“Yeah, but I’d really like it if you hung around.”
He glanced back at her, that handsome, chiseled face that she used to fantasize about right in front of her. But it wasn’t his nearness that caused her stomach to pitch, caused her to inhale a bit, to stare into blue, blue eyes. It was his words, and the sincerity she heard in them. She told herself not to be weak. Not to give in. So he wanted her around. It wasn’t personal.
It sure felt personal.
The crowd roared.
To her right, another famous car owner nodded to Blain as he passed. A generator hummed. Cece looked toward the sound, her eyes nearly blinded by the white big rig that housed the “brains” of a major network.
He wanted her to stay.
“Okay,” she said, but for one long moment, she wanted to be a race fan, not an FBI agent. Wanted to do this under different circumstances—not for the FBI, but for her own personal pleasure.
“You don’t look all that enthusiastic,” Blain said.
She opened her mouth, ready to feed him a pithy excuse; instead she found herself saying, “I wish I was here under different circumstances.”
He straightened away from her, his eyes holding hers in one of those long, thoughtful glances that made her see things in his gaze she’d never seen before. Doubt. Resignation. Uncertainty.
“Me, too, Cece,” he said. “Me, too. But c’mon. Maybe we can pretend everything’s normal.”
BUT IT WASN’T AS EASY as all that.
Not only was Cece battling concerns that a killer might be on the loose—Blain’s crew suddenly all suspects—but she didn’t like how nervous she felt at the prospect of being on pit road. During a race.
“Just make sure you stay outside the pit stall,” Blain said, his blue headset off one ear so he could listen to her and his crew members at the same time. “When we come in for a stop, stay out of the way.”
She had stared killers in the eye, looked down the barrel of a nine-millimeter, but suddenly she felt as tense as a rookie on her first bust.
She nodded, tempted to wipe her suddenly sweaty hands on her black jeans. They passed through a chain-link fence that separated the garages from pit road, a swarm of humanity immediately enveloping them. Cece went on guard. Lord, it was like a rock concert, only more colorful, yellow-shirted crew mixing with spectators, family members and network personalities. Between bodies she could spy the race cars, a few crew chiefs squatting down by their driver’s window, some drivers just sitting in their car alone, staring straight ahead. Busch racing wasn’t the same level as Cup racing, but a lot of the same drivers drove both kinds of cars. So while there weren’t as many people in the stands, she imagined most of the rest looked and felt the same as the big leagues.
Chaos. Crowds. Confusion. The perfect cover for a killer.
She tried not to think about that, or to lose Blain as they wormed their way among crew members and TV personalities. More than one person caught Blain’s arm, wishing him luck, slapping him on the shoulder or the rear as he passed by. It all seemed surreal.
“Sit over here,” he said when they found his stall. Someone had set up a bright red tent opposite Blain’s pit. Stacks of tires were piled beneath the canopy, the black rubber turned a deep purple by the red, radiant light. Opposite them was a matching red toolbox as big as a car, which housed wrenches of every size and shape. On top of the whole thing sat a chair, a TV and an umbrella to cover it all.
“You’ll know when we’re about to pit,” he said, “because everyone’ll start moving around. Just stay back.”
Got it. Stay back.
“I’ll check in with you from time to time.” But instead of turning away, he held her gaze. “Thanks for staying, Cece.”
She nodded, struck by this stranger who stared down at her. Gone was Blain the Jerk. In his place was Blain the Nice Guy—Blain who tipped one side of his mouth up in an odd sort of smile before turning away from her, stepping into the stream of people and entering his pit. One of the crew members caught her eye, the man’s mouth obstructed by his microphone. He winked. Cece nodded back at him, wondering…was he their perpetrator? Was there really a crackpot out there trying to knock off drivers? If so, was he here today?
A look at Blain confirmed he might be thinking the same thing. Sure, this was race day, but she had no doubt some of the tension in his eyes had little to do with competition.
A TV crew came up to him. To her surprise, a reporter shoved a microphone in his face. Somehow amid all the pandemonium she’d managed to forget that he was famous. They filmed him first, then a man Cece assumed must be the Busch car crew chief.
Another suspect?
Damn it, this drove her crazy. She was seeing bad guys everywhere.
That’s what you’re trained to do, Cece. So just do it.
She was a federal agent, a protector. It was her job to keep people safe. And if forensics’ initial findings proved true, she’d make darn sure she did exactly that. She had to…for Blain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ROLLING,” Lance said, his voice sounding tense, even to Blain’s ears. They were all on edge. Race day, tense under normal circumstances, had reached new levels since Randy’s death, even for his Busch team.
Blain barely heard the escalation in crowd noise as the cars took off. He glanced back at Cece. She stared at the group of cars, a hand lifted to shield her eyes. Her face looked as tense as his own, her concern for him evident every time their eyes met. Just when she’d become a confidante and a friend he had no idea, and yet somehow, she had. Not surprising, he thought, given that she was the only one in the garage who knew what he did: that someone might have tried to kill Randy.
Acid hit his stomach like peroxide on an open wound. He felt like calling Lance back. Felt like going to the nearest official and asking him to call off the race. But Cece was right; they didn’t know anything for certain yet, and after all, the killer’s note hadn’t threatened this league.
Still…
The cars picked up speed, the sound like the roar of a hundred tornadoes. Angry whines that reached beneath his earphones and vibrated his chest cavity. Race day. Usually excitement filled him, but today that thrill was gone.
He motioned to Cece. She mouthed the word, “Me?” as she pointed to herself, blond brows lifted, and despite the tension, despite the acid in his gut, Blain found himself smiling. Cece, his fearless FBI agent, looked reluctant to enter the maw of his pit stall. But just like the Cece of old, he watched her straighten her shoulders and look both ways before crossing though the stream of owners and TV crews that moved up and down pit road. She came up alongside him and he handed her a pair of spare headphones that hung from a toolbox.
“Here,” he yelled, because by now they’d be lucky to hear a DC-10 take off. The roar of the fans—nearly fifty thousand of them—drowned out all sound but that of the cars themselves.
She tugged them awkwardly over her ears and he flipped her mike down, pressing the button on the side of his own headphones. “If you need to talk, just press here and speak.”
“Ah, thanks, honey,” came Lance’s familiar voice, his words syrupy-sweet. “But I’m not in the mood for sweet talk right now. Maybe later.”
Cece’s met Blain’s gaze in shock.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Lance thought himself a comedian. Turning to the track, Blain tried to find his car, the thunder of engines telling him the pack was on the back stretch. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air.
“Lance, cut the chatter. We’re on the air.” By that he meant people listening in.
But his new driver didn’t appear to care. “Ah, honey, you’re always spoiling my fun.”
He met his crew chief’s eyes. Mike Johnson had been in the business as long as Blain, but they were both a little baffled by Lance’s stand-up comedy routine on race day.
“Hey, was it sexy Cece you gave a headset to?” Lance asked, obviously in a conversational mood.
Blain di
dn’t answer.
“Because if it was, I have a little song for her—”
“No,” his crew chief said. “Don’t—”
Too late. Lance belted out the words to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” as he swerved his car back and forth to warm the tires.
And then, to Blain’s shock, Cece pressed her mike and interrupted him midstream. “Lance, there’s a pack of dogs following you.”
Which made every member of his Busch team laugh. Blain included, and it felt nice to forget, even if it was just for a second, that there was a killer on the loose.
“Ah, honey,” Lance said, “they’re just following the Big Dog.” And then he howled like a wolf, causing everyone with headsets to clutch at their ears.
Blain rolled his eyes. Cece met his gaze and smiled.
And Blain felt like the sun came out, even though it was already shining brightly in the sky. And he was glad that she was there in the pit with them. Glad she was on his side. Glad she was trying to lighten his mood a bit.
“That’s enough, Lance,” Blain said. “Keep it up and you’ll find yourself in the doghouse.”
“As long as Cece’s in there with me.”
“Now there’s an offer the lady can’t refuse,” Blain’s crew chief said. “A date in a doghouse.”
“Believe me.” Blain heard Cece’s voice though the headset. “I’ve had worse.”
Which prompted Lance to say, “Does that mean we’re on, honey?”
“Only if I suddenly turn into a poodle.”
“Mmm, doggie style—”
“Lance!” Blain cut him off sternly. The last thing they needed was a fine from the track officials.
His driver seemed to understand, because he went quiet, or maybe that was because they’d been ordered to line up. A few minutes later, Blain heard Lance say, “Houston, we have liftoff,” and the Corvette pace car ducked off the track.
The race was on.
Blain’s tension returned with a vengeance. He and his crew chief turned to the TV monitor mounted on the side of his toolbox. Lance expertly kept his tenth place starting position.
“Feels a little loose,” Lance said.
“Bad?” came his crew chief’s voice.
“Nah,” Lance said. “I’ve felt looser. Usually women, but the car’s okay.”
Which elicited a few more wry shakes of the head.
“One-track mind,” Mike said.
“That’s why Mr. Sanders hired me,” Lance replied. “My mind’s always on a track of some sort.”
Actually, he’d hired Lance because he’d seen promise in the kid’s driving, promise that he hoped would come to full bloom under his crew chief’s tutelage. That seemed to be proving true, judging by the way Lance drove today. Smooth, steady and yet with just an edge of recklessness. No question, Lance Cooper had what it took to be great.
Out of the corner of his eye Blain caught movement. One of his crew members came forward and talked to Cece. With hand gestures and the occasional shout, he did what Blain should have done—helped Cece become queen of the toolbox. He watched as her lithe frame climbed aboard the little seat anchored to the top. Usually he sat there, but it was safer for Cece to be out of the way. Plus, it gave her a better view in case…
But he didn’t want to think about that, and so he didn’t. Instead he concentrated on the race. That was all there was left to do: watch the action. A few seconds of madness when Lance made a pit stop, punctuated by long stretches of cars going round and round. And as the laps added up, Blain’s tension eased. They ran good, at least until lap eighty-nine, when a bad pit stop put Lance ten spots down.
“And I was having sooo much fun,” Lance quipped as he moved his car into position. Not for this kid the temper tantrums that so many drivers engaged in. Blain liked that about him.
“Clear,” came the spotter’s voice, indicating Lance could move into one of the two racing lanes.
Cece must have realized something was wrong by the look on Blain’s face. She leaned down and asked, “What happened?”
“Bad pit stop,” he answered. She nodded and straightened back up, but not before shooting him a look of disappointment. She liked this, he thought.
The cars picked up speed when the yellow light went out. The crowd roared, his crew stared at the television monitor. Someone tried to pass Lance going three wide into the turn two.
“Uh-oh,” Lance said.
Blain jerked upright.
“Oh, shit,” they heard next.
He turned toward the TV. Cece bolted upright, too, only she stood, hand shielding her eyes as she looked toward turn two. The TV monitor showed the wreck perfectly.
“Left, left, left,” came the spotter’s voice as suddenly spinning cars sent up a plume of dark gray smoke.
But there was no place for Lance to go. Blain could see that. A car hit the wall, slid down the track. Lance T-boned him.
What came next happened so fast it would take several replays to figure it out, but suddenly Lance’s car went airborne, despite the safety flaps. Metal flew off his car, smoke filled the air. Blain just watched as slowly, ever so slowly, his car came to a stop on the infield grass. Only it didn’t look like a car anymore.
“Lance?” his crew chief asked.
Blain turned to his pit crew. They were standing on the pit wall, trying to get a view of the wreck. Mike stood in the center, his hand never leaving his headphones.
“Lance,” he said again. “You okay, buddy?”
“I’m all right,” Lance said slowly, much to the relief of everyone in the pit, and probably a few million people at home. “But I’m thinking I just blew my chances to impress Cece with my driving skills.”
CHAPTER NINE
CECE WOULD NEVER FORGET the look on Blain’s face for as long as she lived. His eyes weren’t filled with disappointment, they were guarded, worried…afraid.
She’d watched him stare at the TV monitor as he watched the network’s replay over and over. She’d climbed down and done the same thing, too. They weren’t looking to see who’d caused the accident, they were looking to ensure that it actually was an accident, and the whole time they did, Cece wanted to lay a hand on his shoulder in comfort. She knew that every time he watched his car spin out of control he was reliving the loss of his driver, and worrying that Lance might have been a second victim.
In the end, it looked to be just that, a wreck. But Blain stormed out of his pit as if it were much more.
“Blain,” she called out as he headed toward his Cup car hauler. “Blain!” she called again. He ignored her, Cece growing more and more frustrated as she followed him from the pits.
“Blain, darn it,” she said, finally seizing his hand by the open glass door at the back of the hauler. The chrome panels on either side gave her a perfect view of the way his face had hardened, of the way his eyes closed for a second before he turned to face her.
“Not here,” he said, tugging his hand from her grasp.
She felt the loss of contact in a way that surprised her. Disappointment was her emotion now, and the sadness of a bystander who didn’t know what to do, because she knew how he felt—she’d felt some of the same emotions when she’d seen Lance wreck.
Blain climbed the steps into the big rig. The place was deserted, most of Blain’s Cup crew off doing other things.
“Blain, you’re scaring me,” Cece said the minute the door to his lounge closed.
He ignored her, pulling out a stool she hadn’t noticed before tucked beneath a cabinet. When he opened the cabinet doors, a computer was exposed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, watching as he booted it up.
“Sending Barry Bidwell an e-mail.”
Barry Bidwell, the head of NASCAR. “About what?” she asked, even though she knew.
“He needs to cancel tomorrow’s race.”
She’d known the words were coming, yet she still felt her stomach drop.
“Blain, he won’t do that. My boss alre
ady talked to him. Until we have concrete evidence…”
“What more evidence do they need?” Blain asked, turning toward her. He stood, flicking his stool toward the table in the center of the small room. It flew beneath it and crashed into the black couch on the other side. “All he has to do is watch the replay. Randy’s car explodes. It just erupts. There’s no rhyme or reason, it just does. Anyone who knows anything about racing would know it wasn’t a faulty fuel tank.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“The killer sent a note—”
She stepped toward him. The veins in his neck were swollen, his skin flush with fast-moving blood. “The note was received after the accident.”
“It was mailed before the accident.”
“We don’t know that.”
“It had to have been.”
“Blain,” she said, resting a hand on his arm, all the while asking herself why she kept touching him. “Calm down. There’s still a chance Randy’s death was nothing more than a string of coincidences.”
“Coincidence!” he all but yelled, and she could feel him flinch beneath her hand. “You said yourself they’ve found evidence of nitrates.”
“But that doesn’t mean explosives. That’s one of many possibilities.”
“But you think it does.”
She stiffened, her hand dropping to her side. She couldn’t deny it.
“We can’t risk it, Cece,” he said, his voice low and calm. “If there’s a chance, even a hint that some crazy person might be out to blow up a racetrack or a driver, then the race needs to be stopped.”
Without realizing it, she began to slowly shake her head. “It won’t happen, Blain. You know it and I know it. If it turns out the threat is valid, then all that’ll happen is extra security measures. The show will go on, just as it has whenever other popular events have been threatened.”
He didn’t say anything, but she could tell when her words finally penetrated. The Federal Government put a brave face on things. A year ago a direct threat had been harbored against the Super Bowl. They’d had good cause to think it might be terrorists. But all they’d been told to do was alert the media and to step up security. Nobody, not the American public, football fans or the media, had been aware of just how serious a threat it’d been.
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