AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Dalton Hughes wants to. He’s making comments all over the paddock. Nothing direct, but he’s making it seem like he knows there was more to it.”
There was a long pause. “You need to take care of Hughes. We can’t afford for anyone to ask questions. If people ask questions, everything will fall apart. Dennis died in a freak accident after having a heart attack. There can be no doubt.”
“I’m not doing it. No effin’ way. I’m not a killer. I’m out of it.”
“You’re out of it when I say you’re out of it. You need to take care of Hughes. I don’t care if you kill him or just take him out of commission for a while. As long as the cops sign off on the heart attack, we’re golden.”
“I’m not?—”
“You will, or I’ll call a certain man in Las Vegas and tell him where he can find you.” The voice had gone cold.
He thought he might puke. Las Vegas. That guy would kill him. No question, and he’d make it as painful as possible. “But I—I don’t know how to do it.”
“Fuckin’ idiot. Figure it out. And don’t say anything to anyone about it.”
“Say anything? Jesus Christ, I’ll never breathe a word of it. If this gets out, I’m ruined. Beyond that. I’ll be in jail. I’m not saying a word.”
“Keep it that way.”
The caller hung up, and the man stared at the cell phone. Maybe he should get rid of it. Break off all communication. Killing Dalton Hughes hadn’t been part of the plan. Even hurting Hughes seemed outrageous. How in the hell was he supposed to do that? Better to be done with everything. He started walking toward the hospitality tent. There were garbage cans all around. He could toss it in one, and no one would notice.
As he approached the entrance, he noticed the tent was still full. The teams were all bored and frustrated at their forced idleness. They all wanted to be running practice sessions, but Race Control hadn’t told them yet if they were closing for the day, or for the next while, or what, so everyone was hanging out. That meant they all went to eat.
There was a garbage can in the corner on his left. Nodding hello to a couple of racers, he made his way toward it, but then another thought occurred to him. If he threw away the phone, he had no way to contact the person who had hired him, but more importantly, he had no link to prove he didn’t do this on purpose. If he got arrested, he had to be able to give the polizei something. Just the thought of being arrested made his stomach churn and his bowels loosen. He changed direction and grabbed a bottle of water. He didn’t have a prayer of keeping anything down at this point. The food didn’t even smell good to him, thanks to his nerves. No, keeping the phone was essential. He would need leverage, and this was all he had.
Heading back out of the tent, he lamented the day he had said yes to this stupid scheme. He’d known at the time it was a bad idea, but he was desperate. His gambling debts were out of control, and he’d had no other options. Las Vegas. The nightmare that never ended. Now he wished he’d just gone to rehab. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could figure a way out of this mess. Or maybe he should just run. Go far and go fast. The people in charge of this weren’t people he wanted to cross. His luck had run out.
Yes, running was looking better and better. Now, he just needed a few dollars to live on…
CHAPTER NINE
Dalton climbed into his SUV and dropped his head to the headrest as the vehicle heated up. He even turned on the steering wheel heater. The weather had been warm and sunny when they were here last year. Now the place was locked in an unseasonable cold snap. Maybe he was unable to warm up because of the cold hard fact that Moore’s untimely passing could mean the death of Hughes Racing. He rolled his head from side to side as if to negate the thought.
Or maybe he was just getting old and cranky. Had there ever been a longer day? He wasn’t sure he’d made any progress on the whole Moore mess. Was he kidding himself? Maybe it really was a heart attack. In the end, did it matter?
He rubbed his face. Yes, goddammit, it did matter. Someone wanted Moore to have an accident, but for the life of him, Dalton couldn’t figure out why. None of it made sense. He’d spent the afternoon talking to his drivers and then spreading the word up and down the paddock that Moore had a heart attack so the other teams stopped looking at him with either pity or disgust. He’d been hopeful someone would remember something or let something slip that might be useful, but so far nothing. Turned out, Dalton sucked as an investigator.
Detective Haas had left mid-afternoon and said he’d reach out if he had any more questions. Was he satisfied with the heart attack theory? Maybe he was right, but Dalton just couldn’t let it go. The wicked vibration of the Porsche’s wing was not an accident.
He pulled out of the paddock and headed back to the hotel. No moon brightened the night and the darkness was thick. The temperature had been slowly warming up. Weathercasters had predicted rain later but it had started snowing a little while ago. Big, fat flakes that would switch to a cold rain. He glanced at the dash. The temp was currently hovering around freezing, making black ice a possibility.
Dalton pulled out his cell and glanced at the screen. Still nothing from his brother. Rory would be the death of him. All this disappearing shit on top of Moore’s accident had aged Dalton by years. He felt like he was ancient. He’d thought working with his father before the man’s death was the worst of it, but now that seemed like child’s play compared to the hell he’d faced today with Moore’s death and Rory missing.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck as he turned onto the winding road that led to the hotel. Europe was full of tiny roads that were only wide enough for one vehicle. It had taken him a long time to get used to driving on them. No one back in the US would tolerate having to get around on roads like these. They were all used to massive interstates and parking lots with large spaces. Here, it was all about being compact.
The jolt came out of the blue. The crunch of his bumper buckling came at the same time as the steering wheel being wrenched from his hands. What the fuck? He glanced in his rearview mirror. There must be a car back there, but the headlights were off, and with no streetlights, he couldn’t see any detail.
The vehicle hit him again. Swearing, he fought to keep the SUV on the road, gripping the wheel as hard as possible. The narrow road dropped off on the right and a hillside rose on the left. If he went off on the right, it would be ugly. Too steep a drop, there was no way he wasn’t getting hurt.
The road curved sharply to the left up ahead. He gauged the drop on the right had to be at least fifty feet, ending with a fenced field at the bottom. On the other side was a steep hill full of trees. Either way, he was in trouble. He knew the guy behind him was biding his time. Once they reached that corner, whoever was back there would hit him hard and he’d go flying. No fucking way. That was not happening. His fight or flight instinct kicked into overdrive and adrenaline rushed through him.
Fuck this. He waited until the other car was closing in before he braced himself and slammed on the brakes. The other car smashed into the back of him, making his airbags go off. They slid on the slippery road and Dalton fought to keep his SUV from going over the side. The car behind him fishtailed and skidded into the hill. At least that's what it sounded like from the crash. Dalton’s front right tire dropped over the edge of the embankment before the car came to a halt.
He took a second to make sure he was okay before he looked behind him. The car was pulling out of the hillside and making a U-turn. Whoever it was, swung the car around and was gone within seconds. Dalton pushed the airbag out of his way. His SUV was undrivable, but he was okay. A little shaken up, and his hand hurt from when the steering wheel had been ripped out of it, but other than that, he was in one piece.
Who would want to kill him? And why? He’d hoped whoever was driving would hit him full force so it would total his car and stop him from getting away. Instead, the guy had been able to react fast enough so the hit wasn’t as hard. Had to be a racing driver. Not many people out there possessed that kind of skill.
But why would one of the other drivers want to kill him? Only one theory came to mind. This had to be the work of the person who’d killed Dennis Moore. All that chatting up and down pit lane had had the desired effect. Someone knew something.
