by Rob Ashman
Lucas was not strong enough to deal with it anyway so it was just as well. It was difficult to choose which of the two of them had come off worse at the hands of Mechanic. They were discharged from hospital at separate times but neither one under his own steam. Both left in wheelchairs.
Lucas’s wife camped out at the hospital during his recovery. This was traumatic for her, because unbeknown to Lucas, his heart stopped several times when first admitted. She maintained a constant vigil at his bedside and stayed strong but when she heard that he had pulled through and was out of danger, she cried for an entire day.
Lucas woke from his drug-induced coma to find his words were slurred. He had difficulty constructing sentences, but as time went by his speech returned to normal. He grilled the steady stream of officers who came to visit him about the case. What’s the latest? Have they followed up on the vehicle? Did they get fingerprints?
One of his regulars was Dick Harper. Lucas loved his visits because Harper spoke to him in his usual blunt and to the point manner. It was simple, uncomplicated, straightforward conversation.
Harper was oblivious to the fact that Lucas had slurred speech, ignored the fact his lungs didn’t work, and never once appeared to notice the knitting basket of pipes and tubes keeping him alive. Harper was also impervious to the usual protocol of bringing the sick person a gift of fruit or flowers. He sat at the side of Lucas’s bed, burning with all the intensity of a rooky cop while devouring any grapes, strawberries or oranges which were within arm’s reach. Lucas never saw him eat the flowers but he ate everything else.
Between them they had a single topic of conversation, piecing together the events of that evening.
That night, Harper had known about the incident the station from the reports on his police scanner, and when he got to the station the controller told him where Lucas had gone. He found his car abandoned outside the club. Harper was a lot more agile than his bulk would suggest, and he had scaled the gates to get into the grounds. He found the security guard in the bushes near to the grand house with his neck broken, and figured, just like Lucas, that the most likely place to look was the maintenance sheds at the back of the estate. He could hear shouting coming from the basement, saw Lucas hanging by his wrists and the two women fighting. He shot twice at the women and one of them threw a wrench causing him to fall backwards. His third shot struck the ceiling and then hit Lucas.
When Harper regained his balance, one of the women returned fire and shot him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards into the work benches. As he fell he struck the back of his head, and that was the last Harper knew of anything until the backup units arrived to take charge of the wounded. At least Harper had the presence of mind to tell the desk controller to get a patrol car over to Brightwood Country club. They were late but at least they got there.
It didn’t matter how many times they went over the details of what happened, Harper always maintained one thing. His second shot hit one of the women in the head and he saw her fall. He recounted how her head snapped back and he saw the black hole in her forehead. Harper was adamant he had killed her.
When Harper came round from being knocked unconscious, his first question was about Lucas, and his second was about the women.
Lucas was in a bad way and on his way to hospital.
The women were gone.
50
Present day
Wednesday, 23 March 1983
Tallahassee, Florida
Lucas wanted to shoot his visitors. The gun lay in his desk drawer and he was itching to pull it out and blast away. He had to stop them torturing him with kindness, but wasting two FBI agents on his first week back was such bad form. So, in the absence of being able to kill them, he chose instead to only half listen.
The two guys in FBI regulation suits were talking but all he heard was the faint mumbling of soft, understanding voices. They were being ever so gentle and considerate, which would be good, if it wasn’t for the fact they had been ever so gentle and considerate for the past three goddam days.
They were well trained to deal with people being rehabilitated back into work after they had suffered significant trauma. But how many times did he have to go over and over the same damn stuff? It was always the same story, always the same chronology, always the same people and always the same outcome.
Monday 21 March was a significant date in the Lucas household calendar. It was the day he finally returned to work. He had been back now for three days. Not that anyone would have known because he had been holed up in his office talking to the FBI suits for the entire duration.
Lucas harboured a dark thought, which he kept securely to himself. Let them bring a new guy in to run the show and I’ll drive a desk in a back office somewhere. It was once the job he loved, but now the role of Police Lieutenant appeared like a giant nettle which he had no intention of grasping.
After everything that had happened, Lucas couldn’t move on. How could he? There was no resolution to what had taken place, just one giant loose end.
One big, fat, ugly loose end.
He was aware that the talking had stopped and the FBI agents were staring at him with a look of expectation that said, ‘It’s your turn to talk now.’
He looked up and didn’t even bother to pretend. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t listening. You need anything else?’
‘It’s been a long few days but I think we have all we need,’ the taller of the two men replied, nodding his head. Lucas still couldn’t remember their names.
You had what you needed two damn months ago, Lucas thought, keeping his mouth shut.
They rose from the circular conference table and shook hands across it. There was a palpable sense of relief that the gentle tones and soft questions had at last come to an end.
‘Thanks guys.’ Even Lucas had to admit his words sounded hollow and disingenuous. He just wanted them both to piss off.
Lucas ushered them to the door, limping without his stick, and showed them out. He flopped down in his chair and shook his head. There was a knock on the door and his mail arrived.
The plain white document-sized envelope with the handwritten address stood out from the rest. Lucas pulled it from the stack and held it in his hand, turning it first this way then the next, as if examining a piece of evidence. It was addressed to him with a date stamp of Monday 21 March and from the postmark he could just about make out Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
It was written in an ornate copperplate script with flurries of expert swirls around his name: Lieutenant Edmund Lucas. He frowned and edged his finger into the corner of the flap, and then slid it along the top, ripping it open.
The envelope felt empty.
He peered inside.
It certainly didn’t contain a letter or a document, but Lucas knew there was something at the bottom. He tipped the envelope sideways to extract whatever was inside.
The first grains of bright white sugar rolled from the confines of the envelope and onto the polished surface of the desk. Lucas was stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening.
He tilted it further. More grains of sugar spilled out and pooled in concentric circles on the table top. The more Lucas tilted the envelope, the more sugar cascaded down, along with what looked like squares of white paper. Lucas upended it and allowed the complete contents to empty onto the desk. He stared at the mess of sugar and paper, holding his breath.
It took a few moments for the cogs to turn and for realization to dawn. Then tears welled up in his eyes and he exploded, slamming his fist into the table.
‘No!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.
As he punched the desk a second time, the door burst open.
‘Are you alright, boss?’
‘No, I am not!’ Lucas spat the words across the office. ‘Get those FBI bastards back here now.’
He was ready to grasp the nettle and spoiling for a fight.
Ten white paper packets, with their tops torn off, lay scattered across his desk among the s
ugar.
They were perfectly flat.
Mechanic was back.
The End
Now also available, the next two books in the thrilling Mechanic Series.
Book 2 In Your Name
Book 3 Pay The Penance
Acknowledgments
I want to thank all those who have made this 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, Austin, Nicki, Laura, Jackie, Alex, Anne, Frazer and Simon who didn’t hold back either and finally my talented editor, Helen Fazal, who kept me sane when I needed it and without whom this work would be devoid of punctuation, grammar and syntax.
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
For Maureen
1
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.
2
Nine weeks earlier
Las Vegas, Nevada
Eight months is a long time to go without killing someone of consequence, and the only victims of consequence for Mechanic to slaughter were Lucas and Harper. Her dreams were a random cascade of severed limbs, broken bodies and lifeless eyes, but revenge would have to wait. She had other more important things to occupy her time.
Getting out of Florida and evading the police had been straightforward – sliding off the grid was easy for a woman with her talents, the hard part was agonising over what to do with her sister, Jo. It was a gut-wrenching decision. Her every instinct screamed at her to get away but she couldn’t simply leave Jo. Eventually Mechanic headed west to the place where she knew she could find work and people didn’t ask too many questions: Las Vegas, Nevada.
The trauma of what had happened to her sister had an unexpected outcome; the voices in her head were silent. Daddy no longer patrolled the labyrinth in her mind compelling her to take the lives of seemingly happy families. But that did not eliminate her need to kill. It was a constant itch which needed scratching.
Eight months is a long time to go without killing someone of consequence but that doesn’t mean not killing at all. It had to be satisfied by something else, and that something else was drug dealers.
They were ready-made fodder with built-in motives. Turf wars were common, with rival gangs clashing over territories. The police must have thought it was Christmas every week – bad guys shooting bad guys. What could make you smile more? Of course, they investigated the cases, but only superficially, there was never a serious commitment to bring people to justice. In fact, from their perspective, it was a practice which should be widely encouraged.
Mechanic had an important assignment coming up and needed to be clear-headed. She needed to be professional. She needed a kill fix, and that meant going cruising.
She drove around the rundown parts of Vegas looking for a credible target. It needed to be in a location where drugs were openly sold on the street, which signified a zero police presence. It also tended to suggest a lack of passing traffic, since the only people around were those looking for business.
It didn’t take long to locate the perfect candidate and for the past three nights she’d kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.
It was the same set-up every time. On a four-way road junction sat a big fat guy squashed into a white plastic chair, the legs bowing under his weight. With his back to the corner he had three-sixty-degree vision. He was on lookout.
A second guy with a tall, athletic frame leaned against the bare brick wall opposite sucking on thin cigars, blowing plumes of blue grey smoke into the air. He held the gear.
The third guy was thickset, with a shaved head and homemade tattoos running across his chest and down his arms. He jogged and danced on the spot to the sounds in his head. He was the psycho of the team, the one who killed for fun.
One was white, one was black and one was Hispanic. This drug cartel obviously valued diversity.
Mechanic parked her car out of sight about two hundred yards away and walked up the street towards them. She wore a black baggy sweatshirt with the hood pulled forward, dark jogging pants, work boots and black gloves with rubber-grip palms.
Her breathing was slow and deep.
Her head clear as crystal.
Adrenaline coursed through her body but she maintained a relaxed appearance. She looked like someone taking a casual stroll in the wrong part of town.
She approached the men and could hear the unhinged bald one beat boxing and snapping his fingers as he danced in the road. The fat one made a sound like ‘Yo!’ and dancing boy turned to face her.
‘Hey, Holmes, you looking for some shit? Cos you’ve come to the right place.’ When he pronounced the word ‘right’ his voice rose in pitch to top C. He swaggered around waving his arms. Mechanic said nothing and continued walking.
‘Hey, Holmes, don’t ignore me when I’m smiling and being nice.’ Dancing boy stepped in front of her about six feet away blocking her path. He was about the same height but half as wide again. ‘You want gear? We got great gear. Good shit, Holmes. Good shit.’
She kept her head down and tried to step around him. He let her pass, only to run in front, again blocking her path. She was now level with the other two who regarded her with disinterest.
‘I said, you want gear, we got gear, if you don’t want gear well …’ Dancing boy jigged about. ‘What the hell you doing on our street?’ He held hi
s thickly inked arms outstretched to prevent her going any further. She went to move around him but he shifted position, the stink of garlic and tequila wafted around her as he stepped in close. He reeked of stale sweat and dirty clothes.
‘Where you going in such a hurry, man?’ He flicked her hood back and she stared him in the face.
‘Wow, es una chica!’ The others looked over. ‘Look guys, it’s a girl.’ He let the word ‘girl’ rise to top C, whooping as he spun on his heels. ‘Ella es muy bonita,’ he yelled to the others, wolf-whistling and rubbing his chest.
Mechanic stepped forward but he cut her off. The tall, athletic one pushed himself off the wall. He was now interested.
This was getting close.
‘Let me pass, please,’ Mechanic said trying to move to the side. Dancing boy pushed his body against hers, his face greasy and deeply pockmarked where acne and poor hygiene had marked him for life. Scored across the indents in his skin she could see the scars of past encounters. His stinking breath was hot on her cheek. Mechanic looked at the floor as he whispered in her ear.
‘So what’s a piece of pretty white pussy doing walking down my street, eh?’
‘Just let me pass.’
‘Not sure I will, cos I got something here that needs attention. What do you say?’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘And my friends, they love the taste of white meat. I figure you could help them too.’ He curled back his lips to reveal an uneven row of broken yellow teeth.
Mechanic glanced to the side and could see the tall guy moving in.
‘You think she’s good to go?’ Tall guy said laughing. ‘She’s gonna take all of us, right?’
‘I guess so.’ With that, dancing boy circled around Mechanic and gripped her in a bear hug from behind. He was strong and clamped her arms to her sides.