by Tom Fowler
White Lines
A John Tyler Action Thriller (#2)
Tom Fowler
Copyright © 2021 by Tom Fowler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover design by 100 Covers.
Editing by Chase Nottingham.
Published by Widening Gyre Media.
Contents
Novella Giveaway
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Afterword
Novella Giveaway
Before John Tyler found a job as a mechanic, he worked for a private firm called Patriot Security.
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Read all about his last assignment and how it went off the rails in Midnight Drive, the prequel novella to the John Tyler thriller series.
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Tap the cover to download the book!
1
John Tyler walked outside to find his daughter Lexi unplugging the Tesla Model X from the charger. After they came into dubious possession of the vehicle following its prior owner’s well-deserved demise, Tyler paid for the charging port installation. Lexi promised to pay him back when she got a job. She now drove the electric vehicle more often than the Honda Accord coupe she and Tyler spent weeks restoring. “Where are you off to?”
“Picking up the new laptop for school,” she said.
Tyler remembered their conversation about it. Lexi bemoaned her computer being all of three years old—apparently ancient in the technology kingdom—and talked Tyler into buying her a new one even though she was still in the middle of her first college semester. She used terms like solid state drive and graphics card which he’d heard before but didn’t really understand, so he simply nodded and let her pick the model she wanted within a set budget. “I hope this one lasts for a while.”
“I’m sure it will.” She sighed. ”I need to choose my classes when I get back.”
“You’re going to commute again?” Tyler said. Lexi bobbed her head. “You’ll be tired of me soon.”
Lexi grinned. “I’ve been tired of you since I moved in, Dad.” He chuckled. “Love you, old man.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Lexi left in the silent Tesla. She returned about an hour later and carried the laptop box up to her room. While she unpacked everything, Tyler ordered a pizza for lunch. It arrived before Lexi walked back downstairs. She smiled when she saw it on the counter. After snagging a couple slices, Lexi joined her dad in the living room.
“New computer’s great,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Sure. Glad you like it.”
She munched on a few bites before talking again. “At least I’ll be on campus this semester. You won’t get tired of me as quickly.”
Tyler smiled. “Probably not more than once a day.” Lexi stuck her tongue out at him. “I sometimes wish I could work from home.”
“I’m not sure the neighbors would want people dropping off their old cars in the driveway,” Lexi said.
“Probably not.” Work at Smitty’s Classic Car Repair had been slow, but Tyler maintained his regular hours. After recovering from a bullet wound to his arm—and dealing with Smitty’s occasional barbs of how he was “milking it”—Tyler had been back to full duty for about a month.
“Speaking of work, don’t you need to go in?”
Tyler glanced at his watch. “I guess I should.”
“You all right, Dad?”
“Sure.” Tyler grew a little bored of the job, but he didn’t need to tell Lexi. After a long career in the army and private security, he finally got to work as a classic car mechanic a few months ago. Maybe the years he’d spent building up the job made the reality bland by comparison. For every gearhead who knew their vehicle inside and out, two idiots who bought a car because it looked or sounded cool sauntered in. Tyler figured dealing with stupid people was part of any job where the public could walk through your door.
He climbed the stairs, changed into work clothes, and came back to the first floor. Lexi had eaten another piece of pizza while he was gone. Tyler grabbed one, put it on a napkin, and pointed at the remainder as he left. “Can you put it away when you’re done?” Lexi’s reply around a mouthful of food sounded affirmative.
In the driveway, Tyler fired up his vintage Oldsmobile 442. The V8 rumbled as he pressed the accelerator. Tyler set his pizza on the passenger’s seat, backed out onto the street, and headed to the shop.
Tyler took the Mustang for a test drive.
It was a mid-‘eighties GT with the five-liter V8. Great engine, wrong timeframe. Today’s pony cars made a lot of power. Thirty-odd years ago, however, automakers were still used to making puny motors thanks to the oil crisis of the ‘seventies and a focus on fuel economy. No one who bought a Mustang GT gave a whit about miles per gallon. The V8 sounded loud, and it growled in response to throttle input, but it lacked the punch it needed.
Still, Tyler could make do. He’d spent yesterday afternoon and this morning replacing the clutch. Judging by the mileage, it was probably the car’s third—unless the owner drove like an asshole. Plenty of people who could barely handle two pedals insisted on a third for the street cachet, and they gave real enthusiasts a bad name. The wear and tear on Tyler’s knees compelled him to drive an automatic every day, but he still relished a good manual when the opportunity presented itself.
Traffic near the shop was unusually light, which allowed him to drive faster than normal. He got to row through the gears and see how the clutch responded to heel-toe downshifts. Everything operated as he expected. After going a little more than a mile up Belair Road, he turned around in a parking lot and headed back to the shop.
The Mustang’s owner arrived a short while later. Tyler went over everything with him and handed him the keys after he paid Smitty. “Good work,” the boss said when the man drove away. Smitty was probably about sixty, giving him ten years on Tyler. His graying hair and lined face added some character to his appearance. He wiped a hand on his persistently dirty shirt.
“It was a clutch job,” Tyler said. “Not exactly splitting the atom.”
“Fine. You suck. Now, go be a lousy mechanic on the next car.”
Tyler grinned and surveyed the lot to see what other work awaited. The shop had gotten busy over the last couple months, about half of which he spent with his arm in a cast or a sling, relegating him to simple jobs he could do with only his right hand. Smitty’s son Jake, who also worked at the garage part-time, picked up some slack, but he returned to an erratic schedule once Tyle
r got off light duty. Ever since, he’d pulled more hours than either he or Smitty anticipated.
Four cars waited. The phone rang, and Smitty answered it while Tyler checked the book to see what each needed. A few hours remained on his shift, and he preferred to knock out a job in its entirety rather than come back and finish it another day. He picked a thirty-year-old Jeep in desperate need of new brakes and eased it into an available bay.
Through the window into the office, Tyler could see Smitty remained on the phone. He had a knack for dealing with the public—something Tyler lacked—so he answered calls whenever he could. He rarely stayed on the line long, however. After Tyler lifted the Jeep to check out the work he would need to do, Smitty still held the receiver to his ear.
A few minutes later, Tyler finished taking the front two tires off. Smitty walked into the service area. “Who was on the phone?” Tyler asked.
Smitty waved a hand. “Nobody.”
Tyler didn’t push it. He didn’t want to think anything untoward might be happening. However, Smitty neglected to mention his son Jake was in trouble when Tyler started, though the two enforcers who knocked the boss around made it obvious. Tyler liked working here, but Smitty didn’t enjoy the best reputation for transparency. Whoever it was, he didn’t seem troubled by the conversation. Smitty steered an old Trans Am into the bay and got to work beside his hired man.
Tyler and Smitty finished their jobs around the same time. “Coffee?” the boss asked.
“I’ll never say no to a cup.”
They walked back into the office. Smitty dumped whatever inky sludge remained in the pot and brewed a fresh one. The aroma spread, and Tyler closed his eyes to inhale it. It smelled far better than the motor oil and linoleum scents which usually dominated the shop. When the machine finished, Smitty poured a cup for himself and Tyler. Both men took their coffee black, though an array of powdered sweeteners and creamers made many of the customers happy.
A few minutes later, Tyler heard an unfamiliar engine pull into the lot. A pair of headlights sat low. Probably a sports car. They winked out as the motor cut off. A moment later, the shop door swung open, and a beautiful redhead walked in. Her green eyes took in the two men drinking java on the job. She wore tight jeans, a T-shirt with a low enough neckline to show some terrific cleavage, and a denim jacket. Tyler stepped to the counter, and he hoped the young woman didn’t notice Smitty gaping at her. “Can we help you?”
“I hope so,” she said in a voice carrying a faint French accent. “I recently got a car, and I’d like to make sure it’s going to keep running. It’s pretty old.” She chuckled. “Older than I am.”
“What year?”
“‘Ninety-seven.”
“A little newer than we normally see around here,” Tyler said. “What make and model?”
“A Porsche Boxster.”
“Damn German cars,” Smitty said. “More trouble than they’re worth.”
“He’s probably never driven one,” Tyler said to the potential customer, who smiled.
“Nope. American all the way.”
“Have you driven a German auto?” the woman asked Tyler.
“Sure. Even spent a couple days behind the wheel of a Nine-eleven.” Her eyes widened. Tyler shrugged. “It was a while ago. I was stationed in Stuttgart. The place is lousy with Porsches.”
“Perhaps you could work on my car, then?”
Smitty looked like he’d spent the afternoon sucking a lemon, but Tyler nodded. “I’m not sure we’re the best place for something like this, but we can at least see what’s going on. Why don’t you drive it around? If we can’t fix it, I’ll tell you.”
The young woman smiled again. “Thank you.” She walked back to her car, and both Smitty and Tyler watched her leave.
Once the door closed behind her, Smitty said, “You ever work on a Porsche before?”
“No.”
“You know the engine ain’t in the front, right?”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “Yes. In fact, for the Boxster, it’s in the middle.”
“You think we can fix this thing?”
“We won’t know until we look at it. The car could be in good shape.”
“The girl driving it certainly is,” Smitty said with a grin.
“I wasn’t sure you noticed.”
“I might be old, but I ain’t dead.” The Boxster’s headlights shone through the long window to the service bays. “Hell, we might as well take a look.” Smitty clapped Tyler on the shoulder. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
2
The new laptop worked great. Lexi snagged a killer sale and got a lot of computing bang for her buck. Her dad’s buck, really. She’d chosen classes for the next semester, and her schedule would be ready in a few days. One of these times, she would need to pick a major. Her mother’s more interesting life choices steered Lexi toward criminal justice. She was still in her first term, though. Plenty of time for that later. For now, she took as many required classes as she could.
She was three pages into writing a paper for American History 101 when she took a break. A granola bar and fresh bottle of water later, Lexi sat back down at her desk. She popped over to her browser and noticed a new message in her Gmail inbox. Her eyes narrowed when she read the sender’s ID. Maryland State Correctional System.
“Great,” she said to her empty bedroom. Lexi leaned back in her chair and blew out a deep breath. Since her mother’s imprisonment over a year ago, they’d traded a couple of quick, terse emails, but silence prevailed for the last nine months. Lexi was thirteen when she realized her mother swindled people. Rachel spent the next four years lying about it until her crimes caught up with her. Lexi never lived with her dad before then, but she was beyond ready to get out of her mother’s house.
So why the message now? What did Rachel want? What was her angle? She always had an angle. Always a trick to play. These thoughts sounded like her father’s. He was honest with Lexi about who her mother was and what she did, though he never tried to color her opinion. Maybe he didn’t need to. Living with a responsible person who cared about other people did it anyway.
Lexi rolled her eyes and opened the message.
* * *
Alexis,
I know we haven’t talked in months. It’s my fault. Adjusting to life here has been harder than I thought.
While I hoped you would write or visit me, I don’t know if I was in a good place. Things are better now. I have a new cellmate, and I’m in a regular group therapy session.
I haven’t seen you since the night I got hauled away. It would be great if you could come and visit me. Other people here see their children and loved ones pretty regularly. You have to call ahead or go online, but I can have visitors any weekday. I know you’re in college now—at least, I hope you are—but if you could find an hour to stop by, it would be great to see you.
* * *
Love,
Mom
* * *
Lexi frowned at the email when she finished it. “Way to go, Mom. Accept the blame, then hit me with a couple guilt trips and take a subtle shot at Dad.” She shook her head. It made her realize how much she’d wanted to leave her mom’s house when she lived there. Lexi considered going across the country for college. Then, she went to live with her dad and stayed local. Stability was great, and she never before realized how much she craved it.
“Why now?” she whispered. Lexi glanced at her phone. She’d wasted enough time on her mother’s message. Lexi closed the Gmail tab and went back to her assignment.
Tyler navigated the Boxster onto the lift. The car was a plain shade of gray, and its two-seat interior was solid black. It looked like an older version of the 911 he drove while in Germany. Tyler remembered people at the time being upset at the Boxster and 911 sharing parts. Now, every automaker employed the practice up and down their lineups.
He walked under the chassis once it sat about six feet off the bay floor. Rust pockmarked the exhaust pipes. If they w
ere original, they’d been in service for almost a quarter century. Some wear and tear would be expected. Considering the age of the vehicle—and its unknown maintenance history—Tyler thought the undercarriage was in good shape. The young woman stepped under the vehicle, too. “How does it look?”
“Pretty good, Miss . . .?”
“Alice,” she said. “Alice Simard.” She extended her hand, and Tyler shook it.
“John Tyler. I go by Tyler.”
“You think it looks all right, Mister Tyler?”
“For its age, sure,” he said. Smitty joined them, standing under the front wheels. “After twenty-four years, you’re bound to need some work. Do you have the maintenance history?”
Alice shook her head, and her fiery ponytail wagged behind her. “No. I just got it recently. I don’t know much about what happened before.”
“You know much about these cars in particular?” Smitty said.
“A little,” Alice said.
“How many miles?”
“A hundred and twenty thousand.”
“We’ll need to get parts,” Smitty said, scratching the top of his head. “Ain’t really ordered parts for a German car before. We get a lot of American models in here.”
