by Mike Brogan
Madison thought she saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“That was the Director of the FBI, Andrew Manning. He, the Homeland Security Director, and the Director of National Intelligence are meeting with President Ashwood. The country’s best tech specialists from the NSA, CIA, and Homeland Security trying to develop a way to stop Bruner’s remote satellite signal from entering the OBD II portals and taking control. They’re trying to develop an OBD signal-blocker . . . but they need more time.”
“Time we don’t have!” Pete said with frustration.
“What if they can’t block his signal?” Madison asked.
“Then the President is considering a driving curfew for XCars, and the GV Carmel SUV and 6Pack Pickup. Maybe all GV vehicles. No one can drive their GV cars until the surging is fixed.”
“Can he do that?”
“Yes,” Shaw said. “The president’s number one duty is to protect Americans. Bruner is attacking Americans. GV vehicles are his weapons. They are crashing into other vehicles, causing damage and injuries and deaths to Americans in several states. Bruner’s surging cars are a national terrorist attack! The president can issue an Executive Order Curfew to help stop it.”
“Is Bruner a confirmed terrorist?” Naismith said.
“Yes! His full name is Robert Khalid Bruner,” Shaw said. “As I mentioned, his parents were killed by a US bomb in Iraq. His mother was a devout Muslim. An Imam in London radicalized Bruner after Bruner’s wife died. He’s committed to jihad. Robert Khalid Bruner is an American jihadist.”
“And our deadliest!” Pete said.
FIFTY THREE
“Brooke, did you get my message warning you to be aware of strange men around you?
“Yes. I’ve been in non-stop meetings. I’ll be careful.”
“Please do.”
“I just heard Bruner died in a cottage fire!” Brooke said.
“It wasn’t Bruner,” Madison said, hitting her speaker button. She sat with Pete Naismith in a Global Vehicles conference room.
“What . . . ?”
“We think Bruner killed the man, placed his ID on the body, then burned down the cottage with the body inside.”
“My God! I worked five feet from Bruner for years! You’re saying he’s a cold-blooded killer.”
“An ice-cold mass murderer!”
“You think he’s behind the surging problem?”
“We think he designed it, engineered it, and is now implementing it.”
Brooke paused. “If anyone could, Bruner could. Like I said, he’s an engineering genius. But a scary-genius. And he phoned that guy Van Horn a lot.”
“Van Horn is missing. He works for a big consulting firm – SmartEnergies. They represent some airlines, a petroleum consortium, railroads, service stations, auto repair, electronic components, and other industries.
“I saw Van Horn’s picture online,” Brooke said. “Which reminded me of something else about Bruner.”
“What?”
“I saw Bruner and Van Horn together with a third man.”
“When?”
“On one of my extremely rare Friday night dates at a place called Benny’s Bar in Birmingham. I was shocked to see Bruner, a Muslim, in a bar with booze on their table. All three men wore baseball hats and hooded sweatshirts. Bruner never dressed like that. Bruner didn’t see me. And a few minutes ago, I remembered seeing the third man somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere in the automotive media a while ago. His picture may have been in Automotive News or the Detroit Free Press auto section. I can’t remember where.”
“What did he look like?”
“Mid-to-late fifties. Tall, big man, dark hair, thick-chested, couldn’t see his whole face well. Mostly profile. But in the bar, I noticed how the three men kept checking out anyone who walked close. And they whispered a lot. Whispered even though no one was seated near them. Weird!”
“If you saw the third guy again, could you recognize him?”
Pause. “I think so.”
“Brooke, hang on. I’m going online to check executives at Van Horn’s Consulting firm. Maybe the third guy works with him. Can you go online now?”
“I’m already on.”
“Open up Van Horn’s consulting firm, SmartEnergies Corp.”
“Okay . . . got it.”
“Now click on Executive Team.”
“I’m clicking . . .”
Madison also clicked on Executive Team and it flashed a large group photo of management executives, including the board of directors and top executives.
“Brooke, you have Executive Team picture up yet?”
“Yeah . . .”
Madison looked at the executives. She thought she recognized a couple of faces from auto industry events she’d attended a couple of years ago, back when her agency handled the World Motors advertising.
“Brooke, do you see Van Horn?”
“Yes. Third guy from right, first row.”
“Do you recognize any executive other than Van Horn?”
Brooke paused several moments. “No . . . only Nester Van Horn.”
“Load the auto repair group and click on management team.”
“Doing it now.”
“Any men look familiar in that group?”
Brooke paused longer. “No.”
“Okay, let’s try one of SmartEnergies client companies. Check the airline industry group and click on executives.”
“Okay.”
“Any look familiar?”
A pause. “No.”
“Try the Electronics & Components board.”
“Okay . . .”
Madison waited, scanning the three long rows of executives. “Anyone?”
Longer pause.
“Hang on . . .” Brooke said.
“What?”
“Middle row. Sixth guy from the left.”
Madison checked the sixth man. She squinted, saw the man, and actually thought she might recognize him, a large guy in a tux. But from where? Maybe the Detroit Charity Auto Show Ball.
Brooke said, “That’s the man I saw with Bruner and Van Horn in Benny’s Bar.”
“You sure? You said the bar was dark and they wore baseball hats.”
“I’m good with faces. His eyes, nose and thick upper body build look identical. It’s him. But even though I recognize him, it doesn’t mean he’s involved with any of this, right?”
“Right. But he might be an important connection to someone who is.”
“But there’s no caption. No name.”
“I know. But I actually think I might remember him from the Detroit Charity Auto Show.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll show him to Pete Naismith here,” Madison said. “He knows everyone in the Detroit car biz.”
Madison turned to Pete.
“Pete, do you recognize this man?”
Naismith moved closer to the photo.
“Sure. That’s Kurt Krugere, the EVP of AsiaCars Sales. Word is he’s in line to become chairman. I’m positive that’s him, but let me confirm it on the AsiaCars website.”
Naismith tapped on his iPad for a moment and brought up the board of directors of AsiaCars. “See - here’s Krugere.”
Madison looked at the photo. Absolutely the same man Brooke just identified. The third man she saw in Benny’s Bar.
“Brooke, you identified the EVP of AsiaCars Sales, Kurt Krugere.”
“Let me make absolutely sure. I’ll check on the AsiaCars website.”
Seconds later, Brooke said, “That’s him. Kurt Krugere. I’m positive. So why’d he whisper in a dark bar with Van Horn and Bruner and nobody around them?”
“Seems strange.”
“Also strange that Robert Bruner often whispered with Van Horn on the phone.”
Madison suddenly grew concerned for Brooke again.
“Brooke . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t mention the FBI or tell
anyone you’re helping us.”
“Why?”
“They may tell the wrong people. Bad people are behind this. They’re injuring and killing people in XCars. If they know you’re helping the police . . . they might come after you like they came after me.”
“Warning accepted again,” Brooke said.
Madison remembered a warning she’d failed to heed just after she inherited Turner Advertising from her father. Christine, his secretary, had alerted her about the possibility that some board members might not being as welcoming and helpful as they appeared to be.
“Why?”
“Because they coveted the CEO position you just inherited,” Christine said. “Some thought they earned it. Some are bitter it was given to you. A woman! And some are deceptively charming, but not who they appear to be. So please be careful around them.”
“Who exactly?”
Christine mentioned a few names. But Madison soon got so busy in the first few weeks, she forgot about the warning.
And it almost cost her life.
* * *
As Robert Bruner drove away from the smoldering ruins of his rented cottage in Emmett, he remembered the two thugs who planned to shoot him there, then set fire to the cottage.
From his perch in an oak tree, Bruner had watched the fools approach from a mile away. He even heard their noisy footsteps and chatter approaching the cottage. If they’d simply looked up, they’d have spotted him through the leaves.
But no – they opened the door, looked in, aimed their guns, and stood like statues - until Bruner’s two full-metal-jacket rounds ripped into the back of their skulls.
The men dropped like sacks of cement. He’d climbed down, walked over to them. One guy was blinking into a pool of his blood. Bruner’s mercy shot in the temple stopped the blinking.
Bruner pulled out the man’s wallet. The driver’s license said he was Nickolas Tucker. It also said Tucker was the same height, weight and age as Bruner. Tucker even had the same black hair. Bruner studied the guy’s face and realized they even looked quite similar. Nick Tucker was almost his doppelganger . . . a close Bruner-lookalike.
He saw a yellow sticky note in Tucker’s shirt pocket.
Bruner pulled the note out and recognized Nester Van Horn’s phone number.
Van Horn had sent these two hitmen here to kill me. Let’s give him proof they succeeded.
He dragged Tucker’s body inside the cottage, took Tucker’s wallet with driver’s license and credit cards, and put it in his own pocket. Then Bruner put his own wallet, license, and cards in Tucker’s pants pocket. He also stuffed one of his Visa receipts in Tucker’s back pocket.
Bruner had three other complete sets of IDs he could use, each with driver’s license, credit cards and passport.
He’d dropped two more Bruner Visa receipts in a nearby metal file cabinet. Police would find the receipts, believe that Robert Bruner had been here . . . and yes, Robert Bruner died here.
He grabbed their two gasoline cans and poured most gasoline near the large oil heater in the main room and splashed some on Tucker.
He tossed burning matches onto the gas-soaked wood floor. Flames shot across the floor like a torpedo and engulfed Mr. Tucker-Now-Bruner. Within minutes Tucker would be crispy as Kentucky Fried Chicken. And because the authorities would find Robert Khalid Bruner’s ID on Tucker’s body, they’d assume the dead guy was Bruner.
Outside, he dragged Tucker’s partner into the passenger seat of his SUV and thirty minutes later dumped him into a swampy garbage ditch where forest animals would finish him off.
FIFTY FOUR
You lucky bitch! Chase Chensen cursed to himself as he listened in on Madison’s phone conversation with Brooke Daniels.
He sat in his office at Turner Advertising and adjusted the volume on the miniature listening device hidden in the lining of Madison’s backup briefcase in Detroit. She was given the briefcase at LaGuardia since her primary briefcase sat at the bottom of Napeague Bay, soaking.
Where she should be soaking! Chensen thought.
But she’d escaped. The luckiest woman he’d ever known.
And Chensen heard more bad news. Brooke Daniels had just linked Nester Van Horn to Kurt Krugere.
Chensen grabbed his burner phone and called Van Horn.
“What now?” Van Horn asked.
“Madison just spoke with Brooke Daniels.”
“Again?”
“Yeah . . .”
“So?”
“So Brooke Daniels heard Bruner tell you on the phone that he wanted to pay back GV for the car accident that killed his wife and daughter.”
Van Horn cursed. “Bruner told me that more than once.”
“He told others at GV, too.”
“The idiot couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.”
“Did she recognize me?”
“Yes.”
“How?
“A year ago, you had lunch with Bruner in GV’s cafeteria. Brooke was there and her lunch partner told her who you were!”
“Fuck! Any other good news?”
“No. Worse news!”
Van Horn paused. “What . . . ?”
“She remembered that you and Bruner met a man in the Benny’s Bar in Birmingham a few months ago.”
“Yeah, we met Krugere.”
“She knows it was Krugere in Benny’s Bar with you!”
“How the hell does she know it was Krugere?”
“She saw Krugere in an AsiaCars Board of Directors photo on line.”
Van Horn cursed a blue streak.
“I thought your guy was handling Daniels!” Chensen said.
“He couldn’t find her for a while,” Van Horn said.
“How hard can it be? She’s an engineer at GV’s Engineering Campus Center in Rochester Hills. Her photo’s on Facebook.”
“He’ll handle her when she leaves work today.”
“Are you absolutely positive Daniels recognized Krugere as the man in Benny’s Bar?”
“Absolutely!”
“And me too?”
“Yes. She confirmed you from your online SmartEnergies executive group photo!”
Van Horn groaned like a wounded animal. “I hate the fucking Internet! This keeps getting worse! So the bottom line is – she’s linked me to Bruner and to Krugere.”
“Correct.”
“The FBI will want to question me. They’ll start looking for me now!”
“That’s very likely.”
Chensen felt Van Horn’s growing fear and rage.
“If Brooke contacts Madison again, tell me what they discuss immediately. Use your burner or our draft email folder.”
They hung up.
Chensen was nervous. If the cops squeeze Van Horn hard enough, he’ll give me up in a heartbeat.
Chensen had a big decision to make. Cut and run . . . or wait and hope Van Horn and Krugere didn’t give him up.
But even if Van Horn eliminates Brooke Daniels, what’s to stop him from eliminating the only remaining connection to him?”
Me.
* * *
What now? Kurt Krugere wondered as Nester Van Horn stormed back into his office just forty minutes after he left it.
When Krugere saw Van Horn’s We-Got-Us-A-Shit-Storm face, he pushed the button that locked his door.
“Brooke Daniels is talking again,” Van Horn said.
“To . . . ?”
“Madison, Pete Naismith, and FBI Agent Shaw.”
“About?”
“More bad news . . .”
Krugere didn’t want to hear more bad news.
“Brooke Daniels told Agent Shaw she saw me and Bruner in Benny’s Bar with you!”
“ME? How the fuck?” Krugere slammed his fist down on his desk, knocking his gold Mont Blanc pen out of its holder.
“She absolutely identified me as the third guy in the bar?”
“Yes.”
“How could she?”
“She saw your picture on th
e AsiaCars Internet site.”
Krugere’s anger rose like molten lava. He jumped up and paced along the window. “Bruner was always a fucking loose cannon! Why’d you hire him?”
“He was the only engineer capable of creating this long-range surge program.”
Krugere felt his face turn crimson. “What if Daniels overheard Bruner mention some seriously incriminating information?”
“Like what?” Van Horn said.
“Like my NAME for starters!”
“My guy’s handling Daniels any minute now.”
Krugere suddenly stopped pacing and sipped his whiskey.
“Wait - if we have to, we can explain our meeting with Bruner.”
“How?”
“We were interviewing him. Vetting him for the Associate Director of Engineering position here at AsiaCars. I heard he had great credentials, lots of patents. Brilliant! A top candidate!”
“So why’d we meet secretly in Benny’s Bar?”
“Simple. I didn’t want my present AsiaCars Associate Director of Engineering to see us talking to Bruner, his possible replacement.”
Van Horn nodded. “That might work. We say we heard Bruner had a great engineering resume. But interviewing him we saw obvious personality flaws. Past employers said he had poor people skills. Too secretive. We learned the guy deceives, denies, connives, and lies. So we decided not to offer him the job.”
Krugere nodded. “Exactly. I think they’ll buy it - but only if Brooke Daniels doesn’t link Bruner to the XCar surges.”
“Right.”
“You told me that all Bruner’s records at his home, and at his UP cabin had been destroyed. Is that correct?” Krugere said.
“Yes.”
“Also all records in the rental cottage where he died in the fire?”
“Right. After our two guys killed Bruner, they burned his body and all his records in the cottage fire.”
“Where are your two guys?”
“Nick and Fern are probably out spending their hit money. I told them not to call me for a few weeks. No contact. No connections until then.”
Krugere nodded. “Okay, handle the Daniels woman and the ad woman, Madison. Fast.”
Van Horn nodded. His phone rang and he answered.
Krugere watched Van Horn’s face drain white, then register shock.
Van Horn slumped in his chair, hung up and looked at the carpet.
“What the fuck now?” Krugere asked.
