DEADLY DRIVER Read online

  The man shook hands with Bryce, then Pete, and finally Madigan. “Thank you for telling me about her last days. It helps me to know that she was enjoying herself until the end.”

  *

  Jack Madigan had sat stewing through it all but was able to act and display a calm exterior. The last thing he wanted to do was raise suspicions with a CIA agent sitting across from him in the jet while Jack’s lover’s husband droned on about his feelings for her, the hopes of a family, and a romantic rendezvous they had earlier that summer in Quebec City overlooking the St. Lawrence River in Canada.

  Jack wanted these strangers the hell off the plane, he wanted to get up in the air headed for home, and he wanted to throw Pete Winters out of the plane at 42,000 feet, for killing the woman he’d loved. As for Bryce, while they’d grown tighter than most brothers over the years, he still felt betrayed. With only Austin, Brazil and then Abu Dhabi left on the schedule, perhaps it was time for a change.

  *

  Circuit of the Americas, COTA, is a massive racing facility located in southeastern Texas, between Austin and Houston. Bryce had great affection for the track. Not just because it was the only U.S. stop on the global tour, and not because it was the site of Bryce’s first podium in F1.

  His hero 1978 F1 champion Mario Andretti - the man whose mark he was trying to beat, had opened the track in 2012. This was a race Bryce wanted to win just about more than anything. Covering the 3.4 miles in just ninety seconds, Bryce and the rest of the competitors reached speeds of over 200 miles per hour. On the flight from Mexico City to Park City, the itinerary provided for a quick turnaround at Phoenix to let Pete Winters catch his commercial flight home to Burlington. And Madigan hopped off for his ride back to Charlotte. Bryce had asked both of them to cancel their plans and continue on with him to Utah to spend a few days decompressing and talking through what had happened in Baja.

  Pete hadn’t said a word to Madigan after he found out what his second target had meant to him. He’d placed his right hand on Madigan’s shoulder and shook his head slowly with regret. Madigan had tensed at first there in the jet, but a few deep breaths had deflated some of the tension - some of it. Madigan had been first to disembark and it was then that Bryce told Pete to give it time.

  “His issue isn’t with you Pete, it’s with me.”

  With wheels up just ten minutes later, Bryce sat back and watched the golden-brown terrain of Arizona as the jet headed north to his American home and three days of peace and quiet. Early morning hikes down the quiet streets and hills close to his home and the cool mountain air and orange glow in the horizon reminded him of his years back home in Vermont. He stopped to admire the sliver of moon still shining off in the distance, only to look further down the street to see a bull moose, six feet tall at the shoulders and all 1,000 pounds of him out for a morning stroll, too. That had been another big reason for moving here.

  Only one thing was keeping him from relaxing though. It was the question that kept popping up in his head. When, he kept thinking, when will the CIA come knocking again?

  Texas. On Friday morning before the first practice session at COTA, Bryce made himself another coffee. He listened to BBC News on the satellite TV feed, waiting for Max Werner to arrive for their meeting. The motor coach had made the drive up from Mexico City without issue, except for one checkpoint. Two Policía Federal -Mexican Federal police officers – had insisted on coming aboard to inspect for undeclared passengers and anything out of the ordinary. It turned out that all they really wanted was to pose for a photo inside an F1 driving champion’s rig, and make off with a few souvenir ball caps. The coach driver offered these to them, including some team t-shirts, to assure a smooth inspection.

  At the track, this was D-Day, decision day, and Bryce was anxious to deliver the news and get out on the circuit to chase a championship. Werner had arrived, on time as usual. After exchanging their customary pleasantries Bryce got right to it. He told Max that he intended to win his second driving championship. The ability to clinch it was within reach that weekend if Bryce finished just nine positions ahead of his only rival at this point, Tony Bishop. But then he dropped the bomb and said that when he climbed out of the car after the last race of the season, Abu Dhabi, as long as he’d won the championship, he would announce his retirement from the sport.

  “This makes no sense to me, Bryce,” Werner protested. “I know you and love you like a son. What the hell is the matter with you? Why settle on two titles when your destiny clearly is to win many more. You’re too young to quit. You have no wife or family pulling at you to stop and spend more time with them. What is this? I don’t understand?”

  Bryce spent the next ten minutes trying to convince his friend – the man who had helped him come all this way since their chance encounter in New York, years before.

  Werner wasn’t buying it.

  “Are you signing with another team? Is that what’s going on here?” Werner charged in frustration.

  “That’s never crossed my mind and I never would, Max. I just want to finish this season with a second title, give ole Mario a call to thank him for the inspiration, and then start cultivating the next American champions.

  “Bullshit!” Werner swore. Without uttering another word he stormed out of the motor coach.

  Bryce was disappointed he hadn’t been able to convince him that this was what he really wanted, needed, to do. He also understood Werner’s frustration that the big sponsors – global companies with huge advertising budgets and keen to have Bryce represent them – would need to be put off.

  A knock at the door let Bryce know it was time to head for the garage. As he stepped down onto the asphalt, he greeted Jack Madigan, whose temperament had been shifted from still pissed-off to one of concern when he had passed a steaming Max Werner just a few minutes earlier. Bryce stood quietly for a moment, looking at his friend’s face.

  Madigan shook his head and slowly slid his sunglasses down a bit to reveal his eyes. “We need to sort this out Bryce, maybe after Abu Dhabi. But for now, let’s just get to work.”

  From that point on, the weekend went nearly as perfectly as Bryce could have wished. There weren’t any CIA agents sitting in his coach each time he boarded, he’d won the pole in qualifying, the stands were packed with excited race fans, a global audience of over 415 million people had tuned into watch the event, and Bryce finally won his homeland’s Grand Prix.

  Bishop had been a pest the entire race, though. Relentlessly trying to overtake his rival, refusing to give in and let Bryce take the title before the next stop on the circuit - Brazil – a track where Bishop had dominated the last two years. Uncharacteristically, Werner did not greet Bryce after the podium ceremonies and the playing of America’s national anthem.

  To his surprise, Bryce learned that Werner hadn’t stayed for the race. He had left via helicopter right after the five red lights above the grid were switched off to signal the start. Late that night, after the crowds had gone and Madigan and Bryce were the last ones standing in the motor coach after the post-race party, Bryce suggested Jack accompany him to Las Vegas in the morning.

  “They’re testing at The Strip,” he said, excited at the chance to see some of the fastest race cars on the planet.

  “Let me sleep on it,” Madigan said.

  But, by nine the next morning, both men were showered, dressed and boarding a jet headed west to Nevada. Neither of them spoke much during the ride, opting instead to watch a movie, nap, or stare through a window most of the way.

  At least he got on the plane, Bryce thought, it’s a start. Bryce had decided to give Madigan a very wide berth, but he also wanted him to know how different things would have been if he’d only known about the relationship. They operated in a fast-paced, noisy world and Vegas would be no different. Soon they would need earplugs. But, for now, the relative quiet inside the cabin was a good thing.

  Formula One cars have a distinct sound. Over the decades a variety of engine designs have prod
uced high-pitched screams and whines, but in recent years they’ve become a bit less ear shattering – if such a thing exists when it comes to the sounds of a racetrack. The technology behind these exotic machines is stuff that space shuttles and weapon systems are made of. The sound of acceleration, especially as they shift up through the gears, most regard as a thing of beauty.

  Conversely, while the race cars known as Top Fuel and Funny Cars are technological marvels in a much different type of competition, their sound is far from symphonic – perhaps regarded more as bombastic – as in a bomb going off. Standing anywhere near one of these cars when they accelerate will shake your chest, deafen your hearing, and alert your nose to something special in the air – sweet nitromethane.

  Once Bryce and Madigan arrived at McCarran International in Vegas, they rode the half hour across I-15, passing the new NFL stadium and the dozens of massive casinos before seeing the signs for Nellis Air Force Base and finally Las Vegas Motor Speedway. The Strip, the dragstrip portion of the LVMS facility, had hosted a National Hot Rod Association, NHRA, drag race the day before. Many of the top teams had remained there to test. With only one race left on their schedule – the World Finals in Pomona, California—the racers were focused and Bryce had no intention of interrupting them. He and Jack took seats in the empty grandstands and watched, their ears plugged with the same orange foam pieces he and Uncle Pete had worn years before when hunting to put food on the table back in New England.

  After the first car thundered past, Bryce shook his head and uttered the f-word under his breath.

  Bryce felt Madigan tap his shoulder once and then a second time.

  “We’ll go say hi to Force and Capps and the rest when they’re done,” he said to Madigan, who seemed more interested in talking to other mechanics than watching cars scream by – reaching 320 miles per hour on a 1,000 feet straightaway in just under four seconds.

  He felt Madigan tap him again. Frustrated, he turned quickly to see Madigan holding his phone up for Bryce to read the breaking news.

  WERNER DROPS WINTERS; SIGNS BISHOP TO THREE-YEAR DEAL

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BRAZIL. Most people might think of Carnival, the 2016 Summer Olympics, Rio, or the massive 100’ tall statue of Christ the Redeemer that stands on the summit of Mount Corcovado, looking down upon Rio de Janeiro and the more than seven million people who live in the region. For racers, Brazil is recognized as the birthplace of one of racing’s most successful and beloved drivers, the late Ayrton Senna.

  The Brazilian who won three F1 driving championships had died as a result of injuries sustained in a crash while leading the 1994 San Marino Gran Prix in Italy. During that same weekend in Northern Italy, another driver was also killed and another gravely injured. As Bryce’s ten-hour flight from Dallas to Sao Paolo landed at just past nine in the morning, he gazed out the window from his seat in first class and thought of Senna, one of his idols.

  Time, and the throngs of mourning fans who flocked each race weekend to Senna’s grave not far from the Autódromo José Carlos Pace – Interlagos - had never allowed Bryce to visit and pay his respects. At Imola each year, Bryce always went to the spot where Senna struck the concrete wall, suspension parts crashing through his protective helmet and fatally wounding him. He remembered watching the accident live on television and turning it off when he realized one of his heroes was surely gone.

  Maybe I can get there this time, he thought. I may never be back here again.

  As the jet taxied to the gate, Bryce thought of the career choice he had made. He was glad he didn’t have a wife or children whose hearts he could destroy if he were ever taken from them. Race cars, private jets, and helicopters all crash. He’d had moments like this before and considered the loved ones of the people the CIA directed him to terminate. As the jet came to a stop, he thought of the look on Billy Myers face as he spoke of the woman he loved, now gone forever.

  Maybe the CIA will forget about me, he thought – he hoped.

  An escort greeted him as he stepped onto the jetway that led him down a set of exterior steps to a waiting armored SUV. Kidnapping was a huge concern and the track and race organizers treated the F1 drivers with the utmost care and shrouded them with armed security 24/7. A short time later, Bryce fell onto the king-size bed at the five-star Unique hotel, named for its truly remarkable architectural design. Thursday might be media day at Interlagos but there was so much news surrounding Werner’s announcement of a driver change for the coming season that Bryce opted to forgo the excitement and focus on sleep and mental preparation for the race. Bishop would be on his best game. There was little time for mistakes and less time to make up for any. Abu Dhabi would be their last stand, Winters versus Bishop, if the championship wasn’t decided this weekend in South America.

  Bryce’s eyes opened long after dark. He got up to make coffee, ordered room service, checked his phone for emails and messages, and then sat down in front of the 80” flat-screen TV in the suite’s living room.

  He and Werner had not communicated since their meeting in Austin. Bryce thought it was time for them to talk, to at least clear any bad air and wish each other well. Judging from the way Werner had handled the situation though, with a major announcement to the press that had blindsided him, Bryce stopped the text he had begun and tossed his phone on the bed. Fuck ‘em. In his moment of anger and frustration, unable to tell his friend the truth, he vented for a moment and then sat quietly waiting for his food to arrive.

  He turned on the news and saw images of the newly elected U.S. president and smiled. Here Bryce was, the proud American representing his country in international competition but compromised by one of his own government’s clandestine agencies. If he won the title, surely the new president would invite him to the White House for a photo op and to offer congratulations, just as his predecessor had. If he could get a moment alone, perhaps he could ask the Commander-in-Chief to call off his CIA dogs.

  Now, of course, all he had to do was win.

  Weather often played a part in racing, and the Brazilian GP wouldn’t disappoint. The forecast was hot and humid, very humid but dry. The temperature in Bryce’s private lounge at the track was near boiling.

  “That was a chicken-shit move, Max, and you know it,” Bryce charged.

  Max had known Bryce for years, had spotted his raw talent and grabbed him up, trained him, refined him, and gave him the experience and the other elements required to win championships, all to their mutual benefit. Not many people could talk to Werner in such a manner. While his business acumen was outstanding, Max—like so many other well-moneyed power players—also had an ego and a temper to go with it.

  “You left me no choice and you know that. The sponsors were sitting at the table, documents ready to be signed, and laptops set to transfer the initial fifty million euros to my account. All we needed was to write down your name as the designated driver. But you couldn’t give me one good reason for not moving forward. You weren’t being honest with me. The first time I think I’ve ever felt that way – ever –so I reacted in kind. Live with it but don’t take that tone with me or I’ll park that fucking car and send the team home on holiday until the first of the year!”

  Bryce knew that was a bluff. Werner wanted this second F1 championship almost as much as he did. Nothing was going to get in the way of that. Plus, showing his new sponsors what a wild card he could be might scare them even before the honeymoon had begun.

  Werner had seemed too agitated to sit and discuss anything. He remained near the doorway, leaning back against the wall but tensing to a stance whenever he spoke. Bryce got up from his leather chair and walked to his friend.

  “The damage is done, naming my replacement before the season is over. I’ll just need to deal with it. But Bishop? Of all the bastards you could have signed, you had to do it with the only driver who hates me as much as I hate him. What the fuck, Max.”

  “The sponsors wanted to make an announcement then and there, and I
needed a driver. Would you turn down two hundred million euros?”

  Bryce shook his head. No, he wouldn’t have.

  Max walked toward Bryce and stopped two feet from him. “Are you sick? Are you dying? That’s the only way any of this could possibly make any sense. What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  Bryce thought for a moment and made sure to not let his expression or his eyes give anything away. He had always known that for every action there is a reaction. He wondered, vindictively, if he shouldn’t piss on the Werner-Bishop parade right there in the media center in front of the entire world.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he began. “I’m dying and have a year to live. And after I told you the news you found a new sponsor and replaced me without even blinking. Yeah, that’s what I’ll go tell the media right now. The sponsorship will be tarnished. Fans will shit on the companies that couldn’t wait to announce their new driver and partnership. I’ll say I asked them to wait until the season was finished and allow me to fade quietly into my last days, but they said sod off!”

  Bryce had hit a home run and he knew it. He watched as Max’s eyes grew as big as cue balls with surprise. Bryce prepared himself for the next sentence. It would show him who Max really was. Care more for his friend and driver, or more for his new sponsor?

  “You wouldn’t do that, Bryce. That’s not you,” Werner charged. Bryce stepped to the closed door and opened it.

  “Get out,” he demanded, loud enough for the dozens of people in the hallway to hear.

  Formula One races typically offer practice sessions for the drivers on Fridays followed by an elimination-style qualifying session on Saturdays. All the cars try to move on from Q1 to Q2 and only the fifteen fastest can do that. From Q2 to Q3, only the fastest ten cars will now have a shot at winning the pole. A handful, but usually only three or four, have a real shot at the pole or even the front row.

  The start is everything. Passing, depending on the car, the track, and the driver you are trying to pass or hold off—all of that can make a huge difference in the outcome of the race. Many a heart has been broken in the first turn of the first lap, while a great start can propel you to a win, a new contract, a championship, and all the money and accolades that come with it.