The guard escorted Peter out of the police substation and into the tunnel underneath the grandstand seating that faced the Start/Finish line at the track. The first thing that struck him was a cold, howling wind that entered through the open portals leading up into the grandstands. A familiar whistling sound was made by the steady winds that were reminiscent of tropical storm activity he’d endured while growing up at Driftwood Key.
“Which way?” Peter asked.
The guard pointed ahead of them. “Up ahead about a hundred yards will be an open area leading to the parking lot.”
“And where’s the infirmary?” he asked, knowing he risked being rebuked by the guard.
The guard pointed toward a long corridor that ran perpendicular to the tunnel. “Out there. It’s the Infield Care Center near the entrance to pit road. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s probably gone already.”
Peter nodded and began walking toward the exit of the speedway. He glanced over his shoulder after he passed the corridor leading to the heart of the racetrack to see if the guard was still watching him. When he saw the door to the substation closing behind the guard as he returned to his post, Peter darted back toward the corridor and ran toward a chain-link gate. Seconds later, he was standing at the gate overlooking the racetrack. He shook his head in disbelief as a gust of wind smacked him in the face.
Despite the late time of year and the unusually cool conditions for South Florida, a tropical depression must’ve formed somewhere in either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys and the southern tip of the state were visited frequently by hurricanes. Some formed in the Atlantic, like Hurricane Irma in 2017 that resulted in eighty-four deaths, while others grazed the island chain from the west, like Hurricane Donna in 1960 that nearly destroyed Marathon and Driftwood Key.
In Peter’s memory, the worst storm to hit the Keys was Hurricane Wilma in October of 2005. That had been considered a late-season storm. It was early November, although Peter had no idea what today’s date was. Somehow, dates and times didn’t matter much when you were constantly fighting for your life.
He pushed open the gate and fought the wind that struck him in the chest. The open speedway, filled with concrete and infield grass, allowed the gusts to blow unimpeded. Peter slowly walked down the slight, three-degree banking near the Start/Finish line. Darkness was settling in that allowed him only limited visibility. Once he hit the infield, he ran across the grass toward the entrance to pit road, where the guard said the Infield Care Center was located. He caught a glimpse of light emanating from the gray trailer adjacent to a building that resembled a small fire hall. There were several tan-colored Humvees parked haphazardly between the two.
Using blue and yellow stacks of painted tires as cover, he ran at a low crouch until he was only forty feet away from the entrance to a building identified as Motorsports Complex EMS. He also had a direct view of the Infield Care Center, which was nothing more than a gray office trailer. Peter had watched enough racing to know that after a wreck of any kind on the track, the drivers had to report to medical to get checked out.
He knew he couldn’t waltz into either building, introduce himself, and ask to see Jimmy. His friend might not even be there if the substation guard was correct. Peter sighed as he considered his options. As his eyes darted back and forth between the two buildings in search of activity, wind-blown raindrops began to pelt his face.
If Jimmy was there, the coming storm might provide just the distraction he needed to free his friend.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday, November 7
National Guard Encampment
Homestead-Miami Speedway
Homestead, Florida
In those first few moments, Peter got antsy. Then he settled in to wait despite the worsening conditions. He was cold and wet but determined to help Jimmy. If his friend had already been medevacked out of Homestead, then there was nothing he could do. If he hadn’t, Peter would take every risk to free him of this wrongful imprisonment.
After forty-five minutes, two uniformed National Guardsmen left the gray trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of two separate Humvees. They quickly turned around and began driving directly for the gate where he was positioned. He scrambled into the corner of the stacked tires that acted as barriers to protect race cars from further damage in case they ran off the track. As the Humvees sped out of the Infield Care Center, they didn’t notice him hiding away. Peter rose slightly to remain unseen. He wanted to follow the Humvees to determine where the exit to the speedway was located. Then he turned his attention back to the buildings.
The remaining two Humvees were sitting off to the side near the roll-up doors to the EMS building. Peter imagined the garage portion of the structure contained the fire trucks used during accidents. A hedgerow of sweet viburnum shrubs lined the administration building around the corner from the roll-up doors. If he could get to them undetected, he’d only be a few feet away from the Humvees, with sufficient cover under the darkened conditions to avoid recapture.
He took a deep breath and raced past the MUSCO controls that managed the lighting system around the racetrack. As he crossed the open pavement, he caught a glimpse of a light going off in the trailer. Peter skidded to a stop and dropped to a knee to look around. Another light turned off in the trailer. They were closing down. He didn’t have time to make it to the row of shrubs, so he scrambled to hide behind a large ice machine like the kind you’d find outside any convenience store. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. He’d only have one shot at this, and he had to be stealthy about it.
The white door to the trailer flung open and crashed hard against the exterior wall of the building. The wind had picked up to a steady gale. That was when he caught his first glimpse of Jimmy. His arms were pulled behind him, and he appeared to be handcuffed. A soldier stood behind him and half shoved him onto the platform sitting outside the elevated trailer.
Jimmy leaned against the steel railing while the guard struggled to close the door. Suddenly, the wind had become Peter’s ally. Without thinking of the consequences, he rushed from behind the ice box, bounded up the three steps leading to the platform, and crashed hard into the guardsman by driving the crown of his head into the man’s ribs.
The force of Peter’s tackling maneuver slammed the guard’s head into the doorjamb, knocking him out instantly. Peter fell to his knees, slightly dazed from the impact. Jimmy knelt down next to him.
“Are you crazy?” he whispered, looking around the parking lot to determine if they’d been seen.
“Sort of,” replied Peter with a chuckle. “What did they do to you?”
“It wasn’t waterboarding, but it was close. The CIA sucks, man.”
Jimmy didn’t have to say another word. Peter had covered the State Department and the Department of Defense. He’d heard more than rumors. He’d seen firsthand what agency operatives were capable of doing to extract information.
“You didn’t give ’em anything, did you?” asked Peter.
With his face partially covered in bandages, Peter couldn’t see Jimmy wince in pain as he smiled. “Hell nah.”
Peter slapped his friend on the shoulder, drawing another wince, not that Jimmy complained. Both men looked down to the unconscious soldier.
Peter took charge. “Let me drag him inside, and then I’ll get you out of those cuffs.”
Once they were inside, Peter located some surgical scissors and cut through the flex-cuffs binding Jimmy’s wrists. He immediately massaged his arms to alleviate some pain. Then he found a switch to the undercounter lighting at a row of cabinets. This provided sufficient lighting to see without drawing attention from anyone outside.