The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  “We’re good, friend,” the mouthpiece of the pair said.

  “I’m fine,” Smitty said to Tyler. His wide eyes conveyed the opposite.

  “We need a few minutes. You mind?”

  The problem was Smitty’s. Actually, it sounded like his son’s problem, and these guys were making it the father’s. Probably over money or drugs. It would be a shame. Tyler remembered Jake as a promising soldier, but substance abuse after leaving the service was an unfortunately common issue. I’m a mechanic, Tyler said to himself. He finally got his chance to work on cars and put the past behind him. The war. The killings. I’m a mechanic.

  “No problem,” Tyler said. He left the door open and went back into the shop. The IROC still needed its brakes replaced. He picked up a large wrench and wiped it with a rag.

  Things soon got worse for Smitty. The talkative goon yelled at him. Then, Tyler heard the unmistakable sound of someone being punched. He gripped the wrench harder. I’m a mechanic. Another punch. Tyler wiped the tool again even though it didn’t need it. Smitty apologized and got yelled at some more.

  He took another wallop and crashed to the floor. Tyler didn’t need to see it to know what happened. Smitty was a good guy in a bad situation, dealing with a pair of experts at intimidating and beating guys like him. Sometimes, they did worse things. Tyler saw behavior like theirs many times in his deployments overseas. He drew in a deep breath and held it. What am I doing? I can’t let this happen to Smitty. He relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the wrench.

  He tried to be a simple mechanic. Not a soldier. Not a killer. It didn’t work out, and he didn’t think he’d get another opportunity.

  Tyler strode back to the door.

  The old guy was an easy mark, Rick Rust thought. He was so worried about his son he’d do anything. Agree to anything. Probably pay anything, too, if money were the object. He hadn’t learned from getting his shop vandalized, and Jake quickly went into hiding. Now Rick and Bobby had to come and follow up. Rick was realistic—the old man probably didn’t have any knowledge of his son’s whereabouts. He liked it better this way. He loved to intimidate people, and Bobby loved to hurt them.

  Then, the other guy opened the door. When the hell did he start? No matter. The previous one got scared off in one day. The newest fellow lasted a minute before he went back into the shop. He left the door open, but it didn’t matter. He knew his place. They all did. Now Rick and Bobby could get back to work. The part they enjoyed would be coming up. “Your boy is still in the wind,” Rick said. Bobby stood to his left. Rick glanced at him. He fixed the old man with a menacing stare.

  Smitty looked once at Bobby, then looked away. “I told you . . . I don’t know where he is,” he said.

  “Neither do we,” Rick said. “And it’s a problem, especially for you. You’re his father. You should be able to find him. How do we know he didn’t talk to you? Maybe he told you everything.”

  “If he did,” Bobby said, “we’re gonna hurt you.” He didn’t say much, but when he did, it promised pain.

  “I don’t know anything,” the old man said. His eyes were wide, but his gaze was steady. “Jake left. He didn’t tell me why. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” Rick said.

  “You guys have to realize I don’t know anything. You’re costing me business. I still need to fix the damage you did.”

  “Blame your son.” Rick drew his fist back and socked the owner in the stomach. He doubled over in his chair and nearly hit his head on the desk. His ragged breaths made Rick and Bobby smile. “Now . . . how about the truth?”

  “I’ve been telling you the truth.”

  “You think we believe you all of a sudden?” Rick hit the older man again, now targeting the face. It didn’t knock him out of the chair, but it would leave a mark. He’d look in the mirror and remember.

  “Please,” Smitty said. “I don’t know where he went. Tell your boss—”

  “You don’t get to tell us what to do,” Bobby broke in. The second punch to the face sent Smitty toppling from the chair like a rag doll tossed to the floor. Rick loved it when Bobby hit people. Even if they stayed conscious, they didn’t make the mistake of getting up again. Smitty looked woozy, but he didn’t pass out.

  Smitty continued to plead ignorance. He lied even when it was apparent Rick and Bobby knew better. For an insult like this, Rick would enjoy watching Bobby pummel the old man into unconsciousness. Or worse.

  Silver flashed in Rick’s sight as something flew through the air and whacked Bobby full in the face. He dropped like he’d been shot. The guy who went back into the shop now bolted from the door. Rick reached for the gun holstered on his left hip. His hand shook a little. No one took out Bobby. He swung the pistol around when the new guy surged forward and kicked Rick in the chest. It didn’t knock him down, but it did stagger him.

  Worst of all, it made him drop the gun.

  The new guy picked it up, pulled the hammer back, and buried the gun under Rick’s chin as he shoved him into a nearby wall. Rick glanced at Bobby. He wasn’t moving. The old man sat on the floor looking stunned.

  Rick looked at the guy with the gun. During his time in the National Guard, he’d locked eyes with a few people who wanted to kill him. He saw no pity in the dark brown, almost black eyes staring back at him. The new hire—whoever he was—was a killer, and for the first time in a long time, Rick Rust worried he might die.

  5

  Tyler pushed the muzzle of the Glock 19 hard under the skinny one’s chin. It bent his neck back until his head thudded into the wall. “Give me a reason not to blow your brains all over this paneling,” he said.

  “Piss off,” the guy said.

  “Eloquent.” Tyler pulled the gun back and jabbed the wiry guy in the solar plexus with its snout. He gasped for air and bent over, then got straightened up by the pistol under his jaw again. “Take a second. Breathe. When you can, you’re going to tell me your names.”

  “Rust. I’m Rick Rust . . . he’s Bobby.”

  “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Tyler said. “Now, I want to know who sent you here.”

  “Tyler, I don’t want any trouble,” Smitty croaked.

  “You already had trouble, Smitty. It wasn’t going to resolve itself.”

  “Don’t shoot him.”

  “I won’t. As long as he answers me.” Tyler pressed the Glock hard enough under Rust’s chin to bend his neck back again. He saw the fear wash over him as his eyes went wide and the reality of the situation set in.

  “OK, OK,” he said.

  “Who sent you?” Tyler said through gritted teeth.

  “We’re looking for the kid.”

  “You see him here?”

  “No,” Rust admitted.

  “Then, you’re going to collect your friend and piss off. After you tell me the name of the asshole who gave you your orders.”

  “I don’t know. He goes by Max.”

  “Just Max?”

  “It’s all I know,” Rust said. “He sent us. Can I go now?”

  “No,” Tyler said. “You’re going to tell him Smitty doesn’t know anything. His son is missing. It’s the son’s problem. Stop coming here and harassing a man who has nothing to do with whatever’s going on.”

  “Max ain’t patient.”

  “He’d better be. If he sends you two assholes again, I’ll send you back with a few pounds of lead in you.”

  Tyler pulled the gun back, elbowed Rust in the face, then shoved him toward his larger partner. Bobby still hadn’t moved, though he groaned and looked to be coming to. Tyler walked to him, opened his jacket, and took his gun. “Get him out of here,” Tyler said.

  “I can’t carry him,” the slender Rust said.

  Tyler pointed the gun at Bobby. “You can either man up and help him out the door or drag his body out. I don’t care which one you pick, but he might.”

  Rust glared at Tyler for a second and then nodded. He jostled his larg
e friend to wake him up. Tyler moved back to the desks. He kept the gun trained on the two goons as Bobby rose to unsteady feet. His eyes couldn’t focus on anything and he nearly capsized a couple times. It was all Rust could do to keep his partner on his feet and help him wobble in the direction of the door.

  “I guess I’m not getting the gun back?” Rust asked, Bobby’s meaty arm draped across his shoulders.

  “You can have a couple of the bullets,” Tyler said. “Express delivery.”

  The smaller enforcer shook his head and helped the shaky Bobby to the door. Once outside, they climbed back into the Yukon. Bobby still needed help, and Tyler laughed when he hit his head on the door frame and almost fell over again. After a minute, Rust got him situated, then climbed in the driver’s side. Tyler double-checked the plate as the SUV drove away.

  He tucked the larger gun into the back of his jeans. Smitty sat behind his desk and stared ahead. It had been a rough day for him. Now, Tyler had a clearer picture of what happened to the and Son part of the business, at least. He still didn’t understand the circumstances of Jake’s disappearance, and he wondered if Smitty knew anything or just snowed his tormentors to protect his boy.

  “Anything you want to tell me, Smitty?” he asked.

  “Jesus Christ. How about something you might want to tell me!”

  “You know I spent some time in special operations. Your story's the important one now.”

  Smitty looked like a balloon someone had let half the helium out of. “Hell, you can probably figure it out,” he said. He sat behind his desk and rubbed his face.

  “You’ll have a couple nice bruises.”

  “Good thing no one comes here for my looks.”

  At least he maintained a sense of humor. Tyler showed Smitty the smaller Glock. “You know how to use one of these?”

  “I don’t like guns.”

  “They probably don’t like you, either,” Tyler said. “But you’ll be a fan if these two shitheads come back. Can you shoot?”

  “Of course I can shoot.”

  “Good.” Tyler cracked the slide of the Glock 19 to see a brass 9 MM cartridge in the chamber. He handed it to Smitty. “Be careful. It’s ready to shoot. There’s no conventional safety to click off. It’s in the trigger, so just point, squeeze, and bang! Keep it out of sight in a desk drawer or something. Don’t hesitate to use it if those two assholes pay you another visit.”

  “I’m no killer,” Smitty said.

  “Everyone can be a killer,” Tyler said. “It just takes the right motivation.” He retrieved the wrench which sent Bobby crashing to the floor. It had been a hell of a toss.

  “You’ve killed men before,” Smitty said. He didn’t intone it as a question.

  “I have,” Tyler said. “All things being equal, I’d prefer not to do it again. We’ll see if it holds.”

  Smitty fell silent behind the desk. Some color returned to his face. He stared at the gun for a few seconds before hurrying it into the upper right desk drawer. “I’m . . . I’m glad you were here,” he said.

  “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “You probably heard most of it.”

  Tyler nodded. “I’d like you to explain it to me. I think you owe me as much.”

  “All right.” Smitty took a deep breath to collect himself and then launched into the story. “Jake took off a while ago. Didn’t tell me where he was going. He just said he needed some time. I asked for what? He didn’t say.”

  “Drugs?”

  Smitty frowned and shook his head. “No. He’s clean. My guess is he knows something he shouldn’t.”

  It made sense. If Jake made it into special ops, it would open all kinds of doors for him. Some were worth walking through, and others were only trouble. Not everyone could tell the difference. The lure of intelligence work and easy money ensnared many a soldier over the years. “At least one of those two looked like former military. They the same ones who damaged the shop?”

  “Yeah. Bastards.”

  “Smitty, what are you going to do about this?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face again.

  “This Max or whoever they work for will probably send someone else if he’s convinced you know something. I’d guess more men, and they won’t waste as much time bantering.”

  “I feel bad asking, but . . . can you stick around?”

  Tyler already blew being just a mechanic. Might as well see this through. Lexi always wanted him to do the right thing. She would understand. “I can,” he said, “but I think we’re going to need to find Jake before these assholes do.”

  “Can you do it?”

  He was better at storming buildings and shooting people. Finding a former soldier in the wind to protect the man and his secrets would be stretching the skill set. Still, Smitty and Jake needed his help. “I’ll see what I can do,” Tyler said.

  6

  Once Jake realized no one followed him from the hotel, he allowed himself to relax a little. Despite the summer heat, he wore a lightweight hoodie and kept his head covered. An Orioles cap and sunglasses helped hide the rest of his face. It all earned him a few funny looks, but he ignored them.

  After about twenty minutes of walking the streets in a haphazard pattern, Jake came upon the Central Diner. His stomach immediately rumbled. After subsisting on protein bars and packaged food for so long, he wanted a real meal. Jake checked around and saw no one to give him cause for alarm. He crossed the road and walked inside.

  The restaurant was small, though the owners would probably prefer to call it cozy. With the breakfast rush long over and lunch not quite here yet, about half the chairs and booths sat empty. Jake slid into a booth, careful to sit facing the door. A middle-aged waitress approached, and he ordered coffee.

  When she dropped off his hot beverage, Jake went with two fried eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Might as well live it up a little. He didn’t know when he’d get another chance to sit and indulge even if for a few minutes. At some point, he needed to get out of Maryland and put some distance between himself and his pursuers. How to do this without access to most of his resources was the challenge. Jake considered calling some friends and asking for favors.

  Whatever he needed to do to get away.

  The price of principles, he thought, and not for the first time, he wondered if doing the right thing was worth all the trouble. His answer came in the form of a glorious plate of greasy breakfast food. Jake thanked the waitress and dove in. The eggs were cooked just right, the bacon came out crispy, and even the toast held the right amount of butter. Jake wolfed down the food faster than he expected. He nursed his coffee. When the waitress came to take his plate, he asked for a refill.

  Then, he saw the SUV pull in.

  The hairs on his arm stood up. They were common enough vehicles as a class these days. No one bought sedans anymore. Still, the vehicle was a dark late-model Yukon, exactly the kind his pursuers would drive. Favored by governments across the country. The windows were just dark enough to prevent anyone from seeing inside.

  Jake’s pulse increased. He fumbled out his wallet, threw enough cash down to cover his meal plus a tip, and stood. Going out the front door wasn’t an option. The small diner featured no other visible exit, but there had to be one in the kitchen. Jake walked down the hallway toward the restrooms and turned into the kitchen. He got a few more funny looks, but he saw the door at the back.

  One of the cooks told him he wasn’t supposed to be here. Jake ignored him. He pushed the door open, strode into the alley, and was on the run again.

  Bobby had looked better, Rick Rust realized. Still, considering he recently took a wrench to the mug, he looked pretty good. A large bruise dominated the left side of his face. The doctor at the urgent care place said Bobby had a fractured cheekbone and a concussion. There wasn’t much they could do for either except have him stay in a hospital for observation. With some prodding from Rick, Bobby declined, and after
a few hours, he sounded more coherent but his eyes still looked a little foggy.

  They would both need to be coherent. Their boss summoned them to the site near the airport. Sally, the pretty daytime receptionist, didn’t work evenings, and the office looked stark and bleak like anyone barely spent time here. Even her desk was mostly bare. A single door was behind her workstation.

  It opened a moment later. A voice told them to come in. Bobby went first and had a little trouble moving in a straight line. He got it sorted out after a few seconds and then he and Rick walked into the office and slouched into chairs before the desk. A familiar man of about forty stared back at them.

  Rick looked around the room. Whoever owned the place had inexpensive tastes. The desk was a plain, medium brown, matching the single, mostly-empty bookcase. A few stacks of paper covered the top, alone save for an old clock. The desk, three chairs, and the bookcase were the only furniture in the room. The walls were covered in wood paneling looking straight out of the ‘seventies.

  “Talk to me, gentlemen,” the man sitting across from them said. “What the hell happened?”

  “You told us before you ain’t the boss,” Rick said.

  “No, I’m not. When you screw up like this, you don’t get to talk to the man. You can call me Max.”

  “We want to see the boss.”

  “He doesn’t deal with losers,” Max said.

  “Hey, we’re no losers! What the hell were we supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to locate the kid.”

  “We tried,” Bobby said. It was about time he joined the conversation. “We did. It started off good. The old man knows something. I think we coulda gotten him to talk.”

  “Yet here we are discussing his lack of cooperation,” Max said.

  Bobby waved a large hand. “Whatever. Me and Rick cuffed the old man around a bit. Then, there was . . . another guy.”

  “Another guy?” Max turned to Rick. “He looks like his brains are scrambled. What’s he saying?”