Car Wars

by Mike Brogan

  “Airport,” Van Horn said.

  The driver held out his hand.

  Van Horn placed six hundred dollars in it.

  “You never saw me, right?” Van Horn said.

  “Nope. And you never saw me!”

  Sixty-five minutes later, they pulled in at the Windsor International Airport. Van Horn got out with his Louis Vuitton carry-on and walked inside.

  Using one of his backup passports in the name of Jonny Lee Davis, he bought an Air Canada flight to Toronto, connecting to Paris and then Casablanca, Morocco. There, he’d check out beautiful Yasmine, and offer her the chance to live in luxury with him enjoying the millions he’d stashed in offshore banks.

  He paid cash to the ticket agent and she handed him his boarding pass in the name of Jonny Lee Davis. He felt hungry. He strolled down to the small restaurant area and ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a Molson Canadian beer.

  He sipped the cold beer and watched a big screen television where a Toronto Blue Jays runner escaped getting tagged by the first baseman.

  Like I just escaped getting tagged by US Customs, he thought.

  He relaxed. No one to testify against him. No more fear of Cecil Mordeck since Gretchen Strom gave him a fatal injection of potassium cyanide.

  And no fear from Kurt Krugere because he knows that if he gives me up . . . I’ll rat him out big time. And even if the authorities track me down – they won’t find Nester Van Horn! Thanks to my surgically altered face and numerous aliases.

  The loudspeaker announced his Air Canada flight.

  He chugged down the rest of his beer, walked through Security to the departure gate, then strolled toward his aircraft, a shiny new Canadair CRJ.

  He hummed John Denver’s “I’m leaving on a jet plane.”

  He felt incredibly relieved . . .

  . . . then he felt something else.

  A large hand.

  On his shoulder.

  He turned and stared at three tall Canadian police officers with red-banded hats. One officer looked closely at a photo in his hand, then at Van Horn, then back at the photo again.

  “Mr. Jonny Lee Davis?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Please come with us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you bear a very striking resemblance to a man we and US Customs are looking for. A man named Nester Van Horn.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A man who just entered Canada illegally.”

  He held up a color photo of Van Horn stepping from Paco’s raft onto Canadian soil.

  Van Horn felt his beer whoosh back up into his throat.

  SEVENTY

  DETROIT

  Robert Bruner had forgotten how much he loved the thrill of driving his new Harley Low Rider with the sun and wind in his face. And how the wind whipped his fake blond ponytail around. So what if his blond ponytail looked weird with his black eyebrows and mustache. Weird was the new awesome. So was flaunting his big beautiful Harley in the city known for cars.

  He steered onto East Adams Street in downtown Detroit and cruised past Comerica Park where the Detroit Tigers play and then Ford Field where the Detroit Lions play. Traffic seemed lighter than normal.

  But traffic would soon thicken with workers leaving for the day, escaping their offices, eager to drive home.

  And about that time, his Road Rage program would begin to initiate the next stage and send out the surge signals to certain targeted vehicles.

  Bruner noticed that a few cars around him were older, built before Wi-Fi was installed in cars. No Internet. Closed-box cars. Un-surgable! Lucky people. Their cars would probably double in value next week!

  But most cars around him had Wi-Fi. And some might have been specifically targeted in his Road Rage program. Maybe he should try to guess which ones might surge . . .

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear news of his surges. He’d disconnected the Harley’s radio and GPS systems to prevent cops from tracking him.

  But tonight he’d watch the surges!

  Bruner relaxed. No way authorities could have stopped his Road Rage. When the police entered his Romulus command center they’d try to delete the programs running on the five large screen computers. With no success. Then they’d pull the power plugs to cut power to the computers. With no success.

  They’d try to cut power to the house. With no success.

  The programs kept running thanks to two backup generators hidden two floors beneath the basement.

  They’d never even notice, or pay attention to the tiny antique Apple 1 computer wired up to the old Mickey Mouse clock on the coffee-stained card table. It looked like a junk table with an old broken computer, a few old floppy disks, some crayons and coloring book his daughter, Bahiya, played with.

  The Mickey clock had meant so much to his daughter . . . and now to him. He remembered the night her temperature soared to 105.2, and doctors said things did not look good, and that he and his wife should be prepared that she might not survive the night. They feared she’d be in Allah’s hands by morning.

  Then he remembered that she had begged him for a Mickey Mouse clock . . . so he’d hurried to a toy store and bought one. He brought it home and plugged it in beside her bed.

  When Bahiya saw it she smiled. She watched Mickey’s white gloves click from minute to minute until her eyes closed.

  The next morning she woke up with a smile and a 98.1 temperature.

  Her Mickey Mouse clock had saved Bahiya’s life.

  But if the FBI got extremely lucky and an agent pulled the wire from the Mickey Mouse clock to the old Mac . . . before 5:36 it would have to be the luckiest break in FBI history.

  But a short-lived lucky break.

  Because the back-up system would automatically segue into program launch mode in a short time.

  Bruner passed a big Auntie Billie’s Vegetables truck. Then he drove around Detroit’s Grand Circus Park as the People Mover tram rolled past overhead on its track. He saw the colorful new Detroit City Club Apartments and new buildings under construction nearby. A new Detroit was emerging fast. Too bad he wouldn’t be around here to enjoy it. Nor would certain people driving targeted cars.

  He drove onto Michigan Avenue, heading toward his favorite downtown restaurant, Bucharest Grill. He’d eaten there often with his wife and daughter for two reasons: it served the two cuisines he grew up with . . . delicious middle-eastern cuisine and tasty German steaks.

  He parked his bike near the bright red Bucharest sign. His beard itched, so he took it off. He went inside, wearing his blond ponytail and tinted glasses. He walked over to the menu counter and ordered his favorite meal, Chicken Shawarma marinated in garlic sauce and spices and wrapped in warm pita bread, plus a side plate of steak with fried potatoes.

  Bruner sat at a table and moments later a huge black waiter who had obviously eaten all the leftover baklava brought Bruner’s food over.

  He took a bite of Shawarma and it was delicious. The smells and tastes always took him back to his parents’ home back in Tikrit in the good days. Before Saddam and the Americans created the bad days.

  But in America, he’d created his own good days. Things had gone well for him professionally and financially, despite America’s anti-Muslim prejudice. He’d managed to make millions in his various business enterprises, most legal, some less so. And now most of his money was socked away in numbered offshore accounts that would let him live in the lap of luxury forever.

  So would his future jihadi program fees. Like the wealthy sheik who offered him a huge fee to develop a new program that would disable all cell phones in major US cities for two weeks. Americans would cease to exist without their cell phones.

  And Bruner knew a scientist who’d agreed to help him implement the program: They’d named it Dropped Call.

  SEVENTY ONE

  Special Agent Neal Shaw and two other FBI agents led Nester Van Horn to a small interrogation room in Detroit FBI headquarters. They settled into straight-b
ack chairs around an oak table with coffee stains and cigarette burns. Opposite them was a stunning panoramic painting of the Detroit skyline and Windsor, Canada across the river.

  Shaw checked that the room cameras were recording. He sipped his third cup of Death Wish coffee with nuclear-strength caffeine that vibrated him like a tuning fork – but kept him functioning for thirty-two hours without sleep.

  He wanted Nester Van Horn to confirm the name of the person behind the surges. He leaned across the table and stared into Van Horn’s black, close-set eyes. The man looked confident, like he knew his distinguished fifty-thousand-dollar-retainer-lawyer, Hamilton Ainsworth III, would march in and fix things like always.

  Not this time, Nester.

  Van Horn looked around the room, checked his watch, awaiting his attorney.

  “Mr. Van Horn, you are under arrest for your involvement in a criminal vehicle activity which resulted in deaths and serious injuries to XCar drivers in numerous states. That activity illegally manipulated the engine controls of their XCars.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know everything I’m talking about. You helped orchestrate the surge attacks. Your connection to Mr. Robert Bruner and others to be named, as well as certain papers you failed to remove from your basement, will convince any judge or jury of your involvement beyond any reasonable doubt.”

  Van Horn seemed shocked about his basement papers.

  “The jury will be further persuaded by your clandestine and illegal entrance into Canada using the illegal border-crossing services of a convicted felon, one Mr. Paco Ramirez, aka the St. Clair River Rat.”

  Shaw threw the photo of the table. It showed Van Horn stepping from the Zodiac raft into Canada.

  Van Horn blinked at the photo.

  “It’s quite simple, Mr. Van Horn. “With so many deaths and injuries caused by your vehicle-surging program, the prosecutors will undoubtedly be going for the death penalty in three death-penalty states where your surges caused XCar deaths.”

  “I want my attorney.”

  “Bad news, Nester.”

  “What?”

  “Like your colleague, Mr. Mordeck, you’re not entitled to an attorney.”

  “Of course I am! I’m an American citizen!”

  “You’re an American terrorist! And your crime is in the process of being charged as terrorism.” Shaw wasn’t completely sure this would be the case, but a prosecutor thought it extremely likely, so Shaw said it.

  “That means no attorney.”

  “I’m not a terrorist!”

  “You’re a co-conspirator to Robert Khalid Bruner, an avowed jihadist terrorist. You were intimately involved with Bruner’s attack and contributed financially and knowingly supported his terrorist activities!”

  The Bruner connection hit Van Horn hard. He sat back.

  Shaw let it sink in.

  “There is one way you might possibly avoid the death penalty.”

  Van Horn said nothing.

  “Tell us who’s behind you.”

  “I’ve killed no one.”

  “Your Road Rage surge program has killed many, and injured many more.”

  Van Horn looked surprised they knew the Road Rage name.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “We want Kurt Krugere.”

  Van Horn’s blinked at Krugere’s name. Shaw saw panic flash in his eyes.

  “My lawyer, Hamilton Ainsworth III, will come and end this outrageous harassment. You have the wrong man! And you have no real evidence. We’ll sue for false imprisonment. He’ll defend me successfully. He’s already defended me in three cases that were dismissed.”

  “When Mr. Ainsworth arrives, he’ll be dismissed. The reason? We’re charging you as a terrorist. And therefore his considerable and costly talents will not be required. Your terrorist activity does not entitled you to an attorney. So you’ll save his hefty fee.”

  Van Horn stared at the floor.

  Shaw leaned closer to Van Horn and whispered, “Give us Kurt Krugere, or we give you a free trip to a federal prison, or maybe Guantanamo, or maybe a death sentence. Think fast, Van Horn. The offer is on the table until your lawyer arrives.”

  SEVENTY TWO

  Gretchen Strom couldn’t believe the swift turn of events. Just hours ago, she told Nester Van Horn that Cecil Mordeck ratted him out to the FBI. So Van Horn told her to “Handle Mordeck.” She did, and Van Horn paid her immediately.

  But now Van Horn’s head was on the chopping block.

  Which worried her, because Van Horn was a clear and present danger to her. He might reveal her as the FBI mole who’d been feeding him inside information. He might cut himself a better deal.

  She had to tell Krugere. He’d want her to prevent Van Horn from giving the FBI his name.

  She looked at Van Horn. He looked stressed out from Agent Shaw’s interrogation. And from inhaling several cigars a day, eating too much, getting less exercise than an elm. Plus, he had a heart condition. They’d maybe assume heart attack.

  She already had a rare one in mind.

  Of course, the extensive autopsy would come back in a few days or weeks and the medical experts would be completely mystified by the extremely rare cause of his heart attack.

  By the time they figured the cause out, I’ll be on another continent, living well and surviving.

  She knew how to survive. Seven years as a CIA operative in the Ukraine, Slovakia and Crimea taught her how. She liked working overseas until she was unfairly blamed for the unexplained deaths of two of her Ukrainian contacts. Her CIA supervisor, a jealous, vindictive bitch named Frieda refused to believe that Strom’s two Ukrainian contacts had actually brought about their own deaths. The two contacts, good men, had bragged to a friend that they worked with the CIA. Their friend was a Soviet FSB agent. Despite that, Frieda managed to have Strom blamed, shipped back to the States, and dumped in a downgraded FBI job, beneath her expertise.

  A year later, Strom repaid Frieda by anonymously sending their station chief a photo of the bitch in bed with an eleven-year-old girl in Bangkok. It ended the woman’s career.

  Strom watched Special Agent Shaw exit the interrogation room, leaving Van Horn alone. A minute later, Strom entered. Van Horn saw her, leaned close and whispered, “Warn K!”

  She nodded and pretended to adjust some dials on the large screen monitor, part of her Audio Visual responsibilities, then left the room.

  Back in her office, she grabbed her burner and called Krugere. She told him that Van Horn was arrested and linked to the XCar surges.

  “How’d the hell’d they target Van Horn?”

  “I assume from Bruner’s numerous phone calls to him.”

  Kurt Krugere cursed a streak. “Handle V.H.”

  “Impossible . . .”

  “Do it!”

  “Too risky!”

  She paused.

  “If he gives them my name,” Krugere said, “I’ll give them your name!”

  Bastard! Gretchen stood up, deciding it was the time to get out of the game while she still could. But getting out now required serious retirement money.

  “You can do it!” Krugere said. “Do you still have the account at ING Bank in Belgium?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Two hundred thousand will show up in your account today if you handle Van Horn now.”

  “Make it four hundred thousand within fifteen minutes, and I’ll handle this.”

  Pause. “The money’s on its fucking way!”

  She hung up. Gretchen Strom had no problem eliminating men like Van Horn or Cecil Mordeck. Both were criminals. Both killed many innocent people over the years.

  Strom had assassinated only deserving men – two maniacal ISIS rapists in Lebanon and a jihadi killer in Damascus.

  She was enraged that men like Van Horn and Krugere could afford the country’s best legal talent, lawyers that stretched out the legal process to avoid jail time for their wealthy clients.

>   Nester Van Horn’s attorney would argue his case for maybe years. Probably get him a far shorter sentence than he deserved. Bottom line, the American taxpayers would pick up the massive expense of prosecuting his case for years through legal shenanigans.

  She was tired of watching wealthy criminals like Van Horn walk out of courtrooms with a smirk on their faces.

  Van Horn would never walk out of a courtroom again.

  Nor would he walk out of this building.

  SEVENTY THREE

  In the Bucharest Grille Bruner finished his Chicken Shawarma and sipped hot Maghrebi tea like his mother brewed. The tangy mint taste brought back warm memories as a young child in their Tikrit kitchen.

  He looked around the crowded restaurant and noticed the older manager, Hamid, in the far corner still checking him out like earlier. Hamid was an Iranian. A sub-human. Bruner hated them all. They killed his mother’s brothers in the Iraq-Iran war.

  So why is Hamid studying me? He couldn’t possibly recognize me from back when my family ate here! No way! I look completely different.

  He checked his watch. Time to leave. He finished his baklava, then left money on the table.

  As he started to leave, the big-screen television flashed - BREAKING NEWS . . .

  “Police are looking for a man named Robert K. Bruner in connection with the surging cars on streets throughout the country. Mr. Bruner might be in the greater metro Detroit area or southeastern Michigan. Anyone seeing him should call 911 immediately. Do not approach this man. He is considered armed and dangerous.”

  The screen flashed a close-up photo of Bruner’s face. His face faded to a video of an XCar slamming into another car, then faded to a funeral with a man weeping over two caskets - an adult’s and a child’s.

  Bruner pulled his baseball cap down farther over his forehead and eyes, put his dark aviator glasses back on and raised his windbreaker collar.

  He checked Hamid. The guy was still staring at him.

  Bruner turned his back to him, left money on the table, walked outside, and headed over where he’d parked his Harley.

  Hamid did not follow him outside and Bruner relaxed.