The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  Moran moved over and Mills stepped inside.

  She perched on the edge on the sofa and he settled into the chair.

  ‘What is it this time?’ she said.

  Mills pulled two mug shots from his pocket and handed them to Moran.

  ‘How do you know these men?’

  Moran nearly fell on the floor. Staring back at her from the two four-by-six prints were Harper and Lucas. She froze everything trying not to react.

  Moran pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘Am I supposed to know them?’

  ‘You were with them the other night.’

  ‘I was? Where the hell was that?’

  ‘You were with them in Fremont Street, at the back of the Mint.’

  Moran’s head felt like it was about to explode.

  Where in hell’s name was this going? she thought looking at the photos.

  ‘I’ve never seen these guys before, who are they?’

  ‘I need to ask the questions. How do you know them?’

  ‘We’ve done that one already. The straight answer is, I don’t. What is this about?’

  ‘You were seen at the back of the Mint, where you met with these two men.’

  Sparks of realisation started popping in her head. The guard. The guard must have seen her chatting to Lucas and Harper. But what would that have to do with Mills?

  ‘I was at the back of the Mint the other night, although what the hell that has to do with the police is beyond me. I had dropped my purse and a security guy helped me look for it.’

  ‘That’s right, and when you left the parking lot you were with these two men.’

  ‘Look, I am getting bored of saying this. I was not with them.’

  ‘The guard says you were.’

  Moran had a burst of clarity which stunned her into silence. This was not a police matter – if it was she would be answering questions at the station. This had to be about something else.

  The explanation chilled Moran to the bone.

  The security guard had to be on Bonelli’s payroll and recognised Lucas and Harper from the manhunt a year ago. He reported it up the chain of command and Bonelli had squeezed his network to get information and find them. Mills must be part of that network. The back of the Mint was plastered with surveillance cameras, her face must have been circulated, Mills knew exactly where to start.

  The realisation hit her full on. Mills was not only a useless cop, he was bent as well.

  Moran found her acting skills.

  ‘Wait a moment. After I looked for my purse, two men asked me for directions. I don’t know who was more drunk, me or them.’

  ‘You were drunk?’

  ‘Yeah, I was drunk. Here’s a newsflash for you, Mills, it’s been a fucking stressful time.’

  Mills flinched at the rebuke.

  ‘And these were the men you spoke to?’

  ‘They might have been. I spoke to a ton of people that night.’

  Mills reached out and took the photographs from her hand.

  ‘I still don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?’ Moran asked.

  ‘We want to speak to them. Did they say where they were going?’

  ‘Look, Mills, I can hardly recall talking to them.’

  Mills stood up. The conversation was over. He headed for the front door.

  ‘If you run into them again, give me a call.’

  ‘Are they dangerous?’

  ‘We need to ask them a few questions.’

  Moran opened the door and showed him out. She leaned on the doorframe and watched him go. She had to find Harper fast.

  40

  Harper sauntered past the Mint and ducked inside the first strip joint he came to. The man on the door was the size of a family wardrobe. He nodded as Harper made his way inside. The wall of music hit him as he pushed against the inner door.

  The ceiling was packed with glitter balls, while spinning spotlights cascaded a starburst of red, purple and blue around the room. Speakers hung in the corners, thumping out the beat like giant metronomes. The bar was to the left and a black raised runway ran down the centre. Above the runway a carpet of lights spilled a patchwork of colour onto the stage. A row of chairs ran down either side, occupied by glassy eyed men with their tongues hanging out.

  Women strutted up and down the runway in their underwear, making eye contact with the men and gyrating in front of them. When a punter stuck a bill into her panties the woman was his for the next three minutes. Around the walls were signs saying No Touching.

  Harper went to the bar, ordered a beer and took in the sights around him. There were booth seats against the far wall occupied by groups of men. Women wearing next to nothing flitted around to ensure the guys were having a good time and had a drink in their hand.

  The beers flowed and Harper found himself drawn to the runway. One woman kept crooking her finger to beckon him over. The first few times, he waved his hand and looked away. She was absolutely gorgeous and Harper was finding it difficult to say no.

  She rotated her hips and stuck out her ass. Harper caved in.

  He picked up his drink, moseyed over to where she was dancing and plonked himself on a chair. She dropped down in front of him, licked her finger and drew it up the centre of her body. He reached in his pocket for money. He found a five dollar bill. She turned and bent over, Harper slipped the note into her panties. She started grinding away.

  But Harper wasn’t looking at her. His attention was drawn to the wardrobe-sized man ushering two men into the club. They were dressed in double-breasted suits and stuck out from the rest of the punters like a sore thumb. They scanned the room paying no attention to the women. They were looking for someone.

  Harper ducked down so his chin was almost level with the top of the runway. The dancer took this as a sign for her to get down and dirty. She sank to the floor and spread her legs wide. She was totally bemused when Harper slid from his chair and used a passing waitress to shield him from view as he scurried to the back. He could feel the gun tucked into the back of his belt. It gave him a small swell of comfort, but a fire fight in a crowded bar was not a good idea.

  The men in suits split up and paced either side of the runway.

  Harper reached the back of the club and found the restrooms. He dashed into the ladies’ room and banged open each of the stalls. The one at the end had a window set into the outside wall.

  He went inside, locked the door and climbed onto the seat. The latch on the window was welded shut with paint, and try as he might he couldn’t free it. Harper removed his jacket and wrapped it around his gun. He smashed it into the glass. The window shattered.

  Moran flung the car against the kerb and jumped out. She was met by a wall of tourists clogging up the sidewalk. One question hammered away at her. Where would Harper go?

  The answer was straightforward and she headed up Fremont Street to the nearest strip club. The wardrobe-sized doorman gave her a quizzical look as she arrived at the entrance. She darted back to the kerb and looked around. Shit, there were so many clubs. Which one? Moran thought hard. The answer was obvious: the first one he came to.

  She was about to go in when she heard the faint sound of glass shattering. The doorman heard nothing over the noise in the club.

  Moran darted to her right and ran down First Street.

  The men in suits were working their way through the room, checking everyone out. They moved in unison to the back of the club and came to the restrooms. They burst open the door to the men’s room.

  Harper could hear the thumping noise of doors slamming next door. He covered the window ledge with his jacket and squeezed through the gap. Shards of glass buried in the window frame tore at his shirt and bloodied his skin. He rolled out onto the single-storey sloping roof.

  Harper slid down the tiles and tumbled off the edge. He hit the concrete hard and his gun spun from his hand. Above him he could hear the sound of raised voices.

  Moran ran across the b
ack of the strip joints looking for a way in. She could see the window with the glass missing – two men in suits were forcing themselves through the gap.

  Harper was dazed from his fall. Pain shot up his legs as he sat on the ground.

  Where the hell is my gun?

  He scrambled to his feet. He could hear the men sliding down the roof. He spun left and hobbled down a narrow alley at the side of the building. His path was blocked by a brick wall. He was trapped.

  Harper looked around, the walls on either side were too high to scale. He hid behind a bin which was spilling over with empty bottles. The sound of metal-heeled shoes striking concrete filled the yard.

  Moran tried a door in the back wall but it was locked. She tried another, that was locked. The third one opened. She cracked it ajar to see the men in suits. They had their backs to her and were poking around, their guns on show.

  Moran drew her weapon.

  Harper could hear the men talking in low tones as they searched the yard.

  ‘Hey, look,’ one of them said picking Harper’s handgun off the floor.

  Harper pushed himself tight against the wall. He could hear their footsteps getting closer. They rounded the corner and headed down the alley.

  Moran slipped through the door and crabbed her way across the yard. The men were in front of her, edging closer to Harper.

  They spotted him.

  ‘On your feet,’ one of them said, levelling his gun at Harper’s head. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

  Harper shuffled to his feet.

  The other man pulled a dog-eared photograph from his pocket.

  ‘It’s him,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, old-timer, we are going to take a walk, nice and gentle. If you feel like being a hero, we can carry you out of here if you prefer.’

  Moran crept around the corner.

  Harper saw her but kept his eyes glued to the man in front.

  Moran stepped closer and held up three fingers on her left hand.

  She counted them down.

  ‘Come on, old man, move it.’

  Three, two, one.

  Harper darted to his left and the men sprang forward.

  Moran slammed the Berretta into the back of the first guy’s skull. His legs buckled and he slumped down.

  The second man hesitated. He had to stop Harper from running but there was something happening behind him. The split second of indecision was all she needed.

  Moran pivoted on her left leg and smashed the instep of her right foot into his face. His nose burst into a bloody pulp and his cheekbone shattered. He keeled over sideways and smacked into the wall, sliding to the floor in a heap.

  The first man was groaning. He had heaved himself onto all fours with blood running down his neck onto his shirt. Moran stepped back and lashed out with her boot. It caught the guy behind the ear. He hit the ground with a splat.

  Moran grabbed Harper by the arm.

  ‘Come on,’ she said as they hurried for the door. Harper was limping. He stopped to retrieve his gun.

  They walked along the back road and cut through onto Second Street, where Moran’s car was waiting.

  They piled in and pulled away.

  ‘Thank you,’ Harper said. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘How did you know I was there? And how did you know I was in trouble?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later, but right now we gotta get out of here.’

  41

  Harper squirmed in the passenger seat trying to get comfortable while Moran powered through the streets to get home.

  ‘You were really something back there,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way.’

  ‘It would have been simplest to use your gun and start popping away.’

  ‘Yes, and that would have brought the whole of the LVPD down on our heads. And we were having enough trouble with two of Bonelli’s boys. We didn’t need more.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s easy to say. But when you’re faced with a situation like that it takes balls not to use it.’

  ‘I don’t have balls.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  Moran continued to fill Harper in on her theory that Mills was bent. They had to get a message to Lucas fast to stop him travelling back to Vegas.

  Moran opened her front door and scurried to the bedroom to fill a bag with clothes and toiletries. Harper called the apartment they had stayed in while at the Gaslamp District. Lucas was staying there but was out. Harper left an urgent message with the switchboard telling Lucas to stay put.

  Their strategy was simple. Vegas was too dangerous and they needed to move out fast. The logical place to go was San Diego. At least there they had the opportunity to continue to track down Mechanic, even if that had proved unsuccessful the last time.

  ‘Ready,’ Moran said appearing in the hallway with two bags.

  They had one more stop to make before heading south. A small matter of collecting twenty thousand dollars in a black Puma sports bag.

  While in San Diego, Lucas, Harper and Moran spent their time scouting for Mechanic. Harper and Lucas trawled the gyms and Moran ran around the parks and boardwalks like a mad woman. Despite their best efforts, Mechanic eluded them. Not surprising, as she was three hundred and thirty miles away in Vegas, finalising preparations. Things were going well.

  The days passed quickly.

  They practised the operation to take out Mechanic until they saw it in their sleep. A local park was the ideal location to test out the radios, though they ran the gauntlet of a thousand disapproving glances from parents playing with their children, concerned at the spectacle of three adults playing games with walkie-talkies.

  They discussed what to do with Mechanic’s body and reached the unanimous conclusion that leaving it on the roof for the police to find was the best option. A lone sniper shot through the head on a rooftop had the all hallmarks of a gangland killing. A useful diversion.

  Harper cruised by Jameson’s place on numerous occasions to check it out, but each time the house was deserted. He was tempted to stop and take a closer look, but there was nothing to be gained by spooking Jameson and maybe getting his ass kicked in the process.

  Moran decided the best approach was for them all to stop over in Henderson the night before, the second biggest city in Nevada. It lay sixteen miles southeast of Vegas within easy striking distance of the Jackpot motel, and more importantly was outside of Bonelli’s jurisdiction. They were less likely to run into any of his guys there.

  Moran booked three rooms for one night.

  It was 9am, Thursday.

  They checked their equipment for the hundredth time, hauled their gear into the cars and set off. Harper fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out an oblong package.

  ‘I bought you a present,’ he said placing it on the dashboard.

  Lucas had one eye on the road and the other on the gift. It was in a brown paper bag and wound with packing tape, Harper’s version of gift wrapping. Lucas grabbed it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and find out.’

  Lucas put it in his lap and tore at the paper with one hand while steering with the other. He struggled, but after much scraping and cursing he got it open.

  ‘It’s a camera?’ Lucas said holding it up.

  ‘Yes, one of those Polaroid things.’

  Lucas looked across at Harper and frowned.

  ‘You said you wanted to videotape the life draining from Mechanic’s eyes, so you could watch it over and over again.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, a video camera was too big to wrap. So I got you this.’

  7.30am, Friday.

  Lucas, Moran and Harper drove to the Jackpot motel in two cars. The traffic was heavy but moving as the rush hour took hold. They travelled bumper to bumper away from Henderson on the 508 until they hit Las Vegas Boulevard. A sharp right brought them to the junction with Bonanza Road. T
he motel was further along on the left.

  Moran pulled into a slot at the side of the building, while Lucas nosed his car into a residential side street a hundred yards away. None of them had woken early that morning because none of them had slept a wink.

  Harper checked his kit. It was all in order. He pulled the door handle, Lucas placed his hand on his arm.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Harper smiled and stepped out, closing the door. Lucas watched him turn the corner and walk out of sight.

  Lucas waited ten minutes then followed him. Thirty yards to the left of reception was a small green area with ornamental trees and bushes. Lucas settled himself amongst them and pulled out his binoculars. From his position he had the perfect angle to watch the back of the motel and also keep an eye on the traffic entering and leaving the lot.

  He could see Moran disappear over the lip of the building onto the roof. Harper was halfway up the ladder.

  Five minutes later Lucas heard a squelch on his intercom. They were in position. Now it was a waiting game.

  Harper and Moran sat on the floor behind separate electrical cabinets. Moran had her gun beside her and was staring into space, blocking everything from her brain. Harper fiddled with his gun and ate chocolate.

  The morning was brightening up as the sun rose. It was clear with a slight breath of wind. Mechanic’s preparation time would be minimal. No cross wind to adjust for, just set it up and bang.

  Lucas watched as people left the motel and headed for their cars with suitcases and bags. New staff arrived dressed in blue coveralls. A truck delivered fresh laundry in wire cages and took away the dirty stuff. A small van dropped off cases of bottled water.

  Lucas looked at his watch. It was nine thirty.

  He saw the white roof of a van drift into the parking lot. The rest of the vehicle was obscured by cars. It parked up and the driver’s door opened. Lucas saw a head emerge wearing a blue baseball cap. The head moved around the van and slid open the side door.

  The person disappeared for a second then rattled the door across and walked to the front. Lucas stared through his binoculars and held his breath.