DEADLY DRIVER Page 22

  He looked in the mirror again. What are you doing? he asked. He could have a gun. Probably has a few, maybe even a dog? Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Let the girl’s father handle this. But what if he can’t? Maybe his hands are tied. Then he remembered the girl’s face and pulled forward down the drive.

  “We’re closed!” the man yelled.

  But as Bryce walked from the darkness into the garage lights the next expression didn’t surprise him.

  “You’re Bryce Winters!” the man said, stunned to see the American race car champion standing in his shop. He extended his oil-covered hand but pulled it back when he realized it was dirty. That was fine. Bryce didn’t want to shake it – he wanted to break it.

  “Got any kids?” Bryce just had to know. When Jenson shook his head no, he’d sealed his own fate. They carried on a conversation about racing. Johnny Jenson showed him the shop, showed him his dirt-modified race car, and then reached for his phone to call a few friends.

  “They aren’t going to believe you’re here. They’d kill me if I didn’t call them to come over!”

  Before Jenson could hit the call button, Bryce shouted “Hey!” Jenson turned and his face met Bryce’s fist. The phone hit the floor.

  For the next ten minutes the two punched, wrestled, kicked, threw, and punched some more. They were pretty much the same size, and apparently condition. Bryce had thought he was fit and could fight, thanks to his training, but this guy could, too. As the battle waged on, neither man seemed interested in running out the door or calling for help. This was one man against another, possibly to the end. Nearing exhaustion, Jenson reached back to the top of his toolbox and turned toward Bryce, who was bleeding from the nose and lip.

  “Now, that’s a knife!” Bryce said in his best Aussie accent, channeling Crocodile Dundee.

  Jenson swung up at Bryce’s torso with it. Bryce employed a painful but effective move he’d learned long ago. He sucked his stomach back to avoid being stabbed and at the same time brought his right hand down hard, behind the knife, smashing his wrist against Jenson’s. As bones smashed together, both grimaced.

  The knife fell from Jenson’s grasp as he groaned in pain. Bryce threw a left hook that spun the man around and then down to the ground. Operating on instinct and in survival mode now, Bryce reacted. It was time to end this. He jumped into the air, tucked his knees in tight and landed cannonball style with his full weight on Jenson’s chest. Bryce felt and heard the man’s ribs crack. He rolled off and looked at his victim, Jenson’s eyes were panicked. The only thing moving was the blood flowing from his mouth. These two had been in a fight to the death, and this fight was now over.

  “You’ll never hit another girl again, you piece of shit,” Bryce stated, just in case Jenson had any chance of understanding his point. Bryce stood up and looked around. There wasn’t a sound except for the noises of night bugs and critters.

  Okay, you could argue this was self-defense, Bryce, he said to himself as he stared at the body lying at his feet. But you talked to his girlfriend, followed him here, and then crushed the life out of him. You might beat this. Maybe.

  Then it dawned on him. He could use something he’d done plenty of times years before to cover his tracks. He kicked the knife across the shop floor and watched it slide under a toolbox. Then he grabbed Jenson by the ankles and spun him to the angle he wanted him. He peeked out of the garage door at the road to make sure no cars were coming. He looked in the man’s truck and smiled as he spotted the keys still in the ignition.

  Back in the shop, he grabbed a greasy red rag, then another, jumped into the driver’s seat and started it up, shocked by the volume blaring Guns n’ Roses. He turned it down as he backed the truck into the shop just far enough to make this work. He stopped once, got out to check – not far enough – and then headed for the cab again. He noticed Jenson’s phone lying there on the floor and used his foot to slide it under the driver’s side rear tire. He backed up another foot and left the door open and the engine running. He was almost set for the big finale.

  There was an old truck tire in the bed between the tailgate and the drums of race fuel. Bryce dropped the gate, threw the tire down so that it landed beside the body, and then went to work. Drums of race fuel weigh between 350-400 pounds. Without a forklift they aren’t easy to load or unload. Someone had shown Bryce a trick years before saying, “Let gravity do the work.” So, Bryce did.

  He grasped the top of the drum using the red rag and tilted the drum back on end so he could roll it to the gate. There, he laid it down on its side, hopped down onto the ground, and placing a hand on opposite ends of the now horizontal drum, pulled it so that it fell. Normally racers would use an old tire to catch the drum and guide it with their hands to make it vertical again on the rebound. Without the tire, the drum landed hard on Jenson. Shop accidents happen all the time. Bryce looked around again. Something told him to check the office.

  He’d been in there as part of Jenson’s tour, showing off photographs of race cars he’d worked on. All quiet. No shop cameras. No recording devices. He’d leave the engine running in the truck to make it look like Jenson had intended to unload the drums and pull the truck back out but had this unfortunate freak accident.

  Not long afterward, Bryce was back in his hotel room, washing his hands and trying to figure out how he’d explain the marks on his face if anyone asked. With a ball cap and shades in place the next morning he’d move on without leaving anything behind but a woman who might be a bit safer.

  As he drove back onto I-90 and headed west, he picked up the slight scent again and stared into the mirror once more. Best not make a habit out of that Bryce, he whispered. Last night, you were lucky. He sat staring at his reflection longer. With 2,000 miles of interstate ahead of him, he hoped that would be enough of a ride to finally get Kyoto out of his system. That, and come to terms with what he’d just done.

  At first, he was bent on getting home to Park City and figured if he averaged 80 miles per hour all the way and kept the coffee flowing it could be done in twenty-four hours. But hours later he looked again into the rear view mirror and asked, why? He played with the MapQuest app on his phone and smiled when he saw two stops he could make to break up the marathon.

  Dayton, Ohio—home of the National Air Force Museum—gave him a break where no one seemed to recognize him. He’d always loved planes, and where else could he climb aboard three former Air Force Ones, check out the evolution of America’s warplane development, and stand alongside the famous Memphis Belle.

  After crashing for the night at a Hilton where the desk clerk didn’t know the significance of the Bryce Winters name, he was headed to his next stop and looking forward to it more than anything. An hour into his drive, he pulled up in front of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Museum and bought a ticket to take the self-guided tour of another special building he’d never entered before. He made his way to what he was really there to see – the Mario Andretti display. He knew a great deal about this American hero and had matched his win record in the 500’s at Daytona and Indy. But there was so much more to the man.

  He read about how his hero had raced a dirt track event near there years before and then flew overnight to Italy to compete in the F1 at Monza, only to be turned away by race officials for an arbitrary reason. He still marveled at how different the cars of Andretti’s day were to today’s technological race cars. The drivers were so much more vulnerable to injury back then from fire, open cockpits and on and on.

  Bryce was halfway through the exhibit before anyone spotted him. After an hour of posing for photos and signing autographs he was back in the Subaru, hammer down, westbound. The swelling in his right wrist had gone down within twelve hours of the brutal assault it had endured back in New York, but it still ached. He shook his head, thinking back to the event that could have derailed his career and life. What were you thinking? he asked as he peered into the mirror again.

  It was at that moment that Bryce decided
to push hard and keep driving. All he wanted was to get home and get some sleep in a familiar bed.

  He watched the sun set ahead of him. With not much ride left, Bryce was just starting another audible book, James Patterson’s The President is Missing, when a text lit up the car. It was from Jennings at the CIA.

  YOU CALLED THE WHITE HOUSE ON US?

  I THOUGHT YOU LIKED NEW ARRANGEMENT

  CHAPTER FORTY

  In Washington, Kyoto’s day had been a short one. Having worked twelve-hour days for the past week to get a report ready for a presentation she was exhausted. Her boss had sent her home with direct orders to relax, sleep, and sleep some more.

  She lay there on the sofa, a light throw pulled over her to fend off the air conditioning she’d forgotten to adjust. She stared at the ceiling, the flat screen she had turned on, and then a stack of books and magazines she’d left on the coffee table and hadn’t touched in months. She’d focused on her work, completely, to keep her mind off the breakup with Bryce.

  As she looked at one stack in particular she saw something she’d forgotten she’d brought home. It was Pete Winters’ journal. She reached for it, sliding it from mid-stack. As items fell off the pile she sat up with the intention of putting the last vestige of Bryce Winters in its place –the trash—but curiosity got the best of her. She lay back and began to page through the man’s most personal thoughts and recollections from his life. Three hours later she was stunned by what she’d discovered and she texted Jon.

  COME VISIT. NEED MY BROTHER. NOW.

  Over the next few hours Kyoto and Jon read through the entire diary. As an attorney, she began to treat the book as evidence to be presented in a case she wasn’t sure how to try. Tuesday morning, while Bryce was miles away driving somewhere across the Midwest, Kyoto walked into her boss’s office at the U.S. State Department and closed the door behind her. An hour after that, Deputy Secretary of State Jessica Sorenson, her boss, was headed to the White House.

  Sorenson had been able to get on Chief of Staff David James’ schedule – fifteen minutes only – and was anxious to present Kyoto’s findings. As the information she presented to James carried a good bit of weight, the fifteen minutes spread into twenty-five before the COS excused himself to check in with the president before he left the Oval Office for a cabinet meeting. When James walked back into his office and closed the door behind him, Sorenson sat forward to hear what had happened. She handed copies of the relevant pages from Pete Winters’ journal to James and left, satisfied the meeting that the Director of the CIA was being called to later that day would sort this out. It was in the White House’s hands now, as far as she was concerned.

  I-80, Wyoming-Utah State Line

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” Bryce assured Jennings after he called her from his car.

  She wasn’t buying it. “You and I made a deal, that you would serve your country as a contract operator for the CIA. You proved that when you took out Max Werner for us, but then you sent someone your uncle’s journal? You’ve just stabbed the agency in the back, Bryce. Heads are rolling here. You’re going to have to watch your own back going forward. The three musketeers got the axe, too, and they stormed out of my office hours ago. No doubt looking for your head on a platter.”

  Bryce continued to drive, slowing to 70 mph – slower than a pace car’s speed during caution laps in F1.

  “I still have no idea what you are talking about or how anyone could have gotten hold of Pete’s journal. I can’t believe he would have written that stuff down anyway. This is bullshit. Something else is going on here.”

  Both remained silent for a moment.

  “You’re off to Singapore soon. I think we need to meet up there, if not sooner,” Jennings stated. “How long’s the flight from Monte Carlo?”

  Bryce paused. If they were indeed tracking him through his phone she knew exactly where he was.

  “Too long,” he replied. “Listen, I’ve been up for some time. Let me get my head around what you’ve just charged me with. I will call you back in the morning. It’s late here.”

  Jennings ended the call without another word.

  Bryce pressed hard on the accelerator. Park City, a shower, and some space to process what he’d just been told were now less than an hour away. He set a goal and swore he’d be under some hot water, and hopefully not in it, in record time.

  The miles clicked past as he thought back to the late-night, grueling rides he’d had in competition at Le Mans and Daytona where he and two other drivers had taken turns in their 24-hour endurance races. He was really on his own now, alone in more ways than one it seemed.

  After driving another ten minutes he reached into the bag of goods he’d picked up at a rest-stop convenience store a few hours earlier. He popped the tab on a large, sugar-free Red Bull and chugged it down. He needed to come up with a proactive plan. Then he realized he needed to alert Jack Madigan that he could be at risk, too.

  Bryce grabbed his phone and texted Jack: 911. He wasn’t sure where in the world Madigan was at this time of the night, but if he got the message he’d know to call. He’d also know to raise his awareness immediately. Then Bryce thought back to the last time he’d seen his uncle’s journal. He remembered it dangling in his hand over the fireplace, how he’d just about let it go when he decided he couldn’t – not then, not yet. What had become of it? Had someone broken into Pete’s cabin and stolen it?

  Shit – what else could be in there?

  As he drove up the final stretch of winding road that led to his property on the mountainside, red and blue flashes from the light bars atop Park City’s police vehicles were lighting up the trees. His heart sank. It was too late to turn around. He’d undoubtedly been seen.

  They’re on to me, he thought. I don’t know how, but someone must have seen something back in New York. He slowed as he pulled up to the front gate of his property. A policewoman standing guard recognized him as he put his window down.

  Okay, she’s smiling, he thought. Can’t be all bad. Then, coming toward him were two other officers and a man he thought he recognized. He was in cuffs. It was Russo, formerly of the CIA. Bryce didn’t let on that he knew the man. He thought it smarter to let the police tell him what had brought them there.

  “Bastard climbed your fence,” the Chief of Police said as he shook Bryce’s hand and escorted him into the house. “Whoever he is he’s sharp. He overrode the silent arm system but must not have known about the motion sensors that lead up to the house. Soon as the cruisers arrived they got over the fence, saw this guy walking around inside the house, and drew on him. Dipshit left the front door ajar.”

  “Do you know if he broke or tried to take anything?” Bryce asked hoping to hear good news. The trophies and mementos from his driving career meant the world to him. Replicas could replace them, but no amount of money could replace their sentimental value.

  “Looks like he intended to torch the place. We found two road flares on him and a compact automatic tucked in his front pocket.”

  “Any idea who he is?” Bryce asked as he stared back at the police cruiser where they’d placed the intruder.

  “No, but we will. Once we book him and run his prints we’ll know pretty quickly – if he’s in the system that is.”

  Bryce walked into his trophy room and looked around. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

  “And you’ve checked the place? You’re sure there’s nobody hiding in here,” he said. The chief nodded ‘yes.’ Bryce let out a sigh of relief. He was worn to the bone.

  “You okay?” the chief asked. “You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Bryce rubbed his face. “I’m just beat. I’m pushing myself on long night-drives to get ready for a race. I might enter an endurance event in Asia while I’m over there for Singapore.”

  The Chief suggested Bryce get some much needed sleep and a shower. If they came up with anything he wouldn’t disturb him until at least after ten the nex
t morning. “We’ll also leave a cruiser here at the front gate just in case, if that’s okay with you.”

  Bryce thanked him for being so good at what they do and escorted the chief out the front door and then waved as he watched two of the three patrol cars drive away into the darkness. Minutes later, alarm reset, and one of his Sig pistols tucked under a throw pillow on his sofa, Bryce began to nod off… but then reached for his phone to send a text to the CIA.

  RUSSO ARRESTED AT MY HOME IN PARK CITY

  With still no response from Madigan, Bryce’s mind began to race. The Red Bull hadn’t let go of him yet. With all that had occurred in the last few hours he now had a second wind and he needed to act before he crashed hard. He sat up on the sofa and began to think it all through.

  First, he needed to be safe. Russo was one of three that he knew of. In many cases CIA agents had friends and associates, very well-trained ones, straight out of Special Forces, like SEALS and Rangers. Many of them retired to Park City or Jackson Hole. A few might be willing to go after Bryce at the CIA’s request. Clandestine behavior is just that and black ops, like taking out someone who betrayed the agency, happened all the time.

  Bryce thought back to that day in Werner’s office when he warned Max that a shot could come from a boat in the lake. He turned his attention to the expansive panes of glass that would reveal the mountain beauty once the sun rose in a few hours. For all he knew, a sniper could be setting his sights on Bryce at this very moment.

  “Well, you might be out there but that doesn’t mean I have to sit here and wait for it,” he said as if talking to someone looking at him through a riflescope. “Time for Plan B.”

  He went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, checked his phone again, spent ten minutes on his laptop, and then jumped into the marbled shower with room for two. He booked a charter flight from Park City to San Francisco and from there he’d board a Singapore Airlines A380 double decker jet for the 17-hour non-stop to his destination. Better to get the hell out of here, he decided. Put some ground between us and regroup.