by Rob Ashman
Harper drew his gun. This didn’t feel right. He twisted around and checked all the angles. Something was wrong.
The driver’s door obscured Mechanic’s view but that didn’t matter. She placed her finger on the trigger. Her heart pulsed sending the crosshairs dancing once more.
Harper didn’t like this. Every sinew in his body was screaming to get the hell out of there. This felt wrong.
Mechanic’s body was completely relaxed. Always shoot on the respiratory pause at the end of the exhale. Always shoot on the down stroke.
1 … 2 … 3 … squeeze.
Point three of a second later the shell sent a shower of blood and brain tissue into the air. The rifle angrily spat out the empty casing against the side of the SUV. Mechanic continued through the trigger pull and slowly released it back to the rest position. She stayed in place, focusing on the magnified image, counting down the seconds. Nothing moved.
Mechanic sat up, packed the gun into the case and fed it back under the wooden bed. She picked up the shell casing, closed the tailgate, locked up the vehicle and placed the keys under the back wheel-arch.
She looked at her watch. It was 8.03am.
Lucas wiped the perspiration from his face and felt light-headed. Why was nothing happening? Then it dawned on him, Mechanic must have killed Moran, Bassano and Harper.
Lucas panicked. The only thing he could think of was Harper lying in a pool of blood on the eighth floor. Mechanic must have got all three of them.
It was over. The penance had been paid.
His earpiece crackled.
‘She’s a no show. Repeat, Mechanic is a no show.’ It was Harper.
Lucas looked at his watch. It was 5.04am.
63
Friday 27 May 1983
Tallahassee, Florida
The warm spring rain drummed hard against the umbrellas as the sun scorched steam off the grass. Only in Florida could that ever be considered normal weather.
Lucas stared blankly ahead completely immune to the fifty or so faces staring back at him. He had no more tears to cry, no more emotion to give. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, letting those around him do the job of keeping the rain off. His crushing sadness permeated everyone that was there.
The priest read from a book and the words floated past Lucas without being heard. The ground was awash with white flowers, all with handwritten cards stuck between the folds of cellophane. In stark contrast the mourners all wore black.
A pale wooden casket stood above the grave. Raindrops danced off the coffin onto the grass.
The priest was coming to the end: ‘… and so we commit this body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’
There was a soft whirring sound and the coffin descended out of sight.
‘So let us go in peace to live out the word of God,’ the priest continued from his script, crossing himself.
Lucas stepped forward, scooped a handful of wet soil and dropped it into the grave. The dirt rattled against the wood. Pain shuddered through his body and he struggled to keep his balance. He stood motionless while the rain cascaded down his face, dripping from his eyelashes. He didn’t blink, staring into the middle distance. An arm reached around his shoulders and guided him back under the umbrella.
Others filed past the grave, wearing their masks of grief and allowing soil to spill through their fingers onto the coffin lid. Lucas was escorted back to the black limousine. The crowd milled around chatting as the car silently pulled away.
Lucas twisted in his seat and looked out of the rear window. He could just make out the white marble headstone with black writing.
There was no way to come back from this.
HERE LIES DARLENE ANNABEL LUCAS
DIED AGED 53 YEARS
BELOVED WIFE OF EDMUND
TAKEN BEFORE HER TIME
HER SOUL RESTS IN PEACE
Harper was never the intended target.
Mechanic had put Lucas through the emotional turmoil of choosing between his friends as a sick game, one she enjoyed over and over while she was planning how to kill Darlene. This was a penance with a sting in the tail. This was a punishment worthy of the death of her sister.
Darlene was an easy prey. When she worked out of the Tallahassee office she always had the same routine. She would drive to work and park in the multi-storey at 8am, in her designated slot on the eighth floor. It was like clockwork, every morning was the same. Every morning that is until Mechanic put a bullet through her head.
Jameson had been thorough in his surveillance report and the multi-storey was the natural choice. The SUV and sniper’s rifle were procured with the usual no questions asked and returned three hours later to the military compound from which they originated. It was a relatively straightforward assignment for a man with no scruples.
Mechanic had picked up the airline tickets from a baggage locker at McCarran International Airport and had taken the six-hour flight to Tallahassee. There was a perfect symmetry in killing Darlene Lucas at precisely the time Harper was at the multi-storey eighteen hundred miles and three time zones away. It had taken meticulous planning but it was a lovely touch. Mechanic hoped the subtlety was not wasted on Lucas, after she had gone to so much trouble.
Lucas and the others were completely stumped when the morning had turned into a non-event. Moran couldn’t believe her moment of fame had failed to materialise. The single biggest moment of her whole career had evaporated into nothing.
For two days they waited for further contact from Mechanic, but none came. It was all a big fat zero until the cops tracked down Lucas. They found him at the motel and gave him the news. When the realisation finally struck home, he cried for days.
Mechanic used to think that eight months was a long time to go without killing someone of consequence, and the only thing of consequence was slaughtering Lucas and Harper. In the end that turned out not to be true. She found as much pleasure in knowing they were still alive, while Darlene Annabel Lucas lay prematurely in Rose lawn cemetery.
After all, killing them was not to be rushed. This was a dish to be savoured. When the time was right she would give herself a treat and kill all three.
As for Lucas, his every waking moment used to be consumed with finding Mechanic and killing the psychotic bitch, though in public he used the phrase ‘bring her to justice’. This was still the case, but from now on justice didn’t get a mention.
64
11 Months Later
April 1984
Queens, New York City
Bassano relished the distractions of the second Friday in the month. Some wore dresses, some wore suits, some primped and preened for hours while others came straight from work. But they all wore the same expression when they met him. And today was distracting as hell.
The dance floor heaved with a writhing mass of bodies, the music thumping out a beat which punched you in the stomach from thirty feet. People gyrated and rubbed themselves against perfect strangers, hoping it would lead to something more.
The Venetian masks added to the sense of abandoned pleasure. They gave the green light to enjoying doing things the wearers would be horrified to do minus the anonymity. When you’re wearing a mask, anything goes. The strobe lighting made the whole scene look like a single organism pulsating to the beat. It was hot and it was loud.
Bassano wore his mask and was leaning into a woman with long dark hair. Her back was against a pillar and his arm was outstretched marking out his territory, his hand resting inches from her head. She bent forward to hear him over the noise. They broke away and threw their heads back laughing. Bassano would like to say she was exactly his type, but in truth any woman this close was his type.
He leaned in again and put his face next to hers. He lingered, whispering in her ear. The woman laughed again and slapped him on his chest, playfully reprimanding him for something suggestive. She slipped her hand in his.
Bassano smiled his best Italian American smile. She tilted her he
ad to the floor in a false parade of coyness and sipped her drink holding his gaze.
Bassano didn’t have a drink. In his one hand he held the warm, strong fingers of the woman in front of him, and his other was a metal hook. He still didn’t trust himself to grip a glass with his prosthetic and he wasn’t about to let go of her in preference for a glass.
His mask was black and hers glistened pearlescent white. The invitation had said ‘Girls in white, guys in black. Masks obligatory’. For Bassano, singles clubs were a welcome diversion from real life, and the masks made the parties a total blast.
He scored every time. Not only was he tall and ruggedly handsome, but he definitely had the curiosity factor. The faint lace cobweb of scars on his face, and his missing arm, seemed to hold a deep fascination for certain women. They were crazy to find out about it, and the more they had to drink the crazier they got.
When he laid on the Italian charm, coupled with the story of how a vicious serial killer nearly murdered him, he was home and dry. It worked every time.
He wasn’t interested in taking any of them home to meet his folks. He’d done that once and it was a disaster. No, this was distraction time, that’s all.
Huge speakers banged out some techno rubbish, which only people wearing masks would ever consider dancing to. The DJ shouted over the distorted sounds from the PA and the crowd in front screamed something equally unintelligible in return. Bassano placed a kiss on her cheek. She smiled and squeezed his hand. This was going good.
He reached down and cupped her hand holding the drink, brought it up to his lips and drank it dry. She slapped his shoulder and sent him away for another. There is something about being over six foot tall with a hook for a hand which makes getting close to the bar a relatively easy process. Bassano ordered two more drinks, paid for them and walked back with both glasses pinched between his thumb and first two fingers.
He reached the pillar, she was gone.
He scanned the room trying to find the dark-haired woman in the white dress wearing a mask, a description which didn’t really narrow down the field. Then he saw her standing against the wall by the restrooms. She was wearing her coat with a look that said ‘catch up, boy’.
Bassano pushed through the tight knot of people and offered up the drinks. She took one and downed it, crunching the ice between her teeth. She fed her arm around his waist and said something in his ear. Bassano smiled, gave his drink the same treatment and allowed her to lead him through the crowd towards the emergency exit next to the stage.
She hit the bar with the heel of her hand and the door flew open, the fresh air hitting them like a blast freezer. They spilled out into a narrow alley at the side of the club. A row of trash cans and dumpsters lined up against the opposite wall. She slammed the door behind them. The music carried through the walls as if they were still on the dance floor, it echoed and reverberated off the high brickwork.
She pushed Bassano against the wall and kissed him. Her tongue was hot in his mouth. Her hands caressed his face pulling him in.
Bassano’s arm curled around her, feeling the contours of her body. She pulled back and ran her fingernails down his chest. She kissed him hard. Her fingers slid down to his belt. He began to breathe heavily. He tore off his mask and spun her round, pinning her against the wall, grinding his hips into hers.
She sank to her knees and unzipped his pants. He was hot and hard in her hand. She gripped him tight and freed him from his clothing. Bassano steadied himself against the wall and closed his eyes.
There was a blinding flash of pain.
He recoiled to see blood running down his legs. The dark-haired woman knelt with her back against the wall holding a knife in one hand and his cock and balls in the other. Bassano staggered around, holding the gap in his crotch where his genitals used to be, his mouth wide open in a silent scream.
She slid the blade underneath the band on her mask and cut it free. Bassano stared at her face as blood pumped from his body.
She looked familiar.
She was smiling at him.
He recognised the smile.
The face was different, but the smile was the same.
The last time he saw it, a woman broke his face and severed his arm.
His legs gave way and he toppled backwards. The scream finally left his throat, only to be drowned out by the noise of the club.
Her high heels clicked on the concrete as she walked away, confident that this time she had done a proper job. The bloody contents of her bag were a fitting trophy.
One down, two to go.
The End
Also now available Part 3 of the thrilling Mechanic Series:
Pay The Penance
Acknowledgments
I want to thank all those who have made this second book possible – My family Karen, Gemma, Holly and Maureen for their blunt, painful feedback and endless patience. To my band of loyal proofreaders Yvonne, Lesley, Christine, Penny, Christine, Nicki, Jackie, Anne, Frazer and Simon who didn’t hold back either and finally my talented editor, Helen Fazal, who once again did an amazing job and made me a better writer in the process.
For Karen, Gemma and Holly
Copyright © 2017 Rob Ashman
The right of Rob Ashman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
1
New Jersey
June 1985
Fabiano Bassano was watching baseball in his man-cave. The room was full of excited chatter as the additives from the fizzy drinks and chocolate snacks began to kick in and the kids went a little crazy. He liked nothing better than watching the game with his five grandchildren. They were mad about baseball and mad about Grandpa.
Whenever they got together it was always the same. The kids talked over the commentary, walked in front of the TV, and bombarded him with questions about the rules, but that was fine. For Fabiano Bassano, enjoying the ball game with his grandchildren had nothing to do with the ball game.
‘Hey, what’s going on,’ he cried, holding up an empty beer bottle. ‘Who’s on bar duty?’
One of the children reached up, snatched it from his grasp and dashed into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a frosted replacement, courtesy of Grandma.
Zak, the youngest, snuggled on to the chair alongside him.
‘Grandpa, why do you have this silly picture?’ His shock of black tousled hair hid his face as he gazed at a silver framed photograph in his tiny hand. He looked up, his moon face and bright eyes waiting for his favourite playmate to respond.
‘Yes, that is a silly picture, isn’t it?’
They both laughed.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Someone gave it to me. I like it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I like it too.’
‘It makes me smile.’
‘It makes me smile too, Grandpa. Who gave it to you?’
‘A friend of Uncle Chris.’
‘Is he the one who died?’
‘Yes. He died when you were small.’
‘I like it.’ Zak turned the picture over in his hands and the frame caught the light.
‘I’ll let you into a secret.’ Fabiano bent his head and whispered into the child’s ear. ‘Do you know what today is?’
‘No, what?’
‘Today is its birthday.’
‘Its birthday?’ Zak was fixated, not taking his eyes off the image. �
�How can a picture have a birthday?’
‘Well, it’s one year ago today that the photograph was taken.’
‘Wow, then it does have a birthday.’ Zak and his grandpa sang Happy Birthday. But Grandpa struggled on occasion to get his words out. When they finished he dabbed his eyes with his sleeve.
‘Now put it back and we can watch the game.’
Zak shuffled off the chair and placed it on the shelf.
It was an odd photograph.
2
Thursday 19 April 1984
Sorrento, Italy
Mechanic bumped the front tyre of the Vespa scooter against the kerb and parked up. From her cliff-top vantage point the view across the Bay of Naples was stunning. She watched as the sun dipped below the horizon and mirrored the sea with the burnt pink of the sky. The salt breeze cut through her shirt, cool against her skin. It was the perfect evening to kill a stranger.
The Italian resort buzzed with the excitement of three thousand pilgrims visiting for the Easter festival. She had flown into Naples International, taken a rental car and driven the fifty-two kilometres south, down the A3 to Sorrento. The car was parked at the hotel, the only way to get around was by scooter, and everybody had one. They buzzed around town like wasps at a picnic and were just as annoying. Mechanic turned off the ignition, kicked down the stand and put the keys into her pocket. She slipped on a thin cotton fleece, swung a black backpack onto her shoulder and headed for the centre.
Mechanic’s face was tanned gold and her short hair streaked blonde from the sun. She looked like any other carefree tourist in search of religious tradition and culture. The truth was very different. She had only arrived the day before, the effects of the sun came from running in Balboa Park, San Diego, and she was in search of a man who had something she wanted.
