The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  Moran thought for a moment. ‘There may be a way of doing both.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By running with the hare and the hounds.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘We play it both ways. Mechanic wants you to offer up either Harper or Bassano or she will kill again. The assumption on our part is that whoever you select she will kill. So you choose one.’

  ‘But that’s the very thing I can’t do. This is going nowhere.’

  ‘Hear me out. We concoct a story that encourages one of them to put themselves up as bait to draw Mechanic into the open – then we take her out. We know she does things up close and personal and we’ll be ready for it.’

  Lucas considered the plan. ‘What would be the cover story?’

  ‘Don’t know, we need to think of something convincing.’

  Lucas and Moran sat in silence.

  Then Lucas kicked into gear. ‘There is a way to do both, but it will only work with an additional piece in place.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You.’

  Two hours later, Lucas, Harper and Bassano were sitting in a backstreet car park drinking take-out coffee. It was dark and the Vegas night air was hot. Not the best environment for three men in a car. They sat with the windows down.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Bassano asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Lucas replied.

  ‘See what?’ Harper asked. ‘I don’t see jack shit.’

  ‘You will. In fact, here she is now.’

  Another car trundled along the road and parked next to them.

  ‘Oh no, not her again,’ Harper called out, loud enough for Moran to hear.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t have stuck around.’

  Moran ignored Harper’s outburst and climbed into the back seat next to him.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Bassano.

  ‘Shut it,’ Lucas said. ‘I’ve asked Detective Moran to join us because we have a mutual interest.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Harper said giving her a sideways glance. ‘What is it, playing jump rope?’

  ‘Cool it, guys. She’s here to help.’ Lucas was determined to keep control.

  ‘Help with what?’ Bassano was challenging hard.

  ‘Killing Mechanic.’ Moran let the words land with their full weight. The car fell silent and all eyes were on her.

  ‘She worked out our sorry bunch of shit but instead of turning us in she came to me,’ Lucas said.

  ‘What do you mean, worked out?’ asked Bassano.

  ‘Everything, tracking Mechanic to Vegas, taking Jo, the ads in the Bulletin and the motel killings. The full shebang. So I think you both need to shut up and let her speak.’

  ‘I want to be the person who takes Mechanic down, but I can’t do that on my own, I need your help,’ Moran said.

  ‘What for, when you have the whole of LVPD’s finest at your disposal?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I believe we have a leak in the department. We’ve been on Mechanic’s tail since she landed in Vegas but she’s always one step ahead. Those guys are spinning in circles to capture her and she slips straight through, every time. I’m the new girl and to me there’s only one logical explanation. Someone is tipping her off.’

  ‘We know how that feels,’ Harper said with almost a hint of sympathy.

  ‘That’s why I came to Lucas. You guys have done what entire police forces have failed to do, you had a shot at her. You got close.’

  ‘What would we have to do?’ Bassano asked.

  Lucas continued, ‘There’s one thing guaranteed to make Mechanic break cover, and that’s her sister. Moran puts out a story that one of you is about to cut a deal with the cops and hand Jo over in return for protection. Mechanic won’t be able to stop herself, she will do anything to protect her sister.’

  ‘And that’s what we’re counting on,’ Moran said. ‘I’ll leak the meeting place where you are going to do the deal and Mechanic is bound to show up. And when she does, we take her out.’

  No one spoke. The gravity of the situation was sinking in.

  ‘It’s asking a lot but the alternative is we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders wondering when the hammer will fall,’ Lucas said.

  ‘How do we know she’ll take the bait?’ Harper asked.

  ‘We don’t,’ Moran replied. ‘But one thing is for sure, whatever the cops know, Mechanic knows as well.’

  ‘When do we do it?’ Bassano asked.

  ‘The sooner we get the story out there the better,’ Moran said.

  ‘I have a question.’ Bassano sounded pensive. ‘Why does it need to be me or Harper?’

  ‘If it was me, Mechanic would see through it right away. She knows me inside out, I would never cut and run leaving you guys to face her alone,’ Lucas said.

  ‘What makes you think I would?’ Bassano replied.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Harper said without a moment’s hesitation.

  51

  Mills was making a complete hash of the motel murders and Moran was not about to put that right. She watched from the sidelines as he strutted around in spray-painted shirts, bluffing his way through the investigation, meticulously collating evidence and analysing it to death then failing to make any real headway, which suited Moran fine.

  The more Mills bogged the team down, the happier she was. Moran needed time and the way Mills was performing she had all time in the world. In fact, when she thought about it she had hardly seen him the past couple of days, he’d been hiding away in meetings. This gave her ample opportunity to park the case in the slow lane and concentrate on catching Mechanic.

  Moran had to be seen to make some progress with motel murders. It was a tough juggling act, especially as the Mechanic work had to be done under wraps. It meant working long hours, which for most people it would be an exhausting schedule, but for Moran it was energising and exciting.

  Her goal was clear. She wanted to be known as Detective Moran, the woman who finally brought one of America’s most notorious serial killers to justice. She pictured the day when the Las Vegas chief of police would shake her by the hand and pin a commendation medal on her chest. Brennan would listen to her then. She could almost taste it.

  It was 10pm and the station was quiet. Moran was completely engrossed in her work, so engrossed she didn’t realise the Mechanic folder was open on her desk.

  ‘What the hell has she done now?’ A man with a quiff of hair walked by and pointed at the photograph of Mechanic pinned to the cover. Moran jumped. It was one of the team she had met on her second day but couldn’t recall his name.

  ‘Er what? Nothing, I was checking some old cases.’ She shuffled the pages together and closed the folder.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. I saw her mug shot and thought she’d been causing trouble again.’ He started to walk away.

  ‘What trouble? You know this woman?’ Moran asked after him.

  ‘Yes, she blew away a couple of local hoods who tried to carjack her boss. She was working as his personal security and shot them both dead.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a week ago, I guess. She was a piece of work that one, cool as you like. We tried to rattle her but nothing doing.’

  ‘Why did you do that? Didn’t she have the right permits and paperwork?’

  ‘All that was fine. We tried to rattle her because she worked for Harry Silverton, an obnoxious piece of shit who blows into town now and again throwing his cash around. He has an oil drilling and distribution business based out of Philadelphia, and spends a fair amount of time in Vegas. He’s a real pain in the ass. We’ve never been able to prove it but we reckon he’s dirty.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Drugs. The word is he traffics narcotics into Vegas and pushes them onto the street through his network. He’s a sharp operator, very slick and very careful. The details are on the system, search under Silverton. It’s a big file.’


  Moran’s head was in overdrive.

  How the hell did she not know this? But the more she thought it over, the more she convinced herself it didn’t matter. So what if Mechanic worked for a shady oil guy who dabbled in drugs? Her focus was getting Lucas to offer up Harper to Mechanic and prevent any more deaths, then use it to trap her.

  ‘Hey, Moran, got a minute?’ Mills poked his head around the office door. What was he doing here at this time?

  She placed the folder in her desk drawer and followed him out.

  He disappeared into the conference room opposite and started pacing around. The walls were full of pictures and handwritten notes. Coloured string connected items together like a giant subway map.

  ‘I need to bounce something off you,’ he announced.

  ‘Yeah, fine, what is it?’ She was distracted by the worst shirt yet, it looked like a toddler had thrown their dinner at him.

  ‘I’m turning myself inside out but the motel murders are going nowhere. The bullets and the pick marks on the locks all match. The handwriting expert says the same person wrote all three messages. But that’s it, that’s the end of the good news. The rest is a big fat nothing.’

  Moran agreed with his assessment.

  ‘So I got to thinking about what you said,’ he continued.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said this was about patterns and inconsistencies.’ Mills waved his arm at a second evidence board, this one covered with the pictures taken at the drug-related murder sites. Moran recognised each of the victims as they stared lifelessly from the wall, especially the three with metal spikes protruding from their faces.

  ‘The motel murders and the drug killings are totally different, but in other ways they’re similar.’ Mills wasn’t making too much sense.

  ‘They look completely different to me,’ Moran said shaking her head. ‘These are gangland hits probably driven by a turf war, and this is the work of a serial killer who targets couples in motels. I can’t see any similarities.’ Her mind was racing, trying to fathom where this was leading.

  ‘At face value I completely agree. But I come back to what you said—’

  ‘I was out of line,’ she interrupted. ‘I wanted to make an impact and went about it all the wrong way.’ For Moran, this was pride-swallowing on a gigantic scale, but she needed to keep the peace with Mills. She wanted him happy and useless.

  ‘But I think you had something, you said it was about patterns and inconsistencies.’

  ‘I said a lot of things, I was trying to make a point and I was wrong.’ She held her hands up in mock apology.

  ‘Hear me out. The connection is that both are styled as executions and both send a message.’ Mills pointed at the three men impaled with the metal bar. ‘This sends a message saying, “I did this, and when I take out the next crew I’ll do it again. It’s my calling card.” The same with the writing on the walls, that’s a calling card as well.’

  Moran allowed him to jabber on.

  ‘And then there’s the chronology.’ Mills was on a roll. ‘The drug killings started and the motel murders followed shortly afterwards. What if both sets of killings are drug related?’ Moran was desperately trying to determine if this new-found enthusiasm from Mills was a problem or not.

  He continued, ‘What if these are tit-for-tat murders? What if the motel crimes are in retaliation for the hits on the drug teams?’

  ‘Wow, that’s a huge leap.’ Moran considered the implications. ‘There is nothing connecting the motel victims.’

  ‘But I’m not sure we’ve looked hard enough. ‘In your name’ suggests the killings are targeted at hurting someone. Penance is a form of retribution, right? The writing on the wall is a message, the iron bar is a message. These could all be connected, we simply haven’t found out how.’

  Moran’s mind was fizzing. If Mills were seriously considering linking the two investigations that would mean his already stretched resources would be even less effective. The more Moran could slow down the motel cases the better. It was time to be supportive.

  ‘Yes, I see it now. You might have a point. If we understand more about the drug killings it might help us with the motel murders.’ This was seriously screwed up thinking, which from Moran’s perspective should only be encouraged.

  ‘That’s right. I think there’s a connection, we haven’t dug hard enough.’

  ‘So what’s the next move, do we widen the investigation?’

  ‘Yes, I guess that’s the way forward.’

  ‘Maybe we can divert people from the motel killings to look more closely into the gang murders.’

  ‘Yes, I think we’ll have to.’ This was perfect, Moran felt a warm glow of satisfaction.

  Mills flicked through his notebook and stabbed a finger into a cluster of photos on the wall.

  ‘Get a pad and note these down, we can get cracking in the morning.’

  Moran did as she was told and waited like an expectant secretary.

  ‘These are the Turks run by a guy called Mehmet Hassan, they control the east side.’ He moved onto a second cluster. ‘These are the Crips headed up by Billy Crosier, they have the west. And the first team to be hit were Asylum run by …’ he flicked over more pages, ‘… a man named Harry Silverton, they run most of the Strip.’

  Moran stopped writing when she heard the name. In fact, her whole world stopped when she heard the name Harry Silverton.

  Lucas sat in his hotel room battling the usual demons. He stared at the phone, it was fast becoming his enemy. Every encounter with it left him angry and frustrated. He picked up and dialled home.

  ‘Hello.’ It was Darlene.

  ‘Darlene, honey, it’s me. Don’t hang up, please.’ For once he’d managed to avoid the horror that was Heather. The line was silent, but not dead.

  ‘You’re home, that’s great.’

  ‘I needed to collect a few things.’

  ‘This will all be over soon,’ Lucas said. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about me not being there for you and you’re right. This will end in the next few days and I’ll come home. I promise I’ll come home to you.’

  ‘I’ve heard this all before.’

  ‘No you haven’t. I’ve never acknowledged it before. I understand now and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.’

  ‘But that’s the point. It’s me that’s lost you. You’re always somewhere else, thinking about that damn woman. And I know what she did, and I know how it hurt you, but at some point you have to let it go. It’s destroying you, it’s destroying us and you’re allowing her to win all over again.’

  ‘I know that now. I need a few more days, that’s all, and I’ll be home. Whatever the outcome, I’ll come home to you.’ There was a long pause.

  ‘Take care.’ Darlene hung up, not believing a word of it.

  52

  Mechanic looked at the neat bundles of one hundred dollar bills wrapped in Clingfilm on the table. It was the money taken from Silverton’s suite, she didn’t consider it stealing, more like severance pay.

  There was enough cash there to keep Jo looked after for another eighteen months but she was acutely aware that might be a little over optimistic so she had included an extra three thousand dollars for funeral expenses. She stuffed the money into a padded FedEx envelope and peeled away the cover on the adhesive strip. The Huxtons’ address was on the front.

  Mechanic was torn. All her instincts told her to avoid the Huxtons’ place, it was bound to be under surveillance, she would be taking a huge risk if she returned. But her heart screamed to see her sister one last time.

  Once the penance was paid, Mechanic knew her time in Vegas would be over. Bonelli’s men wouldn’t stop until they had her cut into little pieces and fed to the sewer rats. She had to hit the eject button and get out, however painful that would be.

  She sealed the envelope and noticed the backs of her hands. They were tanned the same colour as her face, a deep walnut brown. A bright blue silk s
carf covered her head and the long flowing dress swept the floor when she walked. The disguise was a bad caricature, but she’d achieved her objective – she looked starkly different.

  Mechanic now felt physically better following her ordeal at Fremont Street. She had slept and eaten more than usual to regain her strength, along with some gentle exercises to get her joints and muscles back in working order.

  She had given Lucas seven days and by her reckoning this was day three. The preparations were in full flow, this had to be planned and executed with absolute precision. The clock was ticking.

  There was a rap on the door and Mechanic opened it to see a young man in a dark blue shirt and shorts waiting patiently on the front step. She shielded her eyes from the morning sun.

  ‘Morning, ma’am, FedEx collection, I’m here to pick up a package.’

  Mechanic paused holding the envelope and turned it over in her hands.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m here to pick up a package?’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Mechanic said still not looking up. ‘It’s not ready to go yet, can I call your office again for it to be picked up?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that’s fine.’ He was already halfway to his van.

  Mechanic had made up her mind.

  She could hand-deliver it to the Huxtons when she visited her sister for the very last time.

  Alfonso Bonelli was much less polished than his older brother, he hated oysters and was teetotal. While Enzo had looked after the front-of-house side of the business, Alfonso took care of the less palatable aspects of running a drug cartel. He was the enforcer and kept regimental order amongst his foot soldiers, while inflicting catastrophic damage on those who deserved it.

  Enzo’s sudden death catapulted him to head of the firm and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He was, however, clear about one thing, that silver-haired bitch of a bodyguard needed to have her tits removed with a rusty blade.

  A man with spiky hair wearing ripped jeans and a vest stood in front of him not looking forward to what was about to come next.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Alonso asked in a low voice.