DEADLY DRIVER Page 5

  The air rushed out of Bryce’s lungs as if he’d been gut punched. He stared incredulously at the man and then, distracted for a second, noticed the picture frame on the end table. A photo of Werner’s young daughter, little Mila, his pride and joy. He immediately returned his attention to her father.

  “You know I want to retire at the end of the year, providing we win the championship. No American has done this more than once. I want to beat Andretti’s single F1 title and then go back to Park City and like you helped me. You know that’s the plan.”

  Bryce sat back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs as he stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t taken note of anything about the room until now. The artwork reminded him where he was, colorful sketches of Mt. Fuji mounted on the wall behind Werner, a Samurai to the left, a geisha to the right. While he enjoyed and appreciated the country he hadn’t planned on coming back to Suzuka ever again. Werner had no idea of the position he’d just put his driver in. If he continued to drive F1 then the CIA would continue to hold a noose over his head and force him to do their dirty work. If he drove for three more seasons that would be three more years of taking risks, risks that could put him in a foreign prison or a morgue. The CIA was already holding him hostage and he hated it.

  He slowly brought the chair back to the ground, stared at Max, and then smiled. “And you’re going to tell me that without these sponsorships signed up you’ll close the team and it’ll be my fault that over four hundred people will be out of a job.”

  “Precisely!” Max shouted and then began to laugh. “Probably is the more appropriate word. I would probably just sell the team and leave it at that.”

  The two sat quietly for a time sipping their drinks and then Bryce got up to leave. “Time for some sleep. When do you need an answer, Max?”

  “The morning after Mexico. If we do this, they want to hold a press conference in Austin and display the new colors for next year’s cars.”

  That would give Bryce a week to decide.

  “You know this is going to cost you – a lot – if I do this,” he said in a firm tone.

  “No doubt. But why focus on just two championships when you might have five?”

  Bryce walked around the table and as Max stood up he shook his hand and held it as he thanked him for everything he had ever done for him in his racing career. The two men stood silently, each lost in their own thoughts, and then Bryce left. Twenty-four hours later, Bryce was buckling into his window seat aboard a United Airlines 747 flight destined for Los Angeles. He’d flown this route before and particularly enjoyed the first-class cabin that occupied the area behind the cockpit. There was space for only a dozen travelers who climbed up the circular stairway into this cabin giving it the feel of a private area that promised peace and quiet and impeccable service.

  If all went well, he’d spend the next nine hours sound asleep and then catch a small charter jet from LAX to Park City. He’d have a few days off before his scheduled meeting with his handler - Nitro. They hadn’t spoken since his last assignment in Sochi and he’d been fine with that. But she had some news she’d rather deliver in person and he wasn’t looking forward to her visit.

  For the woman who took the seat beside his though, sleep was the last thing she had in mind. She was a nervous flier and needed to talk. Bryce let out a sigh of frustration as he rolled to his right to respond to the person’s greeting. When he saw her face, with its exquisite Asian features, it was game over.

  “I am so sorry to bother you,” she’d said. “I fly all over the world. I have for years, but this still scares me - the takeoff that is. Once we’re up, I’m fine. Crazy huh?”

  Bryce smiled. “I’m the same way at the start of a race. Butterflies, I guess. But once we get going, I’m better, too.” He introduced himself to her and she nodded in return.

  “I recognized you in the lounge. My father was at the race this weekend. He goes every year.”

  He smiled again. Soon the jet lumbered down the long runway, and just as the pilot pulled back on the controls that lifted the massive jet up into the night air, she placed her hand on Bryce’s and then grasped it. There were a few slight bumps as the plane rose to over 10,000 feet then the woman relaxed and drew back but the conversation continued. For the next nine hours they behaved like long-lost friends. They had so much in common and were so interested in the other’s passions.

  She talked about her degree in International Law from UCLA and some of the cases she’d been involved in around the world. Over the course of the flight she continued to impress. She had competed in Japan’s version of the American Ninja Warrior athletic competition on TV, and he admired her form when he watched her get up to retrieve something from the overhead. Model looks, athletic body, great mind, and fascinating conversation made Bryce wish they’d been on a longer flight, perhaps the eighteen-hour marathon from New York to Hong Kong. He didn’t want this journey to end.

  When they did finally take a break to eat a meal, blackened salmon for them both, he laughed to himself when she selected the film The Interview on the in-flight entertainment. James Franco and Seth Rogan had made the movie years before about two men, a journalist and his TV producer, who travel to North Korea to conduct an interview and take out the supreme leader on behalf of the CIA. There were scenes where the woman snorted, she was laughing so hard, disturbing the snoring mess of a man sitting across from them. Bryce knew the movie but had never considered until that moment that he might someday find himself in a similar situation. As they landed, Bryce was disappointed their little party had come to an end.

  “I’m off to Utah for a few days off and then Mexico City for the race. How about you?” he asked.

  “A meeting in LA and then a flight to Washington tonight and then Brussels,” she told him. He couldn’t take his tired eyes off her and he sensed the same from her. “You know, I never asked,” he began. “Are you in a relationship?”

  Her expression turned serious but then changed to a sly smile. “No. My work and travel make that impossible. It’s very hard to find anyone who understands the demands or has a similar lifestyle.”

  Bryce smiled again. He handed her his card even as she was taking one of hers from her bag.

  “Kyoto Watanabe,” he read and laughed. “Well, at least if we get married your initials won’t have to change.”

  She laughed, “Neither will yours!”

  He followed her down the circular stairs and through the long jet bridge until they got to the gate area and headed for U.S. Customs entry. They continued together through the expedited Global Entry zone and then stopped to say their goodbyes.

  She turned, a look of embarrassment on her face. “I hate to ask but,” she said, “my father would kill me if I didn’t take a photo with you. May I?”

  Bryce nodded and smiled as they stood close for the shot. “You owe me now. Dinner somewhere, sometime.”

  She nodded and waved as she headed off.

  Their first date was over and each headed in very different directions. He liked this woman, really liked her, and as he walked to the shuttle to the charter terminal he smiled as he continued to think about her. It had been a very long time since someone had engaged him in such a way. He’d let his guard down for the first time since he watched as a casket was lowered into the ground back in Vermont. Headed up into the little Bombardier Learjet 75, one that seemed small enough to fit inside the 747 he’d just left, Bryce wondered if he would ever see Kyoto again.

  Seven years had passed since the night Lozano asked Bryce those questions and the prodigy, as Lefty had called him, had taken off as expected. An Indy 500 winner’s trophy sat resting in the great room of his mountain home, positioned alongside his Daytona 500 trophy and the multitude of race winner hardware he’d acquired. On the opposite wall, the Formula One Championship trophy and the many awards from the race wins Bryce had scored, securing the titles that complimented them.

  Some people collected guns, wine, or fine art. Bryce
collected race wins, titles, and the goods that came with them. But he wanted one more, in particular, and was convinced this might just be the year it happened. Then he looked to the aluminum crutches he was forced to rely on after a massive crash during that race at Talladega.

  He’d been involved in what they call, “The Big One.” At some point in every NASCAR race at Talladega, all hell breaks loose on the track and the ensuing debacle takes out a dozen or more cars. He’d had the crutches mounted and hung over the doorway as a reminder that as he put it, “Assume nothing.” He thought back for a moment to the flight he’d taken from Tokyo to LA and smiled but then he found himself in the company of another woman and he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nitro, Joan Myers, looked incredible sitting there on a high stool at the island in the kitchen full of stainless-steel appliances he rarely used. Her long blonde hair pulled back, tight jeans, red-and-black flannel shirt with buttons left open to reveal the cleavage she often used to distract or entice people into doing what she wanted. But that had never worked on Bryce. She was part of an organization that had forced him into something, and he resented her for it although he did his best to hide the animosity. She was one trophy he wasn’t interested in. She had a great personality, though, and Bryce got a kick out of the occasional sexual banter and jokes between Madigan and her.

  Let them joke while I bide my time.

  She was there to debrief on the hit in Sochi and prepare for their meeting with her new boss from Langley. They’d talk over dinner, over delivery pizza that was running late. She was only the messenger, she’d insisted as she performed her role, not the person blackmailing Bryce into a corner. What she and the CIA never considered of Bryce though was that cornered predators were the most dangerous.

  “The Russian had children,” Bryce said, tired of waiting and deciding to vent his frustration. “I told you before, I’ll do what you ask me to as long as there are no kids involved.”

  “That was our mistake, Bryce, and I’m very sorry for it. Our intel was wrong – this time,” she told him. He stared at her and shook his head while she tried to explain. “But you have to realize, he was a dead man walking. His children were going to be without a father whether you took him out or someone else did. Think of it this way, if it makes you feel any better. If someone else had done the deed, the hitter might have just blown the bastard’s house up with his kids in it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better – really?” he fumed. “My father wasn’t around much, but that doesn’t mean I’d have been better off without him at all. Damn it – I said nobody with kids!”

  The bell at the front gate rang, providing a needed break in the escalating tension in the room. After he tipped the delivery girl and sent her on her way, he served up the food and neither of them spoke again. He grabbed the remote and scrolled through the movies until he found what he was looking for. Three Days of the Condor, the film starring Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway about a CIA code breaker who walks into his workplace and finds all of his coworkers have been murdered.

  He looked to her for approval. Her mouth full of pizza, she shrugged her shoulders, her eyes saying why not? They watched the film for two hours without saying a word. Once it had ended she asked him if she could stay the night, try to mend what she had broken.

  “The house is so quiet, you must be lonely here all by yourself,” she called out as he went to use the bathroom. When he reentered the kitchen he had her coat in his hand, helped her on with it, and then walked her to her car. There were five bedrooms in his beautiful home, but she wasn’t invited to stay, never.

  Bryce walked back to the massive silver F1 championship trophy and stared at it. He’d done just about everything he’d wanted to do in motorsport except become regarded as the best from America. In order to do that, to surpass his hero Andretti, he’d have to win a second F1 title. It can be done, he told himself. Werner was up for it. He had funded Bryce’s career and reaped dividends that kept his board of directors and shareholders very happy.

  That said, with only a handful of F1 races left on the schedule, Bryce needed to concoct a plan to get what he wanted – not just more race wins and another title – but his freedom. He wanted to rid himself of the CIA. He had grown tired of the leverage they had over him. Instead of enjoying a rare night in his king bed he spent it staring through the skylights at the blanket of stars above and developed an action plan that just might work. Then he began to consider his contract with Werner that expired at the end of the year. He would never have gotten to where he was today without Max, but it had been a mutually beneficial relationship. He hoped his friend would remember that.

  The Baja peninsula is a narrow strip of land that juts into the Pacific Ocean along its west coast and the Gulf of California along its eastern side. San Diego sits just across its northern border with the United States, and it runs south to Cabo San Lucas, the party town known for tequila, deep sea fishing, and money. With another week to go before Bryce’s next race, the Mexico GP in Mexico City, he invited Nitro, her new boss, Glen Gunn, and Jack Madigan to go off-roading on the peninsula.

  Every year, racers and fans that love off-road racing, the sport of racing against the terrain rather than on a race track or a paved course, flock to the region for spectacles like the Baja 1000. This is where racing vehicles resembling cars and pick-up trucks, as well as motorcycles, ATV’s and dune buggies, race across the hills, valleys, deserts, and mountains between Ensenada on the Pacific Ocean and La Paz, far south and on the edge of the Gulf of California. It’s a brutal race that runs at high speeds day and night. Considering the obstacles and deep drops offs the competitors face, it can also be a deadly one.

  Many companies have made a business out of providing off-road racing vehicles, complete with protective roll cages, fuel cells to protect the gas tanks from leaking or exploding in the event of a crash, helmets, fire suits, driving gloves, two-way communications, guides and support personnel, so that enthusiasts can “drive” the hills, beaches, desert-like stretches, and avoid obstacles like cows in the road or twenty-foot cacti. At points along the course it can be very dangerous. If not taken seriously, the sudden drop-offs on the cliff sides and deep ravines can gobble up a vehicle and its occupants, leaving them paralyzed or worse when they come to rest a thousand feet below. Bryce had arranged a two-day ride for the four of them, and he couldn’t wait to get going.

  Madigan and Gunn had flown to San Diego on commercial flights from Charlotte and Washington respectively, the day before, while Bryce and Nitro flew in early Tuesday morning on a private charter from Park City. The two men had stayed up late the night before in the hotel bar, watching Monday Night Football’s West Coast game go into overtime. They’d sat just a few bar stools apart from one another. Groggy from their late night, Bryce took pity on the men and arranged for the off-road excursion to start a day later, on Wednesday, and arranged for an ice breaking lunch instead.

  The Hotel Coronado is a landmark in the area, having hosted presidents and movie stars over decades for fundraisers, weddings, and parties of all sorts. The Coronado was also a popular spot for the friends and families of the Navy’s finest, who were quite often seen in the area undergoing BUDS - Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training at the Navy Amphibious Base there. Bryce had been at this hotel many times before and always made the effort to thank the men and women of the Navy for their service and sacrifice, while they were just as enthused to meet him and pose for pictures. When Park City was mentioned, the conversation would always turn to, “You must know….” or “Yeah, that guy from Seal Team Six lives there now.”

  Over lunch at a table set in a quiet corner and away from the crowd, the four talked about Baja, racing, travel, dogs, and football. Bryce and Madigan had both shown a fake interest in their new boss’s career and family, hoping to develop a rapport that was better than they’d had with his predecessor. Guy looks more like a nerdy desk jockey than a s
py, glasses and all, Bryce had thought at first sight.

  “No wife, no kids, no dog, just work and Redskins football,” Gunn told them.

  Bryce teased him about a man named Gunn working in law enforcement but, as the man had heard that a thousand times before, Bryce could see it irritated him so he backed off.

  “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven?” Matt asked Gunn out of curiosity.

  “With beltway traffic, about thirty miles per hour,” he replied. “But I used to race late models on dirt at Potomac Speedway in my younger days, so I know a bit about speed.” Bryce leaned over and gave him a high-five, pleased and surprised to learn this. He then looked to Madigan who was nodding his approval. When the conversation headed toward business, Gunn brought up a newspaper article he had read in the Washington Post about corruption in Mexico’s federal government.

  Bryce opted out. “Come on, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about what’s next,” he told them. “Let’s save that for the dinner table tonight. For now, let’s go have some fun!”

  After lunch they all loaded into a black luxury mini-van and departed for Ensenada, Mexico just a short ride south of San Diego and the starting point for their Baja adventure.

  The welcome dinner Tuesday night in Ensenada had not gone as Bryce had hoped. When he had learned that Gunn had raced, although years ago, he thought that could make for a better working relationship and perhaps even a friendship he could leverage to win his freedom. When Gunn leaned in alongside Bryce after dinner at the bar and told him he knew what he was up to, all bets were off.

  “Bryce, I’m with the damn CIA,” Gunn had told him in a slightly inebriated state. “We read people better than anyone. Don’t let the clothing or the glasses fool you. I may look like a suit from DC, but I’m highly trained, highly skilled, and capable of things you can’t even imagine. So, you will continue to do what we need when we need you to. Period.”