by Rob Ashman
She could have refused their help but it wasn’t worth the trouble. Her mother would pull her ‘I’m so disappointed with you’ face and sulk for weeks. Anyway, she started her new job in the next few days and could do with the help, even if it did result in some corrective activity afterwards.
Rebecca Moran was a woman in a hurry.
She had graduated with a first-class law degree and had passed her masters in criminology with flying colours. Her parents were spectacularly proud of their only child and dreamed of her soaring up the corporate ladder as a partner in a top law firm.
So when she turned up at the family home one day with a letter confirming her job in the police force there was more than a little upset. Rebecca had always wanted to join the police and had made that career choice perfectly plain but her parents didn’t listen. Whenever she said the word policewoman they heard attorney.
Moran tipped the scales at no more than a hundred and thirty pounds and ate like a horse. Her dark brown hair was cut into a stylish bob and her favourite colour was black: black shirts, black suits, black shoes, black everything, even her underwear drawer was totally devoid of any feminine colours.
She had a young face with wide eyes and a bright smile. She seldom wore makeup, preferring instead to adopt the ‘I don’t have time for that shit’ approach to female grooming. It obviously did her no harm and the constant stream of male attention confirmed that Rebecca Moran was indeed a good-looking woman.
Her diminutive stature would often mislead eager male colleagues. She might look like a college kid, but Moran was as tough as they came and fiercely ambitious. She had a competitive streak a mile wide which won her few friends but she couldn’t care less. Life was about winning and coming top. She powered her way through her training at the police academy and graduated top of the class. When she was awarded the prestigious Best New Recruit medal her parents were of course very proud, but deep inside they wanted all this police nonsense to come to an end. They simply wanted their little girl to take up that position in the law for which she was destined.
She slid the key into the lock and smiled as the door swung open onto the modest hallway. A two-bedroom modern apartment with a spacious living room and through diner, and the best part of all, it was all hers.
Moran threw herself onto her new leather couch unaware that the focus of her first day at work was being zipped into body bags and taken to the mortuary to await forensic examination. One of the bodies didn’t neatly fit into the heavy duty-bag due to the knurled metal spike protruding from his face.
7
Keeping up with Harry Silverton was proving to be a real challenge. For a man who looked like he wouldn’t last the day without having a coronary, he was a ball of mischief and energy. Most high rollers had a certain composure and an aura that said, ‘I don’t have to try, life comes to me’. Harry on the other hand seemed to want everything all at once and was perfectly happy to go get it himself.
When he arrived at the Hacienda he didn’t go to his suite to freshen up, choosing instead to head straight for the gambling hall. The room was huge, filled with slot machines of every description which filled the place with a resonating cacophony of chiming bells and clattering coins. Running down the centre were the gaming tables and around the outside were the high-stakes rooms filled with green baize tables and attentive croupiers. The low level lighting ensuring the hall remained in a constant state of dusk.
Most people with the spending power of Harry Silverton would sit in a high-stakes room and let the hotel take care of the rest. But Harry Silverton wasn’t most people. The normal gaming tables were teaming with people from all walks of life, a ready-made audience for him to play with. Mechanic walked five steps behind as Harry buzzed from table to table trying to make up his mind. He shouldered his way through a crowd of punters surrounding a roulette wheel and demanded a chair. Before anyone could protest he was shaking hands and introducing himself as Harry James Silverton III.
Eventually, a woman who was sitting with her husband watching the game got up and offered him her seat. Harry carved himself enough space with his elbows to sit down. He slid the dealer a billfold of notes big enough to choke a donkey.
‘Beer and a JD chaser,’ he called, raising his hand in the air.
An attractive blonde waitress appeared in seconds, obviously allocated to provide Harry with his every whim. Mechanic watched her work her particular brand of magic. In her purple mini dress with a split to the top of her thigh, and barely enough material to contain her ample chest, she was in for a bumpy ride.
After a second recount the dealer pushed a wall of chips in front of Harry. ‘Ten thousand dollars, sir.’ The crowd of onlookers gasped in unison. That’s what Harry wanted to hear.
‘Hey, thanks for the seat, honey,’ he said, flipping the woman next to him a fifty-dollar chip.
His drinks arrived and the pretty blonde with the gaping top manoeuvred herself next to him.
‘Mr Silverton,’ she said in a Marilyn Monroe voice, ‘your drinks.’ She leaned hard against Harry as though being jostled by the crowd. This enabled her to squash her right breast against his arm. He lifted the JD from the tray and downed it in one, took the beer and left a chip of indeterminate value in its place.
‘Same again, sweetheart,’ he said staring down her top. She negotiated her way from the table and considered this was going to be a busy and lucrative shift.
‘Here we go!’ Harry shouted and threw a handful of chips onto the green baize. Those around him whooped their appreciation. Harry didn’t get this reaction playing the high-stakes tables. This was what he craved.
It was at this point that Walker appeared. Mechanic eyed him from across the room noting that his jacket was buttoned all the way to hide the cut in his pants. She beckoned him over.
‘Do you do all your own mending?’ she asked. Walker scowled at her and walked away. Mechanic smiled. It was only for three days, she may as well have some fun.
The next four hours passed uneventfully. Mechanic watched the proceedings from a distance and marvelled at Silverton’s stamina and energy, not to mention his tolerance for alcohol. The pretty blonde Marilyn Monroe waitress was on a constant shuttle back and forth to the bar for drinks and snacks. As Harry made friends with others around the table so the drinks order grew and became more frequent. Despite the tsunami of beers and JD chasers, Marilyn never missed an opportunity to squash herself against Harry, giving him a plunging prevue of what he could be enjoying later. She was a real pro.
Mechanic sipped her tonic and looked at her watch: quarter after midnight. Harry was still performing with all the energy and enthusiasm of a kid on a high-school bus trip. He’d seen off at least six tables of people yet still managed to maintain a significant crowd of onlookers. The lovely Marilyn kept pace with the constant calls for more drinks and would probably be able to retire on the tips. Mechanic couldn’t work out if Silverton was financially up or down on the evening, all she knew was that he was spending hard, having a blast and was safe.
Suddenly a shrill electronic whooping could be heard over the noise of the slot machines. The house lights came up and blue xenon lights flashed on the pillars and walls. A fire alarm.
Mechanic moved in and threaded her way next to Harry.
‘Mr Silverton, there is a fire alarm, we will need to evacuate the building.’ Harry shrugged his shoulders and seemed relaxed about the whole thing, probably because he had a bottle of JD and a crate of Bud inside him. He looked around at the staff who were ushering people out of the hotel.
‘Cash me up, we’re off to the Stardust.’
‘Damn it,’ Mechanic kept her mouth shut, ‘I thought I was off to bed.’
8
Mechanic hated it when clients brought their own security – it always developed into an argument over driving. She knew the short cuts and ways of avoiding the congestion of the Strip; there was a network of side roads behind the hotels linking one car park to another. Withou
t this knowledge, tourists waited forever at traffic lights and intersections, increasing the risk of an altercation with a drunk passer-by. In Harry’s case this was a scenario which was highly likely.
The other reason she hated relinquishing the driving was loss of control. As a bodyguard she had to be in charge of the environment, that was her job. Surrendering the driving duties meant the other person now took the lead and she was forced to follow. This felt extremely uncomfortable.
Sure enough Walker pulled the black limo up outside the lobby and didn’t move from the driving seat when Mechanic and Silverton emerged from the hotel. He buzzed down the window.
‘You’re both in the back. Mr Silverton rides behind me,’ he barked his orders as the window slid back up. Silverton was inviting people from the taxi line to come and join him at the Stardust, so Mechanic took his elbow and led him to the car. She opened the door and he fell in.
‘You okay with directions?’ Mechanic asked as she buckled up.
‘Yup,’ was all the reply she got. Walker eased the car away from the hotel and down the slip road.
The Hacienda lay at the south end of the Strip and the Stardust at the north. A distance of a couple of miles separated the two, a journey which on the wrong day at the wrong time could take around two hours. Which in Las Vegas, was most of the time. Making use of the back roads was a must.
Walker swung the car across the intersection towards Koval Lane which ran to the east of the main drag.
‘No,’ said Mechanic leaning forward, ‘you’re better going I-15, then take Russell and Dean Martin Road.’ Walker ignored her and lurched the car across the junction. Mechanic sat back and cursed under her breath.
Silverton was on his car phone laughing and joking with a woman who couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He was inviting her to come and play at the Stardust, when the poor woman wasn’t even in Las Vegas.
The traffic on Koval was sluggish and tedious. It was a mass of roadworks and the route was littered with stop signs and construction vehicles. Walker was agitated by their slow progress and kept swinging the car around with exaggerated movements to avoid the double-parked cars and obstructions. Mechanic could see him flicking glances at her in the rear-view mirror, then at the clock on the dashboard, then back to her. He was out to prove a point – Koval Lane was quicker than taking the I-15. He was losing the argument fast.
‘Hey, Walker, what the hell?’ said Silverton, banging down the phone.
‘Sorry, Mr Silverton, the traffic is heavier than expected.’
‘We’re wasting valuable gambling time here. Should have let the lady drive.’ He gave Mechanic a theatrical wink. While she didn’t appreciate the ‘lady’ comment, she did like the reaction it prompted in Walker. His face was set in a permanent scowl, he was not happy. Mechanic looked at him in the mirror and smiled. He looked away.
‘Come on,’ shouted Silverton. ‘Get a move on, man.’ Silverton nudged Mechanic’s arm – he obviously enjoyed baiting Walker. The traffic once again ground to a halt ahead of them. Walker braked hard and swung the car to the right down a side road.
Mechanic leaned forward: ‘Hey, Walker, what are you doing? Stick to Koval, these roads are no faster.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Walker, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He gunned the engine and turned sharp left onto a road running parallel to Koval. Mechanic sat back and shook her head.
‘Come on, Walker, put your foot down. The damn place will be shut by the time we get there.’ Silverton was much less playful this time.
Mechanic always figured her intuition gave her a split-second warning before things were about to turn bad. This was her split second, something was wrong.
She heard the growl of a big diesel engine as the silver grill of a massive truck ploughed into the side of the car. The impact sent them spinning in the road like a top. Mechanic’s side of the car caved in slamming her head into the side window. Silverton cried out as his shoulder cracked against the door. Walker gripped the steering wheel and held on, riding out the collision as if he was at a fairground. Tyres screeched and the car skidded to a stop.
Mechanic was woozy from the blow to her head and she could see two of everything. Walker jumped from the car and yanked opened Silverton’s door. He seized him by the back of his jacket and heaved him out of his seat. Silverton squealed in pain.
‘What the f—?’ he cried unable to find his feet as Walker dragged him along the road.
‘Come on, sir, we need to move!’ Walker shouted.
Mechanic pulled on the door handle but the crumpled metal wouldn’t budge. She slid across the seat and staggered out into the night air. She called after Walker but the words dried in her throat.
The truck circled around and backed up hard against the sidewalk about fifteen yards away facing Mechanic. Walker had Silverton by the scruff of the neck and was frogmarching him away from the car.
Mechanic found her voice. ‘Walker!’ she shouted. ‘Hold up!’ But either he didn’t hear or didn’t want to.
A shot ricocheted off the roof. It was coming from the truck.
A masked man stood on the footplate with the door open firing a handgun through the open window. Mechanic dived back into the car lying flat across the back seat as bullets blew holes in the bodywork. She drew her gun and waited.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she said through clenched teeth.
There was a pause in the firing.
She shuffled along the seat and leaned out of the limo, giving her a clear line of sight to the shooter. Her first shot shattered the truck window and hit the gunman in the upper chest. Before he fell, the second hit him square in the face lifting him off the footplate and into the air. He fired two more rounds at the sky and landed on the sidewalk.
Mechanic rolled from the car to see Walker still dragging Silverton along the road. She called after them as another volley of shots hit the limo. She ducked behind the front wheel.
Where the hell did that come from? She snatched a glimpse around the fender to see a second vehicle parked around ten yards away. A masked man was sprawled across the hood with his arms stretched out in front of him. Mechanic recognised the shape of a machine pistol pointed her way. He fired again, the unmistakeable purr of a short burst. The windows blew out, showering her with glass.
This was bad, she was out in the open with only the car for cover. More shells splintered against the bodywork as Mechanic pressed herself tight against the front wheel.
She eased herself back and peered under the car, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. She could see just enough.
She dug her right elbow into the road and braced her left shoulder against the underside of the car, waiting for the gunman to shift position.
Mechanic blasted off seven rounds, emptying her clip.
The man’s right ankle exploded as the sixth bullet shattered its way through the bones and sinews. The following round tore away his calf muscle, the force knocking him off his feet. He fell to the ground clutching his leg.
Mechanic reloaded.
She could hear the gunman cursing as he writhed on the floor. This time she had far more target to work with. She braced herself against the underside of the car and squeezed off two more rounds.
The first hit him in the shoulder and the second in the head. Yes, Mechanic could see just fine that time.
She lay under the car listening. No further sounds.
Mechanic made a break for it, running across the tarmac to the second vehicle. The gunman was wedged between the car and the sidewalk, a stream of blood pooling in the gutter. She put two fingers on his neck to check his pulse then called to Walker who by now had stopped marching Silverton up the road.
‘Clear!’ she shouted. ‘Both men down!’ She ran across the street to the truck guy. The missing half of his face made it unnecessary to check his vital signs. Mechanic made a quick assessment of the scene.
Walker was dragging his boss back to the car.
Two dead men were lying in the road.
Sirens were sounding.
Blue and red lights flashed in the distance.
For a serial killer on the run, this was not good.
9
Las Vegas police do not like private security operating on their patch at the best of times and like it even less when they leave dead bodies in the street.
The police interview was as intense and threatening as they could make it, but for Mechanic it was nothing more than a casual chat. She was used to interrogations that were administered by professionals, people who thought nothing of throwing in a little physical violence and waterboarding to help things along, tactics which were not allowed in the LVPD playbook.
Her cover held up under close examination, which she knew it would – after all it was designed to withstand the harshest of scrutiny. Mechanic was in possession of the right permits allowing her to carry a concealed firearm, she had the correct licence to practice, and the story of what happened was straightforward.
Walker and Silverton had been released around 4am following some light-touch questioning. Mechanic on the other hand was detained until mid-morning, forced to go over the same damn stuff time and time again. LVPD were making a point.
To the police it was an open-and-shut case: big money guy blows into town making a lot of noise and gets himself noticed by the local hoods. The traffic on the Strip forces them to take the back streets and the bad guys get lucky with the truck. It was a classic case of aggravated highway robbery. But the goons hadn’t figured Mechanic into the equation. She was doing her job, protecting herself and her client.
Everyone’s story was the same. Everything checked out fine.