DEADLY DRIVER Page 7

  For Mexico, Bryce’s private space came in the form of a rented pearl white Prevost motorcoach that would be his to use for the event in Mexico and then be driven back across the border into Texas for the F1 near Austin the following weekend. Three framed photos were always transported from race to race and treated with the utmost of care. Werner knew their sentimental and motivational value to his friend and employee; he’d had three copies made of each item to insure that these would always be there for the star driver.

  As Bryce sat back into the brown leather captain’s chair he savored every drop of the last cup of coffee he’d have before switching to his pre-race energy drink regimen. He looked to the photos as he always did before changing into his fire-resistant underwear, driving suit, and shoes and heading to the starting grid for the pre-race ceremonies and the battle to come.

  The first photo had been a selfie taken with his father and his uncle back in Vermont, Bryce smiling at the nine-point buck. His first kill. His father’s health hadn’t been good enough to allow him to go on the hunt but he wouldn’t have missed standing proudly with his son and brother as part of a passing of the guard at the Winters’ household.

  Bryce’s attention then moved to the next photo. It was of him standing in victory lane after winning the Daytona 500. Max Werner, Jack Madigan, and the then President of the United States surrounded him and the massive Harley Earl Trophy.

  Finally, he finished his coffee and got up, placed the bright yellow and red mug in the sink and walked to the third photo on the wall. There he stood in another victory lane, this one at Tom Curley’s Thunder Road in Barre, Vermont, after his first win on an asphalt-paved oval track. He’d grown up in the area, so a lot of friends and family had been there to help him celebrate. But that night, with the winner’s trophy on one side of him, Christy Hill – his girlfriend – stood on the other.

  Bryce shook his head, still in disbelief all these years later, that she was gone. A drunk driver had crashed head on into her car late one night when she was driving from her job at the local VP gas station to meet Bryce for dinner. The finality of it all and the heartbreak that ensued crushed him. Other than saying goodbye to her closed casket at the gravesite he withdrew and didn’t do much of anything for nearly a month. Since that time, he’d focused strictly on racing and swore that he would never let anyone in again. The pain had been too much, and he wasn’t interested in ever running the risk of feeling something that painful ever again. Two weeks after Christy’s funeral, the drunk driver, who was free on bail, was found dead in his bed of a gunshot wound through his mouth that exited very dramatically through the top of his head. Other than the fingerprints that were on it there were no ownership records for the silver .357 magnum pistol the police found lying in the man’s left hand. The serial number had been ground away. Relatives and neighbors the police interviewed had expressed surprise that the dead guy owned a gun. But with no other paths to pursue, the police ruled the case a suicide and moved on.

  “Hey, you got your clothes on?” Bryce heard a familiar voice call out after a knock on his motor coach’s front door as it opened slightly.

  Since the incident in Baja, F1 security had increased the number of persons shadowing Bryce wherever he went and stationed two guards at the door to his coach. Inside, Bryce shook his head to clear his thoughts and approached the coach driver’s dashboard to push the button that would release the door for his friend. He knew his distinctive knock and would be happy to spend time with him. The security team knew Werner, too; a team owner. They weren’t going to get in his way. As Max stepped up inside the coach, he greeted Bryce and turned to look back down the steps.

  “Look who I found wandering around the paddock just now, our favorite nomad,” Werner said, his German accent as strong as ever, as he gestured for the man to follow him in.

  His second guest, Western mustache and all, had always made Bryce think of the actor Sam Elliot.

  “Uncle Pete!” Bryce called out as his guests stepped up into the coach.

  Werner stood back as the two hugged and greeted each other. Werner had VIP guests to attend to, and Pete’s unexpected visit had cut into his time.

  As Werner excused himself, he turned to Bryce. “Let’s plan on dinner when we get to Austin, Bryce. We have to revisit what we talked about in Japan and I’m on a bit of a deadline.”

  Bryce nodded and then turned his focus back to his uncle. “You had me worried, I was thinking you weren’t going to make it,” Bryce told him as he stepped back and smiled at the man.

  Werner took two steps down to leave and then turned to Bryce, pointing to his watch. It was near time for Bryce to get moving, but he had informed the team that he would wait until the very last minute to head for the grid, cutting down on the time the pesky media and camera operators could attempt to poke and prod him for more about the Baja incident. Another knock at the door brought yet another familiar and friendly face.

  “Come on in, Jack,” Bryce called out. “Look who’s here!”

  Madigan greeted Pete Winters the way he always had, with a big hug and a handshake. But this time he pulled away abruptly and stared at the uncle’s face.

  “Pete, you old son of a gun – where the hell’d you get that tan?”

  The two made small talk while Bryce changed into his gear for the race. As he came back into the living room area of the coach he smiled at his uncle and his friend, but he saw something that concerned him. Madigan wasn’t smiling.

  As the three left for the grid, Bryce in the middle and Pete to his left, Madigan kept muttering something that Bryce couldn’t quite make out. They entered the area of the paddock where fans, as well as sponsors, media and dozens of other interested parties, willing to pay a small fortune to get close to the drivers funneled into a choke point that would lead to the grid. People shouted, passed hats or photos for Bryce to sign. He smiled and obliged a few – focusing on the children who were calling his name.

  He leaned toward Madigan. “What were you grumbling about back there?”

  “Pete didn’t get that damn tan in Vermont, not in November he didn’t,” he said.

  Bryce didn’t respond.

  “He was the sniper on that hillside in Baja, wasn’t he?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The layout of the circuit in Mexico City is unlike any other. It splits a grandstand full of spectators, allowing fans to look down into the cockpits of the Formula One drivers as they pass at speed between the two tall structures.

  Bryce had demonstrated to the worldwide media, and the near four hundred million fans that watch race broadcasts around the globe, that the incident in Baja and the media frenzy that followed hadn’t distracted him. He’d won the pole at record-setting speed in his Werner Industries-sponsored yellow and red entry, powered by Mercedes Benz racing engines.

  At the start of the race he’d taken the first corner in dramatic fashion, pushing past a rival who had tried a kamikaze dive to pass him into the first corner, only to lose control and spin off the course. Bryce went on to command a three-second lead and held the margin lap after lap. He was headed for his first victory in Mexico until things changed in the blink of an eye.

  A routine pit stop for four fresh tires normally took 2.3 seconds. But a problem with a pneumatic wrench used to remove a single, high-tech lug nut delayed the stop until a back-up unit was thrown into service. The 4.5-second stop, which in F1 racing is an eternity, cost Bryce the lead and left him with a second place finish behind the man closest to him in the point championship, Tony Bishop from Vancouver, Canada.

  This was the same Bishop he had come close to fighting with years before at a restaurant in Monterey, California. The same driver he had beaten by a mere 11 points to take his first F1 Championship. Someday, somewhere, the rivalry between the two was sure to boil over. With only three races left—America, Brazil and Abu Dhabi—every single point, finishing position, and fastest lap award, would now be more important than ever and the increased inte
nsity was palpable.

  Hours later, as Bryce watched the NFL highlights on ESPN in the Presidential Suite at the five-star St. Regis in downtown Mexico City, he stared at the second-place trophy he had been awarded earlier that afternoon. When ESPN began to roll the race report from the event, one that over forty-five million fans in that country alone had watched, Bryce clicked the off button on the remote and reached for another Heineken from the bar. It had been a long week and a long race, and he was beat. With F1’s plainclothes security stationed outside his door, Bryce called it a night. He fell asleep in the chair before taking another sip of his beer.

  Just past midnight, a loud knock at his door woke him.

  “Bryce, it’s Jack – we need to talk.”

  Bryce rubbed the sleep from his eyes, recognized that Madigan sounded as if he’d been drinking, and wondered to himself what the hell couldn’t wait until the morning. The two security staffers who had just come on shift looked to Bryce to make sure he was okay and the visitor was welcome. Madigan was still wearing an All Access Pass but it was late and he was drunk.

  “Come on in,” Bryce said in a frustrated tone as he gestured for Madigan to enter.

  With a nod and a smile, Bryce closed the door and followed Madigan from the marble foyer into the living room. When his guest turned to face him, his expression let Bryce know there was a big problem.

  “What’s up Jack?”

  Madigan turned away and took a seat on a white leather sofa and suggested Bryce might want to sit down as well.

  “You should have told me what you had planned out in the desert, Bryce. You should have told me!”

  Bryce was tired and was trying to clear his thoughts so he could understand what the problem really was. Whatever this is, it could have waited until morning, he thought.

  “Joan and I were having an affair,” Madigan blurted out. “I was falling in love with her.”

  Bryce was even more confused now and tilted his head to show it.

  “Who the hell’s Joan?”

  “Nitro, you dumb bastard. You killed Joan Myers. Not only that, you killed not one but two CIA agents. What the fuck!”

  Bryce stood up, walked into the master bedroom, and then returned with a small device in his hand that resembled a TV remote. He walked directly to Madigan and waved the device from his visitor’s head to his toes.

  “You think I’m wired?” Madigan asked with surprise.

  Bryce stared at this friend and, after a long pause, shook his head to indicate he didn’t. “You know the drill, Jack.” He tossed the device on the sofa and took a seat in the matching chair across from him. “But for all we know, the CIA could have put a bug on you at some point tonight, if they are here and suspect something of us. You know that’s how they work. If they are listening, I guess we’re proper fucked now as they say back in the Midlands.”

  “Let’s talk through this. But I would prefer to do it when we’re back across the border in the good old USA.”

  Madigan shook his head, indicating he wanted to talk now. Bryce leaned in and grabbed a bottle of water from a service tray on the coffee table between them. Madigan pulled a beer from the ice bucket.

  “First off, you should have told me about you and Nitro, about Joan. I had no idea. I can’t say I’m sorry I got the CIA off my ass, off our asses, for a while but I am sorry I hurt you. You know that’s the last thing I’d ever do – if I had known. How long has this been going on?”

  Bryce watched Madigan’s eyes as he spoke fondly of the woman, recalling how they’d become friends, kindred spirits traveling the world. As things do, one thing led to another. Whenever she came to a race she’d sneak into his hotel room and back in the states they had met in Vegas, Miami, and New York. He remembered how much fun they’d had together when he took her skiing in Boone, North Carolina one weekend.

  “She kept an apartment in Arlington – Virginia, not Texas,” Madigan continued. “But she lived out of a suitcase like we do. No family, no friends, just work and people she knew around the world.”

  “But why did you keep that from me Jack – we’re friends – partners in crime for Christ’s sake. If neither of you were in relationships why hide it from me?”

  Madigan chugged down his beer. “She said it was against CIA policy to sleep with operatives and if she got caught they could fire her for it.”

  “I thought that’s what spies did,” Bryce said sounding surprised. “Sounds like they have lives much like racers do – traveling a sometimes lonely road, risking your life.” The two sat quietly, lost in their thoughts until Bryce sat forward.

  “Listen, let’s talk more about this when we’re awake and in a better environment. I was surprised Gunn accepted the team-building, camaraderie bullshit I threw at him when I asked him to do Baja with us. When I told Pete what we were doing, with them coming along, he gave me that shit-eating grin he has, you know the one, and the plan was hatched. He’s always had my back. When he learned these two had a gun to it, he was there when I needed him.”

  Madigan sat quietly on the sofa, his eyes closing slightly.

  Bryce walked back into the bedroom and returned with a blanket he’d pulled from the closet. Madigan was emotionally drained and needed sleep. Once Bryce threw the blanket on him, the man relaxed and closed his eyes. Bryce turned out the lights and walked to his friend, slowly taking the beer bottle from his grasp.

  As he headed back to his bed, he heard his friend whisper something.

  “We’re not done talking about this, I hope you know that.”

  Bryce turned, his silhouette set by the bright lights coming from behind him. “I know, bud, I know. Like I said earlier, I am so sorry.”

  It took only twenty minutes for their chauffeured SUV to drive from the hotel to the charter terminal at Mexico City’s International Airport. Madigan had returned to his own room in the middle of the night, and Pete had rendezvoused with them in the lobby just after ten am. On arrival at the terminal, Bryce walked back to the black SUV that had followed them from the hotel and thanked the two F1 security agents for their help over the weekend.

  After the three men checked in, they walked straight through the one-story building and exited onto the tarmac where a dozen or more executive jets were arriving, being serviced, or taxiing toward the adjacent runway. Not seeing anyone he knew, Bryce assumed most were remaining in Mexico for a few days before heading north for the F1 event at Circuit of the Americas in Austin. Madigan hadn’t said a word to Pete or Bryce during the ride. He climbed aboard the Bombardier twelve-passenger jet and took a seat in the back of the plane. Bryce and Pete stood at the base of the stairs and spoke briefly.

  “I know what to do,” Pete told his nephew and then climbed aboard, taking a seat that faced Madigan.

  Bryce greeted the flight attendant, an attractive young Mexican woman with long brown hair and dark complexion, jade green eyes. She wore the charter jet company’s red and white colors. He slid his sunglasses down on his nose and whispered, “Coffee, lots of coffee please.” She smiled.

  He stepped into the cabin and saw the two in the back deep in conversation. They were talking, not arguing or fighting. Well that’s a good sign. Let’s see how long it lasts.

  As he stepped into the cockpit to greet the pilot and co-pilot, he heard someone calling his name from down on the tarmac. He excused himself and stepped into the doorway. There, at the bottom of the steps, were three men – all flat-top haircuts, ex-military types. One held out a credential, and Bryce recognized the logo right away – CIA.

  The F-word immediately came to mind but Bryce put on his best smile and went down the steps to greet him. After the introductions and handshakes, one of the agents gestured to a smaller jet sitting two spots over. Bryce saw a man climb down those steps and head toward them. He was dressed in an olive-green polo shirt and khakis, a flattop cut as well, only he didn’t have a military or intelligence service air about him. He looked more like a beaten man.

  As h
e arrived at Bryce’s position they shook hands and spoke briefly before Bryce gestured for him to come aboard. When Madigan and Pete saw two of the strangers following Bryce down the aisle, they stopped their discussion and stood.

  “Uncle Pete, Jack – this is Billy Myers, Joan’s husband.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bryce relished the relative anonymity of living in Park City; there were so many locals, tourists, and celebrities in sunglasses and ball caps that he found he blended in easily and he desperately wanted to be there now. At a race track in the US, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter, he’d be recognized and mobbed. In his homeland NASCAR might have the biggest fan base. In the rest of the world, including Monte Carlo where he and many other drivers and celebrities maintained residency for tax purposes, F1 and soccer were the ultimate sports followed by hundreds of millions of passionate and devoted fans.

  The visit with Billy Myers on the tarmac in Mexico City lasted twenty minutes. Bryce, Jack and Pete sat back and listened as Myers described how grief-stricken he was. He told them he and Joan had met in college and both pursued careers in government, she with the CIA and he close by at the FBI. The only problem was, a year after they had both settled in at their desks at Langley and Washington, Joan became a field agent and was out of the country more than she was in. They’d talked about having kids but that was put on hold again and then again because of the travel, he’d said.

  Bryce listened, he’d lost loved ones in his life too, but he wanted desperately to be landing in Park City rather than hearing how the couple’s relationship had taken off. Once all the words had been spoken, Bryce looked past the grieving husband’s shoulder at the agent who had followed him onto the plane. It was time. Bryce stood up and a few seconds after Myers realized that he had, he did as well.