DEADLY DRIVER Read online

“I have always wondered what driving a race car would be like,” Volkoff said as he maintained his focus on the pictures.

  “It’s amazing. You know amusement rides like roller coasters and such yes?” he asked. Volkoff turned and nodded.

  “Well imagine you’re on the fastest roller coaster ride ever but you get to control the speed. You can go as fast as you want but too fast and you’ll fly off the tracks. Not fast enough and the car behind you might knock you out of the way. You throw the ride to the left and to the right, your head feels like it weighs ninety pounds because of the G-forces, and then you fly down a straightaway and at the very last second you hit the brakes to slow the car. Hit them too late or too hard and you’re off the track. Then you accelerate again, faster than ever, again and again and again. And remember, it’s hot – very hot – and you’re stuffed into a very snug helmet and fire resistant suit, gloves, and shoes.” Volkoff smiled.

  “And if you come up on a car that is going too slow?”

  “Well you can out brake them into a turn, pass on a straightaway if your car is fast enough, or back in the states when I raced NASCAR you just gave them a little push to bump them out of the way. But you’re doing all this at maybe three to four times faster speed than people drive on the highways. It’s a thrill ride like no other. Remember too that this goes on for ninety minutes except for the pit stops and they happen in the blink of an eye – perhaps two and a half seconds.”

  “You operate in an exciting but dangerous world Mr. Winters. Thank you for your cooperation and best wishes for a safe race.

  “It would seem that I do detective. Spasibo – thank you,” Bryce offered as he walked back to the sofa but turned to ask one last question. “I forgot to ask.” He looked from one detective to the other. “Do bad guys get bumped off this way here a lot? Blowing the top of a guy’s head off seems a bit grand.”

  Volkoff nodded and stepped back into the room. The smell of cigarettes and big, yellowed teeth coming too close for comfort. Bryce took a step back and covered for himself by reaching for his energy drink.

  “How did you know the extent of the victim’s injury?” he asked as he focused on Bryce’s eyes.

  “Heard it on the news this morning and a lot of people were talking about it in the garage when I got here.” He watched as Volkoff stared at the hat he’d just been given. The detective turned it upside down and inspected the inside of it then looked back at Bryce, perhaps looking for a reaction it seemed but Bryce gave none.

  “The deceased was the leader of many warring factions here in Russia – the mob, you would call them. There is more money in Moscow than there is in your Beverly Hills. Whoever did this was making a declaration of sorts, we believe. I expect much more blood will flow in the coming weeks.”

  Bryce watched and let out a sigh of relief as the detectives finally let themselves out. He sat back down, closed his eyes and replayed what had actually happened the night before.

  While Ivanova was focused on texting the selfies he had just taken with the race driver Bryce signed the man’s hat and then attached a round, flat disc – the size of an American nickel – to the inside of the hat and handed it back to him. As Bryce left the toilet he remembered seeing Madigan and Myers standing twenty feet from him, engrossed in conversation, waiting for him. As he passed them, Bryce squeezed a second Sharpie in his pants pocket—a detonator. The mini-explosive device he’d planted moments earlier brought to an abrupt halt the life of a real piece of shit - a man who had been targeted by the CIA for assassination.

  Madigan was the only outsider who knew of Bryce’s clandestine behavior and often helped facilitate it. He was a computer consultant for the race team but also excelled at designing things like mini-bombs for baseball caps, eavesdropping equipment, and hacking computers. The CIA had wanted something dramatic to stir up trouble in the Russian underworld and it was Madigan’s design that helped pull it off. He’d also been an Army Ranger who spent a short time after he left the service working as a contractor of another sort, something he rarely talked about. If they had helped to start a civil war among very dangerous people there, as long as it could benefit or protect their own country’s interests, that was something Madigan and Bryce could live with.

  As Bryce lay on the sofa, trying to clear his mind and prepare for the race to come he began to dose off but he’d run out of time. Another knock at the door and it was time to go race. Hours later, after a disappointing second-place finish at Sochi, he and two other drivers would fly to Abu Dhabi on a private jet furnished by the sponsor of the season finale to be held there.

  With the race six weeks out, local media and VIPs clamored for time with the driving stars. The drivers would be paid handsomely for their time helping to promote the race and their sponsors – as long as the jet ride and accommodations were free of charge. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d be doing appearances like this. With the finish line in sight, he was happy to oblige. The racing life had given him more than he could ever have dreamed. Bryce had plans on winning this championship and retiring after he took the crown. But he kept that a secret. The CIA had planned to use him as long as he raced around the globe and securing the title and hanging up his helmet would get the CIA off his back for good.

  After two days of non-stop interviews, photo ops, dinners, and turns behind the wheel of the track’s pace cars, giving white-knuckled celebrity and VIP guests the fastest rides of their lives, Bryce and the other race drivers went their separate ways. They’d all meet again soon. He boarded an A380 full-length double decker jumbo jet for the long flight east over India to Thailand, a quick stopover in Bangkok, and the final leg to Japan. Somewhere over China, as he enjoyed the luxurious comforts of his private, First Class mini-cabin, Bryce thought back to what seemed a lifetime ago, when he lived in an RV, was starting to win races, and had his first encounter with a monster.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lebanon Valley is a nationally known motorsports facility located southeast of Albany in New York. There’s a quarter-mile drag strip at one end of the property and a dirt oval track at the other. Bryce had cut his teeth on ACT stocks and NASCAR’s open-wheel modified cars racing on asphalt ovals in New England. From time to time he tried to secure a dirt-car ride. Racers want to race. Pursuing their passion on different tracks, types of race cars, and competitors can afford a novice driver with big ambitions the opportunity to learn a lot and make a name for themselves.

  There were a handful of drivers like international legend Mario Andretti, and from more recent times retired NASCAR champions Tony Stewart and Jeff Gordon, who seemed to find victory lanes in America no matter what they drove or the type of surface they raced on. Having the right horse under you always helped most drivers. But a few drivers brought something special to the table that allowed or propelled their success.

  Bryce’s reputation and career trajectory had started on a pace that could have put his name in the history books right alongside Andretti’s. That fateful night at the Valley, after making his way to the front to take the lead, the engine in Bryce’s ride failed and ended his night prematurely. Frustrated, he abruptly parked the car behind the team’s hauler in the dusty infield pits.

  With lap after lap of action continuing on the track, Bryce must have been the only person not glued to it. Instead, he headed for a personal pit stop, distracted and furious at being forced to drop out. He entered what at first had appeared to be a vacant men’s room, the sound of the thirty race cars still flying around the track making it impossible to hear anything else. It took a moment before he realized that something strange was going on and it was very, very wrong.

  There, in a stall, he saw the back of a big man, perhaps 6’3 and 250 pounds, in a dirty white t-shirt, denim coveralls, and work boots. He seemed to be struggling with someone. Then Bryce realized the animal was trying to force himself on a woman. All Bryce could see of her were her long legs, flips flops hanging off her feet as she screamed and tried to fight
the man off. He jumped into action.

  Bryce grabbed at the man’s coveralls and tried to pull him off the girl. Enraged at the interruption, the attacker turned and smashed Bryce hard across the side of his head with his elbow knocking him to the ground. Dazed, trying to clear his head, Bryce saw the man return his focus to the victim as she tried to slip past him and run from the stall.

  The noise of the cars continued to drown out the woman’s cries for help. Bryce staggered to his feet and tried to get in between the monster and his prey. He felt the man’s breath on him as he saw the look on the girls’ face. She was petrified, fighting for her life. The man grabbed Bryce by the throat, squeezed it hard, and threw him back out of the stall.

  Suddenly, Bryce felt a hand pushing his shoulder.

  “Wake up, Mr. Winters. Mr. Winters, wake up.” Confused and still half asleep, he sat up straight, pulled the warm gold-colored blanket off, and stared up at the flight attendant.

  “Are we landing?” he asked as he turned to the window and opened the shade. It was still dark, and there were no city lights below.

  “No, Mr. Winters, we won’t land in Tokyo for another three hours. I heard you from the galley. It sounded like you were having a bad dream so I came in to check on you. I hope you are not angry with me,” she said tentatively.

  First Class cabins on airlines like Singapore, Emirates, and a few others are state of the art. Some highfliers will pay over $20,000 for a spot up with the elite. Bryce had never considered himself as one of them though, the elite. He was just a guy from back in New England who was good, really good, at driving race cars. He preferred blue jeans and beer instead of champagne – unless it was being served in victory lane. He’d never lost the sense of where he came from or who he was. But if one of the fruits of his labor was an abundance of legroom and better pillows and blankets he was in. Often the accommodations include a leather captains’ chair with a small desk and flat-screen TV, full-length bed with plush pillows and silk sheets, all housed in a private cubicle with walls from floor to near ceiling and a sliding door. VIPs were assured privacy so they can sit, sleep, and dine, without anyone taking a photo or gawking at them when their guard is down. On many of these airlines a walk-in shower is available and, in some cases, a full walk-up bar for socializing. For Bryce, if he were going to spend as many as eighteen hours in the air, this was the only way to go.

  His head clearing and with a coffee and some sweets ordered, Bryce moved from the bed to the captain’s chair, brought the blanket along to cover his legs, and got to work on the iPad that displayed a variety of menu options, operated the lights, temperature, and entertainment system in his private cabin. Once his drink arrived and the attendant slid the door closed behind her, he sat back and peered out the window and up at the stars. He didn’t need to fall back into a nightmare to go back to that dirt track though; he could see it unfold in his mind as vividly as the night it happened.

  He remembered getting up from the floor and, desperate to find a way to stop the man, stepping into the next stall. He grabbed the white porcelain lid off the toilet tank, and then clobbered the big guy, hitting him in the back of the head with the lid as hard as he could. The man dropped first to his knees and then doubled back over them toward Bryce, his fractured skull staring up at Bryce, blood seeping from the man’s ears, nose, and mouth.

  Bryce reached in and pulled the hysterical woman toward him and out of the stall. But once clear of the bleeding lump on the floor, she let go of his hand and ran. He watched her bolt out the door. Adrenaline continued to surge through him. But now that he’d won that fight he needed to calm himself and think.

  He remembered his uncle’s words the first time they’d gone hunting together. Bryce, then just fourteen, had lined up a big healthy buck in his rifle sights. That animal would feed the Winters households for weeks if he just made this first kill. He was so excited the rifle was shaking in his hands, just a little, but enough to make the shot miss at that range.

  “Breathe,” he could hear Pete whisper. “Breathe.” Just as he had on that mountain, Bryce took a deep breath and then another. He could feel his mind calm and refocus, his heart slowing, with each relaxing breath. It was the same exercise he’d done dozens of times in the race car when he was flustered - just breathe.

  At any moment either a security guard or race fans could charge through the restroom door. The girl might even have called the police. THINK! He placed the porcelain lid back in its place, grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped his fingerprints from it. He needed to get out of there. If he encountered anyone as he left the room, he could say he was running after the girl to see if she was okay. He took another deep breath, and then another, and walked slowly out of the john. When no one approached him, he snaked his way between car haulers in and out of the track’s infield lighting. He stopped and casually ordered a plate of Lebanon Valley’s famous baked beans and sausage and a hot dog. Eating as he walked, he eventually reached his crew.

  Inside the hauler’s lounge, he trashed the empty paper plate and then took his time changing out of his fire resistant driving suit and into his black golf shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. He was surprised that he hadn’t been discovered but was even more surprised that he felt as calm as he actually was. He’d just killed a man. He wasn’t proud he’d killed the guy—not at all. He felt gratified at having saved the woman from being raped, at the very least. But, he was scared. If he got caught and couldn’t beat the rap, his racing career would be over. And that was not going to happen. It was all he had, and he was good at it - really good. By the time the noise and dirt blown up by the race cars died down outside the hauler, he had made a decision. He headed across the highway to the parking area where the track allowed RV’s to pre-game and bed down after the event.

  The next morning, Bryce woke early. He flipped on the generator, turned on the heat, and started a pot of coffee before jumping back into his sleeping bag until things warmed up. He watched reports on TV of the attempted rape and murder at the track on the local news as he stared at the coffeemaker, wondering if there was some way of making it brew even faster. He needed coffee, bad. The newscaster reported that while State Police would be investigating, the victim was in a state of shock and unable to provide much information. She didn’t remember any of what had happened. The attacker, long known to law enforcement for his violent criminal record as long as he was tall, wasn’t a threat to anyone anymore. Bryce got the sense there wouldn’t be much enthusiasm wasted on the investigation and crossed his fingers as he stepped outside. Fall was coming and there was crispness to the cool morning air.

  The truck camper he spent the night in, actually most race nights in, was mounted on the bed of his white Dodge dually pickup and both were covered with a fine brown dust that had carried across from the track. The truck was relatively new, he’d bought it used, but the camper—his father’s—had seen much better days. It had saved him a fortune as he traveled the racing road, and he just couldn’t let it go. There were too many memories - some good and some not.

  Bryce smiled as the captain announced they’d be landing shortly in Tokyo. As the lights in the cabin went to full bright, he requested another coffee on the iPad and got ready for the land of the rising sun. As soon as they landed and were taxiing toward the gate at Narita International, he turned on his cell and saw a simple text from Madigan. 008

  It was a joke between them but it meant only one thing. The CIA had given them another assignment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Working in a sub-basement 4 x 4’ cubicle at CIA Headquarters in Virginia was the polar opposite of the high-life Formula One driving champion Bryce Winters was living. But when an introverted analyst named Jon discovered something he felt like he’d just scored a victory of his own. The CIA had noticed the bodies pile up overseas, but it wasn’t until Jon noticed what they had in common – they were all tied to auto racing events. As soon as “The Company” knew where to focus they eventually
zeroed in on Bryce and his shadow – Madigan.

  Late one night on a yacht Bryce had rented as a party boat for friends and sponsors at the Yas Marina Circuit in Abu Dhabi, two non descript young men wearing white golf shirts and tan khakis and an attractive blonde woman in her mid-30’s and a red blouse with tight white capris discreetly presented their credentials and followed him to a suite below deck and read him the riot act. They showed Bryce what they had on him, CCTV of him and Jack dumping a body here, a body there. They explained that they intended to prosecute, or perhaps share the info with other interested parties. Bryce and his partner in crime begrudgingly accepted their deal. The woman, Joan Myers, would become his handler.

  He had been immediately drawn to her and she, the professional that she was, read him like a book. If Bryce did have an Achilles, she could be one. He insisted on her codename though. She’d be Nitro because she was a knockout. Nitro being short for Nitromethane, a chemical used as a fuel primarily in drag racing because it packs a very powerful punch. So much so that in 1995 domestic terrorists used the material to destroy the federal building in Oklahoma City. He thought the name was very fitting. Myers was dangerous and like the potent chemical, both had a sweet scent.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Suzuka Circuit in Japan is located almost directly between Tokyo and Hiroshima to the south. Bryce had been to Japan many times and had already visited the site of the first Atomic Bomb attack. He’d stood by the mound where the cremated remains of tens of thousands of Japanese men, women, and children were interred. He’d seen the watch on display in the museum, its arms frozen in time at 8:15 when the blast had occurred. He’d been to the spot where the silhouette of a person was burned into concrete by the brightness of the nuclear explosion.

  He’d never served in the military but wore another type of uniform, a fire-resistant one, also displaying a forward facing American flag on its right shoulder sleeve. He had killed for his country, for the CIA, but not like this. The scale of this attack, which left 80,000 dead, still amazed him. Technology had stopped the madness of World War II in the pacific, but soon it would be time to focus on technology of another kind – all that made a Formula One race car become a guided missile on wheels.