The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  “In a manner of speaking,” Maxwell said. He sat on the edge of the chair, teetering it forward under him. “There are things we can’t disclose publicly.”

  “I hear it a lot.”

  “I imagine you need to say it, too, from time to time.”

  “Sure,” Standish said.

  The guy was an easy mark to build rapport with. “I need to know if you’ve heard from Sara recently,” Maxwell said.

  “No . . . not for a couple days now.”

  “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

  Standish shrugged. “We don’t talk every day. Like I said, Sara’s not my girlfriend.” He glanced at his watch—an expensive model judging from the quick peek Maxwell got. “I’ll need to get on a call in a moment. Was there anything else?”

  “Just one thing,” Maxwell said. “Has Sara ever mentioned a company called Hexagon?”

  “No. Did they name themselves after the Pentagon?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Maybe they think they’re better,” Standish said with a dry chuckle.

  “Maybe they are,” Maxwell said.

  “I wish I could be of more help, Mister . . . uh, Max.” Standish stood. “The markets don’t wait, though.”

  “I understand. I’ll see myself out.”

  Standish walked from his living room and down a short hallway. Maxwell sprang from the recliner, unlatched his belt, and wrapped an end around each of his hands. Before Standish could enter his office, Maxwell looped the belt around the man’s neck. Standish’s protest died in his throat. His hands shot there and clawed at Maxwell’s. He tried to move backward toward the open front area of the apartment. Maxwell kicked Standish in the back of the knee, and he went down. Leverage was easy from there. His quarry didn’t have any, and Maxwell drew his arms back to tighten the hold. Of the many methods he’d employed to strangle someone, the belt garrote was his favorite. Standish’s final breath rattled in his throat. After several more seconds to be certain, Maxwell released him.

  He slipped his belt back on, buckled it, and left the corpse lying in the hallway.

  Jake wished he still carried his regular phone. The burner didn’t hold his contacts. He knew people up here who could help him, but he lacked a way to reach them. Or did he? Since leaving active duty and joining the reserves, Jake exchanged numbers with most of the people in his unit. One of them—Vince, he thought—had an easy number with lots of repetition. He just needed to remember it.

  It took three tries, but Jake guessed right. Vince couldn’t help him directly, but he could put him in touch with someone who could. Carl lived nearby in North East. Jake didn’t share his entire tale of woe, but his service buddy said he’d help. After walking a mile or so before lucking into a county bus to cover the bulk of the distance, the trip set Jake back two dollars and forty minutes. Worth it, he figured.

  He found the house easily enough. North East, like many cities in Harford and Cecil Counties, stood in opposition to itself. New construction popped up in many places. All the houses looked alike. The asking prices didn’t include any character. Not far away—across the street in some cases—homes a century or more old stood tall and proud. Carl possessed the good sense to live in a building which predated his grandparents.

  The two men shook hands in the driveway. Despite being the same rank as Jake, Carl was four years older and twenty pounds heavier. “You look like hell, Jake.”

  “Feel like it, too.”

  “Want a beer?”

  “Won’t turn it down,” Jake said.

  A minute later, Carl returned with two Miller High Life longnecks. Jake sipped his and regarded his friend’s neighborhood. The houses here had character. They’d witnessed a lot of stories unfolding. No two looked alike. A Nissan Sentra of recent vintage sat in the driveway. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” Carl prompted.

  “My old unit.” Jake took a longer draught of the beer. “Special operations. Some of the guys . . . did some things they shouldn’t have. The colonel even got the boot for a bunch of it.” He sighed. “Fast forward years later, and the gang’s getting back together again. They left a stash of money behind.” Carl’s eyes widened as Jake elaborated. “We busted up a lot of Taliban shit. Before I got there, too.”

  “How much we talking?”

  “Millions,” Jake said. “Problem is in the years since, war’s changed the landscape. It’s not so easy to find anymore.”

  “They try to recruit you?” Carl said.

  Jake nodded. “I kept silent before. Figured the colonel going down would be the end of it. This time, I told what I knew . . . and I’ve been on the run ever since.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Carl downed the brew until he grimaced and pulled the bottle away. “What do you need?”

  “A car,” Jake said. “I’ve been trying to get out of town.”

  “Where you gonna go?”

  “North.” Jake looked at the beer bottle, pondered another swig, and then set it down. He needed to travel with as few complications as possible. Guzzling a brew before leaving—presuming Carl lent him a car—would run counter to the goal. “I know some people in Philly.”

  Carl jutted his chin toward the Sentra. “My son’s car. He’s with his mom for a couple weeks. It’s yours if you need it.”

  “I owe you one,” Jake said.

  “Repay me by getting away from the people chasing you.” Carl went inside for a moment to get the keys and tossed them to Jake. “You know how to drive a stick?”

  Jake grinned. “My dad’s a mechanic. I knew before I was ten.”

  He drove the Sentra out of North East and onto I-95 North. Besides knowing a few people in Philly, he’d gone to college there. He could get around the city and even evade pursuit if he needed to. If circumstances forced him to avoid hotels, he could stay with his acquaintances up there. In the back of his mind, he also knew it was close enough to drive back if his dad landed in the soup.

  The Sentra wasn’t fast, but it maintained highway speed well. Jake stayed in the middle lane. He let the swifter drivers zoom around him. Behind him, a dark SUV merged from the right to get behind him. The hair on Jake’s neck stood up. Was he being followed? If so, he didn’t have the horsepower to get away. Jake could only hope his small car could outmaneuver the large SUV in traffic.

  For now, he drove toward Philly. The headlights in his rearview served as a constant reminder he couldn’t outrun his problems.

  31

  The SUV stayed behind Jake. It was like they didn’t care if he saw them. If he changed lanes, the large vehicle would mirror him eventually. Not right away. Maybe they tried to be a little less obvious. Jake went from the middle lane to the right, then all the way to the left about five miles later. Each time, the SUV waited a minute or so, then did the same.

  He wasn’t paranoid—they really were after him.

  It must have been Braxton’s men. How did they pick him up well north of Baltimore? He’d changed phones, slugged rides, avoided contacting anyone, and stayed as much off the grid as possible. The familiar outline of Lincoln Financial Field appeared in the distance. On the highway, Jake couldn’t escape his pursuers. The borrowed Sentra was easy to spot in light traffic, and he didn’t have the power to outrun them. He knew the streets of Philadelphia, though. Many of them ran one way. Someone unfamiliar with the roads wouldn’t be able to keep up with him.

  Jake jerked the wheel, steered his car across all the traffic lanes, and ignored the angry honks of protest as he took the Broad Street exit. The Tahoe did the same thing behind him, so they would know he was onto them. Let them. Jake drove north on Broad. All three major pro sports venues sat nearby. A little past them was Marconi Plaza, and then the side streets took over. There, Jake could use his knowledge of Philly’s roads to evade the men chasing him.

  After passing the ramp for I-76, Jake drove through the Plaza. Tires squealed as he swung a full-speed left onto Shunk Street, then an immediate right onto Rosewood. The SU
V missed the first turn. Their next chance to make a left was two blocks up. One block before, Porter Street came one way toward Jake. He saw no cars or cops coming.

  He made the illegal left. A car came toward him in the distance. Jake sped up and made another left to go the correct direction on Carlisle Street. He snaked his way back to Broad Street headed south, then picked up I-95 again. The big dark vehicle didn’t reappear behind him. Jake released a deep breath. He’d probably have to avoid Philly altogether now, but he’d figure something out.

  Jake got off the highway and drove until he found a parking garage. He pulled into it and left the Sentra amid a collection of other cars. Braxton hired meticulous men. They’d be searching downtown Philly for him. Probably the parking venues near the stadiums and arena. It would take them a while to make it to where he dumped his ride. Jake needed to use his time productively.

  He left the garage and walked until he found signs of urban life. People congregated outside a movie theater. A man with a smug look on his face talked into a cell phone. As Jake closed the gap, he heard chatter about investments and markets. His planned grab would be easy. Jake bumped into the man and snatched his phone. With his other hand, he took his baseball cap off. A cry of “Hey!” went up behind him, but Jake already blended with the crowd. He waited a minute while the phone’s former owner scanned the people near him.

  When the guy turned to search behind him, Jake walked away. He made an immediate left and hurried to a jog to get some distance between himself and the scene of the crime. The phone was still unlocked and on the same call. Jake hung up. He walked another two blocks before he used the cell to call his father. “Hello?” his dad said. Jake smiled at hearing the old man’s voice again. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Jake! Where are you?”

  “I’m all right. Listen, Dad . . . I’m sorry for everything. I know I put you in a bad spot.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” his father said. “Where are you?”

  “I’d rather not tell you,” Jake said. “Someone might be listening. I’m using a borrowed phone. I’ll come back when I can.”

  “Jake, I know someone who can help you. A guy started working for me after you left. He’s ex-Army. Special Ops. Pretty scary when he gets to work.”

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “I think he can help get you out of this,” his dad said, voice threatening to break. “He can bring you home.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Jake said after a moment. He wasn’t used to hearing emotion creep into his dad’s words. “Take care. I’ll call you when I can.” Jake hung up as his father replied. He walked another few blocks away from where he left the car, wiped the phone off with his shirt, and tossed it down a sewer grate. Jake crossed the street and doubled back on himself, taking care to avoid the spot where he snagged the mobile a few minutes ago.

  Once back in the garage, Jake opened the Sentra. He rooted around in his bag until he found a screwdriver. Even at one-third capacity, the garage still held a lot of cars. The bottom two levels were reserved for residents of the adjoining apartments. Jake wandered into their rows of vehicles. He didn’t see anyone milling about, so he got to work. He popped the Pennsylvania tags off a Hyundai compact, carried them back to the Sentra, and replaced the Maryland plates. Jake presumed Braxton’s men noted his license number. If they somehow traced him here, they’d pass by the Sentra.

  On his way back to street level, Jake thought about what his father said. Someone might be able to help him out of this mess. But how? Braxton seemed to have a lot of men. What could one ex-soldier do for him? Jake thought about some of the men he’d served with over the years. Many were very capable. The best of the best, both in special operations and other branches. Some assistance was enticing. Jake didn’t want to worry about someone else’s survival, though. Enough people were already entangled in his mess, Carl being the most recent addition to the sad list.

  No, he needed to get out of this on his own.

  Lexi watched her dad drive away. She told him she could simply order groceries through an app. Several apps, really. He insisted on going to the store. She knew the futility of arguing with him. Besides, with everything going on, maybe getting out of the house and not thinking about Braxton or anyone else from the army would be good for him.

  Ever since she saw what he painted a few days ago, she’d been concerned. Lexi remembered when Tyler first told her about his therapeutic program years ago. He sat her down and explained what post-traumatic stress disorder was and how art was going to help him manage it. She already knew about PTSD from books. Her dad had never been the jumpy type, but he’d been constantly vigilant and suspicious of everyone. Over time, he dialed those back. He still liked to sit facing an exit, but his leg didn’t bob up and down constantly, and he stopped staring and scrutinizing everyone.

  She was proud of his progress and didn’t want to see him lose ground. Especially not over someone like Braxton. The man sounded like a monster. Lexi understood what her dad did when he went overseas. She always wanted him to come home, but she also hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anyone. At the moment, she very much wanted him to kill Leo Braxton. It would make the world a better place, and it would let her dad stop brooding and be normal again.

  Lexi was about to go upstairs when she heard a knock at the door. She glanced out the front window. A plain blue van idled in the driveway. Through the peephole in the front door, Lexi saw a man holding a box and clipboard. She opened the door. “Delivery. Need a signature.”

  “Sure,” Lexi said. She took the pen and clipboard. The paper was very basic. Just name, address, and signature columns. Nothing from the driver. Nothing indicating what the package was. She held the pen in place and looked up at the man standing on the porch. Her best guess put him in his thirties, a little taller than her dad, and built like someone who exercised. His uniform bore no company marking, and he wore the hat down far enough to hide much of his face. “Where’s the package from?”

  “I just deliver them,” the guy said. Before Lexi could respond, he dashed into the house. The box tumbled to the floor as his left hand went over her mouth. Something in his right hand caught the light. Lexi bit down on one of his fingers. His grip loosened, and she kneed him in the groin. The fake delivery guy stepped back while she ran farther into the house.

  It didn’t buy her much of an opening, though. He chased her into the living room. She spun around and threw a kick at his midsection, but he blocked it with his forearm. Lexi now saw he held a needle in his right hand. She tried to back away but bumped into the sofa. He shoved her onto it and clamped his hand over her neck. Lexi struggled, pounding on his lower arm, but it did no good. The guy avoided a frantic kick and came up alongside her.

  Something sharp bit into her neck, and Lexi watched the room grow black.

  Tyler ran a few errands, including a much-needed trip to the grocery store. He wanted to get out and clear his head. Too many thoughts of Braxton, the old unit, and what they’d all done. Seeing his former commander darkened Tyler’s mood. Lexi liked getting stuff delivered, and Tyler was normally happy to let her handle the order. This afternoon, however, he craved fresh air and a setting other than his four walls.

  As was typical with his shopping trips, Tyler spent more than he’d expected on fewer items than he thought he’d buy. He drove home, unlocked the door, and carried the bags inside. “Lexi? You here?” Silence served as the only reply. She was probably in her room either listening to music or chatting with someone. Either option required headphones. The girl was great at shutting the world off for a while. Tyler envied her. He could only do it if he felt inspired sitting at his easel.

  Tyler unpacked the bags, putting everything in the fridge or pantry as appropriate. Still no Lexi. Even with music in her ears, she should’ve heard him come home. Never mind the fact he couldn’t do any household task quietly. The living room sat empty, though the cushions on the couch were a mess. Lexi liked r
eading there, but she usually fixed the sofa when she finished. Tyler walked upstairs and rapped quietly on her bedroom door. No response. He knocked louder. Same result. Tyler nudged the door open.

  No sign of Lexi.

  It was a nice day. Not too hot for the summer. She could’ve gone for a run. One thing she frequently complained about with finishing her senior year of high school online was the lack of sports. It wasn’t possible to simulate a cross-country competition on a jogging trail. Tyler joined her occasionally, but he usually held her back. He’d never been a fast runner, though his stamina let him maintain a steady pace for quite a while. Still, Lexi could win races, and such a feat was beyond Tyler’s abilities.

  After about a half-hour, he grew concerned. After confirming she wasn’t in any other room of the house, Tyler sent Lexi a text. He waited a couple minutes, but no reply came. He called her. A pop-rock ringtone emanated from the kitchen. On the counter, Lexi’s mobile displayed Dad on its caller ID. She would never leave the house without her phone.

  Tyler’s heart sank, and he bolted for the front door.

  32

  The first thing Lexi noticed was the sensation of moving.

  Grogginess lifted slowly. Based on the speed she felt, she must be in a car. Lexi let one eye flutter open. A black leather seatback eight inches past her nose blocked her view. The leather smelled faintly of polish or cleaner. Her lips were stuck together, and as the lights fully came on upstairs, she realized tape covered her mouth. Something rough like rope bound her hands behind her back.

  “I think she’s awake,” a male voice said.

  “It was a mild dose.” The second man’s voice sounded much more nasal . . . almost like John Lennon with an unidentifiable American accent. Lexi felt her pulse quicken and soon heard the rush of blood in her ears. She was tied up in a vehicle headed to parts unknown with two strangers who’d already abducted her in the front seat. The country music playing at low volume somehow made the situation worse.