The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  Braxton sent the email with a high importance flag. Then, he waited. He thought about his organization. They’d earned two contracts so far. One essentially served as a cover, and the other was their real goal. Progress moved slowly, but what Braxton lost years ago would be found soon enough. He focused on the bigger picture, which began with Sara Morrison.

  After about twenty minutes, he called her. It was a burner phone, equally as untraceable as the email account, and it would disguise his voice. When Sara Morrison answered, Braxton swore he heard a little quiver in her tone. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Miss Morrison.”

  “Who is this?” The quivering vanished, and a hard edge replaced it. It was a shame Braxton needed to target Morrison and wear her down. He might have liked her under different circumstances.

  “An interested party.”

  “What exactly are you interested in?” she said.

  “More than just your . . . sleeping habits.”

  “I figured you were the asshole who sent me these pictures. Did you like sitting outside my house watching me? Did you beat off to these pictures?”

  “Miss Morrison,” Braxton said, “there’s no need to be crass. I have a concern, and I wanted to make sure I got your attention.”

  “What do you want?” Morrison said, icicles hanging from each word.

  “I want you to drop your investigation into Hexagon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the government no longer has the spine to do what needs to be done over there. Companies like theirs can solve a lot of problems for you.”

  “Men like you disgust me.”

  Braxton leaned back in his chair. He didn’t think she’d be receptive, and he kind of enjoyed the back and forth. “The problem is . . . you need men like me. The country does, too. The men we’ve elected, along with the ones appointed above you, are a bunch of cowards. They want to fight a war with two hands tied behind their backs, and then they wonder why we’re not winning.” He took a breath to calm himself.

  “Let me guess,” said Morrison in a tone suggesting she did not in fact need to speculate. “I either bend to your wishes, or you send those pictures to someone above me. Someone you think would care a lot about how it looks and broom me out of here.”

  “I hope it doesn’t get so far,” Braxton said. “But if I need to, I’ll do just what you said.”

  “Here you are on a blocked phone number, disguising your voice, and sending me this message from some bullshit email account. You’re a coward, Braxton.”

  “I’m not who you think I am. I want you to consider what we talked about.”

  “Here’s your consideration,” Morrison said. “Stick your blackmail up your ass . . . if anything still fits up there after Leavenworth.” She hung up.

  Braxton slammed his phone down. He didn’t expect an official like Sara Morrison to knuckle under right away. A woman didn’t make it in a male-dominated industry by being the shy, retiring type. Her open defiance and antagonism angered him, however.

  Maybe Braxton needed to take more drastic steps regarding Sara Morrison.

  Tyler and Smitty worked together on the engine replacement. They’d dropped the old one and moved it aside and were now taking a brief break. Smitty handed Tyler a cold bottle of water, which he accepted with a nod of gratitude. “I wanted to do this yesterday,” Smitty said, “but I know you were doing other stuff for me. How did it go?”

  “I haven’t found Jake yet,” Tyler said.

  “I figured you woulda told me.”

  “Yes. I discovered a hotel where he was staying, but he’d just checked out.”

  “You think you could find him again?”

  “Probably,” Tyler said. “I also tracked down a friend of his. Two, actually, but one’s an asshole. Anyway, it turns out the people looking for Jake found one of them, too. I saved him from a beating.”

  “Anyone get hurt?” Smitty said.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus,” Smitty said, letting out a slow breath. “This is serious.”

  “It’s been serious,” Tyler said. “I’m sure Jake did what he did to protect you, but he’s in the sights of some very dangerous men.”

  Smitty blanched and drank some water with an unsteady hand. “What are you going to do next?”

  “Keep looking for Jake. Try to stay one step ahead of everyone else.” Tyler again wondered how much to tell Smitty. Jake kept him in the dark, but Braxton’s men paid several visits to the shop. He deserved to know who he was up against. “I guess Jake hasn’t told you very much.”

  “Still ain’t heard from him since he took off,” Smitty said. His shoulders slumped, and he dropped onto a chair.

  “He’s hiding from men he served with,” Tyler said. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. I haven’t uncovered why yet, but he must know something . . . maybe details about black ops gone south. I’m not sure. What I am sure about is a bunch of men want to kill him to keep him quiet.”

  “I think I liked not knowing better.” Smitty rubbed his forehead.

  “I’m sure you did.” Tyler sat in a task chair and wheeled it beside his boss. “I wasn’t sure how much I should tell you, but if it were me, I’d want to know.”

  “Thanks.” Smitty offered a fractional nod. “Doesn’t make me feel any better, but I’ve felt like shit about this mess since it began.”

  “If it’s any help, I’m sort of in the same boat.”

  “You?”

  “Me,” Tyler said. “I’ve . . . been trying to put what I did in the past behind me. Just fix some old cars. Then, those two assholes paid you a visit. I got involved again and saved Mike Watson from two different assholes. My father likes to say a man can’t run from who he is.” Tyler shrugged. “I guess I’m a killer. I think I need to be, all things considered.” He fell silent and let his words hang in the air. Smitty didn’t answer. “I’d like to think I’m a pretty good mechanic, too. Once this is wrapped up, if you’ll keep me around, I’d like to stay.”

  “You gonna try not to shoot anybody?”

  “No promises.”

  Smitty grinned. “Stay as long as you like. Let’s get my boy back home first before we start talking about which desk you want.”

  “Deal,” Tyler said. He hoped he could deliver on his end.

  Tyler left the shop right after six. It was a long day. Changing out the engine, plus making sure the new one worked, consumed most of it. It took a few attempts for Tyler to wash all the grease from his hands and forearms. Sweat dampened his T-shirt, and fluid stains marred the rest of it. Still, he drove away with a feeling of satisfaction. Getting his hands dirty with oil rather than blood made for a refreshing change.

  The portable GPS showed traffic was better going through the city for a while, so Tyler cruised down Belair Road. He noticed the tail after a mile or so. It was a different vehicle with a silver sedan taking the place of the usual SUV. A smart swap—the make, model, and color were popular enough to blend in anywhere. When the car changed lanes to follow him, Tyler saw a Honda badge. An Accord, judging by its size. The most popular car in America up until its CR-V cousin overtook it. Even more invisible.

  Tyler drove like he didn’t know anyone tailed him. The guy back there picked a good car and didn’t give away his position. Most people, probably even the majority of those with training, wouldn’t have noticed. Sometimes, the paranoia others accused Tyler of harboring turned out to be a good thing.

  Belair Road was three lanes wide but had a speed limit of only thirty through this stretch. Businesses dotted the sides. Houses were relegated to the side streets, of which there were many. Tyler drove past a cluster of three gas stations and stopped at a light. More shops and eateries lay ahead. He pondered how to use the landscape to his advantage. The Accord sat two cars behind him—a little brazen, perhaps, but the driver seemed competent.

  In the present situation, having a distinctive car constituted a drawback. Tyler couldn’t blend in on the r
oad. His 442 would stand out for its shape and vintage, never mind its telltale dark green paint. If he were going to turn the tables on his pursuer, he needed to do it off the road. The light turned green. Tyler scouted the left side. If he could make the turn before the guy following him, it would give him an advantage.

  The Gardenville Shopping Center lay ahead, just before a green light at Frankford Avenue. Traffic came the other direction. Tyler saw a gap, didn’t signal for a turn, and swung a hard left with screeching tires. The Japanese SUV coming toward him honked its wimpy horn. At least ten cars trailed it. The silver Accord wouldn’t get to turn for at least twenty seconds. Maybe the driver would figure he got made and simply keep going.

  Tyler looked for a place to park and get out. He drove past a church, wondering why someone would put a place of worship in a shopping center. An Aldi and some other stores lay ahead. Tyler pulled into a spot next to a van, got out, and sprinted toward the shops. He ducked behind a thick post as the Accord finally made the turn.

  The driver took it slowly, scanning left and right. The van would block his view of the 442 until he got closer. As the car approached, Tyler leaned out from behind the pillar, his phone at the ready. The driver’s head swiveled toward him, and he snapped three photos in rapid succession. The man sported the short hair many former service members favored. His features were hard and unfriendly. He scowled when he realized he’d been photographed. The silver sedan sped up and drove away.

  Tyler watched it leave before strolling back to his car. He drove home, transferred the photos to his laptop, and connected to the State Police database. It was one of the functions he didn’t need Lexi to help him with. A minute later, his search spat out a result: Lawrence Shah, formerly of the US Army, given a bad conduct discharge from his rank as lieutenant six years ago. His file read like a horror show of American foreign policy missteps: physical and sexual assault, robbery, and a suspicion of murder. He was the kind of soldier who made the rest look bad. His eviction came after a court martial and a very light sentence of three years in prison. It must have been a deal to avoid the dreaded dishonorable discharge.

  Lieutenants were officers but sat at the lowest rung. Sometimes, they commanded small platoons. Other times, they fetched coffee for captains and majors. Shah’s record showed he saw combat and made some positive contributions in Iraq before his career crashed and burned. The file was absent anything about leadership or commendations. Not a commander.

  He sounded like the perfect subordinate for Leo Braxton.

  17

  In the interests of due diligence, Tyler used the former Patriot laptop to take a deeper look into Shah. He’d ask Lexi about the social media stuff if he needed to, but he’d worked in the investigative toolkit before. Besides the bad conduct discharge, no crimes dotted Shah’s record. He possessed a spotty credit history since getting the boot. Shah rented an apartment in Essex, and the silver Accord he pursued Tyler with was his own.

  He worked for a small company called Former Military Partners LLC. Tyler had never heard of the outfit. The company maintained a very basic website which didn’t even list a way of contacting them. The laptop could look up domain registration information, and Tyler selected the option once he remembered where it was. The company itself was listed as the owner, but a familiar name filled the Technical Contact entry.

  Victor White. A sharp guy, formerly in the special forces unit, good with money and numbers, and a total toady for Braxton. If White owned a company, he did it on paper only, and it must have served to hide his former commander’s involvement. A random Pentagon official poking around wouldn’t see the name Leo Braxton, which might jump out. Even if it didn’t, two seconds searching army records would reveal the horror show. White, on the other hand, was clean. He’d done his time and left with no charges or controversy.

  Coupled with the news Braxton managed an early release from Leavenworth, it meant the man was up to something. Sara Morrison asked about Hexagon. Tyler checked their domain registration first. The technical point of contact showed as Former Military Partners LLC. Hexagon’s website boasted about the military service and experience of its founders Kent Maxwell and Victor White. Despite being Braxton’s chief bootlicker, Maxwell managed to land himself a general discharge—probably keeping his benefits in the arrangement. No red flags would pop out of his service file other than all the times he deployed with Braxton.

  White and Maxwell just kept the seat warm. Braxton would be running Hexagon. He couldn’t take a position which wasn’t in command. The man’s ego wouldn’t allow for it. Without the disgraced colonel’s involvement, Tyler might have figured Hexagon to be just another private military company started by guys who missed the fight. Something more sinister must have been at work, however. Whatever it was, Braxton knew about Tyler and ordered Shah to follow him.

  Tyler heard his father’s words again. Killer wasn’t an MOS. A man’s got to be who he is. “Fine, Leo,” he said to the empty room. “I’ll bury you and all your men. I should have done it a decade ago.”

  It was worth the risk to talk to his dad.

  Jake sat on a city bus. Few people shared it with him, so he got to spread out in the seat. Normally, he would have found it cramped and uncomfortable. He rode the CityLink yellow route, which terminated at the University of Maryland’s Baltimore County campus. Jake got off before the final destination. A pay phone sat outside a Rite Aid, and he would use it to call his dad. Two bus routes and about a mile of walking got him here, but it would be worth it.

  Street lights pierced the descending dusk. Smitty should have left the shop by now. Jake hoped the old man wasn’t working too hard without him there. Maybe he finally followed through on his threat and hired some help. Jake dropped two quarters into the phone and called his dad’s home number. He picked up on the second ring. “Jake?”

  “It’s me, Dad.” Jake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Relief washed over him at the sound of his father’s voice after two weeks on the run.

  “Jesus, boy, it’s good to hear from you. You all right?”

  “I’m surviving. I don’t want to talk long because I don’t know if anyone has tapped your phone.”

  “I want to talk to you more often than this,” his father said. Jake swore he heard the old man’s voice crack.

  “Get a burner, Dad. Post the number in the place we talked about . . . which you haven’t been using.”

  “I will. I hired someone to help me in the shop. I think he’ll be able to help me with a couple other things, too.”

  Did his dad find someone who could get Jake out from under? If so, he’d welcome the help. His time on the run wore on him, and he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to keep going without someone finding him. So long as he stayed in Maryland, the odds were against him long-term. “Glad to hear it. I need to go. Do what we discussed.”

  “Right.”

  Jake hung up. He held on to the receiver a few seconds longer before turning and walking away.

  Jake waited for the bus on the opposite side of the road. It was due in about fifteen minutes. A ride halfway across the city, then a transfer, and then a mile on foot would put him back at his hotel. It took a long time and was well out of the way, but it was all worth it to talk to his dad, even for a minute. Jake wished he’d done it sooner. He felt bad about letting his dad stew in his worry for so long.

  The potential helper could be a good or bad thing. Jake wondered if someone from his old unit posed as a mechanic to land the job. Once installed, he would pump Smitty for intel about Jake. His dad was an exacting worker, though. Someone would need the skill set to impress him enough to earn a job offer. Unless the gig came by force at the business end of a gun barrel. Jake shook his head. He felt terrible about leaving his father to his own devices. He was great at working on cars, but the kind of people looking for Jake operated in a separate world. A world his father wasn’t a part of.

  Screeching tires snapped Jake out of his reve
rie. An SUV skidded to a stop across the street. Jake didn’t wait for anyone to get out; he took off from the bus stop. Behind him, automatic gunfire roared, and bullets peppered the vehicles in front of Jake. He kept low, crouching behind the front end of a Cadillac Escalade.

  It had been years since Jake found himself pinned down by gunfire. He remembered the lessons he learned then. First among them: don’t panic. Many people stood up and ran, which only served as an easy way to get shot. Jake stayed in place. The engine and wheels should soak up the bullets. Deep breaths helped manage his racing heartbeat. When pinned down in Afghanistan, Jake had a dozen of his closest friends around to help. Tonight, he was alone. The idea of his former unit mates now raining hot lead at him turned his stomach. Jake raised his head just enough to peer through the windshield. Two men fired on him. A few people on the opposite side of the street sprinted away.

  The guns clicked empty. Jake glanced down the road. If he stayed out of sight, he could make the alley two houses down and try to lose his pursuers there. He maintained his crouch and moved down the row of vehicles. Thank goodness they were all pickup trucks or their sport-utility relatives. If the people who lived on this block owned Mini Coopers, he’d be spotted.

  Jake made the alley and hugged the right-hand fence as he moved down. He took his hat off and tossed it as far as he could. If the men chasing him came here, they would see it and presume it flew off his head as he ran. Jake hopped the fence behind him and padded through someone’s yard. He stopped at a bush, didn’t see anyone, and inched his way behind a car in the driveway.

  He saw two men walk down the alley. They stopped past where he’d come into the yard. “He must’ve come down here,” one of the men said. The poor lighting in the alley prevented Jake from getting a good look at either of them.