DEADLY DRIVER, Page 25

  Too tired to worry about that now, he thought. He lit the fireplace and turned on the flat screen in the living room, then headed back to the master bedroom. He smiled at the familiar comfort of his own bed and turned on the electric blanket, just high enough to take the chill off. Following his routine, he then headed to the safe behind a fake wall in his walk-in closet. As he entered the combination, pulled the lever down, and opened the door he heard something behind him.

  “Looking for this?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Brownell, he thought. It’s must be. The man had nothing to lose. And for the first time in a very long time, Bryce thought he might die.

  “You know the drill, Winters. Lift up those hands so I can see them and turn slowly – very slowly – toward me.”

  As Bryce did, he saw Brownell was holding one of the many Sig Sauer weapons Bryce kept in the safe when he was on the road.

  “I see you took the guns as well as my money,” Bryce said in a calm voice. In addition to the weaponry, he’d always kept $250,000 in U.S. dollars locked away for emergencies.

  “A pittance compared to what I’m going to take.” Brownell ordered Bryce to slowly walk toward him and out into the master bedroom. He gestured for Bryce to stop and then removed another gun from inside the black North Face jacket he was wearing. This one had a silencer.

  “No need for a muzzle flash to light up the place and attract attention,” he said as he threw Bryce’s Sig on the bed, well out of reach.

  Brownell motioned for Bryce to head into the great room and he did, his mind racing, imagining a half dozen maneuvers he might try. He could wait for the opportune moment to make a grab at the gun. Or attempt to bribe his way out of this. Appealing to the man on a variety of emotional levels – seemed pretty useless. Brownell clearly had no conscience.

  Bryce’s plotting came to an abrupt end when the man pushed him down onto the massive sofa and then leaned against the wall facing him. Bryce could see his precious trophies and awards in the room behind the intruder, the moon lighting them and the room through the slivers of skylights that stretched between the wooden beams in the cathedral ceiling.

  “And all I ever wanted to do was race,” he muttered.

  Brownell laughed. “Those days are done.”

  “So, how’d you get in?” Bryce asked. “Past the security and alarms.”

  This seemed to feed Brownell’s ego. He proudly explained, in detail.

  Once he’d learned of the secondary alarm system that Russo had been unaware of, Brownell applied good old American computer technology to override the exterior motion detector and silent alarm. Discovering the key code was simple, he said, then all he had to do was figure out the routine of the couple that looked after the place. He found out where they lived, took their keys and made sure they wouldn’t show up at an inopportune time and ruin his surprise.

  “Made sure, how?” Bryce asked, fearing the worst. “You’re comfortable with killing so should I assume the Colemans are dead?”

  Brownell nodded.

  Bryce worked hard to maintain the appearance of calm—while, inside, he was on fire. He ached to lunge across the room and beat the bastard to death. For now, the gun pointed at him kept him in check.

  “But how did you know I was coming here? Or when? That kind of information isn’t something I broadcast.”

  Brownell smiled again. “Simple. We stayed at a hotel near here. When we intercepted your call to the old folks, telling them you were arriving late tonight and not to show up in the morning because you intended to sleep in, we were set. Spent the night waiting in the dark downstairs. You didn’t notice the motion was off when you hit the keypad – you wouldn’t have – I only reset the door and window alert once we were in.”

  “We?” Bryce asked, and turned quickly to his right when he heard something crash onto the floor. It was Jon Watanabe, dazed, bound, gagged, and now lying on the hardwood floor bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Bryce’s eyes moved quickly to another figure that now stepped into the room. The man was carrying a silenced handgun just like Brownell’s and it was pointed straight at Bryce.

  “Billy Myers – you’re caught up in this shit?” Bryce asked in amazement.

  “Why isn’t he tied up?” Myers shouted nervously.

  Apparently, this was not the sort of scene Myers was comfortable with. The heartbroken, jilted widower had lashed out before, but was now in the middle of a violent crime scene.

  “Because I can put lead in his head in the blink of an eye. He tries anything and he’s dead, that’s why.” Myers looked down at Jon on the floor. The blow he’d taken to the head from the butt of Myers’ gun was wearing off and the look Bryce saw in the young man’s eyes was pure fear.

  Bryce refocused on the man in charge. “What’s your grand plan? Let’s get to it.”

  Brownell grinned. “This is going to be easy. I don’t even have to kill you, although that might be the end-result anyway.” He seemed immensely pleased with himself. “Tonight, you’re going to fire up your laptop and transfer twenty-million dollars to an account number I give you. Then we’ll tie you up and leave you and Johnny boy here to sit until someone comes to find you or you set yourself loose…or no one frees you and your bodies shut down eventually and you die.”

  “You’re bluffing. There’s no way you’re leaving witnesses. We’re both dead the minute you no longer need us. Plus, if you’re so damn smart you know I don’t have that sort of money sitting in a bank. It’s all invested.”

  Brownell shrugged. “Okay, I at least tried. Give me credit for that.” Brownell walked to the laptop bag Bryce had put down when he entered the residence. He unzipped it and removed what he needed. With one hand holding the gun and the other the computer, he kicked a stool out of the way and placed the computer on the kitchen island.

  “Hey!” Myers called out and Bryce realized why. That was the stool Joan Myers had sat on the last time she was there, the one Bryce had pointed out to her husband months earlier when he’d shown up broken and alone.

  Hmmm, Bryce thought.

  “Billy, this isn’t the way you should go out. I can tell you right now this prick has partnered with you for one reason alone. He doesn’t care about Joan. He needed help to pull this off. Once any money is wired to his account he’s going to kill you just like he did that poor couple. He’s just using you the way the CIA used me. You’re a dead man walking. He knows it. I know it. So should you.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Billy,” Brownell growled. “He had your Joanie killed, and you deserve to get compensated for your loss. You may never forget or forgive her for cheating on you, but the money will put you on a beach in Tahiti where some beauties in bikinis will help you cope with the pain.”

  Hmmm, Bryce thought again.

  “Billy,” Bryce said and then looked directly at Myers, “did he tell you he was fucking your wife, too?” It was a lie, but he had nothing better to work with.

  Bryce watched as Myers’ eyes widened with rage. Now the anger he’d held inside for his wife and Jack Madigan had a closer target. Without blinking, Myers raised his gun and fired at Brownell. A second muffled shot was heard, and Myers fell to the ground, blood pouring from the bullet wound in his forehead.

  “Told ya,” Bryce said softly and then turned his attention back to the CIA-trained killer.

  “You’re smart, I’ll give you that,” Brownell said. “You knew his days were numbered. Now get up and log into that laptop!”

  Bryce didn’t move. Brownell fired a round into the sofa, punching a hole in the cushion six inches to the left of Bryce’s elbow. Bryce waited another moment until he saw Brownell’s expression intensify and the suppressed gun barrel move slightly, now aimed at his chest.

  “You can’t knock a guy for trying,” Bryce joked, maintaining his calm as he got up from the sofa and walked to the island.

  Brownell followed him there. As Bryce logged in he felt the barrel press against the back of his head
. It took some time for the entire process. The sign-in required retina verification, fingerprint verification, and then an access code texted to Bryce’s phone. When he was finally logged into his RBC bank account Brownell peered over his shoulder and laughed.

  “Only three million – that’s all you have access to?”

  Bryce turned his head slowly to face him. “Told ya.”

  Brownell stared into Bryce’s eyes, looking for the lie. But all Bryce was gave in return was a look of contempt and fury. “So, what’s your exit strategy, big guy? I’ll be dead before you leave, I’m sure of that. Might as well tell me the plan.”

  Brownell gave him a smug look and stepped a few feet back. “Okay. Why not? First, I’ll use some of the cash from your safe to have a third party bail Russo out of jail. They never tied him to the CIA, thanks to friends I still have back at Langley. Then he and I will drive north to Canada. Most people will assume we’re headed to an island somewhere, but we can disappear into western Canada pretty easy. Passports we used in the CIA, with our aliases, will do just fine. Eventually I’ll access the cash you’re going to transfer and then lay low. If the money ever runs out, we can do some contract-work overseas.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out but—” Bryce began. But a sudden movement on the floor startled both men.

  Bullets began to fly toward Brownell. Bryce jumped away as Jon continued to fire from his spot on the floor. He’d managed to grasp the gun Myers had dropped and was unloading the fifteen-shot clip. Brownell took a bullet to the shoulder and flung himself behind the island. Jon’s shots flew wild, tearing up pots and pans that were hanging from the wall over the kitchen stove. When Bryce saw Brownell extend his arm around the corner of the island, gun aimed toward Jon, Bryce went for the gun. In the ensuing struggle, the weapon went off and a bullet tore through Bryce’s right hand before striking something in the next room. He fought against the pain, maintaining his grip on the gun with his left hand. Brownell shoved him away as Jon resumed his fire. The man dropped to his knees and then sat back on his ankles but remained upright. A bullet to his neck and two in his chest left him stunned and gasping for air. He dropped the gun. Bryce kicked it away and called out to Jon to stop firing.

  “You okay?” Bryce called out as he grabbed for a kitchen towel to wrap around his injured hand. Jon appeared to be in shock. “Jon, are you hit?” he called out but didn’t get a response. The man who had just saved his life was spent. He lay the gun and then his head down on the floor. “Jon, can you hear me?”

  Bryce walked the few feet to him and removed the gag from the hero who was still lying on his side on the floor.

  “Don’t think so,” Jon finally replied. Bryce drew a breath of relief then turned his attention back to the intruder. From the look in his eyes, the man was aware of his circumstance. He was dying.

  In the excitement and with all the adrenaline flowing, Bryce hadn’t felt much pain in his right hand, just the loss of control in it. But now, the pain was coming, his hand felt like it was on fire, and he focused on the three things he had to do, now.

  He picked up his phone with his left hand and dialed 911 – that would get the police and an EMT on the way quickly. Then he grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and cut the plastic zip ties that had held Jon’s hands together. Bryce peered into his trophy room and saw where the noise had come from. If Bryce hadn’t been pissed off before he most certainly was now. He turned and went down on one knee, picked up the gun Jon had dropped, and aimed it.

  “Hey, shit head,” he called out to Brownell, “you shot my favorite trophy!”

  He watched the confusion in the man’s eye as he raised the gun and shot him in the head, a red mess blasting the wall behind him like spaghetti. The body fell over. Bryce turned to look at Jon whose expression reflected the lingering terror of a young analyst who had been kidnapped, beaten, threatened, nearly killed, and had just watched a second execution carried out just a few feet from him.

  “It’s okay, Jon, “ Bryce said. “That needed to happen. The world will be a better place without a piece of shit like that walking the planet.” He looked down at Jon as the room began to flash from red and blue light bars on the vehicles bringing help.

  “Hey, Jon,” he said softly, helping the young man sit up, “what do you say we call your sister and tell her you’re okay.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The last event of the Formula One season was nearing completion during the night race at the Abu Dhabi circuit. The championship had long been decided and, with one lap to go, Bryce could be heard over the radio congratulating the team on having done such a phenomenal job preparing a car that had started from the pole and would, in a matter of moments, take the checkered flag for yet another win.

  “Well done, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. As the young Russian, Nikita Pushkin climbed out of the car to begin celebrating the victory, Bryce was the first man he ran to and embraced. Minutes later, his right hand still protected by an array of black Velcro and material his physical therapist insisted he wear, Bryce listened as Pushkin shared the love from atop the winner’s podium.

  “Bryce Winters is someone I have looked up to in racing from the very beginning of my career. I can’t thank him enough for picking me to drive his car and for the coaching and encouragement he’s given me since his accident.”

  While the winning team watched the podium festivities and shared in the champagne celebration, others began the task of tearing down the garage setups and taking care of the cars and their equipment, preparing to head home after the grueling season they’d all endured. The holidays were coming. But before long they’d all assemble in Spain to start racing around the world again. As Bryce sat down to take questions during the post-race press conference, he smiled as everyone kept asking if his driving career was over.

  “I think he’s done,” one reporter whispered to another, “nobody recovers from a hand injury like his – nobody.”

  “Then you don’t know Bryce Winters,” Jack Madigan offered through a smile from his spot standing between them.

  “So, what is it, Bryce? Is this your curtain call?” another called out.

  Millions around the world had been shocked and disappointed when the news of the home invasion broke a few months earlier and they’d learned he’d been shot in the robbery attempt. Now everyone wanted to know – had his dream of winning a second F1 championship been destroyed by that nightmare?

  Bryce scanned the audience and smiled when his eyes met Kyoto’s.

  “This has been a very exciting and rewarding career,” he began but as he formed his words he scanned back to where he’d spotted Kyoto. There had been a familiar face standing behind her and to the right. Then he realized who it was – it was Ryan from the CIA and he wasn’t smiling. Distracted, he continued, “and I can tell you that my rehabilitation is going well and is way ahead of schedule. I will be back in the car next season in pursuit of another championship.” He smiled.

  “See you all down under!”

  THE END