DEADLY DRIVER Page 21

  There was never a question with Bishop or Patrice – they were racing for a world championship. Whether or not they cared about their now deceased car owner, they both proclaimed on social media that they would dedicate the rest of the season to Werner’s memory. Werner’s Board of Directors had met in Munich the day after Werner died and agreed to continue to operate the racing team and fulfill the requirements and provide the entitlements of the very lucrative team sponsorships. How things might change for the New Year could wait until after the season-ending race in Abu Dhabi. So, they would all race at Spielberg and then assemble again in Munich on the Tuesday after the race to celebrate Werner’s life and bury him in the town where he was born.

  The weather cooperated and provided the perfect setting for the weekend-long duel between Bryce and Bishop. They had set a record in qualifying only to have it shattered on the next lap by a rival and then bettered that record, again and again. Starting on pole, Bryce sat in the car, the bright sun blocked slightly by the halo device above his head. He shook his head at the thought – a halo over the man who had just killed another. Bryce had said many good things about his late friend and former boss as he addressed the media on set-up day, but that was all behind him. Now it was time to race and race he did.

  He fought off Bishop, who eventually fell out due to engine failure, and then held off his own teammate Dickie Jones to win the event. On the top spot of the podium as he held the trophy high, with tears in his eyes, Bryce dedicated the win to Max Werner.

  From Vienna Bryce flew directly to Munich where he attempted to call on Mila and her mother to express his sympathies before the funeral, but they had gone to her father’s home, in Luzerne Switzerland. Instructions had been left with her staff that they wanted total privacy. He respected the family’s wishes and prepared for the agony of what was to come.

  The dedication, camaraderie, and passion in the racing community make it a tightly knit group. The fact that people die doing what they love, what they are really good at, makes motorsport a brotherhood – a family – of men and women. When a loss does occur, the community responds and in Crailsheim, Germany – Max Werner’s birthplace – everyone had come to pay their respects. Werner may have been a ruthless businessman, international law breaker, and a cheating husband, but this tight-knit community had seen none of that. To the people he touched at the races he was a good man who was liked and respected by nearly all.

  The Johanneskirche - Saint John’s Church, a classic German church built between 1398 and 1440, and the only structure in the inner city to have survived World War II unscathed, was filled to capacity. Bryce took his seat in the second pew from the front, acknowledging the other attendees while everyone waited for the service to begin. Then he sat quietly deep in thought. He stared up at the high arching roof and thought for a moment of his home back in America, the one in Park City with an arch much like this but not nearly as grand and not nearly as dark. His heart broke when he saw little Mila enter the church from the far side entrance, led by her mother and maternal grandparents. He caught himself, his jaw almost dropping, when he saw her carrying the present he had left in her father’s care. A week ago the CIA had used the animal to eliminate a problem. Today it brought her comfort. She sat quietly while the minister read scripture and three family members addressed the assembly and spoke of happier times.

  When Mila finally noticed Bryce sitting so far away, she called out to him at a very quiet moment, and her mother let her down to cross past her father’s casket to sit with her favorite uncle – Uncle Bryce. It was a poignant moment not lost on anyone. Bryce was known to be cool under pressure, but it took everything in his being to hold it together as he held her there on his lap. The kitten seemed to remember him and purred. This was torture and he couldn’t wait for it to end.

  After the service, a much smaller group of invited guests, immediate family only, followed the procession to the outskirts of town where Werner would be laid to rest among his parents and blood that dated back as far as the town church itself.

  As Bryce watched the black Mercedes hearse lead a procession of four black limousines from the church, he stood by himself. Never had he felt more alone than in that moment.

  The local police had cordoned off the area and kept the media, race fans, and curious onlookers far from the site. Also missing was Jack Madigan. While he usually accompanied Bryce to events like this one, Madigan hadn’t attended the funeral, continuing to nurse the ill will he’d developed toward Werner for the way he had replaced Bryce on the team. The skies overhead darkened in various shades of gray as Bryce turned to walk toward his car. Someone called out to him in an unmistakable Russian accent.

  “It seems death follows you everywhere, Mr. Winters. An acquaintance of mine died at an event you attended last year in Sochi. Now, another dies right after you visited him at his home. I hope you don’t carry bad luck, like the black cat you left behind.” The man paused and stared at Bryce. Perhaps he was looking for something, anything from Bryce, to indicate that this was all much more than just a coincidence.

  Putting his race face on, Bryce gave him nothing in return. Instead, he looked around to see how many people the man might have brought with him. But the crowd had continued to dwindle and Bryce decided that an approach in an open square might not be a threatening one.

  “Not sure what you mean about Sochi. But yes, I was the last to see Max before his heart attack. He and I had much to talk about. I am very happy that I had the chance to spend time with him. I’d like to believe he felt the same.” Bryce paused. “How did you know Max?”

  The man stepped closer. The cigarette smoke on his breath took Bryce’s mind back to Sochi and the police detective who smelled much like an ashtray. Bryce stepped back. He didn’t assume a fighting stance, he didn’t get that vibe, but he also didn’t want to be close enough for a knife to find its way into him either.

  “We all have covers, Bryce Winters. You are a race car driver among other things,” the man said as he winked. “I am an international trader, based in St. Petersburg, as well as other things. I used to work with the FSB in Moscow, our country’s intelligence service.” The man paused, and Bryce watched as he now took his turn looking past Bryce to see who might be lingering. He coughed, a raspy cough, and then reached into his pocket and took a cough drop from its wrapper and tossed it in his mouth. He waited, studying Bryce.

  “Listen, I have to get moving. Did you want to cut to the chase as we say back in America or are you going to keep dancing? Get to the point. I’m a big boy. I can take it.” The two men locked eyes. Anyone watching would have thought it was time for someone to step in.

  “Da,” the man began. “Be careful in Sochi this year, Mr. Winters. I am no threat to you, but I can tell you that someone has spread the word through the dark circles many of us travel that you were somehow involved in Gregori Ivanova’s murder there. Personally, I did not like the man. He was an animal, but he did have friends and business associates. They are not just pissed that he was killed. They were infuriated that he was left in a commode and then in a casket that had to be a closed one. I would watch yourself in Russia or bring some of your CIA friends for company. It could make for an interesting time.”

  Bryce smiled. “Sounds like you and the boys back in Russia have been watching too much television. I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr…?”

  “Misha Chernyenko,” the man said as he tilted his head and reached out to shake hands.

  Bryce delayed his response but extended his hand just as the man decided to end the awkward moment and had begun to withdraw his. “Not really sure what just happened here, Misha, but thanks for the heads-up about Sochi.”

  Chernyenko smiled. “It is good to have friends, don’t you think, Mr. Winters? Safe travels.” With that the man turned and left.

  The rain the clouds had warned would come was now beginning as Bryce stood alone in the square for a moment, replaying in his head what had just occurred
. As the storm intensified he hustled off to his rental car and began the drive back towards Munich. He’d stay the night downtown, somewhere off Marienplatz, the city central square. He knew the people who ran the famous Hofbrauhaus just a few minutes’ walk from there and would be assured of a beer mug that would never empty and an endless plate of Bavarian-style pot roast and potato pancakes. He had a lot to think about as he drove the 140 miles to his stop for the night but on the autobahn, the ride would be a very fast one.

  “What the hell just happened there and what does it mean?” was the only thing on his mind. Should he inform Jennings? If what the man had just told him was true, Bryce had no idea who he could trust anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Part of the international appeal to Formula One racing, off the track, is the variety of experiences one encounters throughout the year. The cities, the cultures, the languages, are all different and special in their own unique ways. The track configurations and consequently the car setups differ from race to race as well. The only constant is the team’s garage.

  From track to track, from Australia to Abu Dhabi and every venue in between, the team reconstructed the garage area and support cubicles and meeting rooms so they were familiar and easy to settle back into, especially when coping with the recurring jet lag they often endured. Much like a tool going back into the same spot in the same drawer every time.

  The parties, the sponsor commitments, the media sessions and all the rest were a cost of doing business for a successful or upcoming driver and team. For Bryce, they were the last things he was interested in. He’d slid into a funk that those closest to him suspected was due to Werner’s death.

  At least that was the theory Jack Madigan had intimated to the team. “He might seem distracted or preoccupied,” he told Burns and Kazaan. “He lost two people who were very close to him – the uncle who raised him and now his mentor Max. He’ll be fine. Just give him some time.”

  Silverstone was the first stop after the funeral in Germany. Bryce cut back his time in front of fans and photographers as much as possible. He was happy the CIA didn’t call on him because if he’d heard from Jennings around this time, he might have gone shopping for a kitten, or perhaps a mountain lion, for her, too. He’d finished third in the race and forced a smile from the lowest spot on the podium.

  Hockenheim was the next stop on the circuit, the track located between Frankfurt and Munich and close enough to Crailsheim that Bryce was distracted the entire weekend in Germany. Then it was off to the race near Budapest in Hungary, where he got through the commitments, as best he could, and carried on.

  There was a long summer holiday break that was traditional for F1 so with the time off he opted to head back to Africa where he could focus on doing something good – saving Rhinos and Elephants. He had a simmering rage inside that he needed to focus elsewhere, or it would eat him alive. He had killed people and was now heading out to protect animals from slaughter. Who the hell am I to make these decisions – to decide who lives and who dies? He’d asked himself this time and time again. He considered the career he had chosen and now finally agreed with Kyoto. It was unfair of him to invite someone into a relationship, knowing he could be burned up or knocked apart in a racing accident.

  Luckily, when he took inventory of how he and the team had performed prior to the break, he’d done well. After spending a month chasing poachers in search of their own, illegal trophies, Bryce had come to peace with what he had done and what he wanted to do. It was time to get back into the car, back to what he did best. At the next race, at Spa in Belgium, he was like a new man. He embraced the media, spent longer than was required with them and with fans and his sponsors. He took the team, the entire trackside team, to dinner to thank them for their hard work and for putting up with his funk while he mourned his loss. It was losses, but only Madigan got that.

  The F1 in Italy was next. After taking the pole and the win at Spa, he arrived at Monza with high hopes and expectations. He loved the area, loved the people there, and had even met up with a woman he knew– a model from nearby Milan, who he took to dinner on Sunday night after the race. She was as beautiful as the exotic Ferraris built in nearby Maranello. While she may have hoped for more than the matching kisses he placed on her left and right cheek, this had been a good night for Bryce. Kyoto was behind him now and so was Werner. He was done with mourning the past. It was time to move on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The idea of driving across country might sound romantic or adventurous to some, but to a man who drove for a living it was much more. For Bryce, driving when he wasn’t in a race was relaxing but also an opportunity to reconnect with ordinary people who weren’t millionaires or movie stars. He’d never forgotten his roots and, despite fitting in quite well in those circles, he preferred jeans and blue collar folks any time. In his own mind, he was just a regular guy who loved to drive and put to full use the God-given talents he possessed.

  When he woke up in his hotel on Monday morning he took in the aroma of the coffee room service had delivered, opened the curtains in his suite overlooking the mountains of Northern Italy. With ten days to kill and no commitments to fulfill between now and the Singapore race, he could head back to Monte Carlo and relax. Then he could drive north to Como and hang out with friends, or head to Zermatt and hike in the mountain air pierced by the magnificent Matterhorn. Instead, he made a few calls. Three hours later he was out over the Atlantic, headed for New England.

  The race in Italy had gone well until a tire puncture with two laps to go handed the win to the young Russian who had been hot on his tail throughout the event. Rather than lick his wounds there was one last thing he needed to do back in Vermont and now was as good a time as any.

  The black Subaru WRX car he kept in storage at the Burlington airport hadn’t been out for a run in some time. It had been months since he’d last driven it. With Pete now gone there would be little reason to spend much time in Vermont. He could have just sold off the vehicle outright; the F1 champ’s modified street car would bring a great price at auction. He could have donated the money to charity, serving two causes. Instead, he wanted to keep it. He knew the roads in the Mountain West were just begging to be taken by Bryce and his little black beast – a nickname he loved but couldn’t remember who had come up with it.

  Landing eight hours after takeoff from Milan and having followed the sun, he had a good bit of daylight ahead of him. Having slept most of the way he was ready to roll. Thirty minutes of yoga in the center of the jet cabin had stretched him well, especially his neck. The G-forces at Monza had been particularly hard on him this time around. He had flown with this crew before and invited the lone flight attendant to join him. To his surprise, she had.

  He stocked up on water, diet soda, and a variety of snacks and then checked his phone. Just 220 miles south and then west, he’d target Syracuse, New York as the spot he’d stop for the night.

  With his bags tossed in the trunk he jumped in behind the wheel, hooked his phone to the charger, closed the door and then it hit him. Her scent was still there – the slightest touch of the Obsession Kyoto wore when she rode around with him five months earlier still lingered. “F,” is all he said, then clicked the ignition and heard the purr of the exhaust as he idled there for a minute.

  Just two hours and fifty-three minutes later he pulled into the hotel parking lot. He’d sworn to do it in less than three hours, he was as competitive with himself as with anyone else, and with little-to-no troopers on patrol along the way he’d done it.

  Having raced many times in the area, on dirt at Weedsport and Fulton and he knew it well. He preferred to remain incognito. He wasn’t that vain to wear shades into a restaurant to hide his identity so he opted for the drive-thru window at a Wendy’s.

  “Leave me alone,” he heard a girl yell.

  He turned to see a guy she was near let go of her arm and jump into a white Ford pickup. He’d noticed the truck earlier, three big b
lue drums of racing fuel strapped into the bed of it. With the amount of racing that went on in the area, that wasn’t unusual. He’d also noticed the name on the driver’s door – Jenson’s Auto.

  As the truck pulled away, he heard the man yell something back at the woman. Bryce began to slowly roll forward from the pick-up window. The girl walked in front of his car and reached for the door to the restaurant. He could see she’d been crying. Worse, he could see she’d been hit.

  “You okay?” he said softly as he clicked off the ignition and pulled the brake.

  At first she ignored him but he asked again. “Did he do that?” He stared at her swollen right eye and the puffy lower lip.

  She nodded.

  “You guys going to kiss and make up later? Is that your thing – or is he just an abusive asshole you never want to see again?”

  “The only thing he loves more than slapping girls around is his piece-of-shit race car. No. He’s dead to me. And my dad’s a cop so he’ll leave me alone, or else.”

  “Cool. Well get some ice on that and take care,” Bryce said as he clicked the ignition again and rolled toward the parking lot exit.

  When he reached the first traffic light he considered his options. Head back to the hotel and crash for the night or go for a ride and see if he could do some good.

  He entered Jenson’s Auto into his phone. The location popped up within seconds. - just five miles from his location. He could be there just as he finished his food. He looked into the mirror at himself. You sure you want to do this?

  Minutes later, he arrived at his destination. The pickup was backed up to an open garage door on the side of the building. It was a small shop located on a quiet wooded road, a mile off the state highway. It was dark now, and Bryce sat at the edge of the driveway feeling the wear and tear of the overseas flight beginning to pull at him. The watch on his wrist read nine pm, but his body clock, still on Italian time, made it feel more like three am.