DEADLY DRIVER Read online

  “I wasn’t part of the team that set this up or was involved in its execution, sir,” she began. “They’ve either retired or are dead now. But I do see value in working with Winters. And it would have disgraced the country if what he and Madigan had been up to was exposed. One concern has always been that if we found the tapes, others could have too.”

  She went on to relate the details of the meeting she had with Bryce at the driving school, his response to the new tone, and the softer, non-lethal mission she had suggested for the Australian person of interest that he was now after.

  “Well, young lady,” sitting forward as he began. “Confirm Pete Winters is dead. Until further notice, keep using Bryce Winters in non-lethal behavior that he agrees to or, better yet, volunteers for. That man’s a highly popular brand ambassador for our country around the world He’s a damn national treasure as far as this old redneck is concerned. He deserves to be protected. Use him wisely, cautiously.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Once he retires, he’ll probably be found up on a slope after he’s skied hard, really hard, into a tree somewhere. Until then, don’t let anything happen to him or allow anything tarnish the good he is doing for the United States.”

  Jennings nodded.

  “And if he doesn’t ski?” she asked, half-jokingly.

  “Well, I just read an article about mountain lions in Utah. There are maybe 1500 big cats out there. They can grow to be two hundred pounds, can sneak up on people really well, or eat something they find that’s already dead. I’m sure there’s something in the CIA playbook that’ll work.” The man closed the file folder in front of him and then looked to her.

  “Sandra,” he continued. “Other than Chadwick and Madigan, who else knows Pete Winters allegedly killed two of our agents, supposedly at Bryce Winters’ direction?”

  “I’m sure Chadwick shared his intel with others on his team, Agents Brownell and Russo. Other than those few, just us.”

  “Good. Keep it that way,” he directed. “One last thing. I’m going to move the three musketeers, as some have come to regard them here – I think they’re stooges but necessary ones, to another division with explicit instructions that we are on this case now and they are to stand down. I know those boys. They’ve come in handy, from time to time, but I’ve heard through my sources that they’ve been snooping around the race team. They’re plotting something. I know them. They’ll be told to bide their time and that they’ll be called on to execute the justifiable action, only when I deem it is appropriate.”

  Jennings nodded and excused herself. She understood the directive completely. Bryce would be terminated, timing TBD.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sydney’s Bondi Beach is a beautiful stretch of sand facing the Pacific Ocean to the north and east, the Tasman Sea and New Zealand to the southeast. It is a popular destination for locals, tourists, and the occasional great white shark. The five-star resort Alistair Marshall had built there was equally popular with celebrities and anyone wishing to be seen in their circle.

  Bryce’s host had set him up with a suite on the hotel’s top level. After dinner and drinks that lasted late into the night, Bryce thanked his new friend for his hospitality intended to help him forget the bad finish and relax for a few days.

  At ten the next morning, a persistent knock at the door interrupted his deep sleep. He opened the door ready to pounce on the noisemaker but what he saw put a smile on his face.

  “Achara!” he said with surprise. Marshall’s latest girlfriend, a young Asian beauty who had followed her sugar daddy here from Bangkok, was equally surprised.

  “You forgot?” she joked. “We’re supposed to have breakfast together and then I take you skydiving and then beer on the beach. You forgot me already?”

  Bryce’s thoughts had immediately gone to Kyoto. He had always appreciated and had a fondness for the exquisite, natural beauty of Asian women. For the first time in a very long time he had let his heart begin to open and let someone in. Kyoto was stunning and intelligent, but they were not attached. Achara, standing there with her long silky black hair, tanned and fit body, and a skimpy yellow bikini showing through a see-through cover, was a knockout. And she was giving him the look.

  Bryce smiled. That was all he could muster until he had coffee and a shower. He marveled at the CIA’s knowledge of how this would all play out. Marshall would use his money and women, of which he had plenty, to reward his newfound friend and keep him around long enough to show him off, take plenty of pictures, and brag to his friends. Bryce would have work to do, which would take a few days to accomplish. But, for now, he just followed as Achara took his hand and led him to the shower.

  Over the next two days Bryce took in all that the area, and Achara, had to offer. With his host having suddenly jetted off to Singapore, Bryce was able to place the bugs the CIA had given him just about everywhere—except in the man’s office on the top floor of one of Sydney’s tallest buildings. He wouldn’t be able to get in there without good reason, so he planned on waiting for Marshall’s return and, perhaps, an invite to visit his downtown office before allowing Bryce to buy him a thank-you dinner. Then he’d head on to the next race in Bahrain.

  Bryce couldn’t suggest he’d like to see the office as that might raise a hair of suspicion. But from what he knew of his host, he’d want Bryce to come see it. After all, Marshall collected trophies as well, not from races and not counting the ladies. He was a big game hunter and, rumor had it, he had mounted a lion’s head over his desk, which he was most proud of.

  It had made sense for Bryce to spend at least several days at the resort. If he had placed the bugs and left abruptly, that might have told Marshall who had planted the devices if they, or the fruit of their surveillance, were revealed soon after. Eleven bugs in all, undetectable to electronic inspection, had been placed. Just a few more, and Bryce would be on a plane headed to the Arabian Gulf.

  As soon as he learned Marshall was flying back on Wednesday morning, he extended the invitation to dinner through Achara. To his surprise, he had an encounter in the elevator back up to his suite after breakfast poolside.

  “Eleven little birdies are singing just fine. Just a few more, please, if you can,” said a man dressed in a maintenance department uniform. He got off on the next floor without another word.

  With the sun setting in the horizon, Bryce knocked at Achara’s door – the Marshall Suite. He held out his arm to escort her to the car waiting below, to take them on the short ride to the big man’s office. In the elevator, their small talk was short lived.

  “So, you leave for Bahrain in the morning,” she said, “I will miss talking with you – among other things.”

  He smiled at her. “You look beautiful tonight – you look amazing in blue - and I will miss you too.” He paused. “But I drive race cars for a living. They’re a part of me and make me feel alive. I can’t wait to get back in the seat.” She giggled.

  “And I thought I made you feel alive. We’ll have to try harder next time,” she said as she took his hand and squeezed it. As the doors opened to let others board, she released her grasp and the journey continued.

  The Lion was impressive, as was the rest of Marshall’s office. The heads of animals that weren’t quite kings of anything filled the room. Now they just gathered dust. The rugby trophies he’d acquired as the owner of a championship team lined mahogany shelves. Bryce didn’t see the sense in the killing of animals just so the rich would have something to brag about. In other circles he’d suggested the big dollar, big game hunters should seek their prey like they did in olden times, to make things more of a challenge, with a spear or bow.

  As he inspected the man’s trophies he thought of the last time he and Pete had been in Africa together, not that long ago. Pete had indeed bagged the water buffalo he’d been after for years. They had toasted the animal, and its head, when he put it on display at his cabin. The difference between the two hunters was simple; Pete m
ade sure the meat from the kill went to the local village. Bryce was unsure what happened to the rest of the magnificent lion but assumed it was left in the dirt and became part of the circle of life there.

  Back home in Vermont, Bryce had killed for food back before he could afford to buy meat in any quantity at a store. Trophy hunting – at least this type – did nothing for him, but he faked his enthusiasm, not wanting to offend his host and bring the night to an early end. To him, killing needed to make sense, and he still had work to do.

  Marshall’s view from his office of the Sydney Bridge, the familiar Opera House, and the city skyline was very impressive. When Bryce first entered the space, he was startled by the sudden move of a man in a tailored dark blue suit who approached him with a wand, much like the ones used at airport screenings. This instrument appeared smaller and more sophisticated.

  “No need, Julius,” Marshall called out. “He’s a friend.” As he talked about Singapore, Achara poured a drink for both men; scotch rocks for Alistair and a Carlton Draught, a popular beer and Bryce’s new favorite – at least down under. As she began to fix herself a drink, a cosmopolitan, Marshall called out again. “No need, my dear,” he said, his tone softening with every word. “Our guest and I have business to discuss, so nighty-night for you, all dressed up in blue.”

  Marshall then led her to the door. She turned to tell Bryce that she had enjoyed meeting him and, a few seconds later, her black silky hair and tight figure disappeared from view as the door closed behind her.

  Marshall turned to face his guest. Bryce sensed an immediate change in his demeanor. Sitting down beside Bryce on a massive sofa that was covered in hides, something perhaps from the plains of Africa, Marshall leaned in. His breath was of scotch, but his eyes were that of a hunter, eyeing his prey.

  “So, what are you really doing here, Bryce Winters?” he asked without taking his eyes from his guest’s.

  “Meaning?” Bryce responded. “Dinner, I thought we were going to dinner. Look, I’ve had a great time here this week. Your hospitality has been exceptional and Achara has been—”

  Marshall had put his hand up for Bryce to stop. “Listen, mate, I can hunt. I can sniff out a big cat like that one on the wall. More importantly, at least for right here and now, I can sniff out bullshit. And you’re shoveling it.”

  He leaned in closer, forcing Bryce to lean away and consider getting up to leave. “You sought me out at the track, I saw it. I see that look all the time, people wanting to get close to me. That happens when you’re bloody rich.”

  Bryce cocked his head. “Really? I thought I saw the same look in your eyes. I see that all the time from fans, stalkers, women looking for someone to give them the good life, or just a ride. Then there are the brokers, the land agents, you name it – and in every country. People who say they want to pay me to promote everything from deodorant to diapers, for God’s sake. What was that look in your eye, Marshall? Why am I really here?”

  The stare-down continued. Marshall leaned an inch closer, took a few sniffs, and then burst into laughter. “So, you didn’t connect to ask me to sponsor you or the team?” he asked.

  “And you don’t want me to do commercials for your beach resort?” Bryce replied, continuing the laugh, more from relief than anything else. The two got up, fixed another round of drinks and gazed out at the skyline again, the sun now fully set.

  “You still buying me dinner?” Marshall asked with a smile.

  “Of course, Alistair, it’s what I would really like to do to show my appreciation. You have my permission to publish some of the photos of me at the resort – the ones you had Achara take.” They laughed again.

  “Okay, down that beer while I go use the boy’s room. It’s a bitch getting older, nothing to look forward to, I can tell you.” Marshall disappeared down the hall into what Bryce assumed was a toilet.

  This was his chance, his only chance, and he moved about the man’s office with the speed of a finely tuned pit crew. One bug here, another bug there, until four were placed. He was back at the window, empty beer glass in hand by the time Marshall reappeared. Bryce wondered if he’d get the chance to say goodbye to Achara properly but if not, she’d be a better memory than the racing disaster that had come at the start of this adventure

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The story goes that His Royal Highness Prince Salman bin Hamad Al Khalifa, Crown Prince, Deputy Supreme Commander and First Deputy Prime Minister’s passion for motorsports enabled him to have a vision for raising the profile of the Kingdom of Bahrain internationally. The Crown Prince had also wanted to bring Formula One to the island. In a chance meeting with former Formula One World champion Sir Jackie Stewart on a Concorde flight, much like the encounter when Bryce met Max Werner, the seeds for this idea were planted.

  Years later, the Crown Prince’s dream became a reality. But for Bryce, Bahrain was a disaster and ended prematurely under the lights and night heat of Bahrain. On the opening lap of the event, Bryce started from pole with Tony Bishop alongside him for the start. Dickie Jones was behind Bryce in third and, as the pack ran as hard and fast as possible into the first turn, all three cars tangled and washed off the asphalt into the catch gravel. Bryce’s car wound up on its side, but he was able to climb out before help even arrived. When he saw Bishop remove his helmet and laugh about the flip, his temper red-lined and he went after him. Two lightning fast punches to the face and Bishop went down hard with Bryce jumping on him and shouting every curse word he’d ever heard. What made matters worse was Jones then attempted to help Bishop by pulling Bryce off of him.

  Bryce and Bishop were close in driving skills and courage, but when it came to fist fighting, it was no-contest. When Jones managed to pull Bryce away, he made the mistake of shouting what Bryce thought to be, “Get the hell off of him,” and that was it. Bryce turned and leveled Jones with one punch to the nose. Two down, pace car out on the track, medical car there to attend to the injuries, and the team owners and series officials demanding an immediate meeting of all the participants after the race’s conclusion.

  When the association’s CEO stated through his Spanish accent, “Well, over four-hundred-million people just saw two Americans in a fist fight. Let me remind you, this is not wrestling, this is not your Wild West, this is professional racing. And all three of you are on probation effective immediately. One more infraction, and it’s a one-race suspension. If you are going to fight, do it in a dark alley somewhere!” Bryce laughed at the remark but quieted when he caught the Spaniard’s glare.

  Max Werner had not made the trip to Bahrain, and neither had ProForce owner Ameer Kazaan. But texts from both to their drivers let them know they weren’t at all pleased.

  Bryce was still furious at Bishop and Jones. He went directly to the airport, boarded his charter and flew directly to Nice. Soon, he’d be standing in his summer home overlooking the Med. It had been hot in Bahrain and as a result of the poor finish and the fight he had simmered the entire way home but worked it off, finally, with dozens of laps in the cooler waters of his indoor pool. Later in the day, he’d call Kazaan to discuss the early retirement and the ensuing fight.

  *

  “Not much of a fight, mate,” Kazaan told him. “You kicked his smug ass. Well done. He deserved it.” Kazaan had calmed after watching his two cars crash out in the race. But he was still hot over Bishop’s leaving the team and joining Werner’s in the off-season without even attempting to negotiate a contract extension. “Now you and Dickie, going forward, that’s another issue. You two need to get along for the sake of the team and our sponsors and fans.” Once he heard what Jones had said during the fight and was reminded of how Jones had probably cost Bryce the championship last year, Kazaan relented. “I’ll speak to Dickie boy. He’s always been our number two, first with Bishop and now with you. If he wants off the team, if he won’t support you 110%, I can think of a dozen names who would die to get a shot at his seat. I’ll refund his father’s money and the two of t
hem can sit at home and watch on the telly, for all I care.”

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On the westbound flight high over the Atlantic Bryce considered his existence as a road warrior – people who travel their territory, the country, or the globe—are used to hotels, rental cars, and restaurants. It may sound exciting to some, not being glued to a desk or an assembly line, but to others it’s strictly the cost of doing business or a chosen lifestyle. Racers, rock stars, traveling sales reps know it well. Then there are the bars and the loneliness that comes with it all. For many, the idea of a home-cooked meal is so rare that it makes such an occasion very special. For Bryce, this 5,700-mile flight itself was no big deal. What was waiting for him on the other end was much more than a home-cooked meal. These were unchartered waters. Bryce had accepted an invitation to dinner and he would head back to the United States and to his surprise, the scene of a crime committed by The White House.

  Kyoto had finally settled into her new home in Washington, DC. For her, being able to look out over the Potomac made her feel close to home. She’d grown up in a loving environment with a view of a river and great city, and it brought her comfort and tranquility. She was so excited to see Bryce. He hadn’t been to her new address even after all these months of jet-setting dating. Even so, she was comfortable with the way things between them had been going. He had his career; she had hers, and she was still settling into not just her new home but also the new job that had brought her all this way from Japan. Luckily, for her, she had her brother close by. He had sent her information about the job opening and did everything he could to convince her to make the move to DC. He was lonely, too. Working long hours in a job he couldn’t tell anyone about, including her.

  *

  “This is awesome,” Bryce exclaimed as he entered the sprawling condo. “But the Watergate?”