The Mechanic Trilogy: the complete boxset

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Okay. You sound tired, get yourself home.’

  ‘Yeah, I was just packing up.’

  ‘Me too.’ Mills swung his arms through his jacket and picked up a briefcase.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ Moran blurted out.

  Mills looked like she’d asked him to lend her a million dollars. Moran could see the cogs spinning as he tried to make sense of the request.

  ‘Er, well, yes, I suppose so.’

  It was not the enthusiastic ‘Oh, yes please’ response she had expected.

  ‘Look, if you’re busy that’s fine, I didn’t fancy going home straightaway.’

  ‘No, listen, that would be good. I could do with a beer.’ Mills was recovering well.

  Moran grabbed her bag and he held the door for her.

  ‘You have a favourite place?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not been here long enough.’

  ‘I know a bar that’s nearby, it does fantastic ice-cold beer with chips and salsa.’

  Moran walked down the corridor, making small talk, clutching her bag to her chest. If she was going to delay spilling the beans on the Shamon account, she needed to be on the right side of the guy who was going to ask for it. She was not looking forward to the evening, no matter how cold the beer or good the chips and salsa.

  14

  The taxi door swung open and Mechanic looked out across the hotel concourse. The concierge stared at her legs as they emerged from the back seat, the hem of her dress rising ever higher as she slid out. The sequined material shimmered under the spotlights piercing the darkness above. She towered over the gawping man in her stripper’s heels.

  Two men in monkey suits swished open the double glass doors and Mechanic made her way through reception, her heels announcing her presence as she crossed the marble floor. Business types stopped their inane chatter as she slinked into the lounge bar. The throw around her shoulders hid little of her cleavage and her legs seemed to go on forever. Her short blonde hair was now long and auburn while the green contacts electrified her eyes.

  The hotel smelled of honeysuckle as the air conditioning pumped its corporate brand of scent into the air. The inside was a collage of marble, chrome and deeply upholstered leather. Expensive people draped themselves on expensive chairs, and expensive carpet supported their expensive footwear.

  Mechanic was met by the maitre d’ who was falling over himself to be of service. After a brief discussion he showed her to a seat at the bar and then clicked his fingers to attract the attention of the tuxedo-suited barman. He bowed as he left her, probably to get a closer look at her lack of skirt.

  The bar was long and plush. The mirrored wall behind magnified the effect of the dripping chandeliers. Mechanic inched herself onto the bar stool and crossed her legs. When she moved, the light caught her drop earrings and, with her lips the colour of cherry cola, the barman was falling over himself with eager attention.

  ‘Wild Turkey on ice, please.’

  The barman looked surprised, expecting an order of Moet or Krug rather than Kentucky straight bourbon with a kick like a mule.

  ‘Certainly, madam.’

  The bar was noisy with dinner-suited men and the occasional glitzy woman. The guys were putting on a pitiful show of not looking at the new arrival. Mechanic glanced down the bar at the solitary guy at the far end. He was dressed in a grey suit and an open-necked shirt. He looked up for a moment, then continued to stare into his glass.

  She sipped her drink and the ice chimed against the crystal. She toyed with the glass on the bar and spun it round on the coaster.

  The guy in the open-necked shirt was standing beside her.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ he said in a slow southern drawl.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘when I’ve finished this one.’

  The bar went quiet. The raucous chat was replaced with a ‘Did you see that!’ silence.

  He raised his glass and she chinked hers against it, downing the fiery liquid in one.

  ‘It’s finished,’ Mechanic said and held the glass for him to take.

  He leaned forward and ordered two more.

  ‘You here for business or pleasure?’ he said, turning and placing both hands on the bar. His suit creased tight across his arms and shoulders. Even leaning forward he stood about six feet tall, with chiselled features and the celebrity look of a NFL linebacker.

  ‘Both. How about you?’

  ‘Both.’

  The drinks arrived.

  The man lifted them from the bar and gave one to Mechanic.

  ‘To both business and pleasure,’ he said offering a toast. She chinked his glass and downed it in one. He did the same.

  ‘Two more, please,’ he said to the barman who hadn’t moved from his spot directly in front of them.

  The men at the bar had a collective look of ‘lucky bastard’, while the women had their faces set with a look that said ‘frigging hooker’.

  ‘What business are you in?’ the man asked.

  ‘The people business,’ she replied motioning to him that the drinks had arrived.

  He picked them up and handed her one.

  ‘That sounds like fun. What kind of people?’

  ‘All sorts.’

  She held her drink in the air. The glasses chimed as he struck the rim and they sank the whisky.

  Mechanic held out her hand. No words were necessary. He fished a room key from his pocket and placed it in her open palm. Mechanic slid from the barstool.

  If the bar was quiet before it was deathly silent now. The tuxedoed men were nodding their heads in a mutual show of appreciation that said ‘nice one’. After a few seconds the women continued talking in an ‘I’m not interested’ kind of bluff. Despite their different perspectives, all eyes were fixed on Mechanic’s ass as she sashayed out of the lounge.

  The guy with the open-necked shirt ordered another Wild Turkey and pulled up a stool. He could see the reflection of fifty gawping faces staring back at him in the mirror behind the bar. The drink arrived and he knocked it back. He signed the bill and headed for the elevator, hitting the button marked Executive Suites.

  The doors dinged open and he walked the short distance to room 906. He tapped on the door. Mechanic opened it wide and ushered him into a huge suite. It was comprised of two lounges, with steps leading to a massive bedroom, and a bed big enough to hold a game of baseball.

  Mechanic opened the mini bar and fixed two glasses of Wild Turkey. She held one out for him to take. He removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair.

  He took the drink and chinked his glass against hers.

  ‘So, are we drinking to business or pleasure?’ he asked.

  His hand snaked around her neck and pulled her close. He kissed her and tasted hot liquor in her mouth. She wound her arm around his waist. She could feel him hard against her.

  She dropped her right hand and stroked the front of his pants.

  ‘I said both.’

  She grabbed his balls and squeezed. She felt them squish in her hand as she twisted and tightened her grip.

  The drink fell from his grasp while his legs buckled. She released him and hammered her right knee into his balls. He doubled over, clutching his crotch.

  Whisky slopped from Mechanic’s glass and onto her dress.

  ‘You’ve made a mess,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus,’ he croaked, staggering around.

  Mechanic shoved him and he toppled over backwards onto the floor. He writhed on the carpet, his hands between his legs.

  Mechanic sipped her drink and stood astride him.

  He looked up. She had her hands on her hips allowing him to feast his eyes on the view. Her underwear was discarded on the bed.

  ‘I said, you made a mess.’

  She stamped her heel into his chest. The jagged point tore through his shirt and blood erupted against the white material.

  A torrent of air rasped from his throat.

  She shifted her weight and ground her heel deep into his flesh. His
mouth opened and closed as his skin shredded.

  He brought his hands up and seized her foot to alleviate the pressure. Mechanic leaned further forward. He gurgled as her weight tore the air from his lungs.

  She held the position until he could take no more, then stepped back to survey her handiwork.

  ‘Roll onto your front.’ She kicked him in the side.

  He complied, still gasping for breath, his hands clasped to his chest.

  Mechanic retrieved something from the table.

  She straddled his back, leaned forward and forced a ball gag into his mouth. There was a click as it located itself behind his front teeth. He shook his head and tried to free his hands trapped beneath his body. The leather strap pulled tight across the back of his neck and he retched as the gag was drawn deep into his gaping mouth.

  Mechanic tugged his arms from under him and secured them behind his back with a noose tied above his elbows. She stood up and retrieved something else. The man twisted and turned against his bonds, saliva drooling from his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her approaching, her legs and heels filled his vision.

  ‘I’m going to count to ten.’ She circled around him.

  ‘One, two …’

  He craned his neck to see what was in her hand but lost her from view when she stepped behind him.

  ‘Three, four …’

  His body tensed.

  ‘Five, six …’

  He was shaking with anticipation.

  ‘Seven …’

  Mechanic reached down and forced a thick plastic bag over his head, yanking a drawstring cord tight around his neck.

  He let out a stifled scream as the clear plastic clung to his face.

  She laughed and downed the last of her drink, the man choking and squirming at her feet. Mechanic fixed another Wild Turkey and picked up a hunting knife.

  She squatted down in front of him and waved the blade across his field of vision. He could see the steel glinting through the condensation which fogged the inside of the bag. The point of the blade picked at the cotton threads of his shirt as she drew the knife down the length of his back. He struggled beneath her, fighting for breath.

  ‘Mind you be still now,’ she whispered in his ear. The blade flashed severing the shirt away from his skin.

  She shifted forward, drove the blade under the waistband of his pants and slashed it upwards. The material gave way with a tearing sound as the sharp edge cut through his suit.

  Mechanic got to her feet, seized his clothing and yanked it down, lifting the bottom half of his body clear of the ground. His suit pants and underwear were now wound around his ankles.

  She made her way back to the drinks cabinet and cracked the top from another miniature. She watched as the bag around his head inflated like a balloon only to shrink back encasing the contours of his face. His semi-naked body convulsed for oxygen, his lungs burning. She downed the drink in one and picked up the riding crop.

  He heard it swish through the air.

  ‘Now let’s see how long you last.’

  Jameson had booked three days’ emergency leave but it looked like he’d clearly underestimated.

  15

  Lucas looked out of the window at the apartment block across the street. The cool bay air blew through the drapes and he could smell the sea. The windows of apartment number forty-six Maple Crescent were alive with the dancing shadows from the TV. His watch read 3.15am, but it was fifteen minutes after midnight San Diego time.

  The flight had been easy to arrange but tiresome to endure. They flew United Airlines out of Tallahassee International to San Diego, a six hour flight with a one hour stopover at Dallas. The time difference meant the journey took only four hours and, if Moran was right, they needed every hour they could get.

  Lucas passed the binoculars to Harper.

  ‘Vickers’ place is on the fourth floor, third room from the left, starting at the fifth window along.’

  Harper panned across the front of the building.

  He could see both windows of the apartment. One was large, probably the living room, and the other was smaller, maybe a bedroom or kitchen.

  A light flicked on in the small window. ‘Someone’s home,’ he said.

  ‘You did well to get us in here,’ said Lucas, referring to the two-bedroomed serviced apartment they were standing in. It was perfect for keeping the Vickers place under observation.

  ‘Yeah, a little better than being cooped up in a rental car.’

  ‘We need to stake out Vickers for awhile, see where he goes, who he meets, that kind of thing. We got his mug shot from his driver’s licence, so let’s see what he does in the morning. Time to turn in, we got an early start.’

  ‘We’re on a tight deadline, you know. How about we go over and knock on his door?’

  ‘How about we don’t. How about we do this properly and find out about the guy first? You know, like we used to do when we were cops.’

  ‘When I was a cop I would have kicked the door in,’ Harper said studying the flickering lights in the window.

  ‘That’s why you’re not a cop anymore.’

  Harper skulked off to his room to grab a few hours’ sleep.

  The sun cascaded early morning shadows across the street as Lucas leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the road to Maple Crescent. His eyes were set on the front door. The sky was flawless blue and the gentle warmth of the morning was a welcome change from the chill of Darien. Harper was around the back at the underground car park, clocking the tenants as they left for work. It was 6.30am.

  People busied themselves with briefcases and pull-along bags. Some wore suits, while others wore casual business attire, and some had a look that said ‘I work in a place where we sit on beanbags all day and drink coffee with soya milk’. None of them was Gerry Vickers.

  The morning rush kicked in at 7.15am, when people flooded out to catch public transport or miss the morning jam. Lucas struggled to eyeball every one and had to move in closer. Harper had a much more orderly line of motorists waiting for the exit barrier to lift on the underground car park. Some had passengers but most were singles. None was Gerry Vickers.

  By 9.15am Harper appeared at the front, he waved at Lucas and cupped his hand to his mouth signalling ‘I need a coffee’. The parade of people had all but dried up and there was little point standing around any longer.

  Ten minutes later Harper handed Lucas a brown paper bag containing hot coffee and pastries. Lucas was walking on the spot stretching his leaden legs, he wasn’t built to stand around for three hours’ straight.

  ‘Maybe he works from home,’ Harper said snapping the lid off the coffee.

  ‘Could be any number of reasons, but one thing’s for sure, he didn’t leave this morning.’

  ‘I suppose knocking on his door is a little too direct?’

  ‘Until we know more about him, I say we stake it out first.’

  Lucas devoured a whole apple lattice in two bites. Staring at strangers was hungry work.

  The stakeout routine lasted all day and into the night. They swapped positions to counter the boredom and ate fast food. By the end of a very long shift one thing was clear, Gerry Vickers had not left the building today.

  They were back in their apartment and Lucas once again had the binoculars trained on the TV shadows dancing across the windows opposite.

  ‘Maybe he’s a hermit and that’s how he runs the business single-handed,’ he mused.

  ‘He must have an enormous phone bill ’cause he hasn’t left that building today.’

  ‘Your turn.’ Lucas went to hand the glasses over to Harper when a light came on in the smaller window. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s a quarter after midnight.’

  ‘I’m sure that happened yesterday.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘That light came on at the same time.’

  ‘Maybe his favourite TV show finishes now and he needs to pee.’

  Lucas
scrutinised the windows.

  ‘Why doesn’t he close the drapes?’

  ‘Maybe he’s an exhibitionist. Let me see.’ Harper took the binoculars. ‘Now you mention it, they haven’t moved since we’ve been here.’

  Lucas took back the binoculars.

  After a while he said, ‘You know what? I don’t think Vickers is at home. I reckon the sneaky bastard has the lamps and TV operating off a timer.’

  ‘So now can we knock on the fucking door?’

  Seven hours later, after a fitful night’s sleep, Harper stood in the doorway to their apartment with his shopping consisting of two plastic bags and a toolbox. He dumped them onto the bed and changed into blue overalls, safety shoes and a peaked cap. He swaggered into the living room carrying a clipboard and the toolbox.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said to Lucas who was eating breakfast.

  ‘You look like something Stephen King would write about.’

  ‘You got a better idea?’

  ‘Nope, and I sure as hell can’t match them duds you got there, boy.’ Lucas mimicked a hillbilly drone.

  They had decided a more innovative approach was in order given their discovery the previous night, and hadn’t done the early morning stakeout. Which was a welcome change of plan.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Lucas said. It was 7.15am, rush hour at Maple Crescent apartments.

  Harper crossed the road and timed his run to perfection. A young woman hit the green release button and pushed open the glass door to leave the building. She politely held it open for Harper to step inside carrying his toolbox and clipboard. The lobby was kitted out with wall-to-wall fake marble and chrome with a large glass-topped concierge desk against one wall. The desk was unmanned. The elevators were located five easy strides away across the shiny floor. Lucas took up his usual position on the opposite side of the street, leaning against a wall nursing a coffee.

  Harper stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor and found door number forty-six. The corridor was bright and smelled of fresh paint. This was where you lived if you had a good job or wealthy parents.

  He rapped his knuckles against the door – this was the risky part. If they were right then no one would answer, if they were wrong, Harper would have to make up a story about a maintenance issue and leave. He knocked again but no one came.