DEADLY DRIVER Read online

  Two of the poachers knew they were screwed. Bryce could see it in their eyes. For his part, he was smart though – wearing a Kruger Park ball cap, sunglasses, tan t-shirt, tan shorts, brown socks in Merrill boots as if he was part of the force. No need to draw unwanted attention from these three, any tourists, or perhaps those waiting for the poached goods to arrive. Bryce always preferred being the pursuer rather than the prey.

  Most times, a captive’s behavior would dictate how Bryce would proceed. Take it like a man and it would be over in an instant without pain. Curse, spit, threaten – like the drug kingpin did the year before – and die of a massive, convulsive overdose. Bryce did have a dark side, but it only came out when someone pushed him there

  Unlike in his homeland, there were no Miranda rights to be read in Africa to poachers. They were cuffed and would be driven to the nearest lock-up where, within 24 hours, a magistrate would hear their side of the story, often with a well-paid attorney up from Johannesburg representing them. A huge fine would be levied and paid, with that money being used by the force to chase these same men down again. Bryce’s frustration at remembering that was poking at his temper. But when the third poacher used Russian slang, something Bryce had learned a long time ago, to suggest the late Mrs. Winters may have enjoyed doggie style, literally, he snapped. Two of the three were able to walk into their jail cells while the third, somehow left behind for a time, was found unconscious and with the shape of a rhino tusk carved into his forehead.

  Late that night, sitting back at the same table where he’d last seen Pete, Bryce drank down his second Castle Lager. He’d received a text along with a photo when he returned to camp and picked up a WiFi signal.

  REMEMBER ME? CONGRATS ON THE WIN.

  It was from Kyoto, the woman he’d met on the flight from Japan back to the States. The photo she’d sent was the selfie she had taken with him in the terminal at LAX. That made him smile. He remembered her very, very well. She was intelligent, funny, beautiful, and a world traveler. Before he had a chance to respond to the text, the manager of the camp approached the table, handed Bryce an envelope, and excused himself.

  The bill already – but I’m not leaving. As quickly as the thrill had hit when he saw Kyoto’s photo, his heart sank when he opened it and began to read. It was from Pete.

  Bryce, there’s no easy way to deliver this message other than the way I have chosen to have it done. We will talk about this once you are back home in America. For now I want you to enjoy Africa, I know you love it here. Forget about me and Jack and Werner and all the crap that doesn’t really matter. I’ve been lashing out for some time now, and you and Jack got drawn into something you didn’t deserve.

  A few years back, I was having some health issues, and the doctors told me it was cancer. I got a second opinion down in Boston. They agreed. Now I’ve managed to outlive their projections but I can feel the cancer moving in the fast lane now. I have just a short time before your dad and I get together again and get to tell the folks at the pearly gates, “It’s us – Peter and Paul!” They say I will be lucky to make it past Thanksgiving. Don’t rush home on my account but come to Vermont for some dead bird this year. I’m happy I got to see your last race. My killin’ days are over now, boy. It’s time for me to go home. Love, Pete

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By the end of November in Vermont, the vibrant red, yellow, and orange leaves that signaled summer’s end were just a memory. Nothing more now than a mess to rake up or perhaps a massive pile for children and dogs to play in. Goodbyes can be brutal, especially around the holidays, and Bryce would have no part of it. He wasn’t going to let go of Pete just yet.

  Together they drove out to the cemetery to say a prayer at Paul Winters’ gravesite and then Pete stood quietly and leaned against the gray stone monument that would soon bear his name. He watched Bryce take the short walk to Christy’s resting place and bow his head for a time. Heading back to the car he kept in storage at the Burlington airport, Bryce chose his next words to set the tone for the rest of the day. “You look like shit.”

  They spent the next forty-five minutes busting balls and laughing as Bryce sped east toward Stowe. The plan was to spend the rest of the day at Pete’s get-away cabin up in the mountains, but Bryce had something planned first—a fast, illegal white-knuckle ride to the summit of Mount Mansfield. Bryce’s black Subaru WRX was an all-wheel drive, 310-horsepower turbocharged vehicle built for this sort of excursion. But his friends at Vermont SportsCar, the team that fields rally cars for driving champions like Travis Pastrana and David Higgins, had spent some time bumping up the horsepower, altering the suspension, and adding tires that made this version want to climb for the clouds fast - really fast. They’d even bolted in a roll bar that reached up over the driver and rider seats in the event things got dicey and the car suffered a rollover.

  With everyone focused on the Thanksgiving holiday and the massive meals being served, nobody was guarding the entrance to the 4.5-mile road to the summit. Built in the late 1800’s to allow horse-drawn wagons and carriages to reach the hotel built at the pinnacle, the road was unpaved after the first hundred feet. As Bryce drove around the barriers, he tightened the aftermarket shoulder harnesses that had been added as he came to a stop. He looked to Pete, who was grinning from ear to ear with anticipation, and watched as he did the same.

  The hotel was long gone, and passenger cars normally took the drive slowly, cautiously, admiring the view, but this car was built to climb and soon it would. Bryce checked his watch, hit the timer button, and popped the clutch. Just short of five minutes later, after countless switchbacks, short straights, above dangerous drop-offs, he slid to a stop at the top by the closed Ski Lift and abandoned First Aid Center.

  Looking at each other, both men began laughing and then Bryce’s expression turned serious. He whispered, “I’ve always wanted to try this. Hold on. It’s pucker time!”

  Bryce threw the Subaru into reverse gear and sped backwards at full speed toward the path they had just raced up. He saw Pete close his eyes and then threw the car into a controlled spin, coming to a stop with the nose of the car facing the way down. “Maybe next time Pete,” he shouted and then popped the clutch again and ran down the road pitching dirt and gravel as he had on the way up.

  At the bottom Bryce drove around the barriers again and stopped before pulling back out onto Route 108. He looked to Pete who was catching his breath. “Smuggler’s Notch or time for beer?” he asked.

  Pete smiled and pointed to the right. The tight drive, weaving between massive rocks, would have to wait for another time. Hours later, after they had enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner his friends at a local restaurant had left for them, Pete dozed off in his worn, leather easy chair as Bryce stared at him fondly.

  “I’m not dead yet. Watch your damn football!” Pete said without opening his eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  To many teams, racers and fans in America, Indianapolis is regarded as the center of the motorsport universe, hosting the Indy 500 since 1911. The city has seen Formula One and NASCAR compete at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. In early December, when the famous track is cold and lonely, things move inside for the annual Performance Racing Industry trade show held at the convention center downtown. Cars, parts, and equipment are on display. Racers, crewmembers, engine builders, manufacturers, resellers, and celebrities attend from around the world.

  Bryce had taken in the show for years, first coming out of curiosity as a young racer looking for connections. Once he began winning the big races he became a much sought-after celebrity, paid by companies to park in their booths to sign autographs and pose for photos. The year he won the F1 championship the show invited him to make remarks and do a Q&A at the opening breakfast. He’d entertained the audience with jokes and anecdotes about the season he’d just had. The standing ovation, given in the United States to the first American driver in forty years to win that championship, gave him goose bumps.

  Th
is year, he was happy the new NASCAR champion had been tapped to address the crowd. Bryce was able to walk through the aisles of the show before the breakfast concluded and the doors to the attendees were opened. In the past, Jack Madigan has walked the aisles with him. This year was different. Jack hadn’t returned any of Bryce’s calls so he went it alone and without security. He stopped by the NASCAR booth to shake hands and pose briefly for a photo. A few journalists spotted him making his way through the show and pestered him about his future and the coming year.

  “Not sure what I’ll be doing next year,” he told them. “You’ve already seen me at the NASCAR stand. I was just making my way over to the IMSA group. I might be spending a lot of time in Florida after the New Year, maybe running the Rolex 24 or the Daytona 500. Maybe both so stay tuned.”

  That was all he had to say to them and moved along, quietly but firmly reminding them how it worked with him and the media. He’d rarely ask for space but when he did, most obliged. Keep after it when I’ve asked you to stop and you’ll never get another question answered again.

  He stopped at another booth, shook a few hands, and then another but kept up a quick pace so he couldn’t be swept into any one space where a crowd might quickly congregate and impede his progress. This was what he called a hit-and-run, something he wanted to do, thank the companies and people who helped him get to where he was, but not spend all day doing it.

  He stopped at the racing fuel booth where, years before, someone at the company had recognized his ability and potential and sponsored him with free fuel. All he was asked to do in return was display the company decal on his cars and his driving uniform, up close to his face where it would show up in most photos.

  “You know some day this will all be electric but they’ll never be able to replace the sound of a race engine or the smell of the fuel. Some of the exotic stuff I’ve run into over the years smells like skunk but yours always smelled sweet,” he offered.

  He shook hands, posed for a few pictures, thanked them, and then left – disappointed that the people he’d known there had retired or were no longer with the firm.

  With his mission accomplished, he saw the exit signs and headed for the taxi stand and the ten-minute ride out to the airport and his flight back to Park City. Just as he got to the outer doors, he heard someone call out his name. He turned. Two excited young women approached. One asked for a selfie while the other looked for something he could autograph. He obliged, he usually did, but as the three of them smiled for a photo, he heard someone call out, “Know where I can find some Nitro?”

  Coming toward him were two men dressed in gray suits, red tie on one, blue on the other, both looked fit and rigid—either law enforcement or former military.

  The two greeted Bryce and suggested he had a plane to catch. Bryce smiled, thanked the women for the selfie, and said simply, “Bodyguards. Can’t leave home without them.”

  Blue tie moved his arm to the right indicating the way out. Bryce followed red tie through the doors to a waiting white Dodge Charger. He didn’t sense they were a threat and assumed they were there to replace Gunn and Myers. He also appreciated the photos onlookers had taken as they recognized him leaving the building. If he went missing, someone would have at least captured their faces. Blue took shotgun and, after red opened and closed the door for their guest, hopped in the other side. The car sped off.

  Halfway to the airport, the driver took an exit off I-70 and pulled into the parking lot behind a Cracker Barrel restaurant.

  “You boys buying me lunch?” he joked. “I’m starving.”

  They hadn’t said a word during the ride. Bryce just rode along as if this happened every day, but now it was time to get to it.

  “I’m Bill Brownell with the Central Intelligence Agency,” he told Bryce as he showed him his credentials, including a blue-and-gold badge with CIA stamped in a semi-circle around a shield. “That’s Agent Russo and Chadwick. We wanted to connect to follow-up on what happened in Mexico. We’ve read the file, spoken with the FBI and Mexican officials who were on scene, and interviewed you and your friend Mr. Madigan. We just have a few questions for you.” Bryce smiled. For the next ten minutes they reviewed the notes, asked Bryce to retell what had happened, asked him a few follow-up questions, and then suggested that was all they needed.

  “What next?” Bryce asked, hoping above all hope that they were actually finished with him. That someone at Langley had closed his file and he was free to go.

  Russo in the front seat turned to face Bryce. “One of our desk jockeys, the same one who tagged you as suspicious before you first met with Joan Myers and her team in the U.A.E., was reviewing the Gunn-Myers murder case. He must be a race fan or something. Anyway, he took a look at your travel and activities and found it interesting that the Russians who allegedly were trying to take you and Madigan out as payback for Sochi haven’t made another move on you. Everything around you has been quiet. He also brought up the fact that you appear to have taken no evasive maneuvers, changed your routine in any way, enhanced your personal or property security in Utah or in Europe. We all know you race car drivers are cool characters under pressure. But if Russian hit-men were after me, I’d have changed quite a few things immediately.”

  Bryce had been ready for this. “The desk jockey, and you I guess, are assuming whoever the shooter was in Mexico knows he messed up – that he, or the people who sent him, are race fans and saw me show up alive and kicking in Austin and then Brazil and back to Abu Dhabi. If they don’t know he failed, then they’d have forgotten about me.”

  Russo shook his head and began to speak but Brownell cut him off.

  “I have to call bullshit on that train of thought. If you had been killed in Mexico it would have been on all the news feeds around the world – not just the sporting news but headline, breaking news. Someone involved in the hit on you would have learned pretty quickly that it failed.” Bryce shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hey guys, this is all new to me. I don’t know how these things really work. All I know is someone tried to kill me and Madigan and to be totally honest with you, and not trying to insult anyone, I was under the assumption that you were watching me, that I was regarded as an asset that needed protection. And since you guys are really good at not being detected I actually thought you were on me, watching out for me, just without saying so. My mistake, I guess. No need to ramp up security if the CIA is already providing it right?”

  Brownell looked to Chadwick and said simply, “Airport.”

  On the final leg of the journey nobody said a word. Once the car pulled up in front of Signature Jet Service and Bryce thanked them for the ride, he got out of the car and headed inside. But the CIA wasn’t done with him yet.

  “Bryce!” Brownell called out from the car, gesturing for him to come back. “Just so you know, we don’t have anyone tailing you or watching your properties.”

  Bryce shook his head. “Great. Maybe Russian hit men work the same way you guys do. It’s been quite some time since I had contact with anyone at the CIA. Three races and not one call, not one assignment, no new handler, nothing. Maybe things just move slower in the spy business. Maybe I’ll get shot dead at my front door tonight. Watch for me on the news.”

  Bryce grinned, turned, and walked inside. Five hours later he stepped out of a black, chauffeured SUV, entered the code to open the main gate, and walked toward the front entrance of his mountain retreat.

  The man who maintained the property driveway had plowed it earlier in the day, but a light snow was falling and had dusted the area. As Bryce stood at the oak door, the grizzly bear head carved into it snarling at him, he thought back to his last words with the CIA in Indy. It was very quiet now. Everything was still. He could hear wind in the high trees brushing through the woods. Then he heard it. Crack. Then another.

  He placed his backpack and small suitcase on the ground and turned, slowly. There, on the hill across from his iron gate, was an adult female moose. She took another
step, a piece of brush cracking under her weight, and looked toward him. He let out a breath and smiled back at her. He turned back toward the door and took another very deep breath and let it out.

  They had monitored his heart rate when he was driving a race car and found he maintained an even, steady keel of 60-65 beats per minute, everywhere except on the streets of Monte Carlo during the F1 race there. That drive always had him on edge and pushed his heart rate much higher. Tonight it had jumped up again. He never thought of dying in a race car, just feared screwing up and losing a race or getting hurt and not being able to compete. Death would come later in life, he hoped. Tonight, he thought, it had come knocking.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Central England is home to Britain’s second largest city, Birmingham, William Shakespeare’s hometown of Stratford-upon-Avon, and the universities at Cambridge and Oxford. Known as The Midlands, it’s also the home base for most if not all F1 teams, the historic Silverstone auto racing circuit and Santa Pod Raceway, a quarter mile long dragstrip built on an old runway used by U.S. and British forces during World War II.

  As promised, Bryce was there this week to host his annual Christmas party for all of the employees and their families of Werner Industries’ F1 complex. But first, he had a press conference to attend in the media center at Silverstone. It was scheduled for 11 am. With over 135 journalists, photographers, and camera operators in attendance, the news he delivered surprised nearly everyone, especially Max Werner and Tony Bishop who were watching from Werner’s office, just down the road. As the white-on-red Breaking News banner scrolled across the bottom of the television screen, a few cheers could be heard from offices and mechanical shops throughout the building.

  BRYCE WINTERS RETURNS TO FORMULA ONE

  INKS THREE-YEAR CONTRACT WITH PROFORCE