by Rob Ashman
The intel and surveillance provided by Silverton was more like a military briefing dossier. Mechanic learned that the Turks operated in teams of three with one guy being a dedicated shooter for when things got rough. They peddled a wide range of drugs from crack cocaine, tina and LSD, to party poppers, and prided themselves on being a one-stop shop for all your recreational needs. Silverton had already identified the team to be hit and it wasn’t going to be easy.
They worked out of a derelict house on a rundown estate. Either the developer had run out of cash or lost interest but there were around twenty part-completed homes. It had one road in and out due to the burned-out vehicles and garbage blocking the adjoining routes. The Turks occupied the property which had the sign saying Show Home.
A gunman sat in the upstairs window keeping watch, while the other two took care of business from the front garden, which was surrounded by a three-foot-high wall. Punters would place their order with one guy and leave money on the wall, the other guy would dispense their purchases, also by leaving them on the wall. It was a non-contact transaction carried out under the watchful eye of an assault rifle sticking out of the bedroom window.
Mechanic viewed the grainy reconnaissance photographs provided by Silverton. It was a slick set-up for sure but with one tiny flaw. All the action took place at the front of the house, who was looking after the back?
Mechanic parked up and looked at the green digits on the dashboard. They read 11.30pm. She got out of the car, pulled the rucksack across one shoulder and approached the estate on foot. She stopped about two hundred yards out, unzipped a side pouch and took out a single lens night-sight. She twisted the ratchet and the back of the house came into focus. It looked deserted.
She crossed the ground using the other properties for cover and at fifty yards out repeated the observation. Nothing had changed. Music was playing and cackling laughter drifted towards her on the breeze. They seemed to be a happy team.
Mechanic reached the house and crouched at the back wall. She could hear the steady stream of business out front with punters revving their engines and women shrieking.
She tried the back door. It was locked – a peculiar safety measure as the window next to it contained no glass. Mechanic eased her way through the opening and dropped to the other side. She remained still, tuning into the sounds and smells of the drug den.
The place was gutted, every fitting, every worktop, every door was missing and the floor was stripped down to bare concrete. Mechanic drew her gun and crossed the kitchen into the living room. She cursed under her breath. The whole house was littered with broken glass, beer cans and pizza boxes, not easy to negotiate in silence. She picked her way through the obstacle course staying close to the inside wall. The front window was a gaping hole onto the garden and she could hear the two out front welcoming their regulars. Mechanic climbed the stairs, sticking to the edge, and as she reached the top it was easy to spot which room contained the shooter. He was in the one behind the solid metal door with no handle on the outside. She eased the thick blade of her hunting knife under the door and levered it towards her. The door was solid. Locked shut.
Mechanic surveyed her options. The doorway immediately to the right led to a bedroom. She entered and positioned herself against the front wall near the window. From her bag she fished out a small round mirror on a telescopic arm and inched it above the window ledge. Mechanic angled it and could see across the front of the building. As she watched the barrel of the assault rifle poked out into the night.
She put the mirror down and looked around the floor for something to throw. A cluster of nuts and bolts lay in one corner, the product of removing the fitted furniture during the house gutting. Mechanic gathered them up and waited.
Outside was a non-stop procession of cars with people eager to score. She would have to wait, this was not a time to be impatient.
After about an hour it all went quiet. Mechanic positioned the mirror over the ledge and the two men outside were chatting. There were no cars and no customers. This was her time.
She threw three of the bolts at the left-hand corner of the front wall. The garden guys shouted something at each other and went to investigate. Mechanic could see more of the gun barrel in the mirror as the shooter edged forward. She threw two more into the same corner. They clattered against the wall.
This time one of the two men at the front called to the shooter.
‘Hey man. Did you hear that? Something’s down here!’
The shooter leaned out of the window to get a better view. Mechanic threw her last bolt.
‘Hey, what the hell, man?’ said one of the garden men as it struck him on the back.
‘Are you seeing anything?’ the other called to the shooter.
He leaned out of the window, aiming his rifle into the corner.
A fraction further. That’s it. A little more …
The bullet hit him below his right ear and he crumpled back into the house, a muffled spit as the shell splattered blood against the brickwork. Mechanic spun her aim around and the man nearest the house took the first shot in his shoulder and the second in the head. The remaining garden guy still couldn’t work out where the shots were coming from and took cover against the front wall. This was the easiest of all. Two more shots blew his head wide open.
Mechanic packed away her gear, went downstairs, through the front door and into the garden. She removed her rucksack and slid out the two-foot metal reinforcing bar.
‘Now which one of you wants to be famous?’
29
Lucas favoured the subtle approach based upon deception while Harper preferred an armoured vehicle through the front door and stun grenades. Planning the abduction of Jo Sells was proving to be a challenge.
They clashed on a minute-by-minute basis. Lucas pressed hard his opinion that a forced abduction would inevitably lead to police involvement, which was difficult to argue against. But despite this Lucas struggled to persuade Harper to ditch his Wild West option.
In order to take a well-earned break from the constant arguing they watched the house as much as they could to gain insight into Jo’s condition.
The daily routine was repetitive. Jeb Huxton left the house every morning at 7am and returned at 5.45pm, dinner was on the table at quarter past six sharp. Jenny-Jay occasionally shopped for groceries but for the main part stayed in the house attending to the two women. Other than the mailman they didn’t have any visitors.
During the dark hours Lucas and Harper took turns to observe the bizarre proceedings as the family sat in front of the TV, absorbing their regular diet of game shows and cop programmes. On each occasion Jo was completely inert in her wheelchair and showed no physical responses whatsoever, while Jenny-Jay busied around her. Jo was always immaculately dressed with a food tube plumbed into her stomach.
Harper persisted in championing the forced entry approach until one evening he looked through the kitchen window and saw Jeb Huxton sitting at the large oak table. He had interrupted his normal ritual of shouting at the TV to enjoy a beer and clean his guns. It was difficult to tell, but Harper estimated there were at least five different firearms laid across the table. Harper was so preoccupied trying to identify the stocks, barrels and magazines he almost missed Jenny-Jay entering the room. She sat down next to her husband and began assembling components as casually as if she were putting the blades into her Magimix.
With that amount of firepower, coupled with that amount of expertise, an approach based on deception now seemed to Harper to be the best way forward.
Lucas’s plan was bold and required confidence but with a soft touch. The problem was they’d only have one shot at it and there was no plan B.
They would hire a wheelchair-accessible vehicle, wait for Jeb to go to work and simply knock on the front door. The storyline was they had come to collect Jo and take her to the Sunny Village nursing home in Clover Heights. It was a week’s respite organised by Jo’s sister. Harper had paid Sunny Village a
visit and managed to come away with a professional glossy brochure, a current price list and a pad of letterheaded paper.
They rehearsed what they were going to say until it was word perfect and were well prepared for the ‘I know nothing about this’ reaction. The whole strategy hinged on them being persuasive and believable.
Once they had Jo, they needed somewhere to keep her out of sight. Lucas sourced a nursing home in a place called Victorville to the east of Los Angeles and arranged for her to be admitted for a week. The downside was it was a three-hour drive away, which made it a logistical nightmare. The upside was there was a high probability that Mechanic wouldn’t be able to locate her. They briefly considered keeping Jo themselves at a motel but quickly dismissed it as a bad idea. They couldn’t cope with her needs and, despite Harper’s opinion to the contrary, it still seemed sensible she was kept alive.
Setting up the communications link with Mechanic was complex and high risk. If they used telephones to make contact she would inevitably figure out the call locations and come after them. Lucas had fallen foul of Mechanic’s abilities to work her magic with a telecoms network before and was not about to repeat it. They had to make their demands in a way which could not be traced back. There had to be a physical cut-off between them and the messages. The solution was newspaper advertisements.
The Vegas Bulletin was a free paper, circulated daily, which printed classified ads for local businesses in the area. It also had an extensive personal section where the seedier side of Vegas touted for custom. Strip joints and massage services covered almost as many column inches as the more traditional trades. The paper accepted adverts on a daily basis over the phone and a one-off payment of a hundred bucks bought you twenty ads. You placed your ad one day for it to appear the next. Another advantage was that they accepted cash.
The sequencing of the ads was important. Lucas wanted Mechanic to receive two messages on the day they took Jo. This would maximise the shock and keep her off balance. He preordered the opening ad to go to press the day before the snatch. Lucas would place the second ad for it to be printed on the day.
During the pickup Lucas would give Jenny-Jay a sealed envelope to pass on to Mechanic. The cover story was that it contained administrative paperwork. It actually contained the personal ads page from the Bulletin with advert number one.
Once Jo was safely in the van they would to ask Jenny-Jay to put a courtesy call through to Mechanic to let her know Jo had been collected safely. They figured this would have a bombshell effect and compel Mechanic to head straight for the Huxton place. Jenny-Jay would give the envelope to Mechanic and bang! – message number one delivered. This would lead her to that day’s newspaper and bang! – message number two delivered.
Once Mechanic was hooked, they would run a series of daily ads detailing how the trade was to take place and how she was to give herself up. It was far from ideal, but then when could any of this be described as ideal?
After four days of quarrelling, frantic planning and acute boredom, Lucas and Harper pulled the hired van onto the dirt track leading to Honeydew House. It felt odd to drive past their usual pull-in place, where they had previously observed the comings and goings from a safe distance. Both men were silent, both awash with nervous anxiety.
They passed through the wide front gates and killed the engine. Lucas cast a sideways glance at Harper.
‘Remember, keep it light, keep it conversational and smile. Any problems and we walk away.’
Harper nodded and stepped out of the van. They were both dressed in white two-piece coveralls purchased from a DIY superstore. At least it went some way towards giving the impression of clinical care. Lucas rapped on the door.
They could hear voices from inside and Jenny-Jay opened the door.
She shielded her eyes against the morning sun. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘Good morning, ma’am, we are from the Sunny Village nursing home in Clover Heights.’ Lucas smiled and consulted his clipboard. ‘We are here to pick up Jo.’
Jenny-Jay Huxton furrowed her brow.
Lucas continued, ‘Ma’am we have a pick up time of 10.30am. Is she ready? I believe she has a wheelchair.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry but there seems to be some confusion,’ said Jenny-Jay holding her hands up in a gesture of apology.
‘Ma’am, Jo’s sister arranged for her to stay with us at Sunny Village and we kind of assumed she would have told you. She booked Jo in for a week. It’s to give you a break and for Jo to have a change of scenery.’
‘No, no, no, I don’t think that’s right.’ Jenny-Jay shook her head.
Lucas consulted his clipboard once more and handed it to her. The headed paper had their name, address and pick-up time clearly typed across it. There was no mention of Jo’s surname or Mechanic’s. It was the best Harper could do given the time.
‘We have another guest to collect this morning, ma’am, so if we could get Jo settled into the vehicle we’ll be on our way.’ Harper smiled, reciting his lines perfectly.
‘You don’t understand, there must be some mistake,’ Jenny-Jay said.
‘Sorry, ma’am, but there seems to be a slight breakdown in communications here.’ Lucas waved his hand at the clipboard. ‘I’m sure you can sort it out later with Jo’s sister. She was really excited about Jo going on this mini-break. She’ll have a fabulous time with us at Sunny Village.’
Jenny-Jay looked at the paper and back to Lucas and Harper. It was not going well.
‘Ma’am, if we could pick up Jo and we’ll be on our way.’ Harper was still manically smiling.
‘But she’s not here.’ Jenny-Jay handed back the documentation.
‘She’s not?’ replied Lucas.
‘No, the other people came and picked her up earlier this morning.’
‘The other people?’ said Lucas.
‘Yeah, he was from …’ She disappeared inside and returned holding a piece of paper with a logo on the top. ‘Forever Young. A home for the young at heart.’ She offered the document to Lucas who read it and passed it to Harper.
‘Jo left this morning you say?’ It was Harper’s turn to look confused.
‘Yup. Jessica, Jo’s sister, must have made two bookings or something, because a nice young man came and took Jo there this morning.’
Lucas and Harper were stuck for words. Their careful scripting had not considered this eventuality.
Jenny-Jay reached across and took the paper from Harper.
‘She must have got confused somewhere along the way. She works so hard, I expect she got her wires crossed. Sorry, gentlemen, but looks like the other place got the booking and not you.’
Lucas and Harper were stunned into silence.
Jenny-Jay continued, ‘Mind you, I think it’s highly sensible that Sunny Village has sent two of you to collect her. The other lot weren’t very well set up at all.’
‘How do you mean, not well set up?’ asked Lucas.
‘Well I mean I had to help the poor chap. Not his fault I know and it is good that they’re encouraging people back into useful work. But I mean it wasn’t right.’
Lucas’s sixth sense made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘What wasn’t right, Mrs Huxton?’
‘Well I mean, fancy sending a young chap to collect someone in a wheelchair when he’s only got one arm.’
30
Moran sat in Brennan’s office waiting. He was already fifteen minutes late and she was starting to understand her place in the office pecking order, a realisation which didn’t sit well with her at all.
In her last workplace Moran’s life in uniform was fast and furious, but for everyone else it was relatively steady and mundane. Her drive and determination was relentless and, for the people she worked with, completely exhausting. She burned with an intensity which was hard to live with. Her career was everything and she made sure people knew it.
A series of failed relationships forced her to take stock of her life. She need
ed to ease back a little. Work got in the way of everything and while she knew it was the major contributory factor to her still being single at thirty-one, she preferred to put that down to a bad choice of men.
Her decision to reappraise her life and modify her ambition lasted less than twenty-four hours. The very next day she put in for a transfer to Vegas. A month later and she moved into a new flat with her new job in homicide. Ease back a little? What had she been thinking …
As she sat waiting, she could feel the adrenaline coursing through her. There were inconsistencies between the latest killings and the usual turf war hits. She prided herself on spotting patterns and inconsistencies which others would overlook, and the recent killings struck her as odd.
Brennan blustered in, with no apology, and flopped down behind his desk.
‘How you doing? I didn’t get to have that coffee with you, did I?’
‘No sir, but that’s fine.’
‘We must do that. Anyway, you wanted to see me.’
‘Yes, it’s about the bodies you sent me to look at in the mortuary and the drug-related murders from the other night.’
‘Okay, what’s up?’
‘It’s the unusual nature of the murders, sir. On the surface it looks like a turf war but the method of killing doesn’t stack up. Usually when one gang goes up against another—’
‘Mills is running with this, right?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes sir, he’s the detective in charge.’
‘What does he think?’
‘Well he’s of the opinion there’s nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Then that’s good, right? I mean we have this happen on a regular basis.’
‘I understand that but I think this is different. I’ve looked at the records going back and where one gang takes out another there’s a recognised formula. This doesn’t follow the pattern. I’ve listed the inconsistencies here.’ She handed him a document.
