Adrenalin Rush

by Steve Reeder

  I still wasn’t sure what to do about the possibility of Brown waiting for us in ambush near the farm but suddenly, I had an idea. Spotting a BT call box alongside the road, I stopped.

  “I’ll just be a minute, honey.” Michele nodded sleepily. Too much sleep was a sure sign of tension, or so I’d heard somewhere. The sooner I resolved the whole matter the sooner Michele would feel safe again. I slotted in several coins and dialled the number, glad that vandals hadn’t yet discovered a phone that still worked.

  Tarryn answered the phone on the third ring.

  “Tarryn, Simon here. Listen, I need to speak to Dave, is he there?” Tarryn said she would fetch him from the workshops. I said I’d phone back in a minute. I didn’t have that many coins. I gave him three minutes and hit the redial button. Dave answered first ring.

  “Simon? Where are you, mate?” He sounded out of breath. Perhaps he needed to do some five-mile runs.

  “That’s not important right now, Dave. But I need a favour from you.”

  “Sure thing, Simon, anything you want.” I laid out my plan and Dave seemed sure they could do it.

  “OK, Dave, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. I’ll give you a call before we get into the area just to check that everything went well. OK?” Dave assured me that that would be just fine, and I rang off.

  Back in the car I told Michele that we would be staying the night at my cottage in Petworth, West Sussex. She seemed OK with that.

  “You remember that first night we arrived in England, and stayed at the cottage?” she asked.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “When you insisted that I take your bed?” I nodded. “I have a confession to make.” I looked sideways at her. She giggled and blushed bright red. “I lay awake for some time dreaming that you would come back upstairs and make wild passionate love to me.”

  “Bloody hell, Michele,” I laughed. “You should have said something; I’d have been there like a shot.”

  She leaned across and rested her head on my shoulder. “Perhaps tonight then. You know I do love you, Simon?”

  We passed through Bath, then Salisbury and down to Southampton. Finally, we arrived in Petworth after dark. It seemed like years since I had last been here, so much had happened in between. It almost seemed like a different life, and, in a way I suppose it was.

  The cottage was dusty from being empty for several weeks and junk mail was piled high behind the front door, but we ignored it all and went straight to bed, but we were both too tired to do anything but sleep.

  Chapter 27

  I called the farm first thing in the morning.

  “Julia Rodber speaking.”

  “Hi, Julia. It’s me.”

  “Simon. Where are you?”

  “Michele and I spent the night at my cottage in Sussex, everything is fine here. Is either Bud or Dave around?”

  “Hold on, Simon, Dave has just come in. Here he is.”

  I waited, listening to the sound of Dave seating himself at the table.

  “Simon?” he said.

  “I’m here, Dave. What happened?”

  “Worked like a charm, boss. It took a while to get them spotted, in fact we recruited Gary, you know, the kid that’s trying to get into Tarryn’s panties?” I grunted to indicate that I did. “He got hold of all his nerd web-designing buddies. I gave them descriptions of those guys and they toured the neighbourhood: train station, pubs, and hotels and so on. Around ten last night we placed them all together at the Coach and Horse. There were four of them including that Brown fellow.”

  “Nice going, Dave. What did you do with them?”

  “Bud and I, and three of the lads paid them a visit. Bit of rough and tumble took place, and hey presto, just as they were running for cover, some of Bud’s old mates from 21 SAS turned up as planned by yours truly, and the four of them are out of circulation for a while.”

  “Er - What, or where exactly are they, Dave?” I had sudden visions of battered bodies littering the Kent countryside.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, Simon. They won’t be any the worse than they were when we had finished with them. They are enjoying the hospitality of a 21 SAS training detachment in Wales for the rest of the week. Poor buggers.”

  “Nice going, Dave. Tell the others I said thanks, will you? And Michele and I will be home later today.”

  I turned to Michele who was hovering at my shoulder. “The lads have taken care of things and we can go back to the farm.” Michele looked pleased.

  “Is it over then?” she asked, seating herself in my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck.

  “I think so. Hussein will pick up these drawings and deliver a large sum of money, Frank Brown, even if he has any courage left after what he’s going through now, will know that Hussein has the drawings, so he can just as well leave us alone, and Jethro . . well?”

  “Jethro is all right. I don’t think he’s a threat to us,” Michele said brightly.

  “As long as he has no reason to. Jethro is a hard man from way back, and I suspect he would do most things if the price were right. Anyway, shall we get going, or … ?” I asked suggestively.

  Michele smiled. “Or. I think,” she said, sliding her hand under my shirt.

  I drove us into Chichester where I returned the hire car. After a quick and nasty cup of coffee at the station, we were on our way into London on the ten-thirty express. Two trips on the underground and we were back on a train from Waterloo.

  Brett met us at the station in an almost new Ford Focus Sport, as was befitting his status as an almost top motor racer. He seemed relieved to see his sister still in one piece and looking happy.

  Now that I was back at the Rodber Ranch, as Russell had taken to calling it, there seemed to be a lull, an anticlimax almost. The threat of Frank Brown was much diminished if not gone altogether. Hussein could not be considered a threat; I expected him almost any day now and believed that the transaction would take place with no complications. He would hand over four million in sterling and we would give him the drawings along with the one disc, and if he chose to believe that it was the only disc in existence then we would not discourage the notion.

  Julia, after some subtle hints from Tarryn, who had had her ear whispered into by me, had agreed that Michele and I should get a fair share of the four million. I deposited a million Pounds in cash in a bank safety deposit box in London. Michele said that she would spend a huge chunk of her quarter million on a car, clothes and presents for her family back in South Africa.

  Three days later Hussein did turn up with a large briefcase and just one minder. After an almost ceremonial cup of tea we exchanged goods and he left with the much sought after drawings. I had asked him to make sure that Frank Brown would not come around anymore. Hussein looked at me with amusement that I didn’t understand at the time, but said he would get word to Brown that we no longer had the drawings.

  So the days passed with less and less for me to do. Bud was fit enough to run the team without my help, leaving me with nothing to do except offer advice to the riders on race weekends, and slowly heal from various breaks and scrapes. The team was still paying me, although Michele had felt guilty about taking money for doing nothing and had resigned. No mention was made of her leaving though.

  By the end of August we had competed in six more rounds of the British championship and both our riders had just missed a top five finish on two occasions. Tarryn had turned sixteen, and on her birthday Julia threw her a party to remember. Tarryn ended the day’s celebrations with Gary in her bed, declaring her independence to her sister and her mother, who had not bothered to come or even telephone her youngest daughter.

  Julia was wearing an engagement ring that Brett had given her and, the next day Bud announced that Tracy was pregnant. All in all, life had assumed a normality that we all welcomed, although it must be said that I was starting to seriously contemplate finishing that tour of the USA. But the Harley Davidson wasn’t a two-person bike, and I wasn’t sure Mich
ele would like the idea anyway.

  If you were thinking that all this normality seemed like the calm before another storm, then you would be right. Thursday morning 20th September found me sitting in the workshop doorway enjoying the autumn sunshine and watching other people work: always a favourite pastime of mine. The cast had long since been removed from my arm but it was still far from full strength.

  The team was frantically preparing the bikes for Brands Hatch for the coming weekend. They should have been ready last night of course but everything seemed to go wrong. Tools were not where they should be, spare parts had not been delivered on time and Ian had knocked over a drum of fuel, spilling half of it across the workshop floor. Not a good omen for the tragic day ahead.

  Bud came out from the workshop shaking his head with frustration. “Simon,” he said, “I’m going to Brands and taking Brett and Russell with me. I’ll get the paperwork done with the two of them. Can you get this lot to the track before noon for me?”

  “Sure, Bud. Not a problem at all.” I replied.

  “I’ll settle for no more problems. All right then, I’ll see you all there,” he said, striding off as best he could with one leg still in a cast, light-weight aluminium crutches thudding angrily into the dirt.

  Actually, it was closer to twelve-thirty before we arrived, and one forty-five before either of the riders was ready to take to the track.

  It was a disaster of a day, practice-wise. Our times were slow and there were numerous small mechanical troubles to frustrate Geoff and his fellow engineers. Neither rider seemed to settle down and everyone was unhappy. The weekend could only get better, and for a while it did.

  The team was at the track, ready for the first official practice early that Friday morning. Bud had read them the riot act and worked the engineers and their support staff late into the night. It did the trick. All four bikes ran superbly well and both Brett and Russell headed the time sheet at one time or another only to lose out to the official works teams. All in all, we were happy to finish the day sixth and eighth fastest respectively.

  Qualifying is not as important at Brands Hatch as at some tracks as it is fairly easy to pass slower riders here, but the psychological advantage of being fast in practice should never be overrated, quite apart from starting that bit closer to the front of the field.

  Everyone in the team was in good spirits apart from me. Throughout the day I had that old feeling again, that itch between the shoulder blades, and I was expecting something unpleasant to happen. The girls dismissed my premonition as silly and Bud told me in no uncertain terms to stop casting a dark cloud over everyone or go home. I went for a walk instead.

  I was looking for signs of Frank Brown or his men being in the area. There was no one else that came to mind that could cause this feeling of danger. But there was no Frank Brown or anyone else but fate that stalked us that weekend, and how do you defend yourself against fate? Do you tell the riders not to ride? That it could be dangerous? That they know already. Even if I had known where the danger lay, from what direction it would come, you can’t tell a motorcycle racer that to compete may be the death of him. He knows this is true every time he puts on his helmet and takes to the track. I wondered if I would have ridden that day despite the nagging feeling of disaster. Very likely yes. It all adds to the rush, and after all, what’s the point of being alive if you can’t tease the Grim Reaper occasionally?

  The day of the race dawned bright and sunny if a little cool: It was, after all, autumn. Being at the track, surrounded by fast machinery, beautiful women and the thrill of the crowds gets to me every time, and would for many years

  Riders’ briefing was a short affair that day and the sense of excitement among the riders was contagious. Mike Ritter was on the brink of making history, being just nine points away from being the first man to win five national championships, three in a row. Another win today just might clinch it for him.

  Back in the Rodber Racing pits Brett and Russell received a last minute pep talk from Bud and a kiss each from Julia. I ignored my insistent feeling of dread and slapped them both on the back; wishing them luck and hoping that they would both come back in one piece.

  The clerk of the course opened the track and two eager young privateers led the pack out on a two-lap warm-up run, at the end of which they formed up on the grid in their qualifying positions. For five minutes the riders sat on the grid, engines off, while the TV crews filmed and interviewed for the watching public at home, sitting in front of the telly sipping tea or downing a beer.

  Helmets went back on as the grid was cleared of non-essential personnel. The riders did one more sighting lap before reforming on the grid. Gone were the smiles and laughter, now the serious stuff would begin. I crossed my fingers and tried my best to ignore the cold knot in my guts.

  There were five laps of the race to go when things began to get frantic.

  Mike Ritter had led a high-speed five-bike cavalcade during the middle part of the race when all five of the riders had been content to conserve their tyres while slowly drawing away from the chasing pack.

  Only Brett had stayed within sight of them. Now the dash for the line would begin and Ritter would be desperate to break the others with ever-faster lap times. Of course the others would be planning to do the same thing. And Brett Robinson had just set the fastest lap of the race from sixth place.

  The racetrack radio commentators were going berserk, their excited babble echoing around the spectator stands. The crowds themselves were responding to the announcers as well as the race itself. A five-way fight for the lead in a superbike race was a spectacle not to be missed. The lead would change almost every corner as riders aggressively forced their way ahead of their competitors, slipping inside at each corner. It was not uncommon to see riders scraping fairings and actually leaning on each other through hundred-mile-an-hour corners. And a sixth rider was soon to join in the fun.

  The race had started satisfactorily with Brett and Russell starting sixth and eighth respectively. When the starter lights went off there was the usual mad dash for Paddock Bend and for a moment confusion reigned. As they disappeared from my sight down the hill I saw Russell slipping inside two riders into seventh or eighth place. Good start. Brett was perhaps five places back, not so good. The field of twenty-nine riders made it through the dip and up Hailwood Hill only to lose two riders at Druids, the slow double-right-hander: Jason Brent and Charlie Houseman going down in a cloud of dust but regaining their feet almost immediately.

  I checked to make sure Ian and Julia had the stopwatches ready and the pit boards to hand, and then offered a silent prayer that my riders would not do anything silly in the excitement of those opening laps.

  Michele and Julia were all nerves, finding it impossible to stand still. Young Ian was trying his best to look offhand and confident, mainly for Michele’s benefit. He had become hopelessly infatuated with her, much to her amusement. Bud leant casually against the low pit wall, his single remaining crutch propped up next to him, conversing with Greg in a loud voice.

  A little over a minute later all eyes turned to watch the leaders come into view around the final bend onto the Brabham Straight preceded by the scream of four-stroke motorcycle engines. The two Honda Britain machines led the field with a group of eleven bikes hard on their heels. Both Rodber Racing bikes were in the leading pack. We watched them flash past, the girls leaning over the wall screaming encouragement to Brett and Russell who couldn’t hear them and in all honesty, probably didn’t see them. Bud and I checked the lap times on the pit wall monitor out of habit. They meant nothing on the first lap, but we did it anyway. Julia and Ian had started the stop watches and Michele was biting her lower lip with anxiety. It made her look incredibly sexy and Ian was so distracted by her I was worried he was going to forget what he was doing.

  By the third lap a gap had appeared in the leading pack of riders with the Honda Britain bikes, a Durex Suzuki, one of the Virgin Yamaha’s along with a Rodber Ducati
opening up a gap on the others. The Ducati rider was Russell Yates.

  The five of them settled into a high-speed train, occasionally swapping places. They looked smooth and controlled. A second group had formed behind them: four riders including Brett who was having trouble passing the second Virgin Yamaha. By lap nine the gap was up to seven seconds but I was pleased with both of them. Two top ten finishes would be great for the team.

  Every lap the pit boards were held out with information for the riders to read as they screamed past. Bud and I kept our eyes on the lap times but they were not particularly fast at this stage of the race and my mind drifted to Brown and Hammil.

  Now that Hussein had the design plans, would they disappear back to wherever they had come from? Brown in particular worried me. I still couldn’t figure quite where he fitted into the picture but I was sure he wasn’t as pleased that Hussein had Rodber’s designs as he should be. And as for Jethro Jones, what had become of him?

  We hadn’t seen or heard from Hussein for several weeks now. Presumably, he had taken himself off to wherever and was plotting ways to make huge amounts of money from the oil drilling equipment he could now build from the Rodber designs. For that’s what they turned out to be: some new, advanced way of finding, and recovering oil at a reduced price. On reflection, I guess we could have got much more money from developing the equipment ourselves, or rather Julia could have. Julia had just wanted to get out of the whole mess though, and I couldn’t blame her. Anyway, she and Tarryn had inherited over sixty million between them: Pounds, not dollars.

  Jethro had vanished too. After nearly getting caught at the farmhouse he had just disappeared only to turn up and save our bacon on the train, then vanish into thin air again. The police had searched the area meticulously but not turned up any clues as to his whereabouts. He was gone, hopefully for good. Strangely enough, I missed the tough little ex-soldier turned crook. I wondered again if he really did have the French army payroll.