Adrenalin Rush

  Adrenalin Rush

  www.stevereeder.co.za

  info@stevereeder.co.za

  Coming soon from Steve Reeder:

  Turn Killer

  Bad Moon Rising

  For Wendy Preston: long gone but never forgotten.

  Adrenalin Rush

  Steve Reeder

  Read This! Publishing

  South Africa * United Kingdom

  Read This! Publishing

  PostNet Suite 208

  Private Bag X6590

  George

  6530

  South Africa

  http://www.readthis.co.za

  First Published in South Africa in 2011

  Copyright Steve Reeder

  Steve Reeder has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  SBN 978 0 620 37621 1

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Coming soon to Read This!

  A bit about the author:

  I felt the passing of the bullets and tried to quicken my pace, but the sand was thick and soft, dragging harder at my feet with every yard I gained. My lungs were on fire and I could hear my heart pounding desperately in my ears. A third shot, closer this time, slapped past my left shoulder as I reached the dubious cover of the bush and sank gratefully to my knees behind it. I was exhausted. Three days of beatings and too little food had sapped my strength. Fortunately, the guy with the gun didn’t look like lasting much longer. I peered from under the wilted branches of my sanctuary at the old desert fort. He stood unsteadily in the entrance, the broken gates hanging drunkenly behind him. The moonlight was bright enough for me to see the red stain growing across his enormous chest. A trickle of blood escaped his gaping mouth even as he raised the gun for another shot. At this distance I shouldn’t have been concerned about him hitting me. But then again, every bullet has to go somewhere.

  He never quite made it. Slowly, he sank to his knees and then sagged backwards till he lay awkwardly on his back with his legs tucked under him. I waited. Five minutes turned to ten, then fifteen. Nothing moved. There was no sound at all. No wind moved across the desert sands and any creatures awake at this hour waited silently with me.

  Nothing moved. Not me and not him.

  Finally I got to my feet and keeping my eyes on him, I walked slowly back towards the old fort. Did he move? Perhaps just a twitch? I stopped, uncertain if he was really done for or not. Three times I made to continue, but something held me back. I stared at him, hoping he was beyond staring back at me. This time five minutes turned to twenty. Then, just as I had convinced myself that it was safe, he muttered an oath and with a huge effort he raised the gun and pointed it my direction. Three shots rang out in quick succession, one of them passing between my legs.

  Silence descended once again, except for a strange clicking sound. He was repeatedly pulling the trigger of the now empty gun. A spasm ran through his body and the clicking stopped. Even as I watched, he sighed deeply and died. It was safe to go back into the old fort now. I just didn’t want to. There were five dead men in there, and I had killed them.

  Chapter 1

  England, some weeks before.

  My right arm ached and my left ankle was giving me hell.

  I had no idea why the arm was painful but the ankle was easily explained; a couple of hundred pounds of Italian made motorcycle had fallen on it not three hours ago during the morning qualifying session, leaving me starting the race from near the back of the grid. With no time for the ankle to recover and the painkilling injection having worn off almost as soon as the race had started I was in trouble from the first lap.

  Leading the British superbike championships by three points going into this final race I only had to finish ahead of Mike Ritter to finally win the title of British Superbike Champion.

  The problem was that it wasn’t going to happen. Even as I rounded the hundred and eighty degree final corner and onto the start and finish straightaway for the penultimate time, I could see the two Honda Britain bikes of Ritter and his teammate disappearing into the first corner some three hundred yards in front of me. There was just no way I could catch them even if there had been ten more laps. Not the way my rear tyre was sliding and the front of the bike was juddering under braking. I had pushed the tyres far too hard while working my way up to third place during the past twenty-two laps. Frustration compounded the painful limbs.

  I completed the final lap around Donnington Park racetrack all alone - the Hondas seldom in sight and the fourth-placed Yamaha too far behind me to pose any threat. Alone apart from the constant and growing worry that the now shredded tyres were going to dump me on my behind at every corner.

  Alone on the track is how I finished my professional motorcycle-racing career. The crowds were shouting and screaming. Although the noise of my bike drowned out their voices, I could see them going wild, and more fans than I realised I had waved banners in the stands, banners which had my name emblazoned across them along with Maverick Petroleum Ducati. Maverick Petroleum had been my sponsor for ten long years of trying to win the British Championship, not to mention a one year stint in the World Championships. They had come to say goodbye, and I was more than a little moist eyed with emotion. Looking behind me to be sure the last podium place of my career was not under threat I began waving to the crowd as I accelerated down the straight and across the finish line with my front wheel in the air.

  That’s it. I’m retired.

  By the time I’d parked the Ducati in the post race paddock and reached the podium I had been slapped on the back, hugged and even kissed twice.

  We had got the whole podium thing out of the way, having sprayed cheap bubbly at each other as well as the girls in the skimpy outfits. Spraying champagne at fellow riders was fun, but wetting the girls down, now that was interesting. Offers to help them wash it off were accepted more often that you might imagine, but more on that another time.

  The post-race interview was a drag: “Simon, what happened? Simon what are you going to do now that you’ve not won the championship? Again?” and so on: Like I really needed to be reminded that I had managed to lose such a healthy lead in the championship in the final two race meetings.

  The only plus side to the whole thing was Sue Parry’s request for an interview. I looked longingly at her shapely curves and nodded happily, there was not a rider in the UK who was not happy to talk to Sue.

  I followed her and the two-man camera crew down to my team pit area to shoot the interview with me sitting in a deck chair, both the
team’s bikes in shot behind me. Brian, the cameraman, convinced several friends and other well-wishers to leave me alone for five minutes so they could film the interview, which I found out was going to be live. Sue talked briefly with her producer in London before Glen Pike, the TV anchor in the BBC studio crossed to us.

  Sue looked into the camera and began, “Glen I’m down in the Maverick Petroleum Ducati pit as you can see with Simon Roberts. Simon announced his forthcoming retirement from motorcycle racing three weeks ago at Brands Hatch. At the time he looked fairly certain to win his first superbike championship.” She paused dramatically, then, “Last week a dramatic crash at Cadwell Park cut his championship lead to just three points over multiple champion Mike Ritter. This meant that today Simon needed to beat Ritter, regardless of where they finished, in order to win the championship.” She turned to me and I saw Brian swing the camera from Sue’s lovely face to mine. “Simon,” she said, “you’ve just lost the championship by one point.” She looked sad for me. “How are you feeling?” I sat up straighter and made sure the camera would show my sponsor’s logos on my team shirt. Ever the professional, I would give Maverick Petroleum value for their money.

  “Sue, I’m gutted, quite frankly. I’ve been competing in the British championship for ten years, as you know. I’ve finished as runner up twice before, and this year looked so good right from the start.”

  Sue looked sympathetic. “It was a good start wasn’t it Simon? After the problems of the first race of the season, you had four straight wins to lead the championship standings till this morning.” She stuck the microphone back under my nose for my comment. But what really could I say. Only two bad results all year and Ritter had still won the national crown again.

  “What can I say Sue? Mike and the Honda team were just too good for us. When they couldn’t win, they made sure they put points in the bag, and they were there to take advantage when I made a cock-up.”

  The interview went on for some time about the season just ended, and then Sue asked, “So what now? I’m sure your legions of fans will be keen to know what’s going to become of Simon Roberts.” Legions of fans. I liked that.

  “Well Sue, I would just like to take this opportunity to express my thanks to all the fans that have turned up to support not only me but British motor racing as a whole.” I looked into the camera lens and said, “Thanks guys! I hope when I come to watch a few races in the future, I’ll get to meet some of you in the stands.” I turned my attention back to Sue. “As for the immediate future, a big party tonight and then in January I’m off on holiday. I’m going touring around the USA for a while. Nine months, maybe even twelve.”

  It took me three hours to get away from the track (“Too much excuse for a drink,” said the team members. “Can’t let you go without a toast or five.”)

  Home was a cottage down in West Sussex in the small village of Petworth just outside the city of Chichester. I parked the sports car alongside the now familiar yellow Lexus in front of the small building.

  The girl waiting for me at the old cottage was called Becks, at least by me, although I had been known to introduce her as Muscles. Her name was actually Rebecca Armstrong so you can see where the ‘muscles’ nickname comes from. She doesn’t like the name, ‘Muscles’, I mean, and any use of that name usually precedes a period of no sex for yours truly. Naturally I don’t use it often. And only when I figured that the no-sex rule was going to apply anyway. Like now.

  “You promised me,” she said angrily, as I stepped into my front hallway, such as it is. It’s a small cottage, as I have already mentioned. Well, it had two bedrooms, but one is, or was, an attic. Other than that it consists of one downstairs bedroom, a bathroom with shower and a kitchen - the kitchen being separate from the shower, just in case you were wondering - plus tiny hallway and a living room where it is possible to entertain one person at a time - two if they are slim and not averse to getting intimate with each other as well as you, or me, rather.

  “Um …,” I replied, not knowing what the hell she was on about. It also gave me a moment or two to appreciate her Celtic beauty. She never looked more gorgeous or sexy than when she was angry, which to be honest is sometimes too often. And right now she looked incredible. Five foot seven with curves in all the right places, dark hair that framed a face that could, and indeed had sold cosmetics such as lipsticks and eye liner in glossy magazine pages and in one case a gigantic billboard.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Stupid question. What I should have said was, ‘what the hell have I done now?’ I was pretty sure that I had never actually promised her that I would win the championship, although there had been an ill-considered boast or two. Besides, I don’t think Muscles ever really cared about the racing. Actually, we don’t really have a lot in common apart from each other.

  “Don’t you dare act all innocent and confused with me, Simon Roberts. I saw the interview,” she said and stamped her foot angrily. I mean really, only women can do that and actually look serious. Although there had been a guy in school with me who did it too, but we all had our suspicions about him. Teasing him mercilessly just to make him lose his temper and stamp his foot was a daily occurrence at school. Great entertainment. Kids can be so cruel.

  “I spoke to Dad last week and he is expecting to see you first thing Tuesday morning.” She was getting better looking all the time, which when you think about it is pretty scary. I tried to avoid the argument by ducking cowardly into the kitchen. I put the kettle on and rooted around for something edible in the lone cupboard. Becks had followed me and was giving off a frigid silence that I could feel between my shoulder blades.

  “OK,” I shrugged, “and I’ll be there to see him. This whole thing sounds good.” I tried hard to remember what it was I’d promised to go and see her father about.

  “Whole thing? Whole thing?” If she stamped her foot any harder she was going to hurt in the morning. “We talked about this Simon. You’re finished with motor racing, and this is a new start for you - a new career.” Oh, yeah. A new job. I remember now.

  “Yeah, and I’m up for the trip to see your Dad. And we’ll see if things work out right. I told you I’d do that, and I will.”

  “But you’re going off to the USA in January for who knows how long, so where does that fit in with our plans? I can just see Dad offering you a highly paid job when he knows you won’t be here. Not!”

  Becks hardly ever watched the televised races, and never came to the track, partly because the guys wouldn’t leave her alone, but mainly because she hated motorcycles. I was beginning to regret encouraging her to get home early enough to watch BBC Grandstand today.

  “And what about me?” She demanded to know. “Where do I fit in with your holiday plans?”

  Ah, well that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? The problem was that I didn’t really know myself. Typically male, I wanted my freedom to do what I pleased, and I wanted her available to me at my convenience. I guess I wasn’t really in love, or not enough in love and I think that’s what she saw in my face. I mean hey, working with Daddy is pretty much like committing yourself to the daughter when you think about it. For life, except that if you get caught messing around with another bird, you stand to lose your job as well.

  “Fuck you, Roberts.” She said, bursting into tears. “Philip will be around to pick up my things. Goodbye.” She unclipped my spare key from her keyring and threw it at me. Without another word she turned and stormed out.

  “Bollocks,” I said quietly to her retreating back. The last thing I needed was her not so little brother coming to see me after she had been around to tell him about our recent conversation. I should point out that I’m not usually a coward, but her little brother was actually a six foot seven, two hundred and seventy pound lock forward for the London Irish rugby team. The first team, I should hasten to point out. Normally we get on fine, but he idolizes his sister more than he likes me. Either way you looked at it, my nine month relationship with Rebecca A
rmstrong was over. That’s one life-changing national championship, a relationship with Britain’s hottest photographic model and a new career blown in just one day. How clever is that?

  I thought briefly about starting my trip to America right away but common sense prevailed. Philip wasn’t actually going to beat me up. Besides, the weather in the US isn’t really up to much at this time of year, I thought, conveniently ignoring the cold rain now falling outside. Then there was that endorsement deal my agent had lined up for December that would have me acting in a sixty second advert, probably the last one I’d ever be doing.

  Yeah, I know what you are thinking: why do bike racers need business agents? But hey, it’s a big business these days. Come to think of it, I’d soon have no more need for an agent either.

  Chapter 2

  I travelled to the United States of America on the 11th of January, blissfully unaware of the unintended consequences of my future actions. Who knows what would have happened if I had simply gone to Spain for a month to lie on sun-drenched beaches, drinking too much cheap beer and chasing the available women. Would it have all ended peacefully, without the loss of life if I had not become involved? Looking back, the only conclusion I can come to is that I don’t know, couldn’t possibly know. But I do know that my life today would not have been the same. But would it have been better? Who knows? Probably not, but who can predict the future, or an alternative past?

  Being lost with time on my hands and money to spare is my idea of a relaxing vacation. This is how I came to be in Texas.

  I had taken the Concorde to New York, just so I could say that I’d travelled at twice the speed of sound. Once there I had purchased an old Harley Davidson and taken twenty two days to ride south to Texas, passing through several states without bothering to note exactly where I was. New York was still freezing but it rapidly got warmer the further South I went and by the time I arrived in Texas my leather jacket had been consigned to the pack strapped onto the saddle behind me.