The Opening Chase

by Cap Daniels

  Not only did I remain silent, but I also fell in step behind Dutch to watch and learn. I assumed Dutch would do a little verbal soft-shoe to shun as much responsibility for the attack on Breaker’s Folly as possible and promise to get to the bottom of what happened.

  Breaker’s Folly was walked back to the stables, and Miguel Otero, Folly’s jockey, was helped down from the thoroughbred by a handler who skillfully placed the five-foot-one-inch jockey on the ground.

  The moment the jockey’s feet hit the ground, the furious Judson Bennett grabbed the tiny man with such force that the jockey let out an audible groan that sounded like the dying cries of a wounded animal. The size six feet of Miguel Otero left the ground when Bennett yanked him skyward and slammed him against the side of a trailer. Fortunately, Miguel hadn’t removed his helmet, otherwise he would’ve undoubtedly been knocked unconscious by the impact.

  “What the hell was that?” yelled Bennett. “What the hell did you do? Do you have any idea how much money you just cost me, you little shit?”

  Bennett released his hold on Miguel and let the jockey fall to the ground. He stood over him, growing more furious by the second. Fearing that Bennett may be on the verge of stomping the jockey to death, Dutch stepped in between Bennett and the cowering jockey, and placed his hand in the center of Bennett’s chest.

  In an unexpectedly calm voice, Dutch said, “Mr. Bennett, let me talk with Miguel, and I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Bennett slapped Dutch’s hand from his chest, glared into his eyes, and spoke in a voice that was breathy and dripping with rage. “You damned well better get to the bottom of this. I paid you people half a million dollars to protect my horse, only to see this little bastard piss it away two hundred feet before the wire. I want some damned answers, and I want them right now!”

  Dutch knelt beside Miguel. “Are you all right, Miguel?”

  The jockey unfastened his helmet and laid it carefully in the dirt beside him. “Sim, senhor. Eu estou bem. Obrigado. Obrigado,” replied the terrified man.

  “My Portuguese is terrible, Miguel. Can you speak English?”

  Miguel drew in a deep, determined breath and replied in trembling, broken English, “Sim . . . ah, yes, a little, but is difícil . . . uh, how you say . . . uh, hard, yes, hard. Ah, difficult. Is difficult when scared for me.”

  Dutch helped the jockey to his feet and led him to a pair of abandoned chairs. He helped dust off the jockey who was covered in dirt from the track and the ride Bennett had given him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Dutch.

  “Yes, yes. I am okay. I . . . ah, how you say, acidentado?”

  Dutch smiled again, “Yes, my friend, you are very acidentado . . . tough.”

  Miguel almost smiled. “Your Portuguese not so bad, senhor.”

  “How’s your Spanish?” asked Dutch.

  “Better than English,” said Miguel, excitedly.

  “Mine too.”

  They continued their conversation in Spanish.

  Dutch asked, “Can you tell me what happened to Breaker’s Folly out there?”

  The jockey calmed down and spoke in very good, very calm Spanish. “I don’t know, but I think something hit him in his eye. That’s what it felt like to me. I’ve been riding horses all my life, and that’s exactly how they behave when something hits them in the eye. You must tell the doctors to look in his eye. And please tell Mr. Bennett that I didn’t do it. I couldn’t make Breaker’s Folly do that if I wanted to. He got hit in the eye. I’m sure of it. Mr. Bennett is a very rich man. He can make sure I never ride again, and I have to ride, mister, uh, I don’t know your name.”

  “Just call me Dutch, Miguel. I’ll talk with the veterinarians and with Mr. Bennett. He’s just upset right now. He’ll come to his senses. He knows you didn’t do it. He just needed someone to blame while he was mad. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Dutch tried to reassure the frightened jockey who was afraid his career had just gone down in flames. They shook hands, and the two men parted ways. Miguel made his way to the shower as Dutch paced. Hundreds of boiling thoughts must’ve been going through his mind, and none of them were going to make the talk with Judson Bennett any easier.

  Dutch assembled the team of operatives in a hurried assembly in the back of an RV we’d set up as a makeshift operations center. On the wall was a bank of monitors attached to some of the finest video playback equipment available.

  I stood behind the seasoned operators and listened. Everyone had a theory, but no one was correct. They all had it wrong. Everyone had heard my radio transmission about the sniper on the water tower, but all of them assumed Breaker’s Folly had stumbled, flinched, or was spooked by something that resulted in him faltering before the sniper could get off a shot. I was the only one who knew the truth. That wouldn’t be the last time I was the only person in the room who knew the truth. I liked the feeling of power that accompanied such exclusive knowledge.

  The team was buzzing with ideas and theories, but Dutch called the room to order. “Okay, listen up! I have to brief Bennett, so get to work on the video. I want to know what happened, when it happened, and if it could’ve been prevented. You have four minutes. Chase, you’re with me. Let’s go.”

  No one questioned his direction, and everyone went to work scouring every second of video to find out what caused Breaker’s Folly to flinch and lose the race. Of course, I already knew what was never going to be apparent on any of the video, but I still wasn’t sure if Dutch knew the truth.

  He and I left the RV and climbed into the cab of an F-350 dually pickup. Dutch turned the key and the big diesel engine came to life with a roar. I started to speak, but Dutch stopped me.

  “Shh! Don’t talk yet.”

  He scrolled through the radio stations until he found a station with a thumping bass beat, and turned it up louder than a teenager cruising the strip. Simultaneously, we drummed our fingers on the windows of the truck. The extremely low-tech counter-surveillance measures of the diesel engine, the radio, and the finger drumming were designed to prevent anyone with a listening device from hearing our voices, or being able to record the vibrations of the glass in the truck and turn them into usable audio.

  “Okay, let’s hear it. What exactly did you see out there?”

  I took a breath. “Here’s what I saw. Barkov become agitated when Breaker’s Folly took the lead. He told someone, in Russian, ‘Shoot the horse!’ Then, he looked to the east, so I followed his line of sight and found the sniper on the water tower. She was clearly well trained and had a rifle I couldn’t identify. I watched her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing, and finally she held her breath and squeezed the trigger, but the rifle didn’t fire—or at least there was no visible recoil. She never flinched, and by my estimation, she couldn’t have weighed more than a buck twenty. Any thirty-caliber or better would’ve rattled her teeth, but she never wiggled. When she pulled the trigger, I caught a glimpse of a flash of light. It actually looked more like a reflection from something, but I can’t be sure. After she pulled the trigger, I immediately followed her sight line back to the track and saw Breaker’s Folly falling back and Silent Storm taking the lead. When I looked back at the sniper, she was rappelling from the water tower. Dutch, I think she temporarily blinded Breaker’s Folly with some sort of laser. That explains the absence of recoil, and it jibes with what the jockey said. Something hit the horse in the eye.”

  Dutch considered my theory. “Did you get a good look at her? Could you pick her out of a crowd?”

  The defining moment of my life was at hand. I was about to tell the biggest lie that would ever cross my lips, and it would forever change everything about my future.

  “No,” I mumbled. Her face was in a shadow under her hat, but I think she had short dark hair, or at least dark hair that was tucked under her hat. She was thin, fit, and agile, but other than that, I couldn’t say. Dutch, I’m sorry.”

  I felt my stomach implode with
instant guilt. I didn’t know why I’d lied to Dutch, but there was nothing that could be done about it. I had to stick to my lie, regardless of the cost.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you. Most new operators would’ve missed ninety percent of what you caught and remembered. You’re going to be one hell of an operator, Chase. Keep it up. Now, listen closely. Tell no one what you saw today. Tell no one about our conversation. You saw a sniper pull the trigger on a rifle you couldn’t identify, and the rifle clearly did not fire. The sniper’s mission was a failure. Breaker’s Folly took a rock to the eye or a bee sting or God knows what, but it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t shot. There was no bullet because there was no gunshot. You’ve done your job, and you’ll get a nice little check to go along with your new car. Good job.”

  Dutch patted me on the back for lying to him, then he told me to wait for him to create the next lie that I’d tell. I was beginning to think my whole new world was based on lies.

  * * *

  “Come with me and don’t say a word to anyone. Understand?”

  I stepped from the truck and joined Dutch as we headed off to find Bennett.

  When we finally found Bennett in a private suite in the owner’s club, he still seemed angry, but his hands were no longer trembling. He had a phone pressed tightly to his ear with his left hand and a tumbler of whiskey clenched in his right. A bevy of assistants, aides, and God-knows-who-else was orbiting him, awaiting instructions and praying they weren’t going to be the victims of his next tirade.

  Dutch waded through the crowd and leaned in closely to Bennett. “We need to talk . . . privately.”

  Bennett waved his assistants away with a brush of his hand. “Give us the room, now!”

  The crowd quickly dispersed, leaving the three of us alone in the lavish room.

  Without looking at me, Dutch pointed to the door. “You’re on the door, Chase.”

  I posted beside the door and watched the scene unfold in front of me.

  Dutch began his pitch. “Mr. Bennett, I know you want someone to blame for this afternoon’s results, but it’s beginning to look like it was just a stroke of exceptionally bad luck. We’ve reviewed the hell out of the video, and it’s crystal clear that Breaker’s Folly took something to the eye. Maybe it was a rock or some sand. I don’t know, but the video shows his right eye fluttering and his head jerking abruptly. Miguel did absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in the seconds leading up to the flinch. I believe it was a freak accident, and the video agrees. This was clearly nothing sinister and certainly nothing criminal. It was just bad luck.”

  “There’s no such thing as luck, you idiot!” Bennett roared.

  He threw his highball glass across the room, and it exploded against the wall. He turned back to Dutch with unequaled ire in his tone and disgust on his face.

  “So, you’re telling me it was just bad fucking luck that my horse got a rock kicked in his face at the exact moment that Russian’s horse needed to win the Triple Crown? What kind of incompetent ass are you?”

  Bennett crushed a lampshade that was probably worth more than my car. “Get the hell out! Take your so-called team with you and get the hell out!”

  Dutch started to protest, but Bennett lifted what was left of the lamp and hurled it through the air at Dutch’s head. Instead of defending himself, Dutch let the lamp hit him squarely in the face. He could’ve easily blocked the lamp or even sidestepped it, but for some reason, he just took the shot. Cupping his left eye in both hands, Dutch skillfully crushed a capsule of theatrical blood he had palmed. The crimson liquid dripped through his fingers and down his jawline.

  I knelt and drew my Walther from my ankle holster, prepared to defend Dutch if things continued to escalate.

  Dutch looked directly at Bennett. “You put out my eye, you son of a bitch. Your check better not bounce, or I’ll sue you for every dime you’ll ever have, and I’ll tell the world you had to hire a ‘so-called team’ to protect your horse from your own paranoia. You’re out of your league, Bennett.”

  As he stormed from the room with blood dripping from his face, Dutch said, “Shoot him if you want, Chase. Just make sure you kill him if you do.”

  I stared into Bennett’s eyes with my pistol gripped firmly in my hand. “Let’s wait ‘til his check clears,” I said. “We know where to find him.”

  12

  Old Friends

  The previous year of my life had been regimented beyond measure. I woke up before five every morning, ate hurriedly, then began studying, training, running, learning something new, and perfecting what I had learned the day before. There was no formal graduation with caps and gowns, and certainly no diplomas for the education I’d earned. I was quickly learning that my education at The Ranch, no matter how good it was, had not prepared me for everything I’d learn in real world operations.

  I sat behind the wheel of a car in Elmont, New York, on a gorgeous spring afternoon, thinking about her, the mysterious sniper who moved like a cat. I pictured her lying atop that water tower with her hair glistening in the afternoon sun, and her long, lean body stretched out with such elegance and confidence behind that rifle. The world around me faded away and I was consumed with thoughts of her. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to look into her eyes, and I wanted to touch her skin. I wanted to know her name. And, I could never tell Dutch.

  Dutch snapped his fingers sharply. “Hey, kid! Wherever you are, come on back.”

  I shuddered and looked at him sitting impatiently in the passenger seat, staring at me.

  “Sorry, I was just—”

  “It doesn’t matter, kid. You’ve had a big day. You’ve earned a vacation. Let’s drive into the city and celebrate. We just made half a million dollars.”

  He was clearly proud of himself for the rouse he’d pulled on Bennett.

  “You didn’t tell Bennett about the sniper,” I said.

  “Hell no, I didn’t tell him. The rifle didn’t fire. The horse got a rock kicked up in his eye or something, and he flinched. It was just a fluke, a stroke of bad luck. We did our job. We protected the horse and we got paid. Now it’s time to celebrate.”

  I knew I was treading on thin ice since I was fresh from The Ranch, but I just had to poke the bear. “So, who do you think kicked that rock into Breaker’s Folly’s eye? He was in the lead, half a length ahead of Silent Storm, when this mystery rock got kicked into his eye. Who kicked that rock, Dutch? There were no horses in front of him.”

  Dutch cleared his throat and dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. “Who the hell knows? Besides, what difference does it make?”

  I accepted his voice of experience. “Who was she, Dutch? Who was that girl on the water tower?”

  His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know, kid. She’s nobody. She’s probably some low-level SVR corporal or something. Barkov probably borrowed her for the weekend. Who cares? The job’s over, and we got paid. It’s time to party!”

  We took the Long Island Expressway into Midtown Manhattan and to the Four Seasons. Traffic was insane. I was coming to believe my dislike of large cities was well-founded.

  When we arrived, Dutch and I exited the car, leaving it in the capable hands of the overdressed valet who seemed anxious to relieve us of the burden of my BMW. He was courteous and warmly welcomed us to the Four Seasons. The bellman, also overdressed, promptly offered to take our bags, but Dutch covertly slipped him a folded tip. “It’s already taken care of, but thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” came the bellman’s crisp reply.

  A man at the front desk was the first employee not overdressed. He wore a nice dark suit and tie, but certainly nothing as gaudy as the guys out front.

  Before Dutch or I could start the conversation, the desk man cheerfully said, “Ah, Mr. Fulton. Welcome to the Four Seasons. Your friends are waiting for you in the dining room and your suite is ready. Your packages arrived earlier, and we had
someone unpack for you. If there’s anything you need while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to ask. We are at your service.”

  I turned to Dutch. “My friends? My suite? My packages? What’s he talking about?”

  Dutch formed a thin horizontal line with his lips. “Yes, Mr. Fulton. Do join your friends in the dining room. I’ll catch up with you later. Oh, and nice job today by the way. You’ve done good, kid.”

  As I entered the dining room, the maître d’ greeted me as if he’d been expecting me for days. “Welcome, Mr. Fulton. Let me show you to your table. Your friends are waiting.”

  He deposited me at what he referred to as my table, where I found a wonderfully welcome surprise. Sitting around the table with open-collared shirts and dinner jackets were Beater, Tuner, and Dr. “Rocket” Richter. The trio wasted no time greeting me with boisterous enthusiasm and handshakes.

  Dr. Richter clasped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “I’m proud of you.”

  That was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name, and I almost let a tear escape the corner of my eye. “Thank you, Coach.”

  “We’ve been hearing all about your exploits at The Ranch and on your field trips. It sounds as if you’ve already made quite an impression on the decision makers. I never had any doubts,” said Dr. Richter.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply offered a polite, “Thank you,” and took a long sip of the scotch that had magically appeared in front of me.

  I hadn’t seen those guys for over a year, and for some reason, they felt like family to me since I no longer had a family of my own. It was good to see them.

  “Where’s Ace? It’s not a party without him,” I said.

  The table fell silent until Tuner, the quiet one, said, “Ace passed away about six months ago. It was the big C. Cancer gets all of us if we live long enough.”