The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  Officers droned on about the people they had interviewed and Mills asked inane questions. Moran was more bothered about Mills and his sudden change in fashion sense. Then an awful thought barged its way into her head – had he smartened himself up to impress her? The prospect of Mills wanting to make himself more appealing in order to catch her eye turned her stomach. What the hell is he playing at? Moran preferred it when his clothes matched his work – a colourful shambles. She was suddenly jolted out of her daydream.

  ‘Moran, isn’t that Silverton’s bodyguard?’ Mills asked.

  ‘Er sorry, sir, I missed that.’

  ‘Say it again, Mick, and pay attention this time, Moran.’

  ‘Yes okay,’ said Mick, a forty-year-old guy wearing a suit which was probably new when he joined the force twenty years ago. ‘The word on the street is that the downtown crew who operate out of Fremont street were hit a couple of days ago. Their head honcho Enzo Bonelli was killed along with one of his men. The jungle drums say they were both murdered by Jessica Hudson.’

  Moran processed the information as fast as she could. ‘Yes that’s her. That’s Silverton’s bodyguard.’

  ‘We need to find her and fast. If she was responsible for killing Bonelli, she’s a dead woman unless we get to her first. Put out an all-points bulletin, I want her found and I want her here.’ Mills emphasised his words by banging his hand on the table.

  ‘Shit,’ Moran said under her breath. Not only was Mechanic on a drug baron’s walking-dead list, now she’d have the whole of the Vegas Police Department out looking for her. And it was Moran’s job to keep her at large, at least for the next three days.

  What a screw up.

  58

  Moran inhaled deeply as she walked through the door of the ice-cream parlour. The sickly sweet aroma gave her a slight buzz of euphoria and given her current predicament she needed all her lungs could hold.

  Lucas sat in their usual seat. He clutched the Bulletin and had the look of a worried man.

  ‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t printed?’ Moran asked.

  ‘It’s printed alright.’ Lucas opened to the personals and showed her the column.

  MECHANIC

  OLD MAN SELECTED

  ‘Phew,’ Moran said. ‘I thought that had gone tits up as well. Everything else has.’

  ‘We got a bigger problem,’ Lucas said.

  ‘I know, you don’t have to tell me—’

  ‘Harper has gone AWOL,’ Lucas cut in.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He went missing last night and his bed’s not been slept in. We don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Shit, that’s all we need, where could he be?’

  ‘Don’t know. Me and Bassano checked the bars close to the hotel and no one has seen him.’

  ‘Do you think he’s got cold feet and done a runner?’

  ‘No, that’s not his style. He put himself forward for this, remember. No, something has happened.’

  ‘He’s an ex-alcoholic who is slipping back into old habits, do you think he’s gone on a bender?’

  ‘He could have but, again, he wants this. He wants to take Mechanic down as much as anyone. I’m not sure he would jeopardise that.’

  ‘Do you think Mechanic has jumped the gun and killed him?’

  ‘That’s not how she works, she would have waited for confirmation that I’d made my choice.’

  ‘What do we do if he doesn’t turn up? That fucks everything up.’

  ‘He’ll show, I’m sure of it. We have two days until the deadline and Mechanic needs to get in touch somehow.’

  ‘Or not. She might choose to kill Harper with a bullet to the head while he’s walking down the street. No fuss, no drama, bang!’

  ‘I keep telling you, Mechanic loves the drama, she lives for the game. To her this is a piece of theatre to be played out in all its glory. No, she’ll be in touch and then we can take her out.’

  Lucas and Moran sat in silence as two coffees arrived.

  ‘Harper has to turn up or we’re not going to have a game at all.’ Moran felt it was slipping away. Her dreams of stardom and ramming her success up Mills’ ass were evaporating before her eyes.

  Moran continued with the bad news.

  ‘A few days ago Mechanic killed the head of the drug gang who run downtown Vegas.’

  Lucas nearly spat his drink on the table.

  ‘What!’ He managed to swallow it down.

  ‘So now we have the situation where Bonelli’s crew will be scouring Vegas looking for her while LVPD have her on their most-wanted list. They are desperate to get to her before she gets fed to the fish.’

  ‘I’d worry more about Harper if I were you. They won’t find her,’ said Lucas.

  ‘Did you not listen to me? She’s being hunted by drug-fuelled hoods on the street and cops in cars. That’s serious shit. She might be lifted before we get our chance.’

  ‘They won’t find her, trust me. She could be in here right now and we wouldn’t know it.’

  Mechanic eyed Lucas from across the restaurant in the reflection of the tall glass display cabinet. She wanted one last look before he paid his penance. This was a blissful moment, one she would savour for a long time. One last look before his world came crashing down around him in two days’ time.

  Who’s the woman sitting with him?

  Harper regained consciousness sprawled on the floor. His arms were stretched above his head and he could see his blood-engorged hands cuffed to a metal ring set in the wall. He was about to move but thought better of it as footsteps approached. He slumped his head forward and closed his eyes.

  He could hear voices and strained to make out what they were saying.

  ‘What do you mean he’s fucking dead?’ Bonelli shouted in the face of the man trembling in front of him.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, Mr Bonelli, Ramirez is dead.’

  ‘Who did it? How did it happen?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. The two guys who were with him took a leak and when they came back his throat was torn out.’

  ‘And no one saw a damn thing?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘People don’t get their throats slit in broad daylight and no one sees anything. I want those two in here now. I’m working with fucking amateurs!’ Bonelli was tramping around waving his arms in the air. ‘And get this sack of shit out of here too. I’m sick to death of nothing but problems.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘He’s too much like hard work. Take him back to the desert and finish it. We’ll find the other two without him.’

  Footsteps came closer. Harper felt the cuffs click open and his arms flopped to his side. He was lifted bodily off the ground and thrown into the trunk of a car. The pain in his shoulders was excruciating but he had to remain silent. The lid slammed shut. Harper heard the doors closing and the engine revved hard.

  He clawed at the flooring with his bloody hands until he found the join in the carpet. Twisting he lifted enough of the flap to get his hands inside. He felt around as the car jerked its way across the yard heading for the road. Then he found it. All he had to do now was judge when they were far enough away from the warehouse.

  The enclosed space resonated with the gut trembling base notes of gangster rap music blasting out of oversized speakers. After what felt like a lifetime Harper could feel the change in road conditions. The smooth buzz of rubber on tarmac was replaced by the bone-shaking judder of rubber on desert rock.

  He braced himself against the back of the trunk and kicked his feet into the corner. He heard a crack as his boot shattered the Bakelite casing of the tail-light. He thrashed out his legs, slamming his boot through the back of the fitting, and the whole housing fell out. A shaft of light filled the confines of the trunk. He sucked in the cooler air.

  The squeal of the back brakes was deafening as the vehicle skidded to a halt. Harper heard a door open over the cacophony of music followed by cursing and seconds later the trunk lid flew open. The
driver peered inside silhouetted against the bright sunlight.

  Harper threw the tyre iron with all his might and hit the man in the forehead. The guy reeled backwards clutching his face as the tool bounced off his skull. Harper heaved himself out of the trunk and watched him stagger around, blood pouring through his fingers. He picked up the wrench and lashed out, hitting him in the neck. The man fell backwards as Harper repeatedly brought the tyre iron down on his head.

  Harper patted him down and pulled a gun from his waistband. The man in the passenger seat switched off the music, opened his door and called out.

  ‘Hey Nico, where are you man? What’s going on?’ He waited but there was no reply. He stepped out of the vehicle. Harper scrambled on his hands and knees and sat with his back tight against the rear fender.

  ‘Nico,’ the man called again, his view obscured by the raised lid of the trunk. He stepped sideways and saw his partner face down in the sand. He drew his gun and swung around in a three sixty, stepping slowly along the length of the car, his weapon levelled at head height.

  The bullet entered below his jawbone and blew a ragged hole in the top of his head. The impact lifted him into the air and dumped him onto the hot ground. Harper jumped from his seated position and scanned the scene. All was clear.

  He took the second man’s gun, then climbed into the driver’s seat and sped away showering gravel and sand onto the bodies.

  59

  Mechanic’s day was a mix of making her final preparations and evading Bonelli’s men. She was still enjoying the rush of having sliced up Ramirez. Her bags were packed and laid on the bed, a copy of the Bulletin sat on the kitchen worktop open at the ads. There in bold capitals was what she had been waiting for. She knew Lucas would cave in and offer one of his friends as his penance. It was so like him to choose Harper, probably on the basis he had lived longer than Bassano – very predictable.

  The important thing was that he had made a choice and the turmoil that must have caused gave Mechanic a warm glow inside.

  She picked up the phone and punched in numbers. It rang at the other end.

  ‘Oh hi, I wonder could you pass on a message to Captain Mark Jameson please.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The message is, call Carla.’

  ‘Okay caller I will pass that on.’ The line went dead.

  Captain Mark Jameson worked in military intelligence and was Mr Fixit to everyone who knew him. Jameson could lay his hands on anything and deliver it direct to your door, he could also compile intelligence reports on the movements of your favourite pet if you asked him. The man was a legend.

  Mechanic had saved his life when a covert op went badly wrong, and when an ex-Navy Seal says he owes you, he means for life. His other redeeming feature was that he had absolutely no scruples whatsoever and never asked questions. Jameson had his regular mercenary clients but had a special place in the pecking order for Mechanic.

  Jameson provided services that were eye-wateringly expensive and very good. His business model dictated he always insisted on being paid up front but where Mechanic was concerned he always took a part payment transferred directly into his account and the rest to be paid in kind.

  The phone rang and she picked it up.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Jameson. He was now talking on a secure line, the ‘call Carla’ routine worked every time.

  ‘Hey, I wanted to check last minute details. Did you get the transfer?’

  ‘Yup, that landed yesterday. The package is in the specified place and the schedule is clearly set out.’

  ‘Transport?’ Mechanic asked.

  ‘All sorted, you need to be in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘That sounds perfect.’

  Jameson paused. ‘Will I see you anytime soon?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch. I appreciate this one has been a big ask, so I reckon I should reciprocate.’

  ‘Oh how?’

  ‘When I see you next it would be wise to get yourself a cover story and a few days’ emergency leave. You’re not going to be in a fit state to go back to work straightaway.’

  She could hear him breathing heavily on the end of the line, Jameson’s erection was obviously robbing him of his power of speech. Mechanic waited.

  ‘That would be good,’ he finally croaked.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She put the phone down.

  Jameson had pulled out all the stops for this one but the extra payment in kind was not all for his benefit. She couldn’t recall the last man she’d fucked. Her life consisted of two things – providing for her sister and trying to act normal, which, for a crazed serial killer, left precious little space for any ‘me time’.

  Now Jo was dead, there was no need to worry about either.

  Mechanic picked up the phone and dictated the advert to the business operator at the Bulletin. That left the rest of today and tomorrow to finalise preparations ready for the following day. Penance day.

  There was a rap at the door. Mechanic pushed a gun into the back of her belt and peered through the peephole in the door. It was a uniformed cop.

  Mechanic cursed and ran across the living room to close the bedroom door.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she called out in a thick Middle Eastern accent, putting on the hijab. She opened the door.

  ‘Good day, ma’am,’ said the young officer, holding out his badge. ‘We are conducting house-to-house enquiries with people who’ve recently moved into the area on a short-term rent. It’s nothing to worry about, just a routine check.’

  Mechanic went cold. The police must have traced her from the Bonelli murders and found her flat deserted. Investigating newly rented properties was a smart option. Either that or this was one of Bonelli’s boys using the uniform as cover. She looked up at him from her stooped position. This was no Bonelli boy, this one looked like a cop.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked, mangling the words with her accent.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ He took out his notebook.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘And who is your real-estate agent, ma’am?’

  Mechanic waved her hand in a gesture which meant ‘wait’ and went inside to collect several sheets of paper from a drawer.

  This was not what she needed right now. The false identity and papers were fine but her changed appearance had been done in a hurry and would not stand up to close inspection. She hovered inside and gave the officer the documents.

  ‘My English is not so good.’

  He looked at the papers and then at her. Something bothered him.

  ‘Do you mind if I see some ID, ma’am?’ He knew he was overstepping his remit, Mechanic knew it too.

  Mechanic’s mind raced. Give him the ID and get rid of him.

  She disappeared again and came back with an Omani driving licence. Her picture was embossed on the front.

  Please go away, Mechanic thought. Just go.

  He looked at the licence and at the rental agreement.

  ‘My name is Nassra Shamon,’ Mechanic said trying to move things along. ‘I come from Muscat, on a visa.’

  The young officer returned the licence and the documents.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Thank you for your time.’ He smiled and touched the peak of his cap.

  Mechanic mumbled something in return, bowed slightly and closed the door.

  ‘Shit,’ she said putting her hands on her knees, exhaling deeply. Mechanic looked through the peephole and watched the officer walk back to his patrol car.

  After an hour of phone calls and last minute packing Mechanic checked her watch. It was time to go. She sipped the last of her coffee, rinsed the cup and put it in the cupboard, running through the plan step by step.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She peered through the peephole to see the cop standing there again. Mechanic ducked down hoping he hadn’t seen the lens change colour when she looked through it. He knocked again. She held her breath.

  Fuck,
what was he doing back?

  ‘Mrs Shamon, I have a few more questions if you would open the door please.’ He was persistent. Mechanic remained quiet.

  ‘Mrs Shamon, I saw you look through the peephole, so I know you’re in there. I have a few more questions.’

  Mechanic pulled the hijab over her head, unclipped the safety chain and opened the door.

  ‘Yes,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Shamon. Can I take a look at your visa for entry into the US?’

  Mechanic’s head spun into overdrive again. So this is an immigration issue, not a ‘you killed two people’ issue.

  Mechanic needed to get rid of this cop fast. Time was ticking away, she needed to leave.

  She scurried back inside and returned with an official-looking document. ‘Here.’ She handed it to him.

  Mechanic repeated the same words over and over in her head. Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t …

  He looked up and then uttered the words she’d prayed he wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany me downtown, Mrs Shamon, I need to get these checked out. I’m sure everything is fine but if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘But why do I need to come with you?’

  ‘It is simply routine, Mrs Shamon. I need to check out your documentation.’

  Was this an immigration check or was she underestimating the young officer? Had he rumbled her?

  Mechanic stepped away from the door. ‘I need my things,’ she said beckoning him into the apartment. ‘Come in, you wait.’

  The officer stepped into the small hallway. Mechanic closed the door and ushered him into the living room.

  ‘Please sit, I need my medicine from the bathroom. I have asthma.’

  He removed his hat and perched on the edge of the sofa.

  Mechanic went into the bathroom and clanked around with cupboards and bottles.

  The officer scrutinised every detail of the apartment, his intuition running riot, screaming at him that something wasn’t right. There was not a cup or plate to be seen. No washing up in the sink and every worktop wiped clean. Not a single article of clothing or possession was on show. The bedroom door was ajar and he could see a holdall and rucksack on the bed. This was a woman who had paid a month’s rent in advance and it looked like she was about to make an early exit.