by Mike Brogan
“Them’s Harley tires,” the Sheriff said, pointing.
Shaw nodded then turned to Hayden. “Did we get our search warrant yet?”
Agent Hayden checked his phone, opened an email, and showed the search warrant to Shaw and the Sheriff.
Shaw nodded to the Sheriff.
“Let’s saddle up,” Sheriff Cole said, turning toward the cabin.
THIRTY FOUR
Shaw led Agent Hayden, Sheriff Cole, and two deputies toward the front door of Bruner’s cabin. He wondered if Bruner was waiting for them inside.
Sheriff Cole directed three deputies to check the rear and the surrounding forest.
Shaw and Hayden drew their handguns.
As Shaw neared the cabin’s front door, he saw it was open a few inches.
A setup?
Step in - and get blown into the forest?
The sheriff walked up, stood to the side, and knocked on the door.
“Robert Bruner – I’m Sheriff Mason T. Cole with the Chippewa County police. We need to talk to you, sir.”
Silence.
“Mr. Bruner. This is the police. We need to talk now.”
Silence.
The Sheriff gestured for Shaw to try.
Shaw walked to the door, “Mr. Bruner, I’m Special Agent Neal Shaw with the FBI. We need to ask you some questions.”
Silence.
“We’re coming inside, Mr. Bruner,” Shaw said.
Silence.
Shaw nodded to the Sheriff.
Together, they swung the door all the way open.
Weapons drawn, they swept into the main room with two deputies.
Empty.
The Sheriff and two deputies hurried down a hall to check rooms. Seconds later, Shaw heard . . .
“Two bedrooms clear!”
“Bathroom clear!”
“Kitchen clear!”
“Back door clear!”
Shaw walked over to what looked like Bruner’s office area in the corner of the main room. He saw unplugged cables from a missing desktop computer. A printer was plugged in. Work papers from AutoSystemics Corp covered the desk.
He saw rough engineering schematics for what looked like the electronics of self-driving cars. Plus more engineering designs for automotive driveline systems.
Agent Shaw said, “Video all this stuff and email it to our GV engineers and to NHTSA technicians. Ask them what he’s been working on here. Then box it all and fly it to them.”
Agent Hayden nodded. He took out his phone and began videotaping the cabin interior in great detail. Then he took close-up photos of the engineering sketches and designs.
On a wall shelf, Shaw saw several photos of a woman and young girl with Bruner, obviously Bruner’s deceased wife and daughter. His daughter looked happy. His wife looked depressed.
“No sign of Bruner in the woods,” Sheriff Cole said, hanging up his phone.
“But he was here today,” Shaw said, holding up today’s St. Ignace News.
“Looks like he left in a hurry.”
“Check the Mackinac Bridge video. Maybe they taped him heading back down into the lower peninsula.”
Hayden made the call, then pointed at a small camera lens attached to a cabin ceiling beam. “Maybe we can watch video of him leaving this cabin.”
“Or maybe he’s watching us search it now,” the Sheriff said. “I saw sophisticated CCTV and detection devices in the woods.”
The mention of CCTV made Neal Shaw’s stomach freeze. CCTV had destroyed his life once.
He remembered the night a hidden CCTV camera had watched Jenna, his fiancé, and him arrive in her apartment. They’d come back from checking out the venue for their upcoming wedding party. But he was running late for a DC flight, so he kissed Jenna good-by and raced to LaGuardia.
They failed to notice the tiny camera hidden in Jenna’s bookcase. The camera was placed there by a man named Carlos Campo, a drug lord that Shaw had arrested, testified against, and helped convict. Campo was sentenced to fifteen years, and swore revenge against Shaw and Jenna. Then seven months later, a prison-overcrowding early-release program mistakenly released Campo from prison.
Four days later, when Shaw was in London, Campo entered Jenna’s home and stabbed her to death. But not before she clawed his DNA under her fingernails and left her blood on his clothes. It took Shaw a year to track down Campo in a New Orleans brothel. When Campo resisted arrest and started to fight, Shaw was delighted. He knocked Campo’s left knee from its socket and seven teeth from his gums. Campo got life with no parole, but free dental work.
Jenna’s death devastated Shaw. She died because of him . . . because of his job. This job. Since then, he’d feared committing to a serious relationship with a woman. As soon as she felt himself growing close, he forced himself to back away. It wasn’t easy. But it was better to hurt himself than hurt another innocent woman like Jenna.
What right did he have to place someone he loved in harm’s way?
* * *
Robert Khalid Bruner sat at the small desk in his Hamilton Inn room in Mackinaw City. He looked out the window at the majestic five-mile-long Mackinac Bridge he’d driven across to reach Michigan’s lower peninsula.
He had planned to hide out in the Hamilton Inn for a couple of days. Lots of tourists, families with kids, strangers, perfect to disappear among. But an hour ago in Ryba’s Fudge Shoppe he recognized a retired GV engineer he’d briefly worked with. The guy seemed to recognize him.
Time to leave.
But first he’d finish reviewing his surge programming schedule. Tonight, he’d extend his XCar surge to include some new XCars arriving at the dealerships for the upcoming nationwide launch. Bruner was delighted to learn that some greedy dealers had already sold new XCars to even greedier customers. So he’d target these XCar buyers first.
Soon after, he’d extend a surge program to include other popular GV models.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before the FBI and police linked the surging XCars to him. Agents would interview GV engineers he’d worked with. Maybe they already had. The engineers would say he expressed anger at the company for the car that killed his wife and daughter. Others heard him swear revenge after losing his suit against GV. Some would probably mention, quite correctly, that no other engineer had the genius to develop the sophisticated technology needed to launch the remote surge system. Genius has some disadvantages.
Bruner sensed the police might have already issued a person-of-interest BOLO for him . . . or would any minute. They could be handing out flyers with his photo, or issuing Breaking News bulletins on television.
The FBI and police would eventually learn about his cabin near Frenchman’s Lake, even though he purchased the cabin using an alias. His wife had packages and furniture delivered there in her married name. Property records would give them the cabin address. They’d find the cabin.
But they’d find no incriminating evidence relating to the surges. He’d removed it all. They’d find only innocent technical drawings on some electromagnetic suspension systems, and self-driving, driverless vehicles ... red herrings to waste their time.
Of course, Nester Van Horn would send, or already had sent, thugs to eliminate him . . . the only link to him and Krugere and the surges. It was only a matter of time before they showed up.
He wondered if Van Horn’s thugs had already tracked him to the cabin. Maybe they were there now. He’d check to see.
He took out his iPhone, hit an apps icon and seconds later saw a live view of the interior of his cabin.
COPS!
Already searching my cabin . . .
He recognized the fat-gut sheriff from Frenchman Lake, but not the two other young men wearing blue windbreakers. They turned and he saw FBI on their backs as they checked his desk area.
FBI! Impressive.
He watched them search the cabin for clues. He’d removed everything that might reveal his grand surge attack . . . deleted all documents from his co
mputer – and from the Cloud.
Still, one can never be too careful. There was a chance he’d forgotten something small but incriminating.
He suddenly wondered if he accidentally left an old Panama KeyBankOne statement beneath a closet floorboard? He didn’t think he did . . . but maybe. If they found that statement, they might try to seize some of his assets. He’d stuffed millions into that account and other offshore accounts.
To be safe he grabbed his phone and dialed the Panama KeyBankOne and wire-transferred his money to two new secret numbered Caribbean accounts, one on Nevis, another on St. Kitts. Tomorrow he’d move the same money to two other Belize accounts.
Looking at the two FBI men, he realized they were involved because they’d determined that the XCars surges used the Internet Wi-Fi . . . automatically giving the FBI jurisdiction.
Bruner watched the agents walk around the area, then start walking back down the road a hundred yards until he could no longer see them.
He stared at the cabin. His family cabin. So many warm, serene memories with his wife, Abeela, and baby daughter, Bahiya. Glorious family times, until their Global Vehicles car accident destroyed their family. The cabin was a revered site, sacred as a mosque, but now infidels desecrated it with their presence. He could no longer go back to it. No one could.
He had no choice.
He dialed a number on his phone.
On the third ring, as programmed, he watched his family cabin explode into thousands of fiery pieces.
THIRTY FIVE
Chuck Chensen sat in Turner Advertising’s cramped, cool, basement room that housed the central air-conditioning equipment.
His private hideaway.
He hung up his burner phone after updating Nester Van Horn on what Madison said about the XCar investigation. But Van Horn wanted more answers.
“Find out what the FBI thinks is causing the XCar surging!” Van Horn demanded.
“But asking Madison too many questions about the FBI will raise her suspicion about why I’m asking her. She’s a very intuitive woman.”
“So . . . you’re in advertising, right?”
“Right.”
“So be creative!”
“Creative how?”
“I don’t know. You’ll come up with something.”
And suddenly Chensen did. A simple plausible idea.
“I’ll go tell her I placed a terrific ad schedule on Monday Night Football for our Belgian Brown Ale client. That will please her. Then I’ll recommend we run an XCar commercial with it, and we’ll discuss which XCar commercial a bit. And I’ll segue and ask, “Oh, by the way, has the FBI figured out what’s causing the XCar surges?”
“That works. Let me know.”
Chensen left the AC room and took the elevator up to the executive floor.
As he approached Madison’s open conference room door, he heard her and Kevin talking inside. They were discussing the XCar. Chensen froze outside the door before they saw him. He took out his phone and pretended to be listening to a caller as people walked by. Instead he listened to Madison and Kevin.
“I just spoke with Brooke Daniels,” Madison said.
“She remember anything else?” Kevin asked.
“More about Robert Bruner. Her cubicle was right next to his. She says he made a lot of calls to a guy named . . . ah Van Cook, er Van Born, no wait . . . Van Horn!”
Chensen felt a sharp pain in his gut. Daniels heard Bruner talk to Van Horn!
As people walked by, Chensen smiled and nodded as though agreeing with someone on his phone.
“That’s interesting,” Madison said.
“Why?” Kevin asked.
“Because Agent Shaw told Brooke he found Van Horn’s name on some charred paper in Bruner’s cabin rubble.”
“What about his first name?” Kevin asked.
“Brooke said it was weird.”
“Weird how?”
“She couldn’t remember. But minutes later she called back and told me it was - Nester! Nester Van Horn!”
In the hall, Chensen almost dropped his cell phone. He felt like bands of steel were squeezing his chest.
“She’s absolutely sure?” Kevin asked.
“Yes. Actually, I think I heard or read the name Nester Van Horn somewhere in the petroleum business a while back.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember,” Madison said.
“Let’s Google him.”
Chensen heard tapping on a keyboard.
“Whoa!” Kevin said, “I’ve pulled up 13,342 references for Nester Van Horn!”
“Who is he?”
“A lobbyist for a blue chip Washington DC consulting firm. Offices in Detroit and LA. He’s also a director of a consortium called SmartEnergies Corp.”
“Who are his clients?”
“Looks like some energy conglomerates and corporations.”
“Interesting,” Madison said. “So what do we know? First, we know that a brilliant electronics system engineer, Robert Bruner, was fired by GV for selling technical information to competitors. We also know that Bruner was enraged at GV because he believes his wife’s GV car’s brakes failed and killed his wife and daughter.”
“And according to Brooke,” Kevin said, “we know that Robert Bruner made phone calls, many calls, to this executive named Nester Van Horn.”
“The same name found on a scrap of paper in Robert Bruner’s destroyed cabin.”
In the hallway, Chensen wondered what else they found in Bruner’s cabin?
“So which client companies does Van Horn’s SmartEnergies Corp, consult for?” Madison asked.
“The major clients seem to be the railroads, coal industry, the petroleum consortium, some airlines, service stations, and energy companies that use coal, fuel, and natural gas.”
Madison paused. “So the question is - why would Bruner, an automotive engineer, talk often to Nester Van Horn, a lobbyist for railroads, airlines and various energy industries?”
Chensen smiled to a secretary walking by and pretended to listen to a phone call.
“I don’t know why,” Kevin said. “Bruner would be more likely to talk to other automotive engineers and car-biz guys.”
Madison nodded. “We have to tell Special Agent Shaw about this Bruner-Van Horn connection now. He and the FBI can check Van Horn’s phone records, email, tweets. See how often he talked to Bruner.”
“And who else Van Horn and Bruner talked to,” Kevin said.
They talked to ME! Chensen thought, feeling his guts churn. But we always talked on our burner phones. Or did Bruner call me with his office phone? Maybe. The cops can access his phone call records. Chensen felt perspiration bead up on his lips.
“Who you calling?” Kevin asked her.
“Agent Shaw.”
Chensen heard her make the call and wait. Seconds later, she hung up.
“What’s wrong?” Kevin asked.
“His message box is full.”
* * *
Chase Chensen was relieved Madison couldn’t leave Shaw the voice message. Time was of the essence. He hurried back down to his basement AC Room and locked the door. He took out his burner and dialed Van Horn who picked up fast.
“Bad news!” Chensen said.
“Talk!”
“Madison just linked Bruner to you!”
Van Horn was silent so long Chensen thought the line disconnected.
“ME?”
“Yeah.”
“How the fuck –?”
“Madison knows some woman engineer at the GV Technical Campus. A college friend. The woman worked in the cubicle beside Bruner at GV. She heard him phone you a lot.”
“I told the crazy bastard to never phone me from GV!”
“Well, he did. And she overheard him.”
Pause. “What exactly did she hear?”
“I have no idea.”
“What’s the engineer’s name?”
“Brooke Daniels.”
“You thin
k she heard Bruner talk about the surge?”
“I don’t know. Madison didn’t say Brooke mentioned the surge. But it’s possible. Maybe we better assume so.”
“We have to! Where is Daniels now?”
“Still works at GV.”
“And where is Madison?”
“Here at our agency.”
“Who did Madison tell about Bruner phoning me?”
“She phoned the FBI guy, Agent Neal Shaw, but his voice mail was full. She’ll try again.”
“Tell me when she reaches him. The boss will explode. He’ll want to accelerate the attacks. Things could go very bad very fast.”
Which means bloody, Chensen knew. He didn’t like bloody. He’d originally agreed to their program because Van Horn said they’re might be a few surges, minor fender-benders, stall outs, slow surges. A few bumps and bruises. Some air bag scrapes. Minor injuries. Minimal stuff.
But these first surge accidents had been serious. Injuries. Some deaths. And they were planning many more surge-accidents. And probably causing some serious harm to this GV engineer, Brooke Daniels.
Chensen didn’t like it. This was not what he’d agreed to.
But what could he do now? He was in too deep. Van Horn and Krugere had him trapped.
THIRTY SIX
Nester Van Horn’s expensive alligator shoes clicked along the gleaming marble floor of the reception area of AsiaCars North American Headquarters, a large modern chrome and granite, brick and tinted-green glass building near Rochester Hills, Michigan.
Van Horn swiped his visitor pass through the machine, nodded at the reception guard, walked over, and stepped into the private executive elevator.
On the twentieth floor, he hurried toward EVP Kurt Krugere’s immense corner office. As he entered Krugere’s anteroom, his assistant, Grunella, a six-two Amazon, rushed over like a middle-linebacker to tackle him.
“You have no appointment, Mr. Van Horn!”
“He’ll see me.”
At six-four, two thirty, Van Horn brushed Grunella’s considerable arm aside and barreled on into Krugere’s office.
Van Horn closed the door and sat in the black leather chair opposite Krugere’s massive desk. Krugere was on the phone berating a sales manager for missing his sales target.
