The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you, I want you to play nice.’

  ‘Cut the crap. What specifically do you want?’

  ‘Mechanic killed Bassano which would suggest me or Lucas is next, and not surprisingly we want her dead before that happens.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Bassano but I don’t see how I can help.’ Moran was still trying to sound defiant, even though she knew her position was hopeless.

  ‘You have access to information and we want you to get it for us.’

  ‘Go on.’ Moran reached for a pen and paper.

  ‘The hit on Lucas’s wife was a professional job.’

  ‘You mean Mechanic contracted it out?’

  ‘No, she did it alright, but the equipment she used was military grade. This wasn’t something you find at the local gun club, it was state-of-the-art weaponry.’

  ‘So how do I come into this?’

  ‘Gear like that doesn’t come cheap, it would cost a ton of money. When in Vegas, Mechanic used the name Jessica Hudson. We need you to look for sizeable money transactions from her account, anything out of the ordinary. It’s a long shot but it’s a start.’

  ‘Follow the money to find the supplier?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Then target the supplier to find Mechanic.’

  ‘There you go. See, you are a clever detective.’

  Moran bristled.

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, don’t think about screwing with me. Remember, I have nothing to lose and I will burn you.’

  Harper replaced the receiver and walked back to his regular table. Lucas sat there ignoring his coffee.

  ‘That was Moran,’ Harper said.

  ‘No point talking to her, she cut me dead the last time we spoke. Told me to fuck off.’

  ‘It looks like she’s had a change of heart.’

  Moran pulled Jessica Hudson’s financial records from the file. She remembered running them through the system before and nothing unusual had jumped out. There was rent, utility bills, gas and grocery shopping. The incomings were slugs of money consistent with her working personal security. The transactions were normal everyday items and nothing on the list said ‘One day’s rental for a sniper rifle’.

  Then the image of Nassra Shamon barged its way into Moran’s head. She fed the details into the system and ran a bank search. Sure enough, her name came up and it was a very different story.

  Shamon had no credit card transactions just a series of large cash deposits made into a recently opened account. Moran recognised the outgoing amount for the apartment rental, and there were numerous small withdrawals. The financial picture was totally in keeping with someone living a cash-only lifestyle.

  However, three transactions stood out like the balls on a bulldog. They were bank transfers of two thousand dollars each made to Helix Holdings. The last instalment was made on April 27, then the remaining money was withdrawn and the account closed.

  April 27 was the day before Lucas’s wife was murdered.

  7

  Mechanic lived in the fashionable Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. Located in the top corner of a restored factory building, the large furnished apartment was an open-plan space on two levels with wood flooring throughout and modern appliances. The sun poured through the wrap around windows showcasing the stunning views of the historic heart of the city.

  The money from her work with Silverton had set her up comfortably, even discounting the cash she gave the Huxtons. She didn’t begrudge them the overpayment, they had looked after her sister well, and Mechanic considered it a thank-you bonus.

  After the hit on Darlene Lucas, Mechanic thought it best to disappear for a while. The advantage of San Diego was that it was a big city within driving distance of Vegas and with excellent flight routes in and out of the international airport.

  There was another reason to choose San Diego. When they were young, her father was stationed there and moved the family to Canyon View naval complex. This was where it all went wrong for the young Mechanic. Moving back was an attempt to exorcise the demons that had haunted her and to draw a line under that painful chapter in her life. After all, she only had herself to consider now – her sister was dead, her whore of a mother was thankfully dead, and her father was probably living in drunken squalor somewhere. She could finally concentrate on herself, and where better than the beautiful city of San Diego.

  Mechanic didn’t attend her sister’s funeral, she didn’t even know when it was. It would have been too dangerous to show her face in Vegas. She had to assume the Nassra Shamon cover was compromised and she only had one false ID left. So, with the cops looking for her and Bonelli’s men wanting to slice her into tiny pieces, the sensible option was to stay away, however much that hurt. Jo would have understood.

  Mechanic missed her sister with a sadness that would corrode her to dust if she let it. But she wasn’t going to let it. The responsibility of caring for Jo had been lifted from her shoulders and she could think about what she wanted to do. It’s funny how things turn out, even for psycho serial killers.

  Captain Mark Jameson had been so impressed with the way Mechanic carried out the hit on Darlene Lucas that he decided to do a little business diversification and offer a select line in contract killing. This work was far more lucrative than his Mr Fixit assignments and his relationship with Mechanic gave him the perfect partner.

  When Jameson had a job, he would contact Mechanic and thrash through the outline operational plans. He would build the necessary intelligence reports and procure the equipment, and Mechanic would supply her skills and expertise. She had carried out three contracts in seven months and each time the bank balance got fatter.

  She enjoyed working with Captain Mark Jameson, it was an uncomplicated relationship. He worked in military intelligence and could lay his hands on anything and deliver it direct to your door. He could compile intelligence reports on the movements of your favourite pet if you asked him. The man was a legend.

  Mechanic had saved his life when a covert op went wrong, and when an ex-Navy Seal says he owes you, he means for life. He was eye-wateringly expensive and very good. He preferred to be paid up front, but where Mechanic was concerned he always took a part payment transferred directly into his account and the rest to be paid in kind.

  He had a liking for having the shit kicked out of him during sex, a service Mechanic was only too pleased to provide. He had pulled out all the stops on the Darlene Lucas hit and she had promised him an extra-special something the next time they met. She told him to invent a cover story and book a few days’ emergency leave. He was going to be in a no fit state to go to work afterwards.

  Mechanic enjoyed delivering the penance, it was everything Lucas deserved. But that did not eliminate her need to avenge her sister’s death. All three had to pay the ultimate price. The score stood at one down and two to go, she had two more pounds of flesh to collect.

  The chance to kill Bassano came out of the blue. She had instructed James onto compile intel reports on all three of them, and discovered Bassano’s liking for the monthly masked singles night. Mechanic saw the potential immediately and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. She booked her ticket to New York and went hunting.

  The hit was straightforward. There were no special requirements, just an invitation, a mask, a sharp blade and a seriously flawed personality. The beauty of it was that if the opportunity didn’t work out all she had to do was walk away. It was a shot to nothing. Mechanic wanted it to be a hands-on kill, which sent a clear message to Harper and Lucas: you’re next.

  She had returned from Sorrento several days ago and had spent her time decompressing and keeping in shape. Today was a day for relaxing, nothing to do and all the time to do it in.

  It was 10.40am and Mechanic shouldered her way through her front door with two brown paper bags of groceries and dumped them on the worktop. The TV blinked into life at the press of a button and th
e news channel came on. There had been no mention of the killing at the religious festival on the World Service or any other channel. For some reason it wasn’t newsworthy.

  Mechanic never found out what was in the slim package lifted from the man in the church. As instructed, she’d dropped it into a luggage locker at Naples airport and mailed the key to an address in the city. It didn’t occur to her to ask if she was killing a bad guy or a good guy. All Mechanic cared about was the successful completion of the contract and getting paid.

  She knocked the top off a bottle of tonic and unloaded the bags, putting items into the refrigerator. The big advantage of having her own place was she could ensure she ate the right foods and stayed healthy. She needed to be in top condition for her line of work.

  A door slammed.

  Mechanic scanned the apartment. It had six doors and she could see four of them from where she was standing. All were slightly ajar. She remembered closing the front door with the back of her heel, so it had to be the bathroom door, which was around the corner.

  Mechanic reached across and drew the long chef’s knife from the block.

  She skirted the centre island in the kitchen and dropped to a crouch. She could see the door reflected in the hall mirror. It was closed.

  Mechanic stood up, the knife clenched in her right hand, and made her way across the hall. She could hear the sound of soft murmuring, someone speaking. A gentle voice was whispering something which she could not catch.

  Mechanic reached the door and gripped the handle. There was a bang as another door slammed shut. She spun around, thrusting the blade out in front of her.

  Mechanic glanced around the rooms. The front door was shut and the others were still open. She turned back to the bathroom. The voice floated around, as she twisted the handle and burst inside, plunging the knife into thin air. It was empty.

  Toiletries and folded towels lay in exactly the same place as when she’d left to go to the store. Mechanic spun on her heels and ran to the bedroom. Her shoulder thumped into the wood and she clattered inside. It too was empty. The next bedroom was the same, along with the laundry closet.

  Another door slammed.

  She whirled around, the blade slicing through the air. All the doors except the front door were open. Mechanic held her breath and listened to the distant whispering. Another door slammed. To her horror Mechanic realised the noises were coming from inside her head.

  The razor-sharp point dug into the wood floor as Mechanic let the knife fall from her grasp. She rushed to the kitchen, switched on the gas hob and rummaged through a drawer. She found what she was looking for – a metal barbecue skewer.

  The steel crackled in the blue flame. Mechanic sank to the floor, tears running down her face as she held her breath.

  Listening.

  Heavy footsteps pounded around the labyrinth in her head, the unmistakeable sound of voices echoing off the walls. Doors banging and slamming.

  ‘No!’ she cried seizing the hair either side of her head.

  The silver-coated metal turned carbon black in the heat. Mechanic tore off her top, wound a dishcloth around her hand and grabbed the skewer.

  She could smell the hot metal.

  The skewer hovered just above her stomach. Tiny hairs on her skin singed under the heat. A dozen old scars were slashed white across her flesh where the pigment had been burned away.

  Mechanic held her breath, listening.

  Her whole body shook causing the tip of the metal to kiss her skin. It hissed, sending cotton wisps of smoke into the air. Mechanic winced, the sweet smell of scorched flesh filled her senses.

  Mechanic tensed every muscle to control what had to happen next. The skewer wavered above her skin.

  As quickly as they had appeared, the voices subsided and the footsteps stopped.

  She tossed the skewer into the sink. It sizzled against the wet stainless steel. Mechanic slumped forward, drew her knees to her chest and put her head in her hands. Her shoulders rocked back and forth as she sobbed.

  Daddy was back.

  8

  Lucas boarded the early morning flight bound for Newark Liberty International where he planned to rent a car and drive the fifty-nine miles to Darian, Connecticut. There a tree-lined remembrance garden overlooking the expensive Noroton Heights district was to be the final resting place of Chris Bassano.

  Lucas had a knot of nervous tension in his stomach the size of Ellis Island and was dreading the day. Not just because his friend was being cremated, but he was nervous as hell about meeting his parents.

  He had met them several times in the past and they had got on well, their son liked Lucas, so they did too. But when Bassano was attacked by Mechanic and had to leave the force, their attitude towards him changed. The atmosphere was decidedly hostile. Lucas had tried to contact Bassano when they took him back to the family home to recuperate, but the parents kept him at a distance. They needed someone to blame and held Lucas responsible. It was an absurd assertion, but Lucas allowed them to hate him. After all, their actions confirmed his own feelings of guilt.

  The Bassano family were well off. His father was a partner in a law firm in Manhattan and could never understand why his son was drawn to the dirty and less well-paid end of the business. Chris was one of five brothers, and to their father’s permanent annoyance, not one of them had chosen to follow in his footsteps.

  Lucas drove away from New York heading for the Hutchinson River Parkway and I-95 north to Darien. The funeral was being held at Oakland Cemetery in Fairfield, one hundred acres of the most beautifully landscaped grounds and manicured lawns. He rolled through the front gates and up the driveway. The keen wind was cold enough to blow right through your coat and the grey sky was threatening rain. Ideal weather for a funeral.

  Lucas stepped out of the car and fumbled around in his jacket pocket. He produced a black tie and swept it around his neck. The last time he wore this suit and tie combination, he was committing his wife to the ground. He could see his reflection in the driver’s window and his hands were shaking.

  After several attempts he straightened the knot, flattened down the collar, and walked across the granite paving to the chapel. Lucas saw a cluster of people milling around outside and in the centre was the minister dressed in black robes with purple edging. Lucas stood on the periphery of the group and surveyed the faces. He knew no one.

  Without anyone giving a noticeable signal, they filed in through the dark oak doors to take their seats. The chapel was large with plain white walls and a high vaulted ceiling. Rows of wooden chairs lined both sides of the wide central aisle. A red ribbon of carpet ran the entire length of the building and flowers adorned the sandstone altar at the front. Pamphlets had been placed on each seat giving the order of service, and on the front cover the smiling face of Chris Bassano beamed up at the congregation. Lucas felt a lump rise in his throat as he picked it up and took a seat. He choked it down.

  He gazed at the floor and his eyes stung with tears, as the memories of burying his wife shuddered through him. The indistinct strains of soft music washed through the chapel, along with the sound of muted conversation.

  The family entered and people rose to their feet, craning their heads to get a look. The minister led the way with his head bowed, followed by the father and mother. He had his arm wound tight around her waist, as if to steady them both, and she had her hands out in front clutching a small posy of flowers. Both wore dark glasses. The coffin came next, carried high on the shoulders of the brothers, four strapping guys each one the image of Chris, each one with watery eyes. Two men from the funeral directors followed the cortege in their sombre suits and with sombre faces. It was a heartrending scene.

  Lucas continued to stare at the floor as they passed. The coffin was slid on to a staging at the front of the chapel and the family helped each other into the first few rows, sitting amongst their wives, girlfriends and children.

  The service was mercifully short, a couple of hymns plus a
few prayers, and a eulogy given by one of the brothers which had everyone dabbing away the tears. There is something catastrophically sad about saying goodbye to someone taken too soon.

  At the end the minister said a prayer, as a curtain drew around the coffin obscuring it from view. The front pews emptied out first, followed by the rest of the congregation filing past the shrouded casket into a walled courtyard.

  The family lined up to shake hands with the mourners, who in turn cried on their shoulders in a show of mutual grief. Lucas hung back. Bassano’s father had spotted him in the crowd and turned away. Lucas was determined to pay his respects so kept his place in the thinning crowd.

  By the time Lucas reached them the family had dispersed, talking with relatives, doing their best to console each other. Bassano’s father stepped out of nowhere and offered his hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

  Lucas shook it and placed his other hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Fabiano Bassano nodded as though any words he said could never express what he felt. He held onto Lucas’s hand and pulled him in close.

  ‘Did she do it?’

  Lucas was stunned by the question.

  ‘I’m sorry, who?’

  ‘Did she kill Chris? That fucking maniac bitch who took his arm. Did she do it?’

  ‘I haven’t worked the case, but from what I know, there is no evidence to indicate who did it.’

  ‘Yes, I know, that’s what the police told us. But I’m asking you, did she do it?’

  Bassano’s stare pierced through Lucas, his eyes welling with grief and pain.

  ‘Yeah, I believe she did.’

  Fabiano Bassano released Lucas’s hand and hugged him tight.

  ‘Can you do me a massive favour?’ he whispered through clenched teeth.

  ‘I’ll try, what is it?’ Lucas tried to move away from the forced embrace, but he was clamped solid.

  ‘Can you track her down and kill the murdering bitch. And then call me when it’s done. I have money and there is nothing better I want to spend it on. All you need to do is ask.’