by Mike Brogan
Bruner got on his bike. The soft breeze felt good, so he left his helmet off. He leaned forward and kick-started the big Harley. Like always, the roar gave him a rush.
He looked back at the restaurant.
Hamid was outside staring at him. A large security guard stood beside him. Hamid said something to the guard, pointed at Bruner. The guard made a phone call.
Hamid identified him.
Bruner drove off, turned onto West Elisabeth. He shot down a couple of small streets, then hurried off in the direction of the nearby I-75 Expressway interchange.
A minute later, he heard sirens in the distance. The sirens seemed to grow a little closer. Police sirens.
He turned into a street of abandoned stores and homes. Passed some shuttered buildings, a burned-out storefront church, a small laundromat. He should hide out for a while. But where?
Two blocks later, he turned the corner and saw an abandoned warehouse ahead. Its loading-dock door was halfway up. He drove under the door and into the warehouse to the rear of the building. He rolled the Harley to a stop in a dark storage alcove, cut the engine, and listened. The sirens seemed closer. A rear exit door was ten feet behind him. He opened his red Medical Organ Transplant box, took out his Glock 9 mm, and shoved in a full clip.
Two minutes later, he heard the same sirens heading toward I-75.
He’d remain here for a while.
He suddenly wondered if the authorities had possibly learned about his charter flight waiting at Cleveland International Airport.
He called his pilot. “Change of flight plan. And pick me up at Dayton International Airport instead of Cleveland.”
“Same final destination?”
“Yes.”
* * *
In the FBI conference room, Madison watched Agent Shaw’s phone vibrate on the polished oak table. He grabbed it, listened, grew excited, hung up.
“We spotted Bruner!”
“Where?” Madison asked.
“Downtown Detroit. Bucharest Grill. Manager recognized him, but wondered why he was wearing a blond wig with a ponytail and black mustache?”
“The manager sure it’s him?”
“Yes. Recognized him from past dinners with wife and daughter. The dark eyes. Then he recognized his photo on the TV News Alert. Height and weight matched. Manager watched him drive off on a Harley Low Rider. Red medical box on back. Security guard also saw him drive off. The police are in pursuit.”
“And?” she asked.
“He’s disappeared. Probably jumped on I-75 and shot off a few exits later. He could be hiding, or heading God knows where.”
“Any more surging?” Pete Naismith asked.
“Yes. Some early-release XCars. Most minor injuries. But two critical. One fatality.”
Silence.
“Meanwhile,” Agent Hayden said, “we still don’t know if his big Road Rage surge program for other car brands has launched automatically.”
“Or which brands?” Madison asked.
“According to some of his decrypted files – it strongly suggests he’s targeted GM, Chevy, Ford, Lincoln, Chrysler, Toyota, Honda, Hyundai, BMW, Mercedes, and a few others.”
“Any surges with those brands so far?” she asked.
Shaw shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe. But most seem to be normal fender-benders.”
“We have to find some way to turn the surges off!” Pete said.
“We’re trying!” Shaw said.
Madison feared there was only one way.
Bruner.
SEVENTY FOUR
Gretchen Strom looked through the small window of a different FBI interview room at Nester Van Horn. He looked even more worried than thirty minutes ago. He rubbed his puffy red eyes, leaned on the table and took a deep breath.
She used her remote device to turn off the camera and microphone in the room, then rolled her video-service cart inside.
Van Horn looked up, saw her, and nodded.
She leaned close to him and whispered, “Audio and camera are off.”
“You tell K?”
She nodded.
“And . . . ?”
“He’s handling things.”
“He called Hamilton Ainsworth?”
Strom nodded. “Hamilton’s in court. He’ll be here in about an hour.”
Van Horn nodded, then stared at the table as she walked over and pretended to check the audio equipment.
“What evidence do they have against me?”
“I’m checking into that.”
“Whatever they have, destroy it. I’ll pay you big.”
She nodded but marveled at his wheeling and dealing even as the FBI tightened the noose beneath his double chins.
Van Horn placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, staring at eternity. Not a bad idea since he’d be there soon. Perspiration beaded up on his forehead like blisters. He looked terrified. For good reason. He knew they had enough to put him away for life.
She walked over to the desk behind him and pretended to check out some computer cable connections.
She looked at his back. Earlier, she’d cranked up the room temperature, and now Van Horn’s neck, shirt, and hair were drenched with sweat.
Strom looked out the small window and saw no one in the hall looking in. She made sure the ceiling camera and audio were off.
From her pocket, she took two nearly empty bags labeled Johnson’s Delicious Apricot Kernels. She placed the yellow bags on a counter behind Van Horn. He kept staring ahead.
From her pocket she removed a small weaponized Time-Mist aerosol from her CIA days. Earlier, she’d filled the aerosol dispenser with apricot-kernel cyanide gas she’d purchased on the Dark Web. She eased up behind Van Horn who was rubbing his eyes.
He closed them as though he might rest a few moments.
Perfect timing!
Quickly, she reached down and sprayed the gas mist into his nostrils. Surprised, he took a deep breath, sucking the gas deeper into his lungs. He bolted upright and turned toward her. “What the hell - ?”
“It’ll relax you -”
He started to speak, then seemed to slump forward. She backed away and watched the fast-acting poison do its magic.
Van Horn jerked, then suddenly his entire body became immobilized like he’d been freeze-dried. Seconds later, his head, shoulders and arms jackknifed forward onto the table and convulsed for several seconds.
Moments later, he went stone still again.
The medical examiner would probably assume a heart attack. Van Horn was overweight, had a stent in his aorta, inhaled cigars non-stop, and was stressed.
But maybe a very smart medical examiner would notice the empty Johnson’s Apricot Kernel bags behind Van Horn. He’d notice that Van Horn ate nearly both bags of delicious pits. The medical examiner might even know that apricot pits contain high amounts of natural cyanide and that eating too many can be fatal.
Strom wiped frothy foam from Van Horn’s lips, arranged his head down on the table as if he were napping. She felt his carotid arteries for a pulse. There was none. Van Horn was dead. It had taken less than two minutes.
She left the room, turned the camera and mic back on, adjusted the time gap so her visit was deleted, then headed for the elevators.
She re-confirmed that Kurt Krugere’s four hundred thousand dollars was still in her Brussels ING Bank account, and not rewired to one of his accounts.
Three minutes after that, Gretchen Strom left FBI Headquarters, never to return again. She drove through the Detroit-Windsor tunnel into Canada and took the 401 toward Toronto’s Pearson International Airport.
From there, Serbia was just an easy ten-hour flight.
SEVENTY FIVE
“Any word on Bruner?” Madison asked Pete Naismith. They sat in a conference room at Global Vehicles.
Pete shook his head, looking even more exhausted than an hour ago. The man probably hadn’t slept in two days. He’d been handling angry calls from irate GV dealers and car ow
ners, and insisted on answering as many as he could.
He hung up and faced her with a tired smile.
“At least our dealers have good news.”
“What?”
“Your TV commercial explaining who’s causing the surges helps customers understand the situation. They appreciate that GV stepped up and faced the problem head on.”
Kevin had produced an inexpensive commercial in which Chairman Hank Harrison, wearing a sweater and jeans, sat on a stool and told the truth. He explained how Robert Bruner caused the surges and promised viewers that GV engineers would soon have a solution that would protect all existing and future GV vehicles. He apologized, thanked people for their patience, and walked off camera.
Research said viewers believed Hank Harrison’s honest explanation and blamed Robert Bruner.
“We’re running the commercial on networks, cable, and social media,” she said.
“That will help.”
“It should,” she said. “So what’s the latest with the two hundred early-release XCars?”
“The majority have now been returned to dealers. But forty-six out there on the roads.”
“Where are they?”
“Most are in the Detroit metro area, Manhattan, and Los Angeles.”
Madison’s phone rang. Caller ID said Agent Shaw.
She hit the speaker button.
“Hi, Neal. I’m here with Pete. Any news on Bruner?”
“No. But there’s news on Nester Van Horn.”
“He talked?” Pete said.
“He died.”
“Jesus - what happened?” She felt her stomach clench.
“Poisoned, the medical team suspects.”
Madison couldn’t believe her ears. “But you had him in custody!”
“Yes, but one of our staff, Gretchen Strom, an IT specialist, killed him. Turns out she was Van Horn’s mole in the agency for a few years. She sprayed him with a poison in the interrogation room. He died within minutes.”
“How do you know she spray - ?”
“- a hidden lipstick-sized camera in the room that she didn’t know about.”
“Where is she?” Madison asked.
“Near Stratford, Ontario where she was just arrested. And she’s talking. Says Nester Van Horn worked for a man named Mr. K.K.”
“Got to be Kurt Krugere. The man Brooke Daniels saw with Van Horn and Bruner in the Birmingham bar,” Madison said.
“Krugere’s the EVP of Global Sales for AsiaCars!” Shaw said.
“He’s also the EVP of SOBs!,” Pete said. “Bastard fires his managers like Trump fires cabinet members!”
“Gretchen Strom says Krugere is behind everything! The prime mover. Wants to destroy the sales of GV’S XCar.”
“Why?”
“XCar terrified him. All electric car sales terrify him. They’re eating away his sales at AsiaCars - stealing his gas-car buyers. He believed Road Rage was the only way to stop XCar and the rapid growth of all electric cars. Only then, could AsiaCars regain and grow its rightful sales and market share.”
Pete said, “So for Krugere these surges are simply a business decision!”
“A business decision that kills and injures innocent people. Maybe thousands of them,” Madison said, sickened at the man’s cold-bloodedness.
Agent Shaw nodded. “Murdering innocents was Krugere’s strategy even back in the Gulf War. His record strongly suggests he slaughtered innocent civilians on more than one occasion. The man’s a psychopath.”
“Do you have enough evidence of his involvement with the surging to charge and convict him?”
“Enough for several life sentences. But it’ll be difficult.”
“Why?”
“Krugere’s vanished!”
SEVENTY SIX
Robert Bruner drove his Harley out of the abandoned warehouse, and down Dix Highway heading south toward Toledo, Ohio. Instead of traveling down I-75, where cops were watching for his Harley, he’d take less busy roads and country highways, maybe gravel and dirt pathways. Cops can’t watch them all. Or even navigate some of them.
Near Monroe, he’d ditch the Harley and direct Abboud, his cell member, to pick him up and drive him down to Dayton International Airport where his chartered Royal Air Challenger 300 would fly him to Miami. From there, a Saudia Airlines charter would fly him to Cairo. In Cairo, he’d charter a flight to Yemen.
He heard police sirens in the distance. Far-away. Cops still searching in the city and inner suburbs. He turned off Dix Highway and drove a short distance, then turned onto Trenton Road heading south. He saw no one tracking him.
In his rearview mirror he saw two small Chryslers and an old red Chevy pickup.
He heard another siren a bit closer. But he didn’t see any police cars or flashers.
He knew his Harley with a red medical box was now a red flag. The Bucharest Grill manager and security guard would have described the big bike and red box to the cops.
Bruner would ditch the Harley soon. And he knew where: behind some strip mall dumpsters three miles ahead. He phoned Abboud to pick him up there.
In the side mirror, he saw what looked like a police car maybe a quarter mile behind him . . . maintaining Bruner’s speed.
Seconds later, he saw a second police car pull out of a side street and fall in behind the first police car. They were still a quarter mile back, but seemed to slowly pick up speed. They crept closer to him.
They’ve ID’ed my Harley.
Bruner hit the gas, pulling away from both cop cars. On three tight curves, his Harley pulled even farther away. He could barely see the cop cars now. But he saw their flashing lights pop on and heard their distant sirens now – as they gave chase.
No time to hide the motorcycle in the strip mall. He remembered a forest with dirt trails ahead. He’d pull into the forest and lose the cops on the narrow trails the cop cars couldn’t squeeze down. Then meet Abboud at the mall later.
He hit 110 miles-per-hour on a long curve, and pulled much farther away from the police cars.
He could no longer see them.
In a couple of minutes, he’d lose them.
Moments later, he found himself approaching a huge Allied Moving van a few hundred yards ahead. The moving van was slowing down for some reason. Then he saw why. A slow farm truck stacked with bales of hay. The moving van slowed more as it approached the farm truck.
Bruner did not slow down.
Nor did the police cars.
Bruner had to pass the moving van and farm truck. In seconds! Despite the double-yellow lines. He had no choice.
He pulled out and started to pass the moving van and farm truck . . .
. . . and missed seeing something – a red stop sign . . .
. . . and an eighteen-wheeler speeding from the side road.
The eighteen-wheeler smashed into Bruner, knocking him and his bike through the cross street – and into the oncoming grill of a fast-moving Ford pickup. The eighteen-wheeler crushed him, the bike, and the pickup and scraped them about a hundred yards before screeching to a stop.
Bruner felt his head being mashed down against the Harley’s red-hot engine. He was trapped beneath his handlebars. He felt fire burning his face and neck. He screamed for help. None came. He couldn’t move . . . or breathe. Or stop the excruciating pain!
But he could see.
And the last thing Bruner saw in life was a red car that had stopped inches from his Harley.
The car had a very familiar logo.
SEVENTY SEVEN
In the FBI conference room, Madison, Pete Naismith, Agents Shaw and Hayden sat with a team of Internet specialists dreading the latest surge numbers.
A skillful young female FBI agent, Mary Jo Healey, rushed into the conference room, her large blue eyes riveted on the paper in her hand.
“Bruner’s dead!”
Everyone spun toward her.
“You’re certain?” Shaw said.
“Yes.”
“He
fooled us at the cottage in Emmett.”
Healey nodded. “I know. That’s why I had them eye-scan him and compare it to Bruner’s eye-scan when he worked in GV Laboratories. We got a one-hundred percent match! Also Bruner’s fingerprints are on the Harley handlebars and on the medical organ transplant box.”
Madison exhaled, feeling overwhelming relief.
“What happened?” Shaw asked.
“He was trying to escape police cars. He passed a moving van and a farm truck illegally, missed seeing a stop sign, and got blindsided by a speeding vehicle hauler. The vehicle hauler crushed him into a pickup. Bruner got crammed down into the Harley’s burning engine. People heard him screaming for help, but they couldn’t extract him from the flames. His face melted to the engine. They had to cut it free. He died painfully several minutes later.”
No one spoke.
Agent Healey started to leave, then paused, and shook her head in amazement.
“What . . .?” Madison asked.
“His crushed Harley stopped three feet from an untouched red car.”
Silence.
“An XCar.”
SEVENTY EIGHT
“Divine justice!,” Shaw said, shaking his head, stunned by Bruner’s gruesome death.
“How’s the XCar driver?” Madison asked, worried.
“Not a scratch!” Agent Healey said, smiling.
“And the pickup driver?”
Another smile. “Airbags saved him and the driver of the eighteen-wheeler.”
“More divine justice!” Agent Shaw said. He stood and started walking alongside the conference table.
“So we’ve got two down - Bruner and Van Horn! One to go. The man behind everything. Kurt Krugere.”
“Have you located Krugere?” Madison said.
“No,” Shaw said. “No one has. Not his secretary. Not his board of directors. He’s missed three important meetings yesterday and today . . . including an important monthly directors’ meeting that he chairs. And he’s not answering his phones, emails, or online.”
Madison shook her head in disgust. “What do you call a man who kills hundreds and injures thousands of innocent people and just walks away?”
