The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  Lucas put his hand on Harper’s arm. ‘I want her dead. I want to videotape the life draining from her eyes, so I can watch it over and over again.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that, but are you up for it? Grief is a funny thing, man. It hits folk in different ways.’

  ‘You sent me that letter containing the sugar packets because I needed something to fight for, something to stop me hitting the self-destruct button. I hated you for doing it but you were right. Well, I reckon it’s time for me to get off my ass and fight again. She’s taking away the people I hold most dear and I have to stop her. And besides she can’t kill you, you’re the only one I have left.’

  ‘You are in one sorry-ass state if I’m the only one you have.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Lucas held up his mug. ‘To killing the bitch.’

  Harper held up his drink. ‘Let’s kill her good.’

  They drank the hot, bitter coffee and both reached for the sugar bowl.

  ‘The question is, where do we start? She could be anywhere,’ said Lucas.

  ‘While you’ve been out of commission, I’ve been doing some digging.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I figure there’s no point trying to look for Mechanic. We know how good she is at disappearing and if the cops can’t find her, we sure as hell won’t. But we do have a new piece of the jigsaw which we didn’t have before.’ Harper reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lucas.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Do what? What have you got? What new piece of the jigsaw?’

  ‘The bullet that killed your wife.’

  It stopped Lucas in his tracks. His head went down and he closed his eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ Harper asked, knowing this would be difficult. ‘That’s why I haven’t said anything before. Are you sure you’re ready for this shit?’

  ‘I’m fine, go on.’

  Harper flattened the page on the table. ‘The bullet which killed Darlene, and the rifle that fired it, were serious pieces of kit, real high-end stuff. I got an extract from the ballistics report, this was military grade ammunition. It’s not your weekend warrior weaponry. You don’t use this to shoot squirrels with your buddies, this is designed to kill people, from a very long distance.’

  Lucas picked up the paper. ‘This is specialist kit. It says here it has a boat tail narrowing at the bottom of the shell. That’s proper sniper gear.’

  ‘Yup, purely limited edition, this is latest issue ammunition.’

  ‘Where the hell would Mechanic get her hands on that? Not to mention the rifle to fire it.’

  Harper folded away the paper and put it back into his jacket.

  ‘That’s not the right question. The question is how would she get her hands on it?’

  Lucas considered the nuance carefully. ‘That’s right. Because it’s obvious where it came from. It came from the military. But how would she get her hands on it?’

  ‘The only thing I can think is she’s got a contact currently serving in the armed forces. Maybe someone she’s worked with in the past?’

  ‘That would fit. And if we find that person, we get a lead on Mechanic.’

  ‘Kit like that isn’t going to come cheap.’

  Lucas tapped the table, catching up fast with his friend’s train of thought. ‘And what do we always do when that happens …’

  ‘Follow the money.’ Harper finished the sentence.

  Lucas got up from the table, motioned to the bartender, and sat on a stool as a telephone was placed in front of him.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Moran,’ Lucas replied punching in numbers.

  Harper threw his hands in the air in protest but it was too late.

  ‘Hi, can you put me through to Detective Rebecca Moran, please.’ Lucas cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Trust me on this one. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Detective Moran,’ she answered.

  ‘Moran, this is Lucas.’ He paused. ‘Mechanic has killed Bassano and we need your help.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The line went dead.

  5

  Detective Moran had spent the last twelve months trying to rebuild her life and behave like a normal person. The trouble was she no longer knew what that looked like. If her dealings with Lucas and the plot to catch Mechanic became public knowledge, she was dead meat. She would not only lose her career but her liberty as well. The call from Lucas had ignited her worse fears. It wasn’t over.

  The hit on Darlene was unimaginably cruel. But as far as the cops were concerned, it was a one-off incident, probably the work of an ex-con with a grudge. In the police interviews which followed, no one mentioned kidnapping Jo Sells, the motel killings, the adverts in the paper or the link to murdering Bonelli. Lucas kept his mouth shut and Moran stayed well clear. That was the way it had to be.

  After Darlene’s murder Moran severed all ties with Lucas, Harper and Bassano and refused to return their calls. She froze them out, she had to. She wanted to forget it ever happened and move on. What she didn’t need was Lucas dredging it up again.

  In her quieter moments Moran still craved the prospect of catching Mechanic but she had to put that ambition behind her. Her immediate priority was to keep out of trouble and bury anything connecting her to the bitch.

  In the months following Darlene’s death, Moran had continued to work with Mills on the motel murders and the drug killings, but neither investigation had gone anywhere. Mills had screwed up both of them, which suited Moran just fine. Thankfully, under his leadership, no one had managed to join the dots and work out that the same killer was responsible for both crimes. And, come what may, Moran was not about to put her head on the chopping block and point that out.

  After a while both investigation teams were scaled back and Moran was transferred to another case. This one involved the shooting dead of a police officer while making routine house-to-house calls in the hunt for Jessica Hudson, Harry Silverton’s bodyguard. The evidence suggested Jessica was lying low after the Bonelli killings, and it was critical to Moran that she remained off the grid. After all, Moran was the only person in the force to know that Jessica Hudson and Mechanic were one and the same, a piece of information she had to make disappear if she was going to protect herself.

  The shooting dead of the officer took place in Vegas, in a small apartment which was rented to Mrs Nassra Shamon. She was an Omani woman in her mid-forties and had moved in only days before, paying one month’s rent up front in cash. Her paperwork checked out and the rental agency had the relevant photocopies of her ID and visa. There was nothing to suggest the shooting was linked to the other cases.

  The bathroom window at the apartment had shown signs of being forced, and Moran concluded the most likely scenario was that the officer disturbed a burglary in progress. When he intervened he was killed. The other likely scenario was Shamon came back, found him dead, panicked and did a runner. Immigration records showed she had not left the country, but try as they might they couldn’t locate her.

  It appeared straightforward but for two worrying facts which bugged Moran: whoever killed the officer took the time to dig the slug out of the wall before leaving, and the whole place had been wiped clean of prints.

  Moran arrived at the station early and set about her work. It had been three days since Lucas called and there had been no further contact. Her blunt response had obviously had the desired effect.

  Moran heard Mills’ voice booming across the corridor.

  ‘Yes! You little beauty.’ He was ecstatic about something. ‘Got you, you tricky bastard.’

  What the hell was he doing in at this hour? Moran left her desk and followed the noise.

  Mills sat in an adjacent office in front of a flickering monitor. He was moving a thumbwheel back and forth on what looked like a giant video recorder.

  ‘What is it?’ Moran asked.

  �
�I’ve been ploughing through these all night. It’s taken the best part of a year to get hold of them.’ He pointed to a wall of VHS cassettes stacked on the table.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re not blue movies, that’s for sure. They’re the CCTV footage from the street where Ramirez was killed. You know, the one who got his throat cut and pushed out of a car.’

  ‘Yes, I remember, but so what?’

  ‘We’ve been working on the premise that whoever was inside the car killed him and dumped his body on the sidewalk. Our problem is that we have not been able to ID the car or the people in it. We’ve got a street full of shoppers and no one sees a damn thing.’

  ‘I remember the witness statements were pretty flaky.’

  ‘Yeah, plus the fact those useless suckers at the city council managed to lose the damn tapes. Well, watch this.’

  Mills turned the wheel and reversed the tape. Moran saw a car pull up at the kerb, and then the two guys in the front got out and walked away. The camera angle wasn’t good but she could just make out Ramirez sitting in the back, leaning out of the window.

  ‘So the first thing we got is a BMW 3 series with a good shot of the plates. Got that?’ Mills was like a schoolboy demonstrating a magic trick to his friends.

  ‘Yup, that’s clear.’

  He turned the thumbwheel the other way and the action on the screen went into fast forward.

  ‘Watch.’

  The people on the screen fizzed around Charlie Chaplin style as the film sped forward. Moran could still make out the sequence of events unfolding before her. The BMW was parked at the side of the road and a woman wearing long robes and a hijab approached the vehicle with her hands outstretched. People on the sidewalk did their best to avoid her. She stopped in front of the back window and Ramirez waved her away. It looked like the woman was begging for money. She moved in close, her back to the camera. She stumbled as though he had pushed her. She straightened up, turned and walked away.

  ‘Watch now,’ Mills said as he wound the wheel back with his thumb and slowed down the film.

  The two men returned to the car carrying grocery bags and jumped in. The car pulled away and then came to an abrupt stop. The passenger leapt out, flung open the back door and Ramirez toppled out onto the sidewalk, his throat sliced open.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Mills hitting the freeze-frame button and zooming in. He jabbed his finger on to the screen, pointing at the man next to the car. ‘At last you and me are going to have a little talk.’

  Moran wasn’t looking at the man, she was looking at the beggar woman shuffling up the street towards the camera. She was looking at Nassra Shamon.

  She tried desperately to make sense of what she was seeing. Why would a woman who paid a month’s rent in cash be begging for money on the street?

  ‘When was this?’ Moran asked.

  ‘April 27. Time stamp 1.15pm.’

  Moran swallowed hard. That was the same day the police officer was shot dead.

  Her instincts were in overdrive and it didn’t feel good. This was all wrong.

  She kept Mills chatting a little longer and congratulated him on finding the footage. Every muscle in her body screamed to get back to her desk while the image was fresh in her mind. She gave Mills a ‘well done’ pat on the shoulder and left.

  Opening the file, Moran flicked through the interview notes and SOCO reports. She pulled the grainy photocopy of the rental agreement from the wad of papers and stared at the picture. Sure enough, staring back was the face of the beggar woman at the scene of Ramirez’s murder.

  Moran went back to join Mills to be certain. By now a small gathering of early risers were crammed around the monitor with Mills stabbing his finger into the man’s face on the screen.

  ‘I know that scumbag,’ said one of the onlookers. ‘His name is Jerome Wilson, he works for Bonelli.’

  ‘Okay, guys, let’s get to it. We got the car and we got a face, bring them in.’ Mills was up and running.

  Moran stared at the image on the screen. The hijab was different and her complexion was a little darker but it was her. The same question hurtled around her head: Why would a woman who could pay a month’s rent in cash be begging on the street? This was wrong, very wrong.

  Mills had seen what he wanted to see, and the alternative interpretation for Moran made her feel ill. She sat at her desk nursing her third coffee of the morning. She excelled in joining the dots and looking for patterns, and whichever way she joined them up, Moran reached a terrifying conclusion.

  Ramirez had his throat ripped open in broad daylight having moments earlier been face to face with Nassra Shamon. The same day a police officer was shot through the head while conducting house-to-house enquiries at the apartment of – guess who? – Nassra Shamon.

  This is a 44-year-old woman from Oman visiting on a short-term visa. She appears out of nowhere, pays a month’s rent in cash, begs for money on the street, features in two murders and then disappears the same day.

  Moran ran the what-if scenarios in her head.

  What if the goons in the car didn’t kill Ramirez? What if Nassra Shamon slit his throat? The two guys returning to the car panicked and Ramirez ended up on the sidewalk. What if there was no burglary at Shamon’s apartment? What if it was staged to look like one? The police officer turns up at the place and accidently stumbles onto the secret world of Nassra Shamon. And she kills him in order to do her disappearing act.

  Her head was spinning. There were more dots to join up.

  Ramirez was travelling in a car with two of Bonelli’s men. Now who has a penchant for killing Bonelli’s guys? The answer to that is Mechanic. Who has the skills necessary to slit the throat of a hardened mercenary on a crowded street in the middle of the day? The answer to that is Mechanic. And who has the ability to simply disappear into thin air? The answer to all three questions was Mechanic.

  ‘Shit.’ Moran slopped coffee into her lap. This was getting worse.

  If Nassra Shamon was Mechanic, then this latest turn of events brought her back in play. It was only a matter of time. Moran coughed as the taste of bile filled her mouth.

  She got up from her desk and walked to the water fountain. The physical act of moving stopped her from shaking, and she needed to get rid of the taste of panic. She tried to maintain her composure, when in truth she was falling apart in full view of the office. The mail arrived, which gave her something to do other than prop up the water dispenser.

  She busied herself allocating letters to people. A plain brown envelope addressed to her stood out from the rest of the corporate junk. Moran ripped it open. Inside was a set of black and white photographs.

  One showed her standing outside her car, the second showed her with Lucas, and the third was of her, Lucas and Harper deep in conversation. All three were taken in what looked like a car park. The date stamp at the top said Christchurch Mall, 8th floor, camera 3, 28 April, 05.13am.

  Scrawled across one of the images in red marker pen was written, ‘Want to explain these to your boss?’

  Moran managed to make it back to her desk before her legs gave way.

  6

  Moran struggled to breathe. The pain in her chest felt as if she was having a heart attack and the thumping in her head was deafening. She tried to suck air into her burning lungs. She gripped the photos in disbelief. Panic tore through her body.

  Who the fuck sent these? It was external mail but the postmark was illegible. She stuffed them back into the envelope and rammed them into her desk drawer.

  Mills burst into the office barking instructions.

  ‘Okay, listen up. I got new work orders. I want Jerome Wilson picked up. Get out there and bring him in. I want this car found.’ He waved a wad of magnified screen shots from the CCTV in the air and slapped them down on the desk. ‘And I want the name of the driver. Let’s hustle people.’

  Moran took one and spent the rest of the morning touring the streets looking for Wilson and the car. But h
er thoughts were a million miles away, wrestling with the implications of the mailed pictures. After her third near traffic collision of the day, she thought it best to abandon her search and return to the station. Her head was a mess. The office was empty and she sat at her desk, the car park screen grabs in her hand.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Detective Moran.’ She cleared her throat.

  ‘I assume the mail has arrived by now.’ It was Harper.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I told Lucas. Fuck off.’

  ‘Do you really want to play that game?’

  ‘It’s not a game, Harper. I’m not interested in getting dragged into this.’

  ‘But you’re already in it, Detective, right up to your neck.’

  ‘No, Harper, it’s over.’

  ‘It’s over when I say it is. And what you’ve been looking at this morning proves you’re still very much engaged. I have hundreds of pictures of you, me and Lucas at that multi-storey at five in the morning, and I’m dying to send them to your boss. I’m not sure what he’ll make of them, but it does take one hell of a lot of explaining.’

  ‘Listen, you piece of shit. I’m not doing this.’

  ‘Never play hard ball with a man who has nothing to lose, especially when you have everything to lose.’

  Moran tilted her head back, tears of frustration in her eyes.

  The silence of a hundred years passed between them.

  Moran eventually broke.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to be more cooperative. And you were rude to my friend, which was mighty discourteous of you.’ Harper was determined to make the most out of having the upper hand.

  ‘How did you get the photos?’

  ‘I bought them from a guy who knows a guy who works as part of mall security. I wanted us to have a record of killing Mechanic, you know something to tell the grandkids about, but that wasn’t to be. I kept them anyway as a kind of insurance policy if things took a turn for the worse.’