In Your Name, page 24
He clawed at the flooring with his bloody hands until he found the join in the carpet. Twisting he lifted enough of the flap to get his hands inside. He felt around as the car jerked its way across the yard heading for the road. Then he found it. All he had to do now was judge when they were far enough away from the warehouse.
The enclosed space resonated with the gut trembling base notes of gangster rap music blasting out of oversized speakers. After what felt like a lifetime Harper could feel the change in road conditions. The smooth buzz of rubber on tarmac was replaced by the bone-shaking judder of rubber on desert rock.
He braced himself against the back of the trunk and kicked his feet into the corner. He heard a crack as his boot shattered the Bakelite casing of the tail-light. He thrashed out his legs, slamming his boot through the back of the fitting, and the whole housing fell out. A shaft of light filled the confines of the trunk. He sucked in the cooler air.
The squeal of the back brakes was deafening as the vehicle skidded to a halt. Harper heard a door open over the cacophony of music followed by cursing and seconds later the trunk lid flew open. The driver peered inside silhouetted against the bright sunlight.
Harper threw the tyre iron with all his might and hit the man in the forehead. The guy reeled backwards clutching his face as the tool bounced off his skull. Harper heaved himself out of the trunk and watched him stagger around, blood pouring through his fingers. He picked up the wrench and lashed out, hitting him in the neck. The man fell backwards as Harper repeatedly brought the tyre iron down on his head.
Harper patted him down and pulled a gun from his waistband. The man in the passenger seat switched off the music, opened his door and called out.
‘Hey Nico, where are you man? What’s going on?’ He waited but there was no reply. He stepped out of the vehicle. Harper scrambled on his hands and knees and sat with his back tight against the rear fender.
‘Nico,’ the man called again, his view obscured by the raised lid of the trunk. He stepped sideways and saw his partner face down in the sand. He drew his gun and swung around in a three sixty, stepping slowly along the length of the car, his weapon levelled at head height.
The bullet entered below his jawbone and blew a ragged hole in the top of his head. The impact lifted him into the air and dumped him onto the hot ground. Harper jumped from his seated position and scanned the scene. All was clear.
He took the second man’s gun, then climbed into the driver’s seat and sped away showering gravel and sand onto the bodies.
59
Mechanic’s day was a mix of making her final preparations and evading Bonelli’s men. She was still enjoying the rush of having sliced up Ramirez. Her bags were packed and laid on the bed, a copy of the Bulletin sat on the kitchen worktop open at the ads. There in bold capitals was what she had been waiting for. She knew Lucas would cave in and offer one of his friends as his penance. It was so like him to choose Harper, probably on the basis he had lived longer than Bassano – very predictable.
The important thing was that he had made a choice and the turmoil that must have caused gave Mechanic a warm glow inside.
She picked up the phone and punched in numbers. It rang at the other end.
‘Oh hi, I wonder could you pass on a message to Captain Mark Jameson please.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘The message is, call Carla.’
‘Okay caller I will pass that on.’ The line went dead.
Captain Mark Jameson worked in military intelligence and was Mr Fixit to everyone who knew him. Jameson could lay his hands on anything and deliver it direct to your door, he could also compile intelligence reports on the movements of your favourite pet if you asked him. The man was a legend.
Mechanic had saved his life when a covert op went badly wrong, and when an ex-Navy Seal says he owes you, he means for life. His other redeeming feature was that he had absolutely no scruples whatsoever and never asked questions. Jameson had his regular mercenary clients but had a special place in the pecking order for Mechanic.
Jameson provided services that were eye-wateringly expensive and very good. His business model dictated he always insisted on being paid up front but where Mechanic was concerned he always took a part payment transferred directly into his account and the rest to be paid in kind.
The phone rang and she picked it up.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Jameson. He was now talking on a secure line, the ‘call Carla’ routine worked every time.
‘Hey, I wanted to check last minute details. Did you get the transfer?’
‘Yup, that landed yesterday. The package is in the specified place and the schedule is clearly set out.’
‘Transport?’ Mechanic asked.
‘All sorted, you need to be in the right place at the right time.’
‘That sounds perfect.’
Jameson paused. ‘Will I see you anytime soon?’
‘I’ll be in touch. I appreciate this one has been a big ask, so I reckon I should reciprocate.’
‘Oh how?’
‘When I see you next it would be wise to get yourself a cover story and a few days’ emergency leave. You’re not going to be in a fit state to go back to work straightaway.’
She could hear him breathing heavily on the end of the line, Jameson’s erection was obviously robbing him of his power of speech. Mechanic waited.
‘That would be good,’ he finally croaked.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ She put the phone down.
Jameson had pulled out all the stops for this one but the extra payment in kind was not all for his benefit. She couldn’t recall the last man she’d fucked. Her life consisted of two things – providing for her sister and trying to act normal, which, for a crazed serial killer, left precious little space for any ‘me time’.
Now Jo was dead, there was no need to worry about either.
Mechanic picked up the phone and dictated the advert to the business operator at the Bulletin. That left the rest of today and tomorrow to finalise preparations ready for the following day. Penance day.
There was a rap at the door. Mechanic pushed a gun into the back of her belt and peered through the peephole in the door. It was a uniformed cop.
Mechanic cursed and ran across the living room to close the bedroom door.
‘Wait a minute,’ she called out in a thick Middle Eastern accent, putting on the hijab. She opened the door.
‘Good day, ma’am,’ said the young officer, holding out his badge. ‘We are conducting house-to-house enquiries with people who’ve recently moved into the area on a short-term rent. It’s nothing to worry about, just a routine check.’
Mechanic went cold. The police must have traced her from the Bonelli murders and found her flat deserted. Investigating newly rented properties was a smart option. Either that or this was one of Bonelli’s boys using the uniform as cover. She looked up at him from her stooped position. This was no Bonelli boy, this one looked like a cop.
‘How can I help?’ she asked, mangling the words with her accent.
‘How long have you lived here?’ He took out his notebook.
‘Not long.’
‘And who is your real-estate agent, ma’am?’
Mechanic waved her hand in a gesture which meant ‘wait’ and went inside to collect several sheets of paper from a drawer.
This was not what she needed right now. The false identity and papers were fine but her changed appearance had been done in a hurry and would not stand up to close inspection. She hovered inside and gave the officer the documents.
‘My English is not so good.’
He looked at the papers and then at her. Something bothered him.
‘Do you mind if I see some ID, ma’am?’ He knew he was overstepping his remit, Mechanic knew it too.
Mechanic’s mind raced. Give him the ID and get rid of him.
She disappeared again and came back with an Omani driving licence. Her picture was embossed on the front.
Please go away, Mechanic thought. Just go.
He looked at the licence and at the rental agreement.
‘My name is Nassra Shamon,’ Mechanic said trying to move things along. ‘I come from Muscat, on a visa.’
The young officer returned the licence and the documents.
‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Thank you for your time.’ He smiled and touched the peak of his cap.
Mechanic mumbled something in return, bowed slightly and closed the door.
‘Shit,’ she said putting her hands on her knees, exhaling deeply. Mechanic looked through the peephole and watched the officer walk back to his patrol car.
After an hour of phone calls and last minute packing Mechanic checked her watch. It was time to go. She sipped the last of her coffee, rinsed the cup and put it in the cupboard, running through the plan step by step.
There was a knock at the door.
She peered through the peephole to see the cop standing there again. Mechanic ducked down hoping he hadn’t seen the lens change colour when she looked through it. He knocked again. She held her breath.
Fuck, what was he doing back?
‘Mrs Shamon, I have a few more questions if you would open the door please.’ He was persistent. Mechanic remained quiet.
‘Mrs Shamon, I saw you look through the peephole, so I know you’re in there. I have a few more questions.’
Mechanic pulled the hijab over her head, unclipped the safety chain and opened the door.
‘Yes,’ she said weakly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Shamon. Can I take a look at your visa for entry into the US?’
Mechanic’s head spun into overdrive again. So this is an immigration issue, not a ‘you killed two people’ issue.
Mechanic needed to get rid of this cop fast. Time was ticking away, she needed to leave.
She scurried back inside and returned with an official-looking document. ‘Here.’ She handed it to him.
Mechanic repeated the same words over and over in her head. Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t …
He looked up and then uttered the words she’d prayed he wouldn’t.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany me downtown, Mrs Shamon, I need to get these checked out. I’m sure everything is fine but if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘But why do I need to come with you?’
‘It is simply routine, Mrs Shamon. I need to check out your documentation.’
Was this an immigration check or was she underestimating the young officer? Had he rumbled her?
Mechanic stepped away from the door. ‘I need my things,’ she said beckoning him into the apartment. ‘Come in, you wait.’
The officer stepped into the small hallway. Mechanic closed the door and ushered him into the living room.
‘Please sit, I need my medicine from the bathroom. I have asthma.’
He removed his hat and perched on the edge of the sofa.
Mechanic went into the bathroom and clanked around with cupboards and bottles.
The officer scrutinised every detail of the apartment, his intuition running riot, screaming at him that something wasn’t right. There was not a cup or plate to be seen. No washing up in the sink and every worktop wiped clean. Not a single article of clothing or possession was on show. The bedroom door was ajar and he could see a holdall and rucksack on the bed. This was a woman who had paid a month’s rent in advance and it looked like she was about to make an early exit.
Mechanic was still in the bathroom, he stepped across the living room to the bedroom and slipped inside.
‘Looks like someone’s been packing in a hurry,’ he said under his breath.
He reached out his hand and ran the zip down the bag. The butt of a 9mm poked out.
The officer went for his gun.
Mechanic blew a neat hole in the back of his head.
The suppressed spit threw him forward onto the bed. An arc of blood spattered the quilt and the wall.
‘Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?’ she said to the corpse lying face down in front of her.
Now it really was time to leave. The penance was waiting.
60
Harper spun off the dirt track and was relieved to be on the solid road again. He needed to get rid of the car fast for two reasons, firstly, Bonelli’s men might recognise it and, secondly, the back tail-light was missing and he was in danger of being pulled over by the police. Neither was a good option.
He reached the outskirts of Vegas and swung into the first shopping mall he came to. Harper selected the fullest car park and pulled over, resting his forehead on the steering wheel and breathing deeply. His whole body ached and when he moved his arms it felt as if red hot nails were being hammered through his shoulders.
Harper was hungry, thirsty and looked like shit. He had no money and two handguns, not a great combination. The driver’s door swung open and he stepped out looking towards the Strip. The MGM was about a mile and a half away, he had no choice but to make it on foot. He flicked up the trunk and fished out a cap and a brown leather coat and set off.
An hour and a half later Harper arrived at the Lucky 6. He’d kept to the side streets and alleyways as much as possible. Men in cars cruised around but he managed to keep himself out of sight. He couldn’t risk returning to his room – Bonelli knew his name, so there was a good chance he knew where he was staying. He also couldn’t turn up at Lucas or Bassano’s door with a cheery ‘Hello I’m back,’ because that might be followed by a hail of bullets.
Harper hid himself away against the back of a transformer which was tucked in the corner of the motel grounds from where he could see Lucas’s room. He would have to wait.
He heard Bassano before he saw him, he was coming around the upper-level walkway heading for Lucas. Harper broke cover and waved his arms as far as his damaged shoulders would allow. Bassano looked down and shouted, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Nice one thought Harper putting his fingers to his lips with a ‘Shhh’ gesture. Bassano met him at the bottom of the steps.
‘Shit, what happened to you?’
‘I’ll explain later. Both of you pack your gear, we need to move out fast. The guys who did this to me want to do the same to you.’ Harper ran back to the transformer and out of sight.
Fifteen minutes later Lucas backed up the car and Harper flung himself onto the back seat.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Lucas looked back over the seat at his friend. Bassano tossed him a bag containing bottled water and a sandwich. Harper tore open the packaging and bit into the bread and meat.
‘The short answer is there’s a guy named Silverton and our pictures showed up in his place. There’s another man by the name of Bottelli or Bonelli or something, who looks like a drug lord and he’s mighty pissed at us. I have no idea why, but the bastard nearly killed me, twice.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Lucas.
‘They took me off the street at gunpoint, drove me to the desert and almost blew my head off. That’s when he showed me the photographs of all three of us. I wouldn’t talk, so he hung me from a fucking forklift.’
‘Jesus.’
‘His goons took me back to the desert to finish the job but I got away.’
‘Where are they now?’ asked Bassano.
‘The two who drove me are lying in the gravel being picked clean by buzzards and the rest of his crew will be looking for you two.’
‘You shot two of his guys?’
‘No. I shot one of his guys and beat the other to death with a tyre iron.’
‘Shit! We thought you’d gone on a bender,’ said Bassano.
‘Are you sure this wasn’t Mechanic using someone else to take you out?’
‘Not a chance. I have no idea why Bonelli is interested in us but it’s not about Mechanic.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Harper, still lying between the front and back seats.
‘Moran is meeting us at the top of the Strip near the Sahara.’
‘What about the leak down at the station, is she playing that right?’
Lucas had forgotten all about the storyline of the investigation having a leak. With the stresses and strains of the last few days, it had completely slipped his mind.
‘Yes, that’s working well,’ he said trying to recover. ‘She’s placed the story that you’ll be meeting with a senior LVPD officer the day after tomorrow and is confident Mechanic will take the bait.’
Lucas bit his lip. He hoped Moran had remembered the storyline as well.
61
Lucas leaned against the wall watching the empty news-stand across the street. It was 5.45am and he hadn’t slept a wink. Moran had met them in a car park the previous evening and put them up in a rundown motel at the top of the Strip. In an attempt to keep Bonelli’s men off the scent they hadn’t checked out of the Lucky 6. Each one took enough clothes for two days and Harper had what he stood up in.
That evening, he had spent an hour soaking in the bath allowing the warm water to ease his aching muscles while he ate a mountain of food. Despite Bassano giving him a lecture on healthy eating, he washed it down with a bucket of Jack Daniels and Coke.
Moran was not a happy woman. She hated shopping for herself, so the prospect of shopping for Harper did not go down well. He needed new clothes and toiletries. Lucas and Bassano were confined to the hotel, they couldn’t risk being spotted by Bonelli’s henchmen, so the purchasing duties fell to Moran. She bought the items, returned to the motel and threw it on the bed.
‘Does this mean we’re married?’ Harper called from the bathroom. Moran never missed not having children on account of the fact that she worked with them every day. It was the first time she had cracked a smile in a week.
Lucas leaned against a wall enjoying the early morning breeze and watched a spotty kid hop off his bike by the side of the road. He unloaded a stack of newspapers from the back, slit the string with a penknife and dropped the papers into the Perspex box. Lucas was on them in an instant. He spread the pages on the wall and skimmed through the columns.
