DEADLY DRIVER Read online

  On Sundays, drivers strap in for a formation lap around the track and then stop in the marked start position on the grid. Five red lights above the grid are lit one by one then they are turned off simultaneously, and the drivers race from a standing start into the first corner. Usually within ninety minutes, the cars that have survived the competition and occasional mayhem will pass over their starting grid positions one final time to take the checkered flag.

  At some events, before drivers are strapped in to take their formation lap, they talk with their engineers, sponsors, celebrities and officials until the announcement is made to clear the area. Rarely do drivers, even teammates, chat out on the grid. But this morning at Interlagos, Tony Bishop made a point of finding Bryce Winters. As their team assistants politely kept the media and others away, the two drivers leaned against the concrete pit wall and exchanged words.

  “Max says you might be sick,” Bishop began. “But I know what you are up to. You want to use that as an excuse when you lose the championship to me and go home with your tail between your legs.”

  Bryce smiled. His sunglasses hid his eyes from Bishop, not allowing him to know if he’d struck a nerve. Bishop continued. Getting under a driver’s skin, getting into his head, could cripple some. In champions, it makes them tougher, meaner, better, giving them extra motivation to win.

  “Max doesn’t know this,” Bishop said, “but as part of the personal services contract I signed with the new sponsors, if I win the championship this year they will pay me a five-million euro bonus. They don’t want to start the new season hoping they have a championship coming. They want to advertise and use me as THE Formula One champion.”

  Bryce smiled. “Don’t fuck the team you’ll be with next year and take the title from them by taking me out. If you want to win the title, then win it by driving a better race here and in Abu Dhabi.”

  Bryce could read Bishop’s eyes. It was clear he had never considered the ramifications of pissing off the team he’d be driving for next year. His only thoughts had been about the title, the bonus, and beating his archrival.

  “Don’t forget this either, Tony,” Bryce added as he stood up from the wall and turned to put less than a foot between them. “I can knock you or block you, too. If you’re going to beat me then go for it, but if you race dirty then it’s on.”

  The fact that these two were now nose to nose on the grid wall had gone viral through team radios and social media. A crowd was forming around them and their assistants had lost all hope of holding back onlookers. Media called out questions. Fans shouted for photos. Organizers and race officials converged as did team principals. Before the confrontation could escalate any further it had been diffused, the fighters separated until the bell. At exactly noon local time, the red lights shut off and the race was on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Diversify or Die. The top oil producers in the Arabian Gulf - at least those who understood and agreed with the slogan - took steps to turn their countries into tourist destinations. As global demand for oil fluctuated and the frustration and intolerance for high crude prices escalated they knew they needed to act in order to survive. If people from all over the world flocked to the deserts of Nevada to play in Las Vegas, then Dubai, Bahrain, and Abu Dhabi knew what direction to take.

  Parts of those cities began to resemble Beverly Hills with its mansions and high-end shopping and dining. Watersports on the Gulf took off, and someone actually built an indoor, very cold, skiing attraction. Now locals and tourists alike could take to the slopes in spite of the 120° F temperature outside.

  Motorsports also became a big draw. Tracks rose up and secured dates on the Formula One calendar, at a $40-million per race price tag. But with only twenty or so dates available each calendar year, even more money or many other things can go into securing such a date.

  With the unrelenting desert heat of Abu Dhabi and intense competition that had come down to the last race of the season, it seemed fitting that it take place at the Yas Marina Circuit with ample water to cool things. Two weeks earlier, in Brazil, Tony Bishop had driven a clean race as Bryce had suggested. But Bishop’s teammate hadn’t. With three laps to go, Dickie Jones, a back-marker and lackluster performer since he’d signed on to Bishop’s team, knocked Bryce off the track in what he later claimed was, “just a racing accident.” Bishop had taken the lead by a mere five points, and that put Bryce in pursuit mode.

  NASCAR’s Dale Earnhardt, Sr., had been regarded as The Intimidator for bumping bumpers and fenders and pushing his foes into making mistakes or finally, once frustrated, just moving them out of the way entirely. In open wheel racing like Formula One, that’s a bit riskier. Every item on an F1 car may be made of space-age materials that cost a fortune to produce, but a wing meant to direct and force air down to increase weight on the tires for better adhesion, steering, and acceleration, can become fragile when confronting a spinning wheel and tire going into a tight turn at 100 mph.

  Bryce had a reputation for being relentless in pursuit. He’d fill an opponent’s mirrors, pushing hard turn after turn, lap after lap until his prey either grew weary and made a mistake or simply dove into a turn too fast and washed out, allowing Bryce to strike. But today would be different.

  Jones had just allowed his car to lose its position by letting centrifugal forces carry him up into Bryce. Both cars ended out onto the gravel meant to slow errant cars that have gone off track. They sat spinning their tires in the stones as Bishop flew past to take the victory.

  Once the two drivers had climbed out of their cars they were escorted to a waiting ambulance for a quick examination by the medical team, standard procedure whenever there was a crash. The two might have climbed into the ambulance together, helmets still strapped on, but when TV cameras followed the vehicle into the paddock they captured Bryce exiting the ambulance first and, moments later, Jones was seen holding what seemed to be a bloody white cloth to his face. Later, before the media, Bryce said he knew nothing about how Jones could have injured himself. “Racing accident I guess.”

  The Abu Dhabi GP takes the green flag nearing dusk, and the race continues on into the night under the lights, a soothing break from the intense sun and heat of the region. Bryce had flown to his home in Monte Carlo from Sao Paolo. He took the ten days between the events to relax, train, and sit quietly on the 120’ motor yacht he kept in the marina each year during the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. Other times the vessel named Lucky might be found with Bryce and friends aboard off the coast of Mykonos, Capri, or Ibiza. Now in Abu Dhabi, he was ready to race.

  Rather than stay at a five-star hotel, of which there were dozens, he opted to rent a yacht much like the one he had just left on the Mediterranean. He would stay on board to avoid the crowded downtown. He hadn’t spoken with Max Werner since their confrontation in Brazil, but his one-million-dollar fee for November, the last payment of his contract, had been received in his bank account, so he wouldn’t have to chase him for it.

  Bryce had talked with Jack Madigan once or twice, but only about car-related issues. Now, with time for the final formation lap of the year coming close, Bryce had just strapped on his helmet and was preparing to climb aboard his Werner Special one last time. He felt a tap on the back of the head and turned to see Madigan standing close.

  “Come to wish me good luck one last time, Jack?” Bryce said sentimentally but the look in the man’s eyes signaled something different.

  “No. I came to tell you I saw Pete twenty minutes ago and he was in one of those moods.”

  “Holy shit!” Bryce uttered and pulled away from the crewman who had taken his arm to guide him to the car. Helmets might save lives, but the restricted field of vision can hamper simple movement at times.

  “You mean Baja mode?” Bryce asked as he moved close enough to Madigan that his helmet bumped his head.

  “Two minutes, Bryce, we need to move,” the crewman said in a loud voice.

  “You’ve got to find him, Jack, you have to stop
him!”

  Madigan stared into Bryce’s eyes. “You didn’t arrange this?” Madigan asked. Bryce shook his head no. Jack smacked him on the helmet for luck and headed for the garage.

  *

  Madigan expected to find Pete, perched in a sniper’s stance, hidden somewhere around the 3.3 mile track. Locating him would be nearly impossible until he shifted back into Army Ranger mode and considered where he would take a shot from if he had to.

  He brought up the track diagram on his smartphone and stared at it, enlarging one spot, shaking his head no, enlarging another, no again. Finally, he hit on a yes. The marina – Pete had to be on one of the yachts!

  Trying to move as swiftly as possible without drawing attention to himself, Madigan worked his way through the maze that was the team’s garage area, past the computer center where the team would monitor everything on the car and the driver for the duration of the event. Feeds would be shared with the staff back in the Midlands of England and split-second decisions made when even the hint of something going sour was detected.

  As he exited through the back he swerved to the left and to the right to avoid the hundreds of fans, celebrities, and the dignitaries wearing the customary flowing robes and keffiyehs held by agals, a square cotton scarf over their heads held in place with a cord, now headed for their grandstand seats or VIP suites. He heard the cars fire up on the grid for the formation lap. In minutes they’d take the green flag and be flying past the marina. Down into the pedestrian tunnel just past the fan zone, under the track and now out by the West Grandstand, he turned to get his bearings as the cars drove past. It was then that he realized he’d screwed up, bad.

  Trying to get from his location behind two sets of grandstands, and then a very long walk along the water to the dozens of yachts resting in the marina, he’d taken a wrong turn. He checked the map again and then doubled back, down into the tunnel, emerging just as Bishop and Bryce began their chase for the win and the championship.

  The cars were now screaming by, fans on their feet cheering, and Madigan was running out of time. He backtracked toward the paddock and snaked his way left and then right and left again until the line of motor yachts docked at the marina were in clear view. He tried not to run but picked up the pace, almost to a jog. His all-access credentials flew back and forth on the lanyard around his neck. If anyone tried to stop him he’d just say Bryce left something on his boat.

  Who is he going to take a shot at? Madigan wondered. Would Pete take out a driver or just disable a car? Would he nail Jones for pushing Bryce off course in Brazil or perhaps take out one of Bishop’s tires to cost him a lap, if not more? If he leaves lead – leaves a bullet anywhere or someone sees him then in time, we could all be found out. “Damn it Pete!” he said out loud. Suddenly, he slowed his pace. He needed time to think.

  Pete is Bryce’s uncle, not mine. If he shoots anyone or anything here and gets caught it’s on Bryce, not me, not the team. Maybe. He stopped walking and turned back to look at the track. Bryce ordered the hit on the two CIA agents in Mexico and Pete carried it out. If they both go down there’s nothing on me - unless one of them talks.

  The sounds coming from the cars on track were all he could hear. His other senses picking up a slight smell of rubber from a smoking tire mixed with just a hint of race engine exhaust. Madigan had lived in this world back into his teenage days in North Carolina and loved it, until now. Here he was chasing down a sniper, a known killer, at a Formula One race on the Arabian Gulf, 7500 miles from home. He watched for two laps as the cars raced by and could see Bryce was in the lead but with Bishop hot on his tail.

  With everyone on the property focused on the race, Madigan turned back toward the marina and saw the green glow of a laser brushing across the path in front of him. He focused. He’d found him - third boat from the right. There was Pete, standing on an open bridge, two levels above the deck, enthusiastically waving for him to come join him.

  Madigan paused and then headed for him. The yacht was a beauty. The two men standing guard at the base of the gangway checked his credentials, which included access to this vessel – Bryce’s rental. He rushed on board, saying he didn’t want to miss a lap. Once up on the bridge, he tapped Pete’s shoulder and they got into it.

  “This isn’t Baja, Pete,” Madigan shouted over the sounds of the track. “You can’t take a shot – at anyone!”

  Pete looked around the bridge, laughed, and leaned in to speak into Madigan’s ear.

  “What are you talking about, Jack? I’m just here keeping Bishop and Jones honest. If either of them interfere with Bryce tonight, I’ll give them a green shot through the visor and set it right for our boy.” He held up the green laser pen, the one he’d used to paint Madigan minutes earlier. “You actually thought I was going to shoot someone from up here?”

  Madigan nodded. “Yes – and when I told Bryce you were on the property he said to stop you.”

  Pete laughed again and turned his focus back to the action on the track. He slipped the laser pen into his shirt pocket and placed a set of noise-cancelling headphones back into place. Like Werner and the crews in the pits and those back in England, Pete could listen to communications with their driver. He related that Bryce was happy with the way the car was running and, as was customary, spoke very little as lap after lap sped by.

  A lap later, two cars collided on the track and brought out a full-course yellow and the safety car to pace the field while the mess from the incident was cleaned up. Pete took off the headphones, but almost lost his balance as he sat down on the captain’s chair and unscrewed the top from a bottle of water.

  With still waters beneath them Madigan wondered if Pete had had a beer or two already, which was very uncharacteristic of him during a race.

  “This isn’t Baja, Jack, but it isn’t America either. How the hell would I have gotten a damn rifle here for Christ’s sake?”

  Madigan smiled and sat down beside him.

  “On the water, Pete. We both know how these things work. You probably motored in here on a boat, maybe in from Dubai. I’ll bet you fished for Barracuda or sailfish in the gulf for cover, showed your ID here, got on board with a small bag, and was planning on reversing the move after the race ended.”

  Madigan looked around and then continued.

  “If it were me, I’d have taken a boat across from Doha. There’s a lot of retired military personnel, assets, private operators – friends of mine, and boats of all kinds there. Long guns can break down and fit into tiny bags these days. Like that little black one sitting against the wall behind you.” With the short caution ending, the sound of the 19 Formula One cars still in the race cranked up again, and Pete placed the headphones back on to follow along. Madigan sat back and focused there, too. Before long it would all be over.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  *

  Abu Dhabi. Podiums at race tracks are set up much like Olympic award ceremonies; top center step for the winner, second place stand is lower and to the winner’s right, and third place to the left. At the Yas Marina circuit, Bryce Winters proudly stepped to the winner’s stand and waved across the track to the massive crowd cheering him from the main grandstand. Then, his heart sank as he heard the announcer proclaim the second-place finisher, Tony Bishop of Canada, as the new Formula One World Champion.

  Bryce had driven his heart out, but there were only so many points to be claimed. When the checkered flag waved the season, and Bryce’s dream of taking a second title, were over. Once the third-place driver, Juan Valdez from Mexico, was introduced it was time for the customary musical interlude.

  After the anthem for the United States of America was played, recognizing the race winner’s homeland, the three on the podium stood with ball caps at their sides or over their hearts, as God Save The Queen sounded – Britain’s national anthem, played for the U.K.–based Werner team. The dignitaries from the United Arab Emirates presented trophies, the corks from the faux champagne flew, and the three drivers drenche
d one another and then turned it to their crews standing a level below on pit road. In respect for local customs, non-alcoholic bubbly would have to do.

  For the first time ever, Bryce couldn’t locate his friend and teammate in the cheering crowd. Valdez pulled Bryce away from the rail and guided him back to center stage for the traditional photo taken of the top three finishers. All three smiled, waved to the fans and cameras, and the global feed broadcast nearly everywhere.

  As their pose broke down, Bryce removed the yellow-and-red Werner Industries hat one of the team’s media people had handed him before he had taken the stage. He stepped to the rail again. Holding the hat in front of him, he pointed to the Werner name, placed that hand on his chest, and took a slight bow before throwing the hat like a Frisbee into the crowd. His time with Werner was now over.

  He’d ignored Bishop on the podium but came upon him in the staging area at the base of the steps. Bishop’s people were cleaning him up from his bubbly shower before he faced the press as the new World Champion. Bryce stepped in front of him, extending his hand to offer his congratulations. To his surprise, Bishop seemed to return a sincere smile and a word of thanks just as the series and organizer’s staffers jumped in to affix the two drivers with microphones for the post-race press conference.

  “No thanks, I’m done. The spotlight’s on the champ,” Bryce said softly, waving off the mike. Without another word, he left the area and headed back to the garage. There, he spent the next twenty minutes shaking hands and thanking every one of the forty-seven men and women who traveled the world with the team and had made his past championship and the six victories of this season possible.