The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  Ten minutes later, Jake was the not-so-proud and definitely illegitimate owner of a gun. Finding someone to buy from proved easy. Selecting a model in his limited budget provided a bigger challenge. In the end, Jake went a little over what he wanted to spend. He purchased a .357 Ruger revolver, six rounds already in it and twelve more in two speed-loaders. It wouldn’t be as much firepower as a semiautomatic, but Jake bought a lot of stopping power for the money he spent.

  He needed to get out of Maryland. Under normal circumstances, it would be easy. However, he didn’t have his car and felt he couldn’t safely retrieve it. He also couldn’t use a credit card to buy a bus, plane, or train ticket. It was risky, but he doubled back on himself, got cash from a convenience store ATM, and used different streets to return the way he’d come.

  Jake managed to slug his way out of the city, catching a ride into Harford County. He was in Aberdeen, about forty minutes northeast of Baltimore by car. It was home to a large proving ground, and getting a hotel near the installation would chew up too much of his money. Instead, Jake found a place just off Route 40 which took cash and didn’t ask questions. The best kind.

  His door opened directly to the outside, so Jake mounted a camera above it and another one at the end of the building facing the parking lot and main road. For one night, it would have to do. Tomorrow, he’d work on getting north. He knew Philly pretty well and could probably lean on a non-military friend for some support once he got there. For now, Jake used his phone to make sure he got a clear picture of the outside. All good.

  He checked his dad’s business Yelp page. They’d established it as a way to get messages to one another in difficult times like past deployments. Nothing new for a while. Jake chose to leave a new review, selected five stars, and entered some text. The owner is very responsive. It was generic enough to sound like it came from someone who just wanted to fire off a quick comment. His father would read it, however, and know he needed to reach out.

  Jake looked at the contact entry on his phone. His thumb hovered over the entry for his dad’s cell phone, but he didn’t tap it. Braxton knew red teamers, so he could have access to calls and texts. The indirect Yelp method would need to work for now.

  One of the cameras showed an SUV pull into the parking lot. This one was white rather than gray or black, but the hairs on Jake’s arms stood at attention. He grabbed the .357, held it at the ready, and crouched behind the bed. The app on his phone showed a man get out of the vehicle and walk toward the main office. Jake thumbed the hammer back. He’d never fired this gun, which was an unfortunate side effect of buying it where he did. If it came down to it, he hoped its good condition meant it worked.

  A moment later, the man left the office and headed for the side of the building. All the doors ran down here. A bead of sweat rolled from Jake’s temple as footsteps approached. He got a little lower, ensuring only his head stuck up above the mattress. The barrel of the .357 pointed at the door. Anyone walking through would get a nice hole right through his center.

  The footfalls moved on. Jake maintained his vigilance. Maybe whoever it was would double back. Perhaps he met another enforcer behind the building. Two muted voices talked from a couple doors down, and two people drew closer. They passed the door. Only when Jake couldn’t hear them anymore did he check the phone. Two men climbed back into the SUV and drove away.

  Jake set the gun down atop the bed and inhaled a deep breath.

  22

  Braxton chose some more images from the collection Maxwell took of Sara Morrison. He would give her one more chance to listen to reason. If she remained defiant, there were plenty of other ways to solve the problem of an uppity woman with a fancy title. He attached two more to a new email message and sent it.

  As before, he waited about twenty minutes before following up. Executives like Sara Morrison were glued to their government-issued laptops or mobile phones even after sundown. The expectation of eternal email vigilance came with the senior executive jobs. Flag officer, too. Had Braxton’s career not been derailed, he would’ve delayed a promotion to brigadier general as long as he could.

  The burner phone was new. Braxton insisted on it. She wouldn’t recognize the number. Maybe it would put her back on her heels, make her think two people were coming after her. Her phone rang four times before she picked it up.

  “Hello, Miss Morrison,” Braxton said when she answered.

  “Hello, Colonel Braxton,” she said. Her words almost made him drop the phone. How did she know? Did he put something in the emails to give himself away? Maxwell insisted his messages would be anonymous. The burner couldn’t be traced to him or the company. What if someone got to her? “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” Braxton said.

  “Surprised I know who you are?”

  “I’ll admit I am.”

  “Pricks like you love power plays,” Morrison said. “Your record is full of bullshit like that. You’re trying to do it now. Too bad for you I know who you are. I suppose I misspoke by addressing you as a colonel. The army didn’t let you keep your rank when they banished you to Leavenworth.”

  “The army decided to fight the war with both hands tied behind their back,” said Braxton. “I only wanted to make it even, make it fair. People like your bosses couldn’t stand it. So they drummed me out for not being politically correct enough.”

  “You know I’ve read your file, right? I know what they charged you with. Rape of a teenaged Afghan girl, murdering her and her family, a bunch of other crimes . . . I’m surprised you got out when you did.”

  “A few people still like me,” Braxton said. “People with spines. Men who know how wars are supposed to be fought.”

  “I could probably make some guesses who you’re talking about.” Braxton didn’t say anything. “We just encouraged one to hang it up. They’re dinosaurs exactly like you.”

  “You know who I am. Good job—someone tipped you off, and you can read a file.” Now Morrison fell silent. She didn’t deny someone told her about Braxton. He pondered who it could be. No one in Hexagon Security would be so disloyal. It had to be someone who disliked him and wanted to stop him. Maybe a person with a grudge. Someone like Tyler. It would fit his meddlesome pattern. “You can still make things easier for yourself, Miss Morrison. Call me a dinosaur all you want, but men like me know how to solve problems in the Middle East. No one else does.”

  “Go to hell, Braxton,” said Morrison. “I’ll never work with you or anyone like you.”

  “You’re forcing my hand.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re an asshole, and you’re going to do what you want. Your record is the best example of that.”

  Braxton hung up. The hell with Sara Morrison. If she wouldn’t play ball, Arthur Bell would be more than willing to accept a promotion.

  Maxwell ended the call with Braxton. His boss spent the prior ten minutes yelling at him about Sara Morrison. She refused to play ball and drop her investigation into Hexagon. Maxwell didn’t think she’d find anything—even the connection to Braxton constituted a bit of a leap. He wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the company’s documentation. It would be an inconvenience, but nothing immediate would happen. They could still find what they were looking for in Afghanistan.

  Braxton preferred a more immediate resolution. He was convinced Sara Morrison was a bulldog who wouldn’t let the bone go, and she’d march up and down the halls of the Pentagon telling everyone to put their company on the blacklist. During their days serving together, Maxwell often found himself dulling the harder edges of Braxton’s persona.

  The former colonel wouldn’t be restrained anymore, however. He wanted Sara Morrison dealt with. Maxwell sent a text to Arthur Bell inviting him to a Skype call. The company encrypted all communications end to end. Maxwell opened the app on his tablet, joined the conference, and Arthur Bell appeared a moment later. “It’s late, Maxwell.”

  “I didn’t know you could only get promoted to SES during daylight hours.”
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br />   Bell frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think your boss is going to be . . . reassigned. It’s logical to presume her deputy would take over . . . on an acting basis if not permanent.”

  “Usually how it works,” Bell said.

  “I presume investigations into the company would stop after this happened,” Maxwell said. “You conducted a thorough background check, of course, and we don’t need to waste any more time dealing with one woman’s witch hunt.”

  “I think we’re on the same page here.”

  “Good. Treat everything as normal for now. If you hear your boss has taken another position, don’t be surprised.”

  “It’s a competitive world out there,” Bell said. “Hard to get ahead and stay there.”

  “Sometimes,” Maxwell said, “the rat race can be murder.”

  Tyler woke up and felt like a fog lifted sometime in the night. If he suffered a concussion in the fight with Bobby yesterday, it had been a mild one. His last came more than a decade ago courtesy of a grenade tossed by a Taliban fighter. Tyler sat up and rubbed his face. He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Not quite nine. Sleeping so late felt like a luxury. Tyler climbed out of bed, got in the shower, and put clean clothes on.

  He walked downstairs to find half a pot of coffee still hot and waiting for him. In her morning sweep of the kitchen, Lexi also left a few slices of bacon on a plate. Tyler smiled. He never expected Lexi to come and live with him, but now, he wouldn’t have it any other way. If she left for college in the spring after going online for the upcoming semester, the house would feel empty. Doubly so when she inevitably moved out. Not for the first time, Tyler wished he could rewind several years to do things differently.

  After making some toast to go with his bacon, Tyler took a few minutes to eat breakfast. He felt like he’d neglected the search for Jake in all the hullaballoo over Braxton and Hexagon. Sorting out the whole mess would only help Jake, as he’d gotten entangled with the same men. Leo Braxton’s pernicious influence served as one of the few constants in life. If Tyler could footprint the organization, he’d be better armed to deal with them, get Jake out from under, and shut Braxton and his cronies down for good.

  He started by calling his boss. “You have a camera in the work bay?” Tyler said when Smitty answered the phone.

  “Sure. Gotta make sure you really know how to do a brake job.”

  At least Smitty tried to stay in good spirits despite the shit piling up around him. “Can you send me some screen captures of Rust and Bobby? I want to run facial recognition on them.”

  “You still think you can find Jake?” Smitty asked.

  “I know I haven’t made a lot of progress there,” Tyler admitted. “Knowing who’s looking for him can help. If I learn as much as I can about their company, I’ll know who we’re up against, and we can figure some things out from there.”

  Smitty blew out a deep breath before answering. “Hell, I gotta figure out how to do it, but I think I can. I’ll send something to you soon.” Tyler confirmed Smitty had his email address—he didn’t at first—before hanging up. The downtime waiting for the message proved an excellent excuse to get more coffee. A few minutes later, Smitty’s email came in. Two photos stared back at Tyler.

  Richard Rust served eight years in the national guard without distinguishment or demerit. He spent at least half his time in supply, eventually reaching staff sergeant before leaving the service. Robert Adamski never enlisted. Instead of a service record, he had a rap sheet. The late Bobby used his size to earn his money, garnering three charges for assault—convicted once—and another for attempted murder, which was dropped. Hiring a person like him would be out of character for Braxton. He favored a list of morally questionable attributes Bobby certainly possessed but also the self-discipline he appeared to lack.

  These two plus Kent Maxwell, Lawrence Shah, Victor White, and Braxton himself were a good start. Tyler needed to connect the dots. He stared at the menu of options the laptop presented him. He’d seen these devices do a lot of frightening things in the hands of skilled operators. Tyler resided somewhere toward the end of the unskilled spectrum. Just when he was thinking about summoning some reinforcements, Lexi came downstairs. “Can you help me with something?”

  “You need to turn the printer on,” she said with her head in the fridge.

  Tyler grinned. “I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to these things. I need to connect a few people. Social media and all. Much more up your alley than mine.”

  Lexi ripped the plastic top off a small yogurt. “All right.” She grabbed a spoon and sat beside Tyler. “Let me see what you have.”

  He handed her the laptop. “What does this thing run?” Lexi said as she poked around a couple of the options.

  “I don’t know.” Tyler shrugged. “Linus or something.”

  Lexi looked at her dad and rolled her eyes. “Linux. And it’s a short ‘i’ sound. I learned some in high school.”

  “I learned woodworking and repair from a man with three fingers on one hand,” Tyler said.

  “Gross. I guess you win.” Lexi opened a few applications. Tyler recognized one from her earlier help. She dragged their pictures into a folder. A circle in the center of the screen changed colors and rotated. When everything finished, several more faces filled the screen. Tyler spotted a few familiar ones, including Braxton, Maxwell, and White. Lexi clicked another button, and the laptop generated a report.

  “I didn’t know it could assemble and print it for me,” Tyler admitted.

  Lexi looked askance at him. “How did you use it?”

  “Got the information I wanted, wrote it down, and turned the thing off.”

  “At least you didn’t chisel out a stone tablet,” Lexi said.

  “It’s hard to find a hammer sometimes, smartass,” Tyler said.

  “I learned from the best. You need anything else?”

  “You’ve found all these people on social media, right?” Lexi nodded. “Does the laptop or the app keep track of what they post?”

  “I think it can.” She clicked on a menu of options. “Yeah, here.” She pointed at one of the choices. “This can send you a text if they post something.”

  “Wow,” Tyler said. “I guess I should’ve paid more attention to those red team guys. Go ahead and set it up.”

  “I did.” Lexi leaned over, kissed Tyler on the cheek, and stood. “See you later, Dad.”

  “Yeah.” Tyler looked at the output he wasn’t aware the laptop could assemble. Danny giving one of these machines to every Patriot employee was a little frightening considering all the things they could do. It would be easy for someone to stalk an ex, for instance. These computers were tools, and any tool could be misused by a bad actor.

  The names and connections between them helped Tyler footprint the organization. Some of the men—all the employees were male, which didn’t surprise him—shared contacts outside their military pasts. Tyler wondered if these people were part of the organization or soon would be. A lot of names populated the list. Tyler had seen things like it before. Taking out one Taliban commander or terrorist cell leader plunged their units into death spirals. The same would happen here. If Tyler took Braxton down—and maybe Maxwell, too, for good measure—Hexagon would unravel. The threats to him and Jake would cease.

  It all started from the top.

  23

  Rick Rust owned a small detached home in Laurel. Beige siding covered the outside. A large porch allowed for seating outside the front door. The driveway led to a one-car garage. All the place needed was a white picket fence, and it could get listed in an Americana catalog. For a man of questionable ethics who worked for a war criminal, Rust chose a nice house in a good neighborhood.

  Tyler sat in the 442. He curbed it across the street two homes up from Rust’s. There had been little activity in the half-hour he sat and waited. Most people here were either in their offices or working from home. One man in a car didn�
�t merit a lot of attention. Rust’s house was dark. The garage made it difficult to know if he was home, but Tyler figured the man was out. He wondered what Rust was up to. Who was he strong-arming or harassing for the benefit of Leo Braxton today?

  It made him wonder if Smitty’s shop was still on the radar. Tyler fired off a text to his boss. I’m outside someone’s house. Keep your eyes open and remember what I gave you a few days ago. He hoped Smitty would realize the last part referred to the gun Tyler took from Rust. Smitty insisted he knew how to shoot. Tyler hoped he did, and he doubly hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  A return message came in. I got it. All quiet so far. Good luck.

  Tyler looked at his stack of papers. He was glad the laptop would track things for him, especially on social media. In the meantime, he needed raw data, so he printed out the report Lexi helped him prepare. It produced a hefty output, and he split it up into a couple different folders. Rust still kept a landline phone . . . an odd quirk for a millennial. In Tyler’s limited experience, most of them dismissed the quaint technology while eating avocado toast. He called the number. It rang five times before clicking over to a generic voicemail greeting. Tyler hung up without leaving a message.

  He shifted in the seat and kept his vigil. He’d done similar tasks in Afghanistan. Terrorist targets weren’t always home when the army came calling. Recon was important. Tyler got out of the car, walked across the street with his hands in his pockets, and moved past Rust’s house. After the next dwelling, he cut across a yard. Homes on the next street lay across a short stretch of trees. Tyler padded through the thicket and surveyed the back of Rust’s place. No lights in the rear, either. A short chain-link fence would be easy to hop. The small yard led to another door.