Night of Thunder

“As of two days ago, pretty much everything. I know she’s awake with a groggy memory, which is why there’s no sense talking to her. But I will. And that’s why even as we speak, a team of U.S. marshals has taken over security at her hospital. She’s a valuable federal witness, even if she doesn’t know it.”

“Looks like we’ve got a spell of talking to do. Mind if I get something to drink?”

“You shouldn’t drink and carry. Not a good idea.”

“Don’t mean that kind of drinking. Drink as in fruit juice or a nice Coke, something wet. You want one?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Bob got himself a fruit juice from the refrigerator and when he got back, Nick had sat down on the sofa. He reclined in a chair.

“Okay, old friend. Let’s talk. By the way, I’m really glad you’re here. This thing is very complex, and I ain’t got it half figured out. But why didn’t you call me back?”

“Because I’m looking for a very smart guy. I don’t know his capabilities, but he’s a highly organized criminal with amazing technical skills. He might know about the task force and he might have penetrated it. Just a precaution.”

“The driver, right?”

“Yeah, the driver. The guy who tried to kill your daughter. The car guy.”

“He came damn close.”

“You don’t know how lucky your daughter is. This is a very bad actor. He’s killed nine federal witnesses and six federal officers over the past seven years. He did a family in Cleveland three years back. The father was an accountant who was going to testify against a teamster local, money laundering and extortion. Never happened. The driver hit them and they were gone in a second. Mother, father, three kids. He may even have more kills that we don’t even know about; he also freelances for various mob franchises, even some overseas outfits-we have Interpol circulars on him. But we’re in this because of the federal angle.”

“You have a name?”

“We don’t have a name or even a face. All we have is a modus operandi, and it took years before we were even on to that. What we’ve been able to learn is that he’s some kind of genius with automobiles. Genius driver, genius mechanic, genius car thief, genius on automotive electronics. He can break into any car he wants in about six seconds, drive off in three more. He seems to like Chargers. He’ll steal a car, plates, and so forth. He sets the car up with a heavy-duty suspension, tunes the engine for max power. Then he scopes his quarry out. Waits till they’re on the highway. He understands the physics of the accident, what it takes to knock a car out of equilibrium, where to hit it, which angle to take, that sort of thing. It usually takes only one pass. He hits ’em hard, they overcorrect to keep control, and they lose it. The car flips. It rolls, it bounces, and everyone inside is whiplashed to death in seconds. He’s gone in a flash, the car is never found, there’s no prints, no DNA, nothing. Just paint samples that lead back to a stolen car.”

“You don’t have any idea who he is?”

“There’s stories. Some say he’s a rogue NASCAR guy who killed another driver in a fit of rage and had to make himself scarce. We have seven names like that, all of them accounted for. Some say he pissed off Big Racing by fucking one of the family’s daughters, and they made sure he’d never race a sanctioned event again. Some say he’s just pure psycho, with a gift for automotives. It could be any of those, all of them, none of them. We just know he’s good, very thorough, highly intelligent, the fearless, classic psychotic. But when we heard about Nikki, we set up a task force out of Knoxville. Something’s up, we think.”

“I do too.”

“So what have you got?”

“Well-”

Someone knocked on the door.

The two men exchanged looks.

“Were you followed?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“Let’s be real careful on this one.”

Nick slipped to the right of the door, SIG in hand, tense, ready.

Bob went to the left of the door, drew the Kimber, held it behind him, thumb riding the safety, ready to push it off in a second.

“Yeah?” he demanded loudly.

“UPS,” came the muffled reply.

“Just a sec,” said Bob. He looked through the peep hole.

“He’s in brown. I don’t know, maybe they’re so far into this they have fake UPS uniforms.”

“I don’t know,” said Nick.

“Can you just leave it?”

“Need a signature, sir.”

“Okay,” said Bob.

He opened the door two inches until the chain restrained it, even as he peeled away from it in case somebody fired through it.

But instead a thin cardboard box slipped through the two-inch opening in the doorway. Bob grabbed it, shook it, and tossed it on the floor.

He opened the door, signed his name with a stylus on the computerized notepad, and watched the fellow trundle off, slightly absurd in his short pants and brown socks.

“Those guys always arrive at the wrong time,” said Nick. “They have a gift for it.”