The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  Tyler stepped off the tiled kitchen floor and onto the carpet. A large table with seating for six dominated the room though Tyler had yet to see signs anyone but Rust lived here. However many people occupied the place, they kept the dining room as clean as the kitchen. A buffet sat against the long wall past the table. A china cabinet, empty save for a few dishes and glasses, was against the house’s back wall.

  A pair of feet hit the floor upstairs. Tyler looked around past his current room. A large living area consumed the front of the house, leading to the stairs to the upper floor. The footsteps headed toward the front. A minute later, a toilet flushed, and water ran. Tyler backed onto the tiled floor. He half-opened the door to the basement and stood to the side of the fridge. Someone came down the stairs to the main level.

  Tyler waited. The steps moved across the living and dining rooms and into the kitchen. The refrigerator door swung open. A moment later, Rick Rust placed a pitcher of cold water on the counter beside his coffee maker. He opened the top and extracted the old filter. When he turned, he faced Tyler, who put the barrel of an M11 to his head. “Hi, Rick.”

  Rick, for his part, didn’t say anything. To his credit, he also didn’t piss himself. He stood there holding the filter, which dripped brown water onto the kitchen floor. “Don’t shoot me,” he squeaked.

  “I just want to talk. Why don’t you finish making the coffee? I like mine strong.”

  “O . . . OK.” Rick dropped the old filter in the trash, got a new one, and put it into the machine. He took a can of coffee from a cupboard. Folgers Black Silk. A perfectly acceptable dark roast in Tyler’s opinion. He drank a lot of java and had thoughts on most of the ones sold or brewed in the area. Rick’s hand shook as he spooned fresh grounds into the basket. A few tumbled onto the floor. He added water, turned the brewer on, and put the pitcher back in the fridge.

  “I’d like to put my gun away, Rick. You’re not going to try anything, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. At least he was honest. Most people would have offered a trembling negative.

  “I’ll do it as a sign of good faith,” Tyler said. He slid the M11 into the holster on his left hip.

  The smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Tyler gestured toward the dining room. Rust walked into it, and Tyler followed. Rust stopped, half-turned, and fired an elbow at Tyler’s head. He blocked it with his forearm, pain cascading into his fingertips. Rust completed his pivot and threw a hard punch, which Tyler also turned aside. He gave Rust a short chop to the throat, which staggered him and left him gasping. Tyler took a step forward, punched Rust in the stomach, then straightened him up and clobbered him in the face.

  Rust coughed and wheezed from the floor. Tyler stepped past him and sat on the couch in the living room. “Whenever you’re ready, we can talk.” After another bout of hacking, Rust dragged himself to a seated position. A series of quiet beeps came from the brew machine. “You might want to bring some coffee first. I take mine black.”

  It took a minute, but Rust got to his feet and trudged into the kitchen. He emerged soon after carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. He set one on the table in front of Tyler and took the other to a recliner. “Why should I talk to you?” he wanted to know. “You shot Bobby.”

  “Your friend would’ve beaten me to death,” Tyler said. “Besides, he should have taken better care to keep me from grabbing his gun.”

  Rust frowned and didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t know Bobby died by his own pistol. “You think you’re tough?”

  Tyler nodded. “If you’d survived what I did, you’d think you were tough, too.”

  They lapsed into silence. Rust drank his coffee. Tyler did the same. He smelled it first and took a small sip. Nothing seemed amiss. “What do you want to know?” Rust said, slumping in the chair.

  “Braxton.”

  “Never met him.”

  It seemed plausible. Maxwell or White would’ve hired Rust while Braxton remained in prison. Even though he’d been out for a while, he’d never been a personable commander. It was possible some of the men wouldn’t know him or only saw him in passing. “You’ve talked to other people, though. What about Maxwell?”

  Rust nodded. “He was the boss, but I didn’t think he was in charge.” His somber face brightened for a wistful grin. “Just like the national guard sometimes.”

  Tyler understood, and he bobbed his head to show some empathy with Rust’s plight. Winning people’s trust had never been among Tyler’s best attributes. He didn’t excel at any of the soft skills. “I’m trying to figure out what they’re after.”

  “What do you mean?” Rust said.

  “Hexagon has some men in Afghanistan, yes?” Rust nodded in assent. “I’m sure the paperwork says they’re over there for a specific mission. I think there’s more to it, and I think Jake Smith knew it.” It only happened for an instant, but Rust frowned at the name. “He must’ve told someone, and now Hexagon is after him.”

  “And you’re trying to find him.”

  “I didn’t know what was going on when I started working for his father,” Tyler said. “Now, I’m in the soup as much as they are.”

  Rust shrugged. “You made your choices.”

  Tyler let him stew for a moment while he enjoyed another couple sips of coffee. “You say you’ve never met Braxton. Know much about him?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m going to tell you a story, Rick. Braxton was my last commanding officer before I retired. He . . . got a little carried away in Afghanistan. I’m surprised he’s out of prison. Let’s say he’s the kind of guy you probably don’t want to work for in general. I’m going to try and take him down.”

  Rust remained quiet for a minute. “What do you mean by ‘carried away’?”

  “He raped a teenaged Afghan girl, got her pregnant, then ordered her and her family killed to cover it up.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Rust whispered and let out a long, slow breath. ‘No shit?”

  “No shit. He’s bad news. I’d get out if I were you.”

  “It’s never so simple.”

  “It can be,” Tyler said. “You seem pretty capable. I’m sure you could work against them without cluing anyone in. It’s easier to topple an empire when you have some help on the inside.”

  Rust hung his head and fell silent. A moment later, he said, “All right. I’ll be your confederate.”

  Tyler didn’t think Rust would agree to lend a hand. He’d be glad to have the assistance, and he’d also keep an eye on Rust. It would be just like a Braxton employee to set Tyler up for a double-cross. By now, everyone at Hexagon must’ve been aware of the vendetta. “I’m happy to have your help.”

  “Count me in, then,” Rust confirmed. “I’m no saint, but I can’t stand for the kind of stuff he did.”

  “Me, either,” Tyler said. “It’s just one reason he needs to go down.”

  Tyler drove home from Laurel when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. Despite usually ignoring these calls, Tyler answered it. Braxton’s voice came over the 442’s speakers. “Hello, John.”

  Braxton employed enough people. Figuring out Tyler’s information would only be a matter of time. Still, he bristled at his disgraced former commander calling on his personal cell. “What do you want, Leo?”

  “We seem to be on a collision course.”

  “You can swerve at any time. Bonus points if you go off a cliff.”

  Braxton fell silent. Tyler made no effort to engage in the conversation. It was a farce. Braxton probably felt he was being magnanimous. The man always saw himself in a much better light than he deserved. It was the worst part of dealing with a sociopath—they never pictured themselves as the villain, and in fact tended to turn things around and paint themselves as victims. Braxton did it when he got court-martialed. Tyler didn’t need to hear it again. “Nice chatting with you, Leo,” he said. “Feel free never to call me again.”

  “We need to meet.”

  �
��What?”

  “You and me,” Braxton said. “There’s some air to clear between us.”

  “I’m fine with it being murky and smoky,” Tyler said.

  “I’m sure you are after what you did. You probably expected me to die in Leavenworth.”

  “If I knew some idiot would let you out early, I would’ve paid one of your fellow inmates to shank you in the shower.”

  Braxton again lapsed into silence, but Tyler could hear his deep breathing. He grinned. If the universe forced him to deal with Leo Braxton again, he would spend as much time as he could riling the man. Eventually, the blessed quiet ended. “Tyler. We need to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Jake,” Braxton said.

  28

  The one-syllable name twisted Tyler’s stomach. Did Braxton’s men catch up to Jake? Between dealing with Rust and Bobby, saving Sara Morrison, and now talking to his former commander, Tyler found little time he could devote to finding Smitty’s son. If the Hexagon crew killed or captured Jake, Tyler would feel miserable. He’d never be able to look Smitty in the eye and tell him what happened. “What about him?”

  “You recommended him to me,” Braxton said. “Remember?”

  “Yes. It was before I realized you were a monster.”

  “Labels, John,” Braxton said. “One man’s monster is another’s terrorist hunter.”

  Tyler didn’t want to venture down the semantic rabbit hole. He tried to refocus the conversation. “I thought we were talking about Jake.”

  “He was a good soldier. You had a keen eye for talent.”

  “Why are you trying to kill him, then?” Tyler asked.

  “Jake disappointed me in the end. Maybe you recommended him because he was so much like you. Seeing the world in black and white. No consideration for nuance or shades of gray. A moralizer.”

  “Sounds like the kind of man who belonged in your unit. I wish you’d had a dozen more like him.”

  “One was enough,” Braxton said, and it sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth.

  Tyler exited the highway. He didn’t want to keep the conversation going any longer than necessary, but he hoped Braxton might tell him something about Jake. “What’s your obsession with the kid, anyway? He couldn’t have served under you for very long.”

  “He let me down . . . much like you did.”

  “I think there’s more to it,” Tyler said. “You went overseas a bunch of times. Plenty of men and women under your command over the years. Hell, you blame me for what happened at the end, and I’m not the one hiding from the goon squad. Jake must be different. He knows something.” Braxton didn’t answer. “Maybe he knows what your company’s really after in Afghanistan.”

  “I know what you’re doing. It won’t work.”

  “You’re the one who brought him up, Leo.”

  “I know you’re interested in saving him,” Braxton said. “Another character flaw. You want to protect people who don’t matter.” Tyler didn’t take the bait even though he wanted to strangle Braxton through the phone. “I want a face-to-face. We’ll talk about Jake. Maybe you can help him, after all.”

  It could be a trap. Knowing Braxton and Maxwell, it would be. Tyler needed the meeting to be in public. He couldn’t get talked into going to some Hexagon facility. Or could he? His old laptop would tell him all the places the company, Maxwell, or White leased. What if they drove him to a place off the books? It could be important intel to possess. After turning it over in his head, Tyler said, “Fine.”

  “I’ll send someone to pick you up. Don’t worry . . . I know where you live.”

  “I’m not getting into one of your SUVs if I’m still vertical. I’ll drive myself.”

  “You’ll get in the SUV and like it. Be ready at eighteen hundred.”

  Tyler didn’t like it, but he didn’t seem to have an alternative. “I will be.” He hung up.

  When Tyler arrived home, the first thing he did was sate his hunger with lunch. Fridge options were limited. Lexi had been ordering grocery deliveries, so he texted to remind her their situation would soon be dire. After polishing off his sandwich, Tyler guzzled one water, then another. He bounced on the balls of his feet in the kitchen. To calm himself, he walked into the living room but paced the carpet rather than sitting down.

  Braxton was sending an SUV to collect him. It would involve two guys, minimum. Both armed. Tyler checked his weapons. He could bring the M11 and a spare magazine. They’d pat him down before going anyplace important, so he also slipped a small ceramic knife—invisible to wands and metal detectors—into the waistband of his jeans. Despite the bulk it added—and the high odds of it being spotted—Tyler slipped off his shirt to strap on a bullet-resistant vest before buttoning again.

  A couple hours still remained before the pickup crew arrived. Tyler felt way too hopped up to rest. He walked upstairs. Lexi’s door was closed, and he heard her voice as she conversed with someone. After a glance at his bed, Tyler walked into his spare room and painting studio. He already had a new piece of paper ready to go on the easel. Now, he just needed some inspiration.

  Tyler selected some colors and picked up a brush. He closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and let the memories come. He’d talked about them enough with his VA shrink and recently with Lexi. It had been a few years since he put color to page when thinking about them, though. Tyler started with large strokes on the bottom of the paper.

  He remembered setting out to scout the family’s house. It was nothing special. His first thought was an IED maker should have been rewarded and purchased a larger dwelling. If he’d followed his gut, so much would’ve turned out differently. The recon was easy. The military maintained a presence in the area, so locals seeing a soldier wouldn’t be alarmed. No one hassled him or even asked what he was doing. He wished someone had. It might have let him realize the mistake he would make.

  Tyler reached for a different color. He cased the simple structure for hours. No one in or out. No phone calls—also curious for someone reputed to be a favored bomb maker. Another warning sign Tyler should’ve seen. His brush strokes grew quick and sharp. He chided himself and took his time. In his memory, the sun set on the town of Torkman. Unlike an American city, most activity stopped when daylight was lost.

  The door yielded easily to his boot. One kick. Four surprised faces. Eight bullets. Nine seconds from initial breach until the time the final corpse hit the floor. Tyler cleared the house, found none of the paraphernalia he expected to, and searched again. Even including the small shed, he came up empty. The recollection made him reach for another brush.

  Two sets of eyes remained open. Staring at Tyler. Accusing him of being a killer. For the first time since he put the uniform on, he doubted what he’d done. He dashed out of the house, ran to the Jeep, and drove back to base at speeds neither Chrysler nor the army would recommend. Tyler set his brush down. He took a deep breath. While he felt wired before, weariness settled in on him now.

  He looked at his creation. A sandy landscape. Overhead, the moon hung in a dusky sky. A few black rocks broke the tan monotony. Pools of blood clung to the rocks and marred the sand. Tyler stared at it. He hadn’t been aware of what he painted. As the scene played out in his mind, he must have captured it with his watercolors. Creativity was a funny process.

  And a tiring one. Tyler glanced at his watch. Ten after five. Fifty minutes remained. Braxton’s men would be on time. He would demand it. Tyler walked into his bedroom and lay down. He concentrated on waking up five minutes before the goon squad would knock on his door. A few seconds after his head hit the pillow, he drifted off.

  Getting out of Aberdeen proved harder than Jake expected. He was glad to lie low and not have so many eyes on him. The main strip of road passing for downtown was quieter than just about any area of Baltimore. Jake didn’t feel like he needed to look over his shoulder all the time, though he maintained his vigilance. Braxton and his men were dangerous adversaries, and he couldn’t afford
to drop his guard just because he put some distance between them and himself.

  He walked to a Wawa convenience store up the road. A fresh sub beat the processed crap which composed most of his diet since going on the run. Jake ordered the hoagie, and he ate it along with a bag of pretzels on a small bench outside the shop. It was his best meal in a week. Restlessness gnawed at him, though. Aberdeen wasn’t far from the city in the grand scheme of things. Jake wanted to go farther north.

  After striking out a couple times on hitching a ride, a trucker who also served in the army agreed to give Jake a lift north. Thankfully, the conversation proved light. They chatted about their military days for a couple minutes, but the other man didn’t press him on anything. His ride came to an end at a warehouse in Elkton. Jake climbed out of the rig. He was closer to Pennsylvania or Delaware here. If he could get farther north, some friends in Philadephia could help him.

  Jake walked to a large gas station. He bought a snack and a couple bottles of water. The first driver he approached about a ride was agreeable but headed south. It took another hour—and earned him a series of glares from the employees—for Jake to give up. It grew darker out. Most of the vehicles coming in were cars, and the drivers tended to look at Jake like he was homeless. His own reflection in a window compelled him to agree. “There’s no way I’d give me a ride,” he said under his breath.

  Using his phone to guide him, Jake made his way to a park about a mile away. A few parents and children lingered on the nearby playground. Jake sat on a bench and ate a portion of his snack. The other people left a short while later. He had the place to himself. Jake found a flat area not easily seen from the road or parking lot. The playground equipment would make it hard to spot him.

  Jake used a spare shirt as a pillow. He took the gun out of his bag, slipped it under his body, and lay on his stomach to get some badly-needed rest. Sleep came for him quickly. Some unknown time later, he awoke to nearby noises. A man stood over him. Jake slipped his right hand underneath his body and craned his neck.