In Your Name, page 4
Suddenly a shrill electronic whooping could be heard over the noise of the slot machines. The house lights came up and blue xenon lights flashed on the pillars and walls. A fire alarm.
Mechanic moved in and threaded her way next to Harry.
‘Mr Silverton, there is a fire alarm, we will need to evacuate the building.’ Harry shrugged his shoulders and seemed relaxed about the whole thing, probably because he had a bottle of JD and a crate of Bud inside him. He looked around at the staff who were ushering people out of the hotel.
‘Cash me up, we’re off to the Stardust.’
‘Damn it,’ Mechanic kept her mouth shut, ‘I thought I was off to bed.’
8
Mechanic hated it when clients brought their own security – it always developed into an argument over driving. She knew the short cuts and ways of avoiding the congestion of the Strip; there was a network of side roads behind the hotels linking one car park to another. Without this knowledge, tourists waited forever at traffic lights and intersections, increasing the risk of an altercation with a drunk passer-by. In Harry’s case this was a scenario which was highly likely.
The other reason she hated relinquishing the driving was loss of control. As a bodyguard she had to be in charge of the environment, that was her job. Surrendering the driving duties meant the other person now took the lead and she was forced to follow. This felt extremely uncomfortable.
Sure enough Walker pulled the black limo up outside the lobby and didn’t move from the driving seat when Mechanic and Silverton emerged from the hotel. He buzzed down the window.
‘You’re both in the back. Mr Silverton rides behind me,’ he barked his orders as the window slid back up. Silverton was inviting people from the taxi line to come and join him at the Stardust, so Mechanic took his elbow and led him to the car. She opened the door and he fell in.
‘You okay with directions?’ Mechanic asked as she buckled up.
‘Yup,’ was all the reply she got. Walker eased the car away from the hotel and down the slip road.
The Hacienda lay at the south end of the Strip and the Stardust at the north. A distance of a couple of miles separated the two, a journey which on the wrong day at the wrong time could take around two hours. Which in Las Vegas, was most of the time. Making use of the back roads was a must.
Walker swung the car across the intersection towards Koval Lane which ran to the east of the main drag.
‘No,’ said Mechanic leaning forward, ‘you’re better going I-15, then take Russell and Dean Martin Road.’ Walker ignored her and lurched the car across the junction. Mechanic sat back and cursed under her breath.
Silverton was on his car phone laughing and joking with a woman who couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He was inviting her to come and play at the Stardust, when the poor woman wasn’t even in Las Vegas.
The traffic on Koval was sluggish and tedious. It was a mass of roadworks and the route was littered with stop signs and construction vehicles. Walker was agitated by their slow progress and kept swinging the car around with exaggerated movements to avoid the double-parked cars and obstructions. Mechanic could see him flicking glances at her in the rear-view mirror, then at the clock on the dashboard, then back to her. He was out to prove a point – Koval Lane was quicker than taking the I-15. He was losing the argument fast.
‘Hey, Walker, what the hell?’ said Silverton, banging down the phone.
‘Sorry, Mr Silverton, the traffic is heavier than expected.’
‘We’re wasting valuable gambling time here. Should have let the lady drive.’ He gave Mechanic a theatrical wink. While she didn’t appreciate the ‘lady’ comment, she did like the reaction it prompted in Walker. His face was set in a permanent scowl, he was not happy. Mechanic looked at him in the mirror and smiled. He looked away.
‘Come on,’ shouted Silverton. ‘Get a move on, man.’ Silverton nudged Mechanic’s arm – he obviously enjoyed baiting Walker. The traffic once again ground to a halt ahead of them. Walker braked hard and swung the car to the right down a side road.
Mechanic leaned forward: ‘Hey, Walker, what are you doing? Stick to Koval, these roads are no faster.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Walker, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He gunned the engine and turned sharp left onto a road running parallel to Koval. Mechanic sat back and shook her head.
‘Come on, Walker, put your foot down. The damn place will be shut by the time we get there.’ Silverton was much less playful this time.
Mechanic always figured her intuition gave her a split-second warning before things were about to turn bad. This was her split second, something was wrong.
She heard the growl of a big diesel engine as the silver grill of a massive truck ploughed into the side of the car. The impact sent them spinning in the road like a top. Mechanic’s side of the car caved in slamming her head into the side window. Silverton cried out as his shoulder cracked against the door. Walker gripped the steering wheel and held on, riding out the collision as if he was at a fairground. Tyres screeched and the car skidded to a stop.
Mechanic was woozy from the blow to her head and she could see two of everything. Walker jumped from the car and yanked opened Silverton’s door. He seized him by the back of his jacket and heaved him out of his seat. Silverton squealed in pain.
‘What the f—?’ he cried unable to find his feet as Walker dragged him along the road.
‘Come on, sir, we need to move!’ Walker shouted.
Mechanic pulled on the door handle but the crumpled metal wouldn’t budge. She slid across the seat and staggered out into the night air. She called after Walker but the words dried in her throat.
The truck circled around and backed up hard against the sidewalk about fifteen yards away facing Mechanic. Walker had Silverton by the scruff of the neck and was frogmarching him away from the car.
Mechanic found her voice. ‘Walker!’ she shouted. ‘Hold up!’ But either he didn’t hear or didn’t want to.
A shot ricocheted off the roof. It was coming from the truck.
A masked man stood on the footplate with the door open firing a handgun through the open window. Mechanic dived back into the car lying flat across the back seat as bullets blew holes in the bodywork. She drew her gun and waited.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she said through clenched teeth.
There was a pause in the firing.
She shuffled along the seat and leaned out of the limo, giving her a clear line of sight to the shooter. Her first shot shattered the truck window and hit the gunman in the upper chest. Before he fell, the second hit him square in the face lifting him off the footplate and into the air. He fired two more rounds at the sky and landed on the sidewalk.
Mechanic rolled from the car to see Walker still dragging Silverton along the road. She called after them as another volley of shots hit the limo. She ducked behind the front wheel.
Where the hell did that come from? She snatched a glimpse around the fender to see a second vehicle parked around ten yards away. A masked man was sprawled across the hood with his arms stretched out in front of him. Mechanic recognised the shape of a machine pistol pointed her way. He fired again, the unmistakeable purr of a short burst. The windows blew out, showering her with glass.
This was bad, she was out in the open with only the car for cover. More shells splintered against the bodywork as Mechanic pressed herself tight against the front wheel.
She eased herself back and peered under the car, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. She could see just enough.
She dug her right elbow into the road and braced her left shoulder against the underside of the car, waiting for the gunman to shift position.
Mechanic blasted off seven rounds, emptying her clip.
The man’s right ankle exploded as the sixth bullet shattered its way through the bones and sinews. The following round tore away his calf muscle, the force knocking him off his feet. He fell to the ground clutching his leg.
Mechanic reloaded.
She could hear the gunman cursing as he writhed on the floor. This time she had far more target to work with. She braced herself against the underside of the car and squeezed off two more rounds.
The first hit him in the shoulder and the second in the head. Yes, Mechanic could see just fine that time.
She lay under the car listening. No further sounds.
Mechanic made a break for it, running across the tarmac to the second vehicle. The gunman was wedged between the car and the sidewalk, a stream of blood pooling in the gutter. She put two fingers on his neck to check his pulse then called to Walker who by now had stopped marching Silverton up the road.
‘Clear!’ she shouted. ‘Both men down!’ She ran across the street to the truck guy. The missing half of his face made it unnecessary to check his vital signs. Mechanic made a quick assessment of the scene.
Walker was dragging his boss back to the car.
Two dead men were lying in the road.
Sirens were sounding.
Blue and red lights flashed in the distance.
For a serial killer on the run, this was not good.
9
Las Vegas police do not like private security operating on their patch at the best of times and like it even less when they leave dead bodies in the street.
The police interview was as intense and threatening as they could make it, but for Mechanic it was nothing more than a casual chat. She was used to interrogations that were administered by professionals, people who thought nothing of throwing in a little physical violence and waterboarding to help things along, tactics which were not allowed in the LVPD playbook.
Her cover held up under close examination, which she knew it would – after all it was designed to withstand the harshest of scrutiny. Mechanic was in possession of the right permits allowing her to carry a concealed firearm, she had the correct licence to practice, and the story of what happened was straightforward.
Walker and Silverton had been released around 4am following some light-touch questioning. Mechanic on the other hand was detained until mid-morning, forced to go over the same damn stuff time and time again. LVPD were making a point.
To the police it was an open-and-shut case: big money guy blows into town making a lot of noise and gets himself noticed by the local hoods. The traffic on the Strip forces them to take the back streets and the bad guys get lucky with the truck. It was a classic case of aggravated highway robbery. But the goons hadn’t figured Mechanic into the equation. She was doing her job, protecting herself and her client.
Everyone’s story was the same. Everything checked out fine.
Although for Mechanic everything was far from fine.
It didn’t seem to occur to the police that both vehicles were stolen the day before, that is the day before Harry Silverton arrived in Vegas. It never occurred to them that the men who attacked them had to be lucky sons of bitches to be waiting at that precise street, at that precise time. And why did the shooters only have eyes for Mechanic and completely ignore Silverton who, after all, was the man with the money?
This situation was far from fine.
It was 11.30am when Mechanic got back to the hotel. She ran a deep bath and soaked away her aches and pains, surrounded by the best soft white towels and toiletries the Hacienda had to offer. Her neck hurt and she had a sizeable bruise on the right side of her head. Fortunately, it was beneath her hairline so didn’t show, but she was constantly aware of it because it throbbed like a bastard. Her other injuries were scratches and minor bruising. Nothing a hot bath wouldn’t sort out.
Silverton was in his suite with Walker complaining about lost gambling time and already on the JDs. Mechanic was deep in thought: It’s simple. The priority here is maintain my cover, get paid and get out. That’s it. Keep it simple.
But it was anything but simple and Mechanic knew it.
The events of the day churned through her head. They were riddled with inconsistencies. Rule one: if you are going to ram a car you do it on the driver’s side. That way you immobilise the driver, who would usually be a security guy. The truck hit the passenger side, suggesting it was meant to immobilise Mechanic. Rule two: always target the money. The gunmen were not interested in Walker or Silverton, they were solely shooting at her. Rule three: if you have a gun, use it. Walker never once drew his weapon. He bundled Silverton away from the scene and stayed there.
This was never about a carjacking or a robbery. Before they had left the Hacienda she’d helped Harry cash in his chips and deposit the money with the hotel; he had about five hundred dollars at most in his back pocket. That’s not worth a truck ramming with two shooters.
This had to be driven by a higher price tag, and the only thing that fitted the bill for Mechanic was kidnapping, which led her to one conclusion: Walker had to be in on it.
He was the one who took the route down Koval and then detoured into the back roads. He was the one who escorted Harry away from the limo while the two shooters took care of her. It all fitted.
It also explained why Walker was so hostile towards her when they met. She was not part of the plan and he needed her out of the picture. But she refused to go and his only option was to eliminate her.
With Mechanic out of the way the rest of the kidnapping would have been easy. Walker would receive a knock on the head in the struggle, Harry would get taken hostage and the fun would start. Walker would liaise with the kidnappers, managing the negotiations, and Harry would be returned a million dollars poorer and missing part of his ear. It was a tried and tested gameplay.
Okay, Mechanic thought, submerging her neck and shoulders in the hot, soapy water. The fact that Walker wants to kidnap his boss and extort money is none of my business. It’s only two more days. Maintain cover, get paid and get out – that has to be the plan.
But that couldn’t be the plan and she knew it.
‘Shit, what a mess,’ her voice echoed around the tiled bathroom.
The logic was crystal clear to her.
By now Walker would have realised that Mechanic was no happy amateur. He’d also have worked out that she hadn’t been taken in by the failed carjacking routine and that she could spot the inconsistencies a mile off. This would make Mechanic a loose end, and in her experience loose ends had a nasty tendency of being dealt with.
Her options were limited.
She could run, but that would be a temporary fix. She could use another identity and start over somewhere else, but she had responsibilities now and they had to come first.
There was only one realistic option. It was staring her in the face.
Mechanic had to deal with the loose ends first.
10
It’s four hundred and forty miles from Tallahassee to Baton Rouge, which on a good run takes around six and a half hours. For Lucas that was six and a half hours in which he could freely obsess about his favourite topic: catching and killing Mechanic. Harper on the other hand had miscalculated and allowed Lucas to persuade him to make the trip.
‘Two sets of eyes are better than one,’ he had said. ‘You got to come.’
The problem was Harper hadn’t factored in the journey time. There are only so many times you can listen to Rose Royce Greatest Hits along with Lucas’s single topic of conversation and not feel the need to jump from the speeding car. They weren’t even halfway and the constant repetitive barrage had Harper reaching for the door handle.
In the end he snapped. ‘Look man, I get that you’re excited by all this, but you need to get real. You talk like we’re going to walk down Main Street and find the murdering bitch sitting there drinking a cold one in the first bar we come to.’
‘No, you get real,’ Lucas said sharply. ‘We know two things, right? She withdrew the money from the American Gateway Bank on 11307 Coursey Boulevard in Baton Rouge. We also know she sent me that letter from Baton Rouge. You’re with me, right?’
‘Yup.’ Harper let out a slow sigh. It was not as though he hadn’t heard those two pieces of information at least one hundred times in the last two hours.
‘So that has to mean she’s there. Or, if not, that’s where we need to start, right? So when we get there we need to—’
‘Just stop!’ said Harper. ‘Listen to yourself. I agree with the facts but not with your train of thought. Yes, she cleared out the bank account at American Gateway, and yes she mailed you the sugar packets to let you know she’s still alive. And yes both things happened in Baton Rouge. But she is one clever bitch, and she must know you would come looking for her. She’s not going to be there, man, think it through.’
Lucas was undaunted by Harper pouring cold water on his logic.
‘First we go to the bank and—’
‘And do what exactly?’ Harper snapped. ‘Ask to see the CCTV footage from the day she withdrew the money?’
‘That’s a start, don’t you think?’
‘And how will that conversation go? – “Hi, my name is Ed Lucas and this is my friend Dick Harper. Can we see your CCTV tapes for this date and time?” … “Can I ask, sir, is this a police matter?” … “Well, yes it is. I’m a Lieutenant with the Florida Police Department, but I’m suspended and Harper here is an ex-Lieutenant who was drummed out of the force for threatening to punch his boss in the face” – Do you really believe that’s going to cut it?’
Lucas clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Harper hammered home his objections. ‘There are several hundred bars, restaurants and cafés in Baton Rouge and any one of them could stock those types of sugar packet. It’s a wild goose chase, Lucas. We need to rethink.’
