeysuckle as the air conditioning pumped its corporate brand of scent into the air. The inside was a collage of marble, chrome and deeply upholstered leather. Expensive people draped themselves on expensive chairs, and expensive carpet supported their expensive footwear.

  Mechanic was met by the maitre d’ who was falling over himself to be of service. After a brief discussion he showed her to a seat at the bar and then clicked his fingers to attract the attention of the tuxedo-suited barman. He bowed as he left her, probably to get a closer look at her lack of skirt.

  The bar was long and plush. The mirrored wall behind magnified the effect of the dripping chandeliers. Mechanic inched herself onto the bar stool and crossed her legs. When she moved, the light caught her drop earrings and, with her lips the colour of cherry cola, the barman was falling over himself with eager attention.

  ‘Wild Turkey on ice, please.’

  The barman looked surprised, expecting an order of Moet or Krug rather than Kentucky straight bourbon with a kick like a mule.

  ‘Certainly, madam.’

  The bar was noisy with dinner-suited men and the occasional glitzy woman. The guys were putting on a pitiful show of not looking at the new arrival. Mechanic glanced down the bar at the solitary guy at the far end. He was dressed in a grey suit and an open-necked shirt. He looked up for a moment, then continued to stare into his glass.

  She sipped her drink and the ice chimed against the crystal. She toyed with the glass on the bar and spun it round on the coaster.

  The guy in the open-necked shirt was standing beside her.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ he said in a slow southern drawl.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘when I’ve finished this one.’

  The bar went quiet. The raucous chat was replaced with a ‘Did you see that!’ silence.

  He raised his glass and she chinked hers against it, downing the fiery liquid in one.

  ‘It’s finished,’ Mechanic said and held the glass for him to take.

  He leaned forward and ordered two more.

  ‘You here for business or pleasure?’ he said, turning and placing both hands on the bar. His suit creased tight across his arms and shoulders. Even leaning forward he stood about six feet tall, with chiselled features and the celebrity look of a NFL linebacker.

  ‘Both. How about you?’

  ‘Both.’

  The drinks arrived.

  The man lifted them from the bar and gave one to Mechanic.

  ‘To both business and pleasure,’ he said offering a toast. She chinked his glass and downed it in one. He did the same.

  ‘Two more, please,’ he said to the barman who hadn’t moved from his spot directly in front of them.

  The men at the bar had a collective look of ‘lucky bastard’, while the women had their faces set with a look that said ‘frigging hooker’.

  ‘What business are you in?’ the man asked.

  ‘The people business,’ she replied motioning to him that the drinks had arrived.

  He picked them up and handed her one.

  ‘That sounds like fun. What kind of people?’

  ‘All sorts.’

  She held her drink in the air. The glasses chimed as he struck the rim and they sank the whisky.

  Mechanic held out her hand. No words were necessary. He fished a room key from his pocket and placed it in her open palm. Mechanic slid from the barstool.

  If the bar was quiet before it was deathly silent now. The tuxedoed men were nodding their heads in a mutual show of appreciation that said ‘nice one’. After a few seconds the women continued talking in an ‘I’m not interested’ kind of bluff. Despite their different perspectives, all eyes were fixed on Mechanic’s ass as she sashayed out of the lounge.

  The guy with the open-necked shirt ordered another Wild Turkey and pulled up a stool. He could see the reflection of fifty gawping faces staring back at him in the mirror behind the bar. The drink arrived and he knocked it back. He signed the bill and headed for the elevator, hitting the button marked Executive Suites.

  The doors dinged open and he walked the short distance to room 906. He tapped on the door. Mechanic opened it wide and ushered him into a huge suite. It was comprised of two lounges, with steps leading to a massive bedroom, and a bed big enough to hold a game of baseball.

  Mechanic opened the mini bar and fixed two glasses of Wild Turkey. She held one out for him to take. He removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair.

  He took the drink and chinked his glass against hers.

  ‘So, are we drinking to business or pleasure?’ he asked.

  His hand snaked around her neck and pulled her close. He kissed her and tasted hot liquor in her mouth. She wound her arm around his waist. She could feel him hard against her.

  She dropped her right hand and stroked the front of his pants.

  ‘I said both.’

  She grabbed his balls and squeezed. She felt them squish in her hand as she twisted and tightened her grip.

  The drink fell from his grasp while his legs buckled. She released him and hammered her right knee into his balls. He doubled over, clutching his crotch.

  Whisky slopped from Mechanic’s glass and onto her dress.

  ‘You’ve made a mess,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus,’ he croaked, staggering around.

  Mechanic shoved him and he toppled over backwards onto the floor. He writhed on the carpet, his hands between his legs.

  Mechanic sipped her drink and stood astride him.

  He looked up. She had her hands on her hips allowing him to feast his eyes on the view. Her underwear was discarded on the bed.

  ‘I said, you made a mess.’

  She stamped her heel into his chest. The jagged point tore through his shirt and blood erupted against the white material.

  A torrent of air rasped from his throat.

  She shifted her weight and ground her heel deep into his flesh. His mouth opened and closed as his skin shredded.

  He brought his hands up and seized her foot to alleviate the pressure. Mechanic leaned further forward. He gurgled as her weight tore the air from his lungs.

  She held the position until he could take no more, then stepped back to survey her handiwork.

  ‘Roll onto your front.’ She kicked him in the side.

  He complied, still gasping for breath, his hands clasped to his chest.

  Mechanic retrieved something from the table.

  She straddled his back, leaned forward and forced a ball gag into his mouth. There was a click as it located itself behind his front teeth. He shook
his head and tried to free his hands trapped beneath his body. The leather strap pulled tight across the back of his neck and he retched as the gag was drawn deep into his gaping mouth.

  Mechanic tugged his arms from under him and secured them behind his back with a noose tied above his elbows. She stood up and retrieved something else. The man twisted and turned against his bonds, saliva drooling from his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her approaching, her legs and heels filled his vision.

  ‘I’m going to count to ten.’ She circled around him.

  ‘One, two …’

  He craned his neck to see what was in her hand but lost her from view when she stepped behind him.

  ‘Three, four …’

  His body tensed.

  ‘Five, six …’

  He was shaking with anticipation.

  ‘Seven …’

  Mechanic reached down and forced a thick plastic bag over his head, yanking a drawstring cord tight around his neck.

  He let out a stifled scream as the clear plastic clung to his face.

  She laughed and downed the last of her drink, the man choking and squirming at her feet. Mechanic fixed another Wild Turkey and picked up a hunting knife.

  She squatted down in front of him and waved the blade across his field of vision. He could see the steel glinting through the condensation which fogged the inside of the bag. The point of the blade picked at the cotton threads of his shirt as she drew the knife down the length of his back. He struggled beneath her, fighting for breath.

  ‘Mind you be still now,’ she whispered in his ear. The blade flashed severing the shirt away from his skin.

  She shifted forward, drove the blade under the waistband of his pants and slashed it upwards. The material gave way with a tearing sound as the sharp edge cut through his suit.

  Mechanic got to her feet, seized his clothing and yanked it down, lifting the bottom half of his body clear of the ground. His suit pants and underwear were now wound around his ankles.

  She made her way back to the drinks cabinet and cracked the top from another miniature. She watched as the bag around his head inflated like a balloon only to shrink back encasing the contours of his face. His semi-naked body convulsed for oxygen, his lungs burning. She downed the drink in one and picked up the riding crop.