The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  This is what I get for trying to do the right thing, he thought not for the first time. When he heard about the formation of Hexagon a few months ago, he’d been happy for his former special operations colleagues. When he learned what they were going back to Afghanistan to do, he felt horrified. Still, they were a new company, and contracts like the one they bid on went to businesses with proven track records.

  Then, Maxwell told him they’d won.

  Jake knew what he needed to do. He declined the offer. Unlike the rest of the guys, he was still in the reserves. He couldn’t afford the hit to his reputation and the likely loss of freedom which would follow if someone discovered what the company was really up to. Jake couldn’t believe they’d even won the contract, so he did the right thing and reported what he knew and suspected to the Pentagon.

  Since then, his life had gone off the rails. Jake wanted to check on his father, but he also didn’t want to risk putting anyone onto him. They’d know about the shop, of course, but why draw attention to his dad? He didn’t know anything. Jake told him almost nothing about what happened overseas, and both men were happy with the arrangement.

  He’d recently closed his eyes when his phone threw an alert. Jake checked the feed. A familiar dark SUV entered the lot. “Shit.” Jake shot out of bed, threw on his shoes, and repacked his bag. He tucked the M11 into his waistband. The SUV drove to the other side of the building. Jake watched the video but didn’t see anyone moving around. He opened his door as little as he could and grabbed the camera and mount. He’d try to come back later for the other one.

  For now, he shut and locked the door and walked into the bathroom. The window didn’t cooperate at first, but Jake got it open. He stuck his head out, looked in both directions, and then tossed his bag through. He climbed out after it. A quick check of his phone showed the SUV circling back. Jake slung the bag over his shoulder, hopped a short fence at the rear of the property, and was in the wind again.

  Maxwell reviewed the latest reports in his office. The door remained open only a crack. All the men knew to knock before coming in. When the door swung into the room, Maxwell looked up and prepared to chew out whoever violated protocol. His words died in his throat when Leo Braxton entered. “Something you want to tell me, Maxwell?”

  “No, sir.”

  Braxton sat in the little-used guest chair. He was a fair bit older than Maxwell, probably in his mid-fifties, though he maintained his fitness. Only a head full of gray hair betrayed the man’s age. Despite everything which transpired at the end of his tenure in the army, Braxton still carried himself like a colonel. “Are you sure?”

  “Everything looks like it’s going well overseas,” Maxwell said. “The crew expects a breakthrough soon.”

  Braxton steepled his fingers under his chin. “Do I need to spell it out for you? When were you going to tell me some of our men encountered John Tyler?”

  Maxwell stared ahead for a few seconds. He’d hoped his boss wouldn’t find out. Tyler had been instrumental in everything coming apart the first time, and the company didn’t need Braxton distracted by revenge—however justified it might be. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be preoccupied.”

  “Do you think Tyler consumes my every waking thought?”

  “If I were you?” Maxwell said. “After what he did, I doubt I could think of much else besides getting even.”

  “Good thing you’re not me, then,” Braxton said. “I knew Tyler lived in Maryland. I’d hoped our paths wouldn’t cross, but it seems inevitable.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “Normally, I would say we have plenty of men on the payroll who could do it.” Braxton frowned. “A couple have already seen Tyler is not someone to take lightly. We’ll see what happens.”

  “You’re going to handle him?” Maxwell said.

  “Yes, Kent. If Tyler continues causing problems, I have a plan to deal with him.”

  11

  After an hour, nothing happened in the house. With his head clearer, Tyler walked up the steps and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, a man answered. He was tall, probably about six-three, and paunchy. An unkempt mop of brown hair sat atop his head. His short sleeves revealed at least a dozen tattoos and arms showing he knew how to do bicep curls. Tyler noticed a tattoo peeking above the T-shirt onto Sam Fisher’s neck. He fancied himself a tough guy. The ink, biceps, and attempted menacing stare confirmed it. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I work with Jake Smith,” Tyler said. “I hear he’s a friend of yours.”

  “Yeah? Where from?”

  “Around. I’d like to talk to you about him.”

  “What makes you think I got anything to say?”

  “You don’t seem to lack for words,” Tyler said. “Jake’s been gone a couple days. We’re trying to find him.”

  “You a cop?” Fisher said. He narrowed his eyes, probably thinking it added more malice to his glare. It didn’t. He looked like a squinting constipated man.

  “I told you I work with Jake.”

  “Jake works with his old man,” Fisher said. “Why don’t you piss off?” He went to close the door. Tyler blocked it with his foot.

  “I think we need to talk, Sam. Better for you if we just have a conversation.”

  “I said piss off!” Fisher thrust his arm out to push Tyler away, but it didn’t work. Tyler leaned back, reducing the shove to a minor annoyance, moved his foot to the rear, grabbed Fisher’s arm, and slammed the door on it. Fisher yelped, pulled his wounded wing back, and retreated into the house.

  Tyler followed him. “I’m just here to talk,” he said. “Don’t make it worse.”

  They stood in a small entryway. Fisher withdrew onto a carpeted landing at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m a lot bigger than you, now,” he snarled.

  “You were a few seconds ago, too,” Tyler said. “Didn’t seem to help you much then.”

  Fisher launched a kick at Tyler’s head. With his height advantage plus being on the steps, he didn’t have to raise his leg much past his waist. But he didn’t even try to defend himself when he did it. Tyler was never a fan of kicks; even with a good defense, he felt they often left him too exposed. Fisher made it easy. Tyler swayed to the side to avoid the kick and punched Fisher hard in the groin. He folded in half and almost tumbled down the steps.

  Tyler grabbed him by the belt and rolled him into the living room. Fisher coughed and flopped onto his back. “Don’t throw up on me, Sam,” Tyler said. “This carpet is pretty nice. You don’t want to ruin it.”

  Fisher rose to his knees. His face was bright red. “I should call the cops.”

  “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d love to talk to you. Maybe I can tell them some of the things you’ve been up to recently.”

  “Go to hell.” Fisher dragged himself into a recliner. Tyler sat in the neighboring one. A matching sofa was nearby. The living room had a cohesive look, which made Tyler wonder if Fisher contributed anything to its design. He didn’t seem the type to care about carpet colors, let alone getting everything to come together.

  “Jake Smith.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been gone a while,” Tyler said. “His dad is concerned.”

  Fisher let out a dry chuckle. His coloring returned to normal. “What makes you think I know where he is?” Fisher said.

  “Because I looked at his friends,” Tyler said. “You seem exactly the type to give him some bad advice.” No reaction. “So what was it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tyler looked around. A large TV hung on the wall. A small bookcase sat in a corner. On the top shelf, a bookend separated three books from the rest.

  Be a Day Trading Millionaire.

  How to Short the Stock Market.

  Day Trade Your Way to Millions!

  “Day trading? Did you get Jake into your risky shit?”

  “It works,” Fisher said. “Jake wasn’t interested, though. Said he didn’t need money.”

  �
��He’s probably right,” Tyler said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Before Tyler could get up, Fisher snatched a gun out of the table between them. He stood and pointed it at Tyler. It was a black Glock semiauto, a 9 MM or .380 by the size of its bore. Fisher, showing his ignorance, held it sideways. He stared at Tyler, who stared back. “Get out of my house,” he said.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll shoot you.”

  Tyler laughed. “You think holding a pistol makes you a tough guy?”

  “You think slamming my arm in a door makes you one?” Fisher said.

  “I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of the gun. What do you think it says about the combo of you plus the gun?” Fisher frowned. “Eight years in Afghanistan. Much bigger weapons got pointed at me by far worse people than you. And you think holding a pistol like an idiot is going to get me to run in terror? You little pissant. You can’t even turn the safety off.”

  Fisher canted the weapon to check the smooth, unbroken slide, and Tyler sprang forward. He braced Fisher’s forearm and got the gun away from him, and then whacked him in the head with it. Fisher crumpled to the floor. Tyler leveled the pistol at him, sights uppermost. “This is how you hold a gun. Glocks don’t have safeties by the way.”

  “Don’t shoot,” Fisher said. He propped himself up on one elbow while he rubbed his head. Tyler popped the magazine, then ejected the cartridge from the chamber. He put both in his pocket and tossed the pistol—now an expensive paperweight—across the room. “Hey! Give me those.”

  “You’re the one making so much money day trading,” Tyler said. “Buy a new mag. Now, tell me where Jake is.”

  “He’s switching locations. Last I heard, he was at the Downtown Arms near Greektown.”

  “You in contact with him?”

  “He’s going through burners, but yeah . . . we talk.”

  “I’ll need the number,” Tyler said.

  “I don’t know if I should—”

  “Give me your damn phone, Sam.” Fisher complied. Tyler found the contact and entered the information in his mobile. Jake moving from place to place made sense, especially given the people pursuing him. Dodging them so far showed his skill—and maybe a little bit of luck, too. It always helped to have both. “Don’t tell him about this little chat,” Tyler said. “If this number stops working, we’re going to have another talk.”

  Fisher grunted. Tyler left.

  Jake ducked into a store selling tacky clothes. Most were Baltimore-themed with the Orioles, Ravens, and the city’s love for crabs serving as popular designs. He picked a couple ugly T-shirts, some new shorts, and a hat. Jake paid with his dwindling reserve of cash. He needed it to last a while longer. Using something like a debit card would only give away his location.

  Down the block, Jake slipped into a drugstore. He bought a razor and shaving cream and added them to his rucksack. A check of his surroundings showed no pursuers. Jake wormed his way back to the hotel. The SUV was gone. He fetched his second camera and left the way he came. Another place to stay waited a half-mile away.

  After checking into the motel and setting up a camera outside his door, Jake worked on his appearance. Everyone would be searching for him based on what he looked like. He couldn’t do much about his height and weight, but hair was an easy fix. Jake applied the cream and used the razor to shave his head bald. He wouldn’t win any comparisons to Patrick Stewart, but it should help eyes pass over him.

  Jake ditched some old clothes in the motel’s dumpster. While outside, he capitalized on the lack of activity and rigged his second camera. The app displayed both feeds. Jake sat on the bed and let out a deep breath. Weariness hung over him all the time. He’d never been a heavy sleeper, but this situation made it much worse. If he rested for too long, nightmares about Afghanistan and his pursuers dogged him.

  “How much longer can I keep this up?” Jake asked the empty room. It offered no reply. He checked his phone. All clear. Might as well take advantage of the calm—the storm would return at some point. Jake lay flat and put his head on the mediocre pillow. Despite the middling quality of the bed, he was asleep within seconds.

  Tyler curbed the 442 on a side street near the Downtown Arms Hotel. Considering most people thought downtown Baltimore comprised the Inner Harbor area, the stadiums, Fells Point, and maybe Federal Hill, the hotel was not aptly named. It sat miles away on Eastern Avenue just before Greektown.

  Tyler entered the lobby, which was mostly a carpeted area to wait in front of the desk. A hallway on his right led to guest rooms. A door on the left opened to a paved walkway to the other side of the hotel. Three exits in close proximity. It would be easy for a small team to take this place down.

  The woman staffing the desk looked tired, probably of working here as much from lack of sleep. She didn't smile when Tyler approached. He didn't take it personally. Few people smiled at him, anyway.

  “I'm wondering if my friend is still staying here,” he said.

  “Name?” she said, popping a bubble in her gum. The sound of her chewing reminded Tyler of horses noshing from their feed bags.

  “Here's his picture.” He showed her a good picture of Jake on his phone. “Sometimes, he checks in under different names because he thinks he’s funny.”

  She blew a new bubble and typed a few keystrokes. Tyler wondered how often the bubbles got tangled in her wild hair. “I seen him. He left a while ago, though.”

  Damn. “Did he happen to say where he was going?”

  “He didn’t check out,” she said. “Just split at some point.”

  “Did you run into him at any point during his stay?” Tyler said. “Did he seem nervous?”

  “Actually, yeah,” she said. “Like he didn't want to give no one a close look.”

  Tyler figured many people staying here didn't want to be seen at the place. “He didn’t come this way, then. Is there a way out of the rooms?”

  “I guess he coulda squeezed out the bathroom window,” the girl said while looking at her phone. “He insisted on the first floor.”

  Jake probably saw something out front to spook him. Probably a couple of goons like Rust and Bobby. “You have a gift shop?” Tyler said. The girl snickered. “Vending machines?”

  She inclined her head to the main hotel corridor. “Down there.”

  Tyler bought a bottle of water and two bags of trail mix whose freshness he doubted. He got a paper bag from the girl at the desk and walked outside, pretending to be talking on his phone. His eyes swept the street. They soon landed on a gray SUV. Past the tinted windows, Tyler discerned two silhouettes inside.

  He walked back to his car. Their position left them outside his vision. Tyler pulled forward until he could see the Yukon. He turned the engine off again and waited.

  He wouldn’t need to wait long. About a half-hour into his vigil, the gray SUV finally pulled away from the curb. Tyler made the turn and slipped into traffic three cars behind them. Despite the preponderance of crossovers on the roads, Tyler felt confident in his ability to follow the large GMC. He tailed it up Eastern Avenue to I-95 North. Shadowing these guys was easy. They didn't employ any countermeasures. Tyler still hung back, but he probably could have tailgated them the whole way without being noticed.

  The SUV took the exit for the Baltimore Beltway headed toward Towson. Tyler stayed behind it. They continued a few miles before taking the ramp for Loch Raven Boulevard. The SUV drove through a traffic light which went yellow as they cleared the intersection. Tyler stomped on the gas. The Rocket V8 roared as the transmission dropped a gear, and the 442 powered past the signal as it flickered to red.

  This part of Parkville featured apartments, houses, plus all kinds of shops and eateries. To say nothing of the network of side streets wide and narrow. Tyler followed the SUV directly now; he couldn't afford to lose them if they made a quick turn while he hung back three hundred feet.

  A few minu
tes later, they turned into an apartment complex, parking in front of a building in the second group to the left off the main road. Tyler didn't press his luck. He went to the right and pulled into the first space he saw. He eyed the nearby street sign. Little Flower Terrace. The name struck Tyler as familiar. He took out his notes and frowned.

  Jake’s friend Mike Watson lived here, and Tyler doubted the guys in the SUV were making a social call.

  12

  Two burly men got out of the Yukon and entered the building. They didn't seem the types to ask nicely. Mike Watson was about to be in the soup way over his head. Tyler took a deep breath. Helping Smitty deal with two goons in the shop was one thing. He wouldn’t give up his son. Watson constituted an unknown. If he talked, the pair from the SUV would know Jake’s location.

  If he didn't talk, they'd probably beat him to death. Hell, they might do it for the sport. Tyler got out of the car, dashed across the complex’s main road, and ran into Watson’s building. His apartment was 3A. Tyler took the stairs two at a time. As he came around the corner to the last flight, he noticed one enforcer standing outside the open door to the unit in question. Inside, someone got punched and grunted in pain.

  “Move along, pal,” the big guy said when Tyler came up the steps. He stood about six-two, was built like a football player, and wore his blond hair in a buzz cut. Tyler put up his hands and pointed to the last door on the right. The guy shook his head. “Doing some maintenance work.”

  “Where are your tools, then?” Tyler asked.

  The guy took a knife out of his coat. “How’s this?”

  “Looks pretty inefficient for most maintenance work.”

  The guy waved the blade at Tyler before lunging toward him. Tyler stepped to the side the instant he recognized the telegraphed attack. Knife fights needed to end quickly. One lucky nick of an artery, and it was all over. Untrained opponents were less skilled but also less predictable. Tyler grabbed his attacker’s forearm with one hand and his fingers with the other.