The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  The alarm went off. The local radio station gave the six o’clock time check and cut to the news. Moran was a news addict and would watch, listen and read about it whenever the opportunity arose. This morning she wasn’t interested and shuffled off to the shower to contemplate her day under jets of hot water.

  She dressed in her signature black uniform and decided she needed to eat. She never ate breakfast and looked expectantly in the fridge. It was empty, apart from a two-week old carton of milk, a slice of pizza and an almost full bottle of wine with the cork stuffed back in the neck. She ignored the wine, despite the fact it was by far the best option, and picked up the pizza. She peeled away the plastic wrap and inspected the thin crust, salami topped, something or another. She couldn’t recall the last time she ate pizza at home, so threw it in the trash. The cupboard proved more fruitful and she gathered up her car keys and banged her front door shut with four cookies in her hand.

  The journey into work passed by in a blur. She sat at her desk with an empty cup of coffee that she could not remember buying and for some reason seemed to be covered in crumbs. Moran unpacked her files and pulled out the one marked Nassra Shamon. She opened it and retrieved the printout showing the account transactions. Circled in fat blue ink were the three money transfers to Helix Holdings, and beneath it was a line entry saying Account Closed.

  Moran played with the cardboard cup in front of her, spinning it on its base. Her hand shook slightly. She checked her watch, forty minutes to go to the morning briefing.

  Mills breezed in.

  ‘Morning,’ he said in a voice too cheerful even for a breakfast TV presenter. He marched up to her desk, hunched over her and whispered, ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Feeling a bit off,’ Moran said conscious that she might not be looking her best.

  ‘Maybe you didn’t drink enough.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Mills turned on his heels and breezed out.

  The office filled with people pulling folders and notepads out of filing cabinets and drawers. This was not the way days started. Where was the usual dribble of half-asleep bodies drifting to their desks in search of tea and coffee.

  ‘Right. Shall we make a start?’ Mills bellowed from across the corridor.

  Everyone trooped off to the incident room.

  A man leaned over Moran as he passed and said, ‘He called it half an hour early today. Didn’t you get the memo?’

  She had been so preoccupied over what to do with the Shamon evidence it had completely passed her by. She scrabbled her files together dropping paperwork onto the floor, and trooped on behind.

  ‘Let’s go around the table. What do we have?’ Mills said with his usual opener.

  The man next to Moran piped up. He reported on the latest discussions with immigration and homeland security, and concluded there was nothing new to tell. Shamon had not left the country.

  His report was over far too quickly.

  Moran was conscious of the room falling silent. She looked up at Mills who was staring straight at her.

  ‘Moran, what do you have?’

  Shit, it was her turn.

  Moran opened her file, consulted her notes and closed it again. She felt hot. Her face was burning up. Her stomach dropped to somewhere near her shoes. She clasped her hands together and they were clammy.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Mills.

  ‘Er, yes. I just ...’ The acrid taste of bile rose in her mouth, she swallowed it down.

  Mills felt the need to prompt her. ‘The Shamon money, you had a meeting with the bank?’

  Moran looked at him and then panned around the table at twelve gawping faces all fixed on her. Her heart was thumping, pushing a torrent of blood around her head and it felt like a tourniquet was being wound tight across her chest. She leaned forward and placed both hands on top of the closed file.

  Breathe, breathe.

  ‘Yes, sorry. I went to the bank yesterday to clear up the erroneous data which had corrupted the account transactions. They sorted it out and nothing looked out place. Shamon lived a cash-only lifestyle, which is not uncommon for people visiting on a short-term visa. The month’s down payment on the apartment was the largest sum of money and that was confirmed by the real-estate agency. Other than that, she made a series of cash withdrawals none of which raise any alarms.’

  ‘Okay, so nothing to go on?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Okay, what about the passenger manifests for flights leaving that day?’ Mills was onto the next item on the check sheet.

  Moran sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the file.

  What the fuck was that? The words tumbled around in her head.

  The room was spinning, the acrid taste of bile coated the inside of her mouth.

  Moran bolted for the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, please excuse me.’

  She dashed from the room and down the corridor to the restrooms. She just made it to the cubicle as the vomit hit the toilet. The remnants of her breakfast splashed into the bowl. Moran coughed and gagged as the last of her cookies and coffee covered the porcelain. She recoiled, gasping for breath and reeled off a yard of toilet roll, holding it to her mouth. Her stomach knotted again and she retched clear liquid.

  Moran steadied herself with one hand on the cubicle wall and the other on the seat, still clutching the toilet paper. She dabbed her mouth again, spitting into the water.

  She sank on her heels and hit the flush. Backing out of the stall she ran cold water into the sink, leaned forward and splashed it onto her face. She straightened up and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin looked thin and grey. She rested her hands against the sink and leaned forward with her head bowed. The deep breaths made her feel better and she raised her head.

  ‘You lying bitch,’ Moran said to no one.

  She bumped her forehead against the mirror.

  The restroom door opened. A woman who had been at the briefing came in.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, it must be something I’ve eaten.’

  ‘I put your file back on your desk. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.’

  Moran pulled a handful of paper towel from the dispenser. She patted her face and dried her hands.

  ‘I didn’t feel right when I got up this morning,’ she said in an attempt to make things look normal.

  The woman put her hand on Moran’s shoulder. ‘You sure I can’t get you anything? You don’t look so good.’

  ‘I’ll be fine now, I just need a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Okay, take it easy.’ The woman left.

  Moran balled the towels up and tossed them in the bin. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed down her jacket.

  She felt better.

  The anxiety was gone. The sickness had gone. And the rushing in her head was silent.

  But most of all she felt better because she had made her decision.

  19

  Jameson was also feeling better. The tablets had kicked in and the salt bath had bathed his wounds clean. He was standing in his kitchen wrapping a length of crepe bandage around his torso and pinning it in place. He needed to keep the blood off his clothes. He also needed additional support for his ribs, which hurt like a bastard every time he coughed, sneezed or even breathed. He certainly felt better but his ribs needed a little more time.

  While he ministered to himself he thought about Mechanic. He had received the usual message on his pager saying she was having a great time at the conference, which meant she was at the location and had picked up the gear.

  The hit was on.

  There was a sharp rap on the front door.

  Jameson moved into the living room and parted the curtains. A middle-aged black guy stood outside holding a clipboard. His face looked familiar. Jameson dismissed it, all door-stepping salesmen looked the same. He let the curtains swing back and ignored him.

  The man knocked aga
in, this time a little harder. Jameson ignored it.

  He knocked again.

  Persistent or what? Jameson thought, pulling on his shirt and opening the door.

  Lucas stood in the porch.

  ‘Hello, Captain Jameson.’

  ‘Do we know each other?’ Jameson was taken aback by Lucas’s personal approach.

  ‘No, we’ve never met.’

  ‘Look, buddy. I don’t know what you’re selling, or how you know my name, but I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’m not selling, I’m buying.’

  ‘Buying? Can you see a sign anywhere saying Yard Sale? You have me mixed up with someone else.’

  ‘No, there’s no sign, but I do want to buy from you.’

  ‘Look, buddy, you’re starting to tick me off. If you don’t mind, I have things to attend to.’ Jameson started to swing the door closed, but Lucas put his hand up to stop it.

  Jameson’s eyes went cold. ‘Take your hand from my door before I rip your arm off, old man.’

  ‘I want to buy your services.’

  ‘I’m asking you nicely. If you’re not off my property in three seconds, they will be taking you back to wherever you came from in a fucking ambulance.’

  Lucas removed his hand but stood his ground.

  ‘I want to hire the sniper who took out the target on the eighth floor of the Bakerville multi-storey in Tallahassee last year on 28 April at 8am.’

  Jameson’s aggression washed away in a heartbeat to be replaced with forced control. He stared at Lucas.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been watching too many cop shows, old man.’

  ‘I don’t watch TV and neither does my client. But we do have an extensive network and extremely reliable sources.’

  ‘You need to leave.’

  ‘But this is business and you are a businessman. It’s not good to turn away work.’

  Jameson shook his head. ‘You are barking up the wrong tree. I’m not a businessman.’ He went to shut the door, and Lucas stopped it again with his hand.

  ‘Okay, how about a game of word association?’

  ‘How about I phone that ambulance now?’

  ‘Gerry Vickers, Helix Holdings, Sheldon Chemicals, apartment forty-six Maple Crescent. How am I doing?’

  Jameson’s calm exterior was showing signs of stress.

  Lucas continued, ‘Lights on timers, a self-flushing toilet. All very ingenious. Precautions which are a little over the top for a simple captain who claims not to be a businessman. Do I need to go on?’

  It was Jameson’s turn to put his hand on the door to steady himself.

  Lucas pressed home his advantage. ‘In a little over twenty-four hours you will be raided at three in the morning by a SWAT team. If we can trace you through your business interests, so can they. If we can work out you have your mail redirected to this address, so can they. If I can turn up at your house unannounced, so can they.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the person who can stop all that happening. We have someone on the inside who can make certain bank transactions disappear.’ Lucas tried out his first lie of the day.

  Jameson was so bewildered he bought it. Lucas could see him weighing up his options.

  ‘Not here,’ Jameson said. ‘Meet me in the middle of Cabrillo Bridge on the south side at 2pm. It’s at Balboa Park. Come alone.’ Jameson pushed the door shut.

  Lucas walked the two blocks to where Harper had parked his ass in a burger bar.

  He slid alongside him in the booth and ordered coffee.

  ‘Well?’ asked Harper, stuffing the last third of a double cheeseburger into his mouth. His face looked like a hamster.

  ‘He’s shaken but wants to talk. He suggested a place in Balboa Park at two o’clock.’

  ‘Is it safe?’ Harper mangled the words through his partly eaten burger, spitting meat and bun on Lucas’s sleeve.

  ‘Is anything we do these days? He said come alone, so we’ll drive there, and I’ll go on foot.’ His coffee arrived.

  ‘Have a burger, they’re great.’

  ‘No thanks. I just had some.’

  Jameson paced up and down his living room, it was 11.45am. Who the hell was that guy and how did he know so much? He picked up his car keys and slid a 9mm revolver into the back of his belt. Killing Lucas was not part of the plan, at least not for now. He had to get to grips with how much his mystery visitor knew and blowing a hole in him was not going to help.

  He wanted to get to Cabrillo Bridge as early as possible to recce the place. In his experience, when people said they would come alone they invariably didn’t.

  As he pulled the door shut he heard the phone ring. He ignored it, got into his car and sped away.

  The answer phone clicked in, Mechanic didn’t leave a message.

  Cabrillo Bridge runs west to east of the main entrance to Balboa Park. It was built in 1915 and spans Cabrillo Canyon, which cuts through the park. It has a two-lane roadway with a pedestrian access on either side and is modelled on an ancient aqueduct. It is one hundred and forty yards long. Jameson didn’t give a shit about any of that, all he knew was that when he stood in the centre of the bridge he could spot someone coming from seventy yards away in each direction.

  Harper drove over the bridge and passed through the main entrance. The tourist car park was on the right.

  ‘You want me to tag along?’ Harper said.

  ‘No, it’s best we keep this simple. Jameson is unlikely to turn nasty. I’m an unknown quantity and that’s got to be burning a hole in him. I told him enough to make him piss his pants. He won’t risk trying to take me out, he doesn’t know what he’s up against. You stay here.’

  Lucas got out of the car and checked his watch, 1.45pm. He walked to the south side of the bridge and made his way along it.

  There were groups of excited tourists taking advantage of the panoramic view of downtown San Diego. The sun was shining and cameras snapped away creating happy holiday pics, to be taken home, stuck in an album, and forgotten. Up ahead Lucas could see Jameson leaning with his hands against the anti-suicide fence which ran along the length of the bridge. The fence spoiled the view but had probably paid for itself many times over in reduced admin.

  Jameson was staring at the high-rise buildings in the distance. He didn’t acknowledge Lucas as he approached. Lucas adopted the same pose. Just two guys admiring the view.

  ‘What do I call you?’ Jameson broke the silence.

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you. We want to hire the person who made the hit on the eighth floor of the Bakerville car park in Tallahassee on 28 April last year.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Stop playing games, Jameson. If that were the case you would not be here.’

  ‘You know about my business activities. You know about my apartment. You know about Sheldon Chemicals and Helix Holdings. But that does not make me a hitman.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but you launder money and that’s worth a long stretch in the big house. However, you are right, you’re not the hitman, but you are the fixer. On 28 April you supplied the location, the rifle, the ammunition and the finger on the trigger. And that’s all we want. We are not interested in making life difficult but you need to cooperate.’

  Jameson’s facade was cracking. How much does this guy know?

  ‘Why go to the trouble of digging around in my personal affairs? If you wanted to hire someone, why not just ask?’

  ‘You are a careful man, Captain Jameson, and you might have refused. We wanted to make sure you said yes.’

  ‘And what if I don’t?’

  ‘We don’t make the call and you get an early morning wakeup from the cops.’

  ‘I don’t like being strong-armed.’

  ‘Don’t look at it like that. I’m just making it easy for you to say yes. Look at it as a win-win situation. You get to avoid the close
scrutiny of the law and my client gets what he wants.’

  ‘You don’t get to choose the one who pulls the trigger.’

  ‘Oh, but we do, Captain Jameson, that’s a deal breaker. My client has admired your work for some time and is insistent on that point, it has to be the same shooter.’

  Jameson gritted his teeth, his mind doing backflips with the implications.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s our business. Let’s say it’s important to my client.’

  ‘Is your man reliable – the one who can make the money trail disappear.’

  ‘Yes.’ The lies were tripping off his tongue.

  Lucas watched as Jameson wrestled with his options.

  ‘It’s twenty-five grand up front and another twenty-five when the job is done.’

  Lucas shook his head and whistled. ‘That is way out of the ballpark. I tell you what, fifteen up front and fifteen after.’

  ‘No way, the kit is state of the art and that costs. Plus my guy is the best, and for that you have to pay top dollar.’

  ‘Okay twenty and twenty, that’s the best I can do. And don’t forget, you get the cops off your back thrown in for free.’

  ‘Done,’ Jameson said staring into the middle distance.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘That’s a “how long is a piece of string” question. It depends on the target and the location, the planning can take anything between a few days to a few months.’

  ‘Let me ask the question in a different way. When will you know how long this will take?’

  ‘I will have an initial estimate in the next few days. Who’s the target?’

  Lucas pulled a sealed envelope from his jacket and handed it to Jameson.

  ‘There’s one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is personal for my client and he wants to enjoy the ride. For his forty grand he wants to know how and when the hit will take place. He doesn’t want a ringside seat, but he wants to know how it’s going to go down.’

  ‘Your client is your business. I don’t want to know who he is.’