by Mike Brogan
“Bruner . . .”
“What?
“He’s alive!”
* * *
Nester Van Horn drove along Jefferson Avenue, looked across the Detroit River at the Canadian shore, and changed his mind.
He no longer agreed with Krugere. The meeting in Benny’s Bar could not simply be explained as a Bruner job interview, because chances were Brooke Daniels overheard Bruner say something incriminating about the surges. Chances were that she’d also soon remember something else . . . and then immediately phone Agent Shaw and Madison with the news.
News that could ultimately lead to me!
Van Horn’s instincts were usually right in situations like this. And right now his instincts told him to get the fuck out of Dodge!
Why not get out? He had serious money waiting in offshore accounts. He had four new identities waiting to be used. He had no family waiting for him. He was free and clear.
And he didn’t need this deadly game anymore. Staying in the USA was gambling with his life. Brooke Daniels had linked him to Robert Bruner and Kirk Krugere. And soon, the authorities will link them all to the surge accidents and deaths.
If caught, Krugere will give me up in a flash to cut a better deal with the prosecutor. Or worse, he’ll try to eliminate me – the only link between him and Bruner!
Van Horn looked across the Detroit River at the tall, glitzy Caesar’s Gambling Casino in Windsor, Canada. The sun glinted off the hotel glass onto the royal blue water flowing between the US and Canada.
In minutes, he could easily get over to Windsor, Canada. His getaway country. From there, he’d fly to a certain non-extradition country he knew well. Over the years, he’d hidden over forty million dollars in six offshore banks in Belize, Nevis, Cairo, and the Grand Caymans. He’d live very comfortably.
But first, he had to make two problems disappear. Brooke Daniels. And Madison, the advertising woman. They and the authorities were connecting too many dots too quickly . . . dots that led to him. He didn’t want the authorities chasing him from country to country internationally.
Van Horn knew about being chased.
He was chased by a monster until he was fifteen. His stepfather, Volker Van Horn, a cruel and sadistic man, chased and beat him weekly. He also beat Van Horn’s mother until she ran away when Van Horn was ten. Volker had also sexually abused Van Horn’s two sisters, forcing them into drugs and prostitution that eventually resulted in their early deaths.
As a small child, when you’re chased by a monster, you run away from him. When you’re old enough, you stop running. At fifteen Van Horn was six-one, one-hundred eighty pounds. He was old enough. And angry.
One night, Volker, roaring drunk as usual, attacked him with his favorite blood-stained Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger. Nester Van Horn was ready for him. He let his stepfather strike a couple of blows to his arms and legs to collect some self-defense-bruises. Van Horn moaned and slumped over like he’d been hurt bad.
Then as Volker started to hit him again - Van Horn spun around and slashed an eight-inch Japanese kitchen knife across Volker’s neck. Volker’s severed carotid artery pumped blood like a runaway garden hose. Within minutes the pool of blood was twice the size of Volker’s body.
The police arrested Nester.
But his two sisters testified they saw Volker start beating their brother with the bat. And many times before. His mother also returned and testified that Volker abused her and Van Horn often. Three neighbors swore Volker beat young Nester with the same baseball bat in the back yard on many occasions.
The judge ruled that Nester’s attack was self-defense and allowed Nester to live with his mother.
But now, once again, Nester sensed that it was time to run.
And he knew exactly where.
FIFTY FIVE
Smooth as silk, Bruner thought, heading south on I-75 toward Detroit. His programs were proceeding very smoothly.
He drove toward his secret house purchased under an alias three years ago. The same house where he created the un-creatable . . . his highly sophisticated remote OBD II entry system. Experts said could it not be built.
So he built it.
The house even afforded him an easy getaway, if needed. Detroit Metro Airport was three minutes away.
As he drove near his house, he watched a Delta 737 roar up into the sky and then an American flight touch down. Planes were landing every thirty seconds. Busy time of day at Detroit Metro. And soon the expressways would be busy clearing away the accidents.
Minutes later, he pulled into the garage of his wood-frame two-story home with tall green shrubs hugging the front and sides. It looked nearly identical to other homes in the clean, middle-class neighborhood . . . which was why he bought it.
Inside was anything but identical.
He lowered the garage door and walked into the kitchen. Exactly as he’d left it three weeks ago. He checked the door locks. Intact. He checked the hidden door and window threads. None broken. No one had entered.
He went upstairs and unlocked the door to his special room - two former bedrooms restructured into his large sophisticated command center. He settled into his Aeron chair and looked at the five large-screen monitors already running programs he’d turned on from his car minutes ago. He checked the screens – all working well. He felt an enormous sense of power pass through him.
He was looking at the heart of his unique remote-access system. It used the industry’s most advanced communications and Internet hardware and specially designed software. Most paid for with funds from wealthy Al Qaeda and ISIS sympathizers. Some acquired from bribed government employees who closed their eyes when certain equipment vanished from government warehouses.
The rest of the equipment came from brilliant but expensive hackers and programmers in Eastern European countries. Money was not an issue.
The equipment and programs housed many things, including the VINs, vehicle identification numbers of cars he’d selected to be surged. His hackers had also copied, some would say stolen, the necessary access codes for all GV vehicles . . . as well as most access codes for many major auto brands, like Ford, GM, Honda, Toyota, Kia, and others. The vehicles’ Wi-Fi gave him direct entrance through their OBD II portals. Once through their portals he could disable the factory-imbedded codes . . . turn them off, or override them, and then take over driving the vehicles.
Bottom line, he, Robert Khalid Bruner, could access any of the approximately fifty million Wi-Fi-connected vehicles on the roads of America.
He was in the driver’s seat.
FIFTY SIX
Nester Van Horn continued to worry about what else Brooke Daniels might have heard Robert Bruner say over the phone. Did the idiot blurt out, “surge”? Or say “surge XCars”?
It was possible, because Bruner worked at GV when he conceived and engineered his surge program. Knowing Bruner, he might have blabbed something on the phone that Daniels overheard in her cubicle.
Brooke Daniels is the only person who can link me to Bruner and Krugere. She saw all three of us in Benny’s Bar.
She has to be eliminated.
Van Horn had called his Fixer, Cecil Mordeck, but the man hadn’t returned his calls.
Outside a CVS, he dialed Mordeck’s number again and let the phone ring. Mordeck was a 24/7 gambler. Probably at Detroit’s Greektown Casino, his favorite, or maybe across the river at Caesars Casino in Windsor. No answer.
He dialed Mordeck again. After several rings, Mordeck picked up.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?” Van Horn said, knowing Mordeck would recognize his voice.
“Greektown. Flying to Vegas tomorrow morning.”
“I have a problem.”
“Where?” Mordeck said.
“Someone in Detroit.”
“When?”
“Now!”
“I’m real busy with stuff today.”
“Four-times-my-normal-fee busy?”
Pause. “I’ll squee
ze you in.”
Greedy bastard! But reliable, Van Horn knew. Mordeck was the right man for handling the Daniels woman fast - before she remembered more incriminating things Bruner said, or before she gave her official statement to the FBI.
Obviously, Van Horn realized, the two bozos he’d sent to eliminate Bruner at the cottage screwed up. Bruner wound up killing them. Van Horn had underestimated Bruner’s ability to protect himself.
“Put all job details in our usual email draft,” Mordeck said.
“I just did.”
Van Horn had already loaded all details on Brooke Daniels into a special email draft for Mordeck. Her age, address, car, working hours, her LA Fitness club in Royal Oak, the direction she walked home after her workout, and two photos of her he’d lifted from Facebook.
Mordeck would log in to the same email draft and read all details, write them down, then delete them from the draft document. No email was sent. No evidence Van Horn and Mordeck had ever communicated about Brooke Daniels today.
“I do the deed when I see the fee in my account,” Mordeck said.
“You’ll see it within ten minutes.” He knew that Mordeck needed the fee to pay his gambling debts.
They hung up.
Van Horn went to his computer, wired the money to Mordeck’s account. Then he logged onto their joint Hotmail draft account, and rechecked the Brook Daniels details he’d entered earlier for Mordeck. Everything was accurate.
Tomorrow, there’d be only one piece of evidence that Van Horn communicated with Mordeck.
Brooke Daniels’ obituary.
FIFTY SEVEN
DETROIT
Madison worked with Pete Naismith in the GV conference room when she got a call from her PetHealth client, Irene.
Madison wondered why Irene called again, since she’d called twenty minutes ago to wish her a quick recovery from her near-death underwater experience.
“Hi, Irene.”
“Sorry to call again, Madison, especially after your taxi -”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“We just learned Purina is launching a massive campaign next week for a new raw pet food. Tons of TV, newspaper ads, and Internet ads. If possible, we’d like to briefly discuss our response strategy with you tomorrow at 3 p.m. Get your thoughts.”
“Sure. But we’ll have to talk via Skype. I’m in Michigan.”
“No problem.”
“Just email me about the Purina campaign and your initial thinking.”
“We will. And thanks, Madison. We really appreciate this. I shouldn’t bother you now, but our chairman really values your thoughts.”
“You’ll get them, Irene. Until tomorrow at 3 p.m.”
As they hung up, Madison got a text message to call Brooke Daniels. The text read: “I remembered something that might help. Not sure. Call me.”
Madison dialed Brooke’s number and she picked up on the first ring.
“Maddy . . .”
Brooke sounded out of breath, like she was running. Madison quickly grew concerned. “Is someone chasing you?”
“Yeah! StairMaster! Level 9! You’re talking to the Aerobics Queen of Global Vehicles.”
“Congratulations! So what’s up besides your heart rate?”
“Robert Bruner.”
“What about him?”
“Have they found him?”
“Not yet.”
“I remembered something he said more than once. I’m not sure if it can help, but I thought I should tell you guys.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, Bruner always complained how, as a kid, he was bullied by Iraqi Sunnis because he was Shia. They shunned him. And later he complained how US automotive engineers shunned him because he held so many more patents and awards than they did.”
“I see.” Madison wondered where Brooke was going with this.
“Well, Bruner always said he greatly admired someone in history who was also shunned by those around him.”
“Who? A leper?”
“No. Romulus. The twin of Remus. They were both shunned by their protectors and then raised by wolves. Later Romulus became so famous they named Rome after him. The struggle of Romulus really inspired Robert Bruner.”
What’s your bottom line Brooke? Madison wondered.
“So much so, Bruner said some day he would live in a town called Romulus.”
“Are you suggesting that Bruner might have a house in a town named Romulus?”
Brooke huffed even harder on her StairMaster.
“Well . . . he said it more than a few times. Some day I’ll live in Romulus. He sounded like he really meant it.”
Madison paused a moment. “Anything seems possible with Bruner. We’ll get a list of towns named Romulus.”
“You may not need a list,” Brooke said, huffing harder
“Why?”
“There’s a Romulus twenty-five minutes from where you are right now.”
“Where?” Madison asked.
“Near Detroit Metro Airport.”
Madison felt her pulse pump up. “Did you tell Agent Shaw?”
“No. I don’t have his number. His card’s at my office.”
“I’ll call him. The FBI can search home owner titles and rentals. See if Bruner has a place in Romulus.”
“Makes sense.”
“And Brooke . . .”
“Yeah?”
Madison paused. “Again, please be careful.”
“Okay.”
Madison heard Brooke’s footsteps slow way down on the Stairmaster.
“Any idea where Bruner might be?” Brooke asked.
“We think somewhere in Michigan. But we’re not sure.”
“You think Bruner could come after me for helping you and the FBI?”
Madison paused. “It’s possible. But he may be too busy hiding from the FBI right now to come after you. But still, be aware of strangers.”
“Yes, mom!”
They laughed and hung up.
Madison turned and noticed a strange man behind her. A uniformed handyman she hadn’t seen before. He was adjusting a big screen television monitor. But he was not wearing the green GV handyman uniform.
She also noticed Pete was not in the room.
FIFTY EIGHT
In his home command center, Bruner rechecked his secret nationwide, multi-car-brand attack - Road Rage.
He envisioned cars driving through red lights . . . store windows . . . stop signs . . . pedestrian crossings . . . one-way streets . . . road construction zones!
He pictured cars surging, braking, zigzagging . . . going in circles . . . going out of control . . . going off mountain cliffs.
Like playing Stock Car Extreme, his favorite video game.
He pictured drivers screaming, bleeding, begging to be saved.
Like my people begged to be saved.
He would surge many more GV models. But he’d also surge the Big Three cars - GM, Ford, and Chrysler - two of whom had unjustly fired him for trumped-up bogus reasons in the past. He scanned his hit list:
Ford:
Fiesta
Fusion
Focus
Taurus
General Motors:
Impala
Malibu
Camaro
Cadillac
Chrysler:
Jeep
300
Pacifica
Fiat
Toyota:
Corolla
Camry
Tacoma
Honda:
Civic
Accord
Fit
Kia:
Sportage
Sorento
Rio
All these Wi-Fi-loaded brands would experience Road Rage.
And Road Rage would begin at a very precise moment.
The moment his wife and daughter died – as a direct result of GV’s negligent braking system.
Luckily, the moment was also the best time to create maximum road chaos. R
ush hour! Bumper-to-bumper-freeways! Rush-hour idiots. Everyone racing to get home. Some would make it home. Some would make it to hospitals. Some would make it to the morgue.
All thanks to the device in front of him. It alone could activate the Road Rage surge for the thousands of cars selected.
After everything, he’d collect videos of surges. Most expressway and major street locations had traffic cameras. And iPhones would capture spectacular crashes. He’d collect the best videos, then watch his handiwork unfold on his new huge screen 4K television with four times the pixels. A visual so real he’d feel the surges.
He turned to his computer and entered the vehicle codes for Ford and GM and Chrysler vehicles. Then he entered the codes for Toyota, Honda, Kia and the others.
An hour later all his programming was set up.
Road Rage was locked and loaded - ready to launch. Once started, it couldn’t be stopped. Not by NSA, not by any outside technical experts.
Only one thing could possibly stop it: the object right in front of him. A very simple activating device that no one would ever suspect could be involved in Road Rage, a device that might not even be noticed, and certainly not be considered critical, or even involved with the highly sophisticated launch. He looked at the small device and smiled. It had been with him for so long it felt like family.
After Road Rage he’d leave America for a new life in Yemen. In the ultimate luxury he’d rightly earned. His eight-thousand-square-foot villa in the Saana hills attended to by servants, who, along with his three twelve-year-old brides-to-be, awaited him. His just reward in this life.
He looked down at his projected Road Rage estimates. Estimated vehicles damaged or totaled: 26,750.
Estimated people with minor injuries: 14,960.
Estimated people with serious injuries: 11,380.
Estimated people critically injured: 4,870.
Estimated people killed: 3,780.
FIFTY NINE
After her forty-minute StairMaster workout at LA Fitness, Brooke Daniels felt like she’d climbed Mount Everest. She showered, dressed, headed outside, and starting walking the four blocks to her new apartment in Royal Oak, a trendy suburb north of Detroit filled with yuppies, guppies, puppies, and geezers.
