by Rob Ashman
After losing Mechanic, Moran had got back to Lucas and Harper as fast as she could. She’d burst into the room and blurted out what she had seen. The revelation knocked them sideways. It also had the effect of disarming the tension between herself and Harper. An uneasy truce had broken out between the pair of them.
Lucas paced around the room and the questions continued thick and fast.
‘What did she look like?’ asked Harper.
‘She looked like Mechanic. She had short dark hair. She was tanned and was wearing running gear. It looked like expensive kit.’
‘How short? How short was her hair?’
‘You know short, like a pixie cut. With a side parting.’ Moran fiddled with her own hair to mimic the style.
‘Could it have been someone who looked like her?’ Lucas said.
‘Yes, it could have been, but it wasn’t. It was her, one hundred percent.’
‘Did she see you?’ said Harper.
‘No, I don’t think so, anyway she doesn’t know who I am. I must have looked like any another tourist.’
‘Okay, what happened next?’
‘I was drinking wine outside a bar in Seaport Village taking in the view when she ran by. It took a second for it to register. But when it did, I left my shopping at the bar and took off after her. There was no way I could keep up. I followed for the next minute or so, but that was it. She was gone.’
‘You chased after her?’
‘I tried to, without giving myself away, but she burned the ground like an Olympian. I had no chance. She was really fast.’
‘Could you have got a cab and followed that way?’ Harper asked.
‘Give me a break, it’s a pedestrianised area, there are no cabs.’
‘What then?’
‘I went back to the bar and asked the waiters if any of them had seen the woman who just ran by. They all said the same thing, that loads of runners use this route, and none of them had noticed anyone in particular.’
All three sat in silence.
‘Okay, what do we think?’ Lucas said.
‘She could be resident here or passing through. We’ve given Jameson a job, so she could have flown in to discuss it with him,’ said Harper.
‘You said the kit looked expensive.’
‘Yes, I would say so.’
‘Would you take expensive gear with you when you’re travelling? Or would you take old stuff?’ Lucas asked.
‘Under normal circumstances, old kit, but maybe she only buys the best.’
‘We know she’s a runner. What else would she do?’ asked Harper.
‘Go to the gym,’ said Moran.
‘Yes, that’s what I figure. She keeps herself in shape, and we know she’s strong, so she must work out somewhere.’
‘How about we check out the gyms within a three-mile radius of Seaport Village, and if that throws up nothing extend the search,’ said Moran.
‘Back it up a while,’ said Lucas. ‘We have a sound plan to use Jameson to get to Mechanic. If we go blundering around asking questions, one of two things is going to happen. One: she will disappear, or two: she will kill us.’
‘I’m not saying we ditch the plan with Jameson. We carry that through, this gives us a second opportunity. We have to use this to our advantage. And you’re right we have to be extra vigilant when we’re out. You both need to cover up,’ said Moran.
‘It’s a dangerous game,’ said Lucas.
‘Like playing with Jameson isn’t?’ replied Moran.
‘There is another alternative,’ said Harper.
‘What’s that?’
‘Pick up Jameson and beat it out of him. Get him to tell us where Mechanic is living.’
‘Jameson is an ex-Navy Seal. Look at us, I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you? And if we try to blackmail him he will disappear along with Mechanic. He has a ton of money, remember?’
‘So what do we do? We can’t do nothing,’ said Harper.
‘I could go back to Seaport Village first thing tomorrow. There’s a chance she might train in the morning and use the same route. I have running gear with me, which would make it easier,’ said Moran.
‘I could make enquiries at the gyms,’ said Lucas. ‘I don’t have a picture or a name, but I can give a good description. See what falls out.’
‘That’s worth a try, I can do that with you,’ said Harper.
‘No, I have a different job for you.’
Lucas walked to the bedroom and returned with the Puma sports bag. He unzipped it and threw two bundles of cash to Harper.
‘We need to plan ahead. Which means we need gear.’
‘Does that include guns?’ Harper said with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Lucas.
31
All three rose early the next morning. They had agreed the most effective way to keep in touch was to leave messages with hotel reception. It would probably piss off the staff but it was the best they could do. If anyone encountered Mechanic, they were to follow at a distance and wait for the others. That is unless she was running, then it was a case of forget it.
Moran had found a different hotel on Second Avenue a short distance from where Lucas and Harper were staying. She ran out of the main entrance along Market Street towards the marina dressed in running gear. She arrived at Seaport Village and found the spot where she had seen Mechanic. The bar was closed, as were most of the shops. Some restaurants were open offering breakfast. The place was alive with runners. Her watch said 7am.
She perched on a low wall and watched the procession of sweaty T-shirts and Lycra. Moran needed to conserve her energy, because if Mechanic ran by it would take every ounce she had.
Lucas trawled through the telephone directory in the hotel and, armed with a map, located ten gyms within a three-mile radius of Seaport Village. He mapped out his route and set off. The first one was across the street but first he had to go shopping.
Thirty minutes later he was standing outside the first gym on the list. The metal sign above the door said Marty’s Gym and underneath was a picture of a dumbbell with the words ‘The Ironmongers’ written across it. Lucas climbed the stairs. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat and thick-rimmed spectacles –even by his own admission he looked weird.
Behind reception was a man with the face of a twelve-year-old boy, his muscles bursting out of his vest which was two sizes too small. He looked up as Lucas shuffled through the door at the top of the stairs.
‘Can I help you?’ he said trying to mask his disbelief.
‘I’m looking for someone, a woman, about five feet ten inches tall, short dark hair. She probably trains a lot. Do you have anyone like that?’
‘The boy shook his head. No, sir, it’s mainly men who train here. It’s not really a ladies’ gym. You might want to try Pure Fitness, it’s two blocks further down.’
Lucas consulted his map. Pure fitness was next on the list.
Harper was having a much more productive morning. He had bought all the local newspapers he could find, taken them to the nearest café, and ordered coffee.
He skimmed through the pages looking for the classified ads sections. Two coffees later he had marked three gun shops on the map provided by the hotel. He set off to find Guns and Tackle, situated just off Broadway and Union Street.
He found the store but didn’t bother going inside.
It was big, bright and prosperous, selling everything you needed for a camping and hunting holiday. Rifles, crossbows, tents, sleeping bags, the place had the lot. It was staffed by eager college kids wearing green shirts with the company logo on the back.
The second store was no better. It was called The Sport and Liquor Store and was the size of a small Wal-Mart. The store showcased hundreds of handguns and rifles, along with wall upon wall of bottled booze.
Alcohol and guns, now there’s a sensible mix, thought Harper.
He carried on walking.
The last on the list was a cab ri
de away near Cambridge Square. He read out the address to the driver. After fifteen minutes they swung left off First Avenue onto Quince Street. Harper paid the guy and stepped out.
He looked around. There were no gun shops to be seen. Harper checked the address in the paper. Sure enough, he was in the right place. He walked east to the junction with Second Avenue and saw what he was looking for, sitting on its own down a narrow side street.
The rusted sign said Guns ’n Ammo.
The storefront had a hundred years of grime baked into it and the windows were brown and opaque. Harper swung open the door and a bell chimed.
The interior was tiny in comparison to the other stores, crammed with glass-topped cabinets stacked full of handguns. Against one wall was a rack of rifles, an iron bar clamping them in place. A lone man stood behind the counter. He was in his late forties with a stubble face and the remnants of his dinner on his shirt. He was over two hundred and thirty pounds with little piggy eyes staring out of his puffy face. Under his belly Harper could see a gun hanging from his belt.
Harper felt at home.
The man nodded to Harper, who nodded back.
Harper walked up and down the display cabinets looking at the handguns.
‘Can I help you?’ the man said.
‘I’m looking to buy.’
‘That’s good,’ cause we’re a store.’
Harper smiled as he perused the parade of handguns and hunting knives.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A handgun and ammo.’
‘What sort?’
‘Something semi-automatic, 9mm, good stopping power.’
‘Good stopping power, eh?’
‘Yeah, something like a Glock, or a Colt, or a Browning.’
‘We have those.’
The man walked behind the glass display cases and selected three guns. He returned to the counter and put them on the top.
Harper checked each one over. Popping out the magazines, pulling back the slides, feeling the weight.
‘How much?’
‘The Glock is three fifty, the Colt is three hundred and the Browning is three twenty-five. You like what you see?’
‘I do, but I don’t want these.’
‘But you said you wanted something like this.’ The man looked edgy.
‘I do, but not these.’
The man placed both hands on the counter top and leaned forward.
‘Are you here to play games?’
‘No, I’m here to buy.’
Harper opened up his jacket and reached into the top pocket.
The man’s hand moved to his gun.
Harper eased out the wad of bank notes. The man’s piggy eyes widened when he saw the flash of green peeking above the lining.
‘I’m looking for something a little less visible, if you get my drift?’
The man stared at Harper.
‘You’re not a cop?’
‘No, I’m not.’
The man stroked his chin. He picked up the guns and replaced them under the glass.
He made eye contact with Harper and glanced up at the ceiling. Harper knew what he was doing. The man was pointing out the CCTV camera in the corner.
‘These guns are not for you, sir, but I might have a better selection in the back.’
The man walked from behind the counter and turned the lock on the front door, flipping over the sign to say Closed.
Harper followed him into the back.
It was small and dingy. There was an office with a rickety old desk, and a sitting room with a kettle and a sink. The place smelled of old socks and gun oil. The sound of Harper’s boots resonated against the wooden floor. There was a window at the back which was as dirty as those at the front. The man drew the drapes, flicked on a lamp and pulled a flat-edged screwdriver from the desk drawer. He pushed the sofa to one side, knelt down and levered the flat edge between the floorboards. He lifted up a square of flooring.
He fished his hand around under the floorboards and brought out a slim briefcase, then another and another. There were four cases in total. He cleared the desk and laid them down, popping open the clasps.
He lifted the lids to show the guns.
‘May I?’ Harper said.
The man stepped to one side and Harper went through the same inspection routine as before.
‘How many do you need?’
‘Two.’
Harper turned the guns over in his hand. The serial numbers had been filed away.
‘Can these be traced?’
‘No, they’ve not been used, they are brand new.’
Harper nodded approvingly.
‘How much?’
‘A grand a piece.’
‘Fifteen for the two.’
‘Seventeen fifty.’
‘And you throw in a box of ammo for each?’
‘Yes, okay.’
Harper selected the Browning and the Berretta. The man put both guns into one case and retrieved two boxes of Parabellum 9mm shells from the hole in the floor.
Harper peeled off the money from his wad of notes and gave it to the man.
The man held the notes up to the dim lighting.
‘They are fine,’ said Harper.
‘They are,’ he replied.
The man closed the lid, snapped the catches shut and handed the black hard-topped case to Harper.
‘Better that you leave this way,’ he said.
The man ushered Harper further into the back of the store and out through a door. It opened onto a narrow back lane.
‘Great doing business with you,’ Harper said as he stepped outside.
The guy shut the door and Harper could hear the sound of bolts being thrown across.
Harper had a big grin plastered on his face. Not because he was pleased with his purchases but because he still had the knack of sniffing out a bent business.
Mechanic arrived home after her run to the post office. She had pushed the pace and was breathing heavily. She tossed the padded envelope from Jameson onto the kitchen worktop and opened the refrigerator. A cold bottle of mineral water and a long, hot shower was in order.
She twisted the top and the gas fizzed.
‘It’s time to play.’ Daddy’s voice came out of nowhere.
Mechanic spun around to see where he was, but the apartment was empty.
‘Time to play!’ the voice yelled.
Mechanic stopped in her tracks. The voice was inside her head.
‘The family a few streets down. You saw them yesterday. Kill them.’ The voice was snarling.
Mechanic was frozen to the spot.
She broke from her paralysis and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the skewer. The flame from the gas ring burned blue as she held the metal in the flame and tore off her vest.
‘No, no, no,’ she chanted over and over.
‘They would make a nice addition to the collection. Kill them. Get your gun and let’s go play.’
‘No, no, no!’ Mechanic screamed the mantra, trying to drown out the voice.
‘Get your gun and let’s go out to play.’
She could feel the room swimming around her.
She held the skewer and watched it turn black in the heat. The image faded in and out of focus. Her hand trembled. A creeping numbness moved through her body.
She dropped the skewer and it rolled away from the flame.
She fumbled around to pick it up but her hands wouldn’t work.
She swayed. Her legs gave way.
Mechanic slumped to the floor with her back against the kitchen cabinet.
‘Get your gun and let’s go.’
She tried to grab the hot metal, but it was out of reach.
She pushed with her legs but they crumpled beneath her.
There was a rushing in her ears. She could feel her peripheral vision closing in.
‘Get your gun and let’s go play.’
Mechanic gritted her teeth and once more lunged for the handle of the s
kewer.
She fell back and everything went black.
32
Mechanic’s eyelids flickered. Through the watery slits she could make out a blurred white light. She felt woozy.
Her eyes half-opened, and the light came into focus. It was a large circular globe set into the ceiling. She realised she must be lying on her back looking up. Her mouth was dry. Her eyelids weighed a ton and they closed again. Her brain slowly engaged.
Mechanic opened them again. Above her head was an inch-wide aluminium tramline that looped its way across the whitewashed ceiling. She tilted her head down to lower her gaze and saw two beds opposite, both with yellow curtains draped either side.
Her eyes closed and she processed the images. After an eternity her brain came back with an answer – she was lying in a hospital.
She looked around. Her head felt as if it was floating in mid-air.
Sure enough there was a person lying in the bed in the corner with an IV line running under the bedcover. The other two beds were empty. Mechanic could see through a set of open doors into a corridor with medical staff rushing about.
Lazily her brain sent a signal.
What the fuck am I doing in hospital?
Mechanic closed her eyes and tried to catch up. She moved her fingers and toes, they were fine. She moved her arms and legs, they were fine too. She wasn’t in any pain.
What the hell am I doing in hospital? The thought played through her head again.
Mechanic looked down to see herself covered in a thin blue sheet. She lifted the top cover to see underneath, she was clothed in a white nightgown. The skin on her left hand was grazed and she had a bruise on her elbow. She brought her hand up and felt the contours of her face. Everything was fine.
She lay there and picked through the debris in her mind, trying to piece together what happened.