Grip - 1. Chapter 1

Present day. Moscow.

It was early in the morning, except that there was no such thing as daybreak in Moscow during the winter. It was a perpetual twilight that sucked out the soul and bathed everything in shadows. Street lights were still on and provided most of the illumination on the streets which were mostly empty. The sight of people, much less cars, were a rare sight at that moment as most of them were still in bed, not yet ready to face the new day.

It was cold, but then as some wise babushka’s always said, ‘it is always cold in Russia.’ The roads had recently been salted, large trucks rumbling through the city clearing the light dusting of snow away with their ploughs and spreading salt behind them in preparation for the rush hour commute that would start soon.

The otherwise quiet morning atmosphere was disturbed by the loud noise of tires squealing on asphalt. In an empty parking lot of somewhere inside the Garden Ring a sole hunter-green MG TF did power slides all over the place trailing smoke and melted rubber. On the sidelines two girls, one armed with a laptop, stood by a tricked-out Mitsubishi Pajero SUV and watched the MG slide around the lot as if it were wet.

The MG sped to one end of the parking lot and turned to face the other end. It revved its engine a few times; the spooling of a supercharger whined as she poured the power on. The driver gunned the engine and the car took off like a rocket. When the engine hit the redline she shifted into second gear to gain a bit more speed.

Halfway down the lot, she was redlining at second gear but did not shift up. She wanted to test the cornering. She let of the gas and slammed the brakes and turned the wheel to the right. The car sharply changed direction and went in a curved arc. With a little too much oversteer than the driver wanted. Coming out of the turn, she gunned the engine again and was disappointed at the time it took the car to accelerate.

She did this drill a few times, throwing into a power slide or a drift every now and then but her complaint remained the same throughout. At one point the MG came to a halt in the middle of the lot. The two girls on the side quickly went over to the car. The driver of the MG, a girl named Mrs. Cooper, wore a mildly frustrated expression on her face.

“How was it?” asked the girl over her laptop.

“It’s not right for the way I drive,” replied Mrs. Cooper almost immediately. “There’s too much boost in the higher RPMs. I need a bit more low-end torque for better cornering.”

“We thought this might be better, you know, for those long sprints.”

Mrs. Cooper shook out her dark hair as she spoke, “I have the new headers and pistons for that. Besides, even If I get high top speed the way the car is set up now, the other guy will be at the finish line by the time I go full on the speedo.”

The two j-pop girls scratched the backs of their heads. “Well we thought you might like it, though,” said the other one.

“When will you two learn it’s not always about power?” Mrs. Cooper replied with a slight smirk, lighting up a slender cigarette. “Let’s go already. Jae owes me a tune up anyway.”

The two girls walked back to the Pajero while Mrs. Cooper’s MG peeled into a doughnut and drove of out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Soon the Pajero was already on its way as well. Both cars were on the main roads with a few other cars. Not much traffic yet at this hour, not even on an access road to the MKAD that circled Moscow.

* * *

Near to the Kremlin

He smoked a cigarette from behind the wheel of the non-descript black car as he watched the man descend the steps of the FSB building and climb into a waiting Mercedes.

Everything was proceeding according to a clockwork precision schedule that could only be achieved by the former KGB. It was that precision that made them vulnerable, and after careful manipulations, dangerous liaisons and weaselling, he was now sitting in a position to take what he needed.

Stubbing out the cigarette he started the Lada, the former driver had objected to the ‘acquisition’ but then the new owner hadn’t given him much of a choice. Laying face down and bleeding into the snowy slush, the former driver had more pressing concerns than the sudden theft of his car.

The Mercedes ahead of him pushed on through the darkness, sweeping up and over the bridge as it wound down past the Kremlin and headed towards the expressway. Historic Moscow, seeped in culture fast being buried beneath spiralling capitalism that had plastered billboards and advertising all across the sacred stomping grounds of Lenin and his coterie. Oh how that must have irked the man pickled in his little mausoleum.

If he was even still in there, the driver of the Lada wasn’t sure… after Yeltsin everything had changed, and given Putin’s death grip on the reigns of power, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d opened up the mausoleum and popped in to measure the curtains.

Russian politics was, at times, humorous. They hated their leaders, but couldn’t function without a strong hand on the reigns. The Romanov dynasty had given way to Lenin, Lenin had given way to Stalin… and now it was Medvedev, Putin’s puppet on his knee… such was life.

The Mercedes was turning, ducking down and into a warren of back streets, seemingly aware that there was a car behind it, but still not wanting to attract too much attention.

“Too bad,” the driver mused to himself as he turned on the police siren and flashing lights of his commandeered Police car.

There was a moment’s hesitation, both men in their cars waiting to see what the other would do. Debating innumerous possibilities as they continued to trundle forward over the paving stones. Eventually the car in front pulled to a halt.

The driver of the Lada smiled as he eased the police issue automatic out of the holster, checking the safety as he watched the FSB agent climb out of his car. Righteous anger on his face, arrogant and superior. He wasn’t going to tolerate a lowly militsiya officer pulling him over, not when he was on state business.

The Lada driver smiled as he, too, stepped out of the car, using the door to shield the pistol.

“Durak,” the FSB agent called shielding his eyes against the glare of the Lada’s headlights. Jabbering something in Russian to the effect of do you know who I am?

“Yes,” the Lada driver replied lifting the pistol and barking out a single shot, striking do the FSB agent.

He idly glanced around him at the street, still and silent. Muscovites were remarkably pliant that way, they’d survived the communists and Yeltsin’s mafia wars, a gun shot was just another thing they chose to ignore, staying safely locked behind their double iron doors and barred windows.

The Lada driver holstered his gun as he knelt beside the dead FSB agent, rifling through the pockets of his cheap suit looking for his prize, puzzled at first as to where it could be. There was nothing in his pockets beyond a cellular phone, his id and service pistol, and the car was equally as empty.

Despair gripped the driver, as he glanced up and down the streets trying to think. Data had innumerous hiding places, and the advances of modern technology had given people the ability to secret gigabytes of files anywhere.

The phone.

He turned it over, noting that it was a new model, pulling it apart he found the memory card, a tiny black chip about as large as his little finger nail. Everything he needed and more, micronized for convenience courtesy of Putin and his FSB cronies.

He returned to the Lada, collecting the uniform cap, tucking it onto his head as he abandoned the two cars and the dead FSB agent. There was a Metro station close at hand, and he’d be able to slip away and into the city easily enough.

Once he was safely tucked aboard a train he pulled his PDA from his pocket, using the multi-port card reader to slot it in he examined his booty. Scans of paternity tests, bank records, phone logs, video, audio, and photos… gigabytes of leverage data on some of Europe’s richest and most powerful people. A goldmine for a man like him.

Mister Cooper gave a tight grin as he put the PDA away, now all he had to do was keep the data, and himself, safe long enough to find a use for it.

* * *

The MKAD

The two cars reached the expressway some minutes later.

Mrs. Cooper and her two friends cruised along at a modest 70 mph though of course she could do more but it was too early in the day to expect any action. There were starting to see a few more cars on the MKAD now. Mainly large delivery trucks that were most likely headed to the numerous Soviet-era industries which populated the South-East side of Moscow and Mrs. Cooper weaved past them with ease with her friends in the Pajero close behind.

As they drove along, Mrs. Cooper became aware that there was something out of the ordinary amongst the transports.

As she was driving past a couple of articulated trucks she noticed the car that lurked between them. Her first thought was that it was there to take advantage of the truck’s slipstream (and truth be told, it was) to save on a little gas. But she soon noticed it stood out as a finely tuned exotic sports car.

“A tuned XKR Jaguar? Never seen one of those around here,” she said to herself.

She drove alongside the high gloss black Jaguar and admired the nicely angled orange arrows vinyls on the side that complemented the bright orange hood with its own black arrows, and arched spoiler. She read some of the after-market stickers that were on the car’s door. While doing so, she got a bit too lost in checking out the car to notice that she was being watched as well. The windows were tinted so she couldn’t see clearly inside the car, but she noticed that whoever the driver was he was looking back at her.

She wondered if he was admiring her car. How could he not be? Where else can you find anything like Mrs. Cooper’s tricked-out MG? Mrs. Cooper flashed the driver a smile but couldn’t see his reaction to it. She then decided to show-off her car a bit by revving the engine into the redline and shooting off like a rocket at over a 130 mph.

She laughed to herself as she passed the first truck and left it behind in her dust along with the XKR. Her two friends in the Pajero caught up a few seconds later.

“Still flirting around, Mrs. Cooper?” blared through the hands free kit from her cell. Every now and then, they used the point-to-point like CB radios to coordinate with each other during races.

“You know me, girl,” she said with a slight giggle to herself.

“Was that for the Jaguar back there?”

“Yeah. Plate’s say he is from Britannia… England. Hey, have any of you two seen him before?”

“Naw, we were actually about to ask if you know him.”

“No, I’ve never seen him before.”

As she spoke Mrs. Cooper noticed the movement in her mirror. A small black and orange speck that started to get progressively bigger right behind the Pajero. She recognized it instantly as the XKR she passed a minute ago.

“Looks like somebody wants to play,” Mrs. Cooper said with a smirk.

“Huh? What do you mean by—Whoa! He’s coming up fast!”

Mrs. Cooper tightened the four-point harness that strapped her to her seat. She grabbed her cell phone and said, “See you guys at the garage,” and turned it off without even waiting for a response. She shifted into fifth and gunned the engine of her MG and blasted down the road. For the first time she was actually thankful for that new supercharger.

Mrs. Cooper’s two friends in the Mitsubishi Pajero watched as the bright pink car disappeared into the distance and the new, black and orange car suddenly pass them by and gave chase to their friend.

Traffic began to build up as more and more cars began to appear on the MKAD. The cars whistled by, and Mrs. Cooper watched them closely as she hammered the MG F into an all out sprint. She easily weaved in and out of traffic between cars and big trucks. She checked her rear-view mirror. The XKR was still there behind her easily keeping pace, almost effortlessly. The traffic around them actually proved to be very interesting obstacles where Mrs. Cooper was able to show-off her MG’s manoeuvrability.

Mrs. Cooper came up to a row of five cars idly driving down the road in the same lane of traffic. She got an idea and accelerated ahead. Using the three rolling cars as obstacles, she performed a slalom through all three at high speed. As she passed each car, her front bumper nearly grazed the rear fender of the car in front of her.

As she passed them all, one or two of the drivers honked their horn in protest at her stunt. She checked her rear-view to see of her pursuer. The XKR charged and performed a slalom on the three cars as well, matching Mrs. Cooper’s run turn per turn. This driver had skill, Mrs. Cooper thought to herself. But that was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Ok, boy, let’s see if you can keep up,” she said to herself.

She shifted up to sixth gear and brought the car near its top speed. The XKR responded by also shifting up and going all out. The two cars weaved in and around traffic like the other cars were standing still. Cars were easy enough to go around but the trucks proved problematic at times. Mrs. Cooper charged down the road and went to the right to pass a slow-moving Camry with a surprised old lady in the driver’s seat. The XKR sped past that same Camry on the left.

Mrs. Cooper checked her rear-view again. He was still there. She grinned. She looked up ahead and saw a new obstacle. Two large trucks were occupying the middle of the road while the rest of the lanes on either side were occupied by cars blocking the way. There was a gap between the trucks as one truck was behind the other and the one behind was speeding up to overtake.

Mrs. Cooper wore an excited smile on her face as they came up to the two large trailer trucks. The truck that was a little behind was moving to pass the slower-moving truck ahead of it and that’s when Mrs. Cooper saw an opportunity there and gunned her engine. She passed the first truck, squeezed through the gap just in time and went on ahead; convinced the XKR couldn’t follow her anymore.

She was wrong.

Behind the two trucks the driver of the XKR gunned his own engines and drove right along side the speeding rig. Before he lost his chance, the XKR slipped right under the large trailer of the truck and drove under it; the car’s roof less than an inch from the bottom of the trailer. When the truck and its trailer were past the truck that was ahead of it, the XKR manoeuvred out from under the trailer and back into the light of day.

Mrs. Cooper was surprised at the apparent brazenness of the driver for pulling that kind of stunt. She couldn’t react in time when the XKR came up to her and drove alongside her MG. The two cars were now side-by-side driving down the expressway at over 150 mph. Mrs. Cooper looked into the side windows of the XKR and though she couldn’t identify the driver though the tint of the windows, she could see him smile at her.

The XKR revved up and exceeded the MG’s speed.

Who ever it was driving had sharpened the claws of his big cat. It translated into a simple matter of logistics, and the MG just wasn’t a match for the thunderous 480 horsepower of the little Jaguar. Mrs. Cooper realized it and she let off the gas and watched in amazement as the XKR disappeared into the distance.

* * *

A few hours later, Jae’s Garage.

Mrs. Cooper pulled into the front area of the garage where a bunch of other tuner cars were already parked. She spotted Vasili’ SAAB and Ilya’s Maserati up front. She also saw the Mitsubishi Pajero belonging to her two friends who had helped her that morning. Mrs. Cooper parked in a spot ahead of those three cars and hopped out. She stretched her limbs as she walked towards the back where the water’s edge was located.

When she got there, there were tons of people kicking it up in the morning. Somewhere in the background some light hip-hop was playing in a relatively low volume so as not to annoy the neighbours. The mood was already pretty hype as some people whooped and cheered on the concrete riverside. Mrs. Cooper browsed around to check the faces of the people present.

She saw her crew to one side, some of whom were in two piece swimsuits underneath big fur coats, the bizarre combination that was uniquely crazy and uniquely Russian. She saw Ilya on a barbeque cooking some pork on long skewers for breakfast with his girlfriend standing by his side preparing the drinks; lemonade, because it was too early to get wasted. Jae was to one side talking with a bunch of people; no doubt he were talking about the events going on that night.

It wasn’t even nine in the morning and already we have a party happenin’, thought Mrs. Cooper who ultimately decided to simply head for Ilya and get herself some meat to eat.

“Well, well, well,” she heard a rich voice say from behind her. “I was wondering when you would show that sweet skirt in here.”

Mrs. Cooper didn’t need to turn around to know Vasili’s hands were moving towards her with a life of their own.

“Touch my ass, Vasili,” she said with a stern voice, “and you’ll find out how hard it is to drive with a couple of broken thumbs.”

Vasili withdrew his hand. He smirked and said something in Armenian which Mrs. Cooper didn’t get. Vasili walked past her and stood in front of Ilya’s grill.

“Hey, man,” said Ilya looking up from the food. “It’s too early in the morning to be doing that.”

“Aww, C’mon man, Just tryin’ to say hey-lo.” He said as he grabbed a couple of paper plates with skewered pork and a pair of cheap plastic forks and passed one to Mrs. Cooper who took it with a slight ‘hmph’

“Try and say hey-lo to me and I swear I’ll make you eat your own exhaust,” bit-out Mrs. Cooper.

“Hey, if that’s the only way I can get you to talk to me,” said Vasili as he took a piece of pork with his hand and tore a chunk off. Ilya just rolled his eyes and continued on cooking. Mrs. Cooper treated herself to some of that food on her plate and made to turn away. She stopped and turned back when a thought came to her head.

“Actually, there is something I want talk to you about,” she said. “You too Ilya.”

They all paid attention to her now. “What’s up, then, Mrs. Cooper?” asked Ilya.

“You guys know anybody around here who drives a right-hand drive Jag?”

Ilya and Vasili looked towards each other for a moment then back at Mrs. Cooper.

“I think there’s this cat, Carl, up in near Kitay Gorod who owns one.”

“What’s the model and colour?”

“’97 model. Blue.”

Mrs. Cooper sighed in slight frustration. That was not who she was looking for. “How about a ’08 model, black and orange, graphics on the side. Know anyone with that?”

Both Ilya and Vasili shook their heads.

“Fine, I’ll just go talk to Jae.”

Mrs. Cooper walked away and left the three at the barbeque a little confused. She wanted to go over where Jae was, however he seemed busy with business and she was loathe to disturb him just then. She decided to head inside the garage.

Inside the garage was an array of exotic tuner cars and a few muscle cars scattered about. There was even an Aston Martin on one of the lifts getting a tune up. The music from outside was dampened by the sound of power tools. Most of Jae’s staff were actually outside enjoying the morning and there was only one other person other than Mrs. Cooper in the garage.

“Boomer? Is that you?” she asked.

Boomer popped his oil stained face from under the hood of his car. He looked up and saw Mrs. Cooper there holding a plate of food and chewing on a hunk of pork.

“Yo, Mrs. Cooper, what’s happening?” he greeted her in his uniquely rich Cossack accent.

“Whatever it is, you’re missing it,” she said. “First thing in the morning and your working on your car?”

“Waddaya mean first thing? I never crashed last night.”

Mrs. Cooper was a bit surprised but not all that much. It was as if she was expecting this on some level. Boomer had changed so much in such a short time, racking it up to new experiences and the kid’s coming of age rituals. She would catch up with him, eventually, when his life settled down a little.

His life had become so different after he got a car of his own. Three weeks of a first car: A Peugeot Peugeot 206 Mk V GTi. He was more than eager to take it out on a spin. Mrs. Cooper remembered that night well. She was riding along with him while testing out her friend’s 350Z. They came to a stoplight then somehow, by complete coincidence, ended up side-by-side with some punk rich boy and his prissy girlfriend in a Ferrari F355 F1 Spyder.

A sleazy remark must’ve been said somewhere as suddenly Boomer was revving the heck out of his engine. Mrs. Cooper saw what was coming up next. As soon as the light turned green the Peugeot 206 GTi and the F355 went flying off the line leaving Mrs. Cooper in the dust. She quickly launched after them but didn’t make an attempt to overtake either one. She was just thankful there was no traffic at that road.

For the most part, the F355 was steadily gaining a lead. Mrs. Cooper wasn’t surprised, but Boomer grew frustrated behind the wheel. Suddenly, the guy in the F355 got too cocky and made the mistake of miss-shifting. The F355 lost precious speed and allowed Boomer’s Peugeot 206 to blaze into the lead and level the guy in the dust.

Ever since then, Boomer caught the racing bug. Every opportunity he got, he entered into a race or started one himself. He got lucky in all of them and built a small reputation for himself. Jae, his mentor, was none too excited about the idea but didn’t disagree to it. He helped Boomer along watched the kid’s back.

He spent almost all his free time (including most of his sleep time) tuning his car and in the span of three weeks since his first race the Peugeot 206 received a Rieger body kit complete with front and rear fenders, side skirts, and a low spoiler, black finished 18” Ace rims wrapped in Yokohama racing tires, a short shift package, spark plugs, cold air intake, a sports camshaft, and a tuned engine management system from Neuspeed, coil over suspension and roll bars from Intrax, Brembo brakes, a stage 1 supercharger kit from VF-Engineering, custom gauge packages on the dash, Sparco seats, a MOMO steering wheel, and the ever popular nitrous kit provided by NOS. Boomer also had his car painted in a metallic black coat and spiced it up with digital-style graphics on the sides and on the hood.

Overall the car was a beast of a hot hatch pulling about 350 horses under the hood. Building the car was one thing. Driving it was another venture. Boomer had some talent, they all could see that. But in truth the kid was far from being a professional. And that worried them all.

“With this baby,” continued Boomer, “I’m gonna dominate tonight’s races.”

“You’re participating tonight?”

“Yeah. Ain’t nobody gonna beat me in this thing.”

“You shouldn’t be so confident, Boomer. It pays to be a little nervous every now and then.”

“What for?”

“That way you’re more open to mistakes, more adaptable. You can’t just assume everything will go your way, Boomer, even if you had the best car out there.”

Boomer simply grinned back at that remark. “C’mon, Mrs. Cooper. Who’s out there that you think can beat me?”

Mrs. Cooper smirked. She could think of one guy.

Just then Vasili and Ilya came into the garage. Mrs. Cooper and Boomer turned their heads towards them as they came in.

“What’s up?” asked Boomer.

“This Byk ran out of pork,” said Vasili pointing towards Ilya.

“Hey man, it ain’t my fault porky can’t keep his fat ass in check,” said Ilya, “Anyway we need more food.”

“Well you’re not gonna find any here,” said Boomer. “I didn’t get any groceries yet. Too busy working on my car.”

“Yeah about that. You really thinkin’ of racing tonight with that? I mean it’s a sweet ride and all, Boomer, but you’re no racer.”

“I can handle myself, Ilya.”

Boomer said that with a serious tone and Mrs. Cooper noticed. He really wanted this but there was the possibility he might regret it. But she knew she couldn’t stop him now. She decided to change the subject of the conversation.

“Well, anyway, if it’s food you want, let’s just call for some pizza again like we usually do,” said Mrs. Cooper as she walked to a phone on the wall. She dialled a number without thinking much about it. It was a number she’s been getting used to for the past couple weeks.

* * *

Somewhere on the other side of the city.

At a little establishment that read Patrelli’s Pizzas the morning was kicking off as it usually did. The few tables that were in the small restaurant were quickly being filled with hungry breakfast goers who were looking for cheap Italian cuisine. In the kitchen, the small labour force of three chefs, including the owner of the restaurant (a Mr. Enrique Patrelli) were all cooking up a storm.

Mr. Patrelli came out of the kitchen just as the front door opened to let in a young man. “You’re late!” Mr. Patrelli said almost automatically with a heavy Columbian accent.

The young man in question looked to be in his early twenties. He was about five-and-a-half feet tall with an average build. His light skin complexion didn’t specify any nationality but something in it said that he was half American. The other half was up for debate. He had straight, black hair under his red cap which bore the name of the restaurant. He wore a red polo shirt that also bore the name of the restaurant along with a phone number written in the back. Below that was a plain old pair of blue jeans and sneakers.

Pinned to his shirt was a nametag that read: Max.

“You say that every time, sir,” he said right back to his boss.

“That’s because every time it’s true!”

“Hey I always deliver the pies you give me on time, don’t I? 30 minutes or less right? Otherwise it’s free.”

“Yes, sure, you haven’t been late yet but your last delivery was almost late by one minute. The guy himself called me back and told me so.”

“Ok, who the hell complains that their pizza was almost late by one minute?”

“People who want it for free…which is everybody in this country,” said Mr. Patrelli as he picked up half-a-dozen large pizza boxes on and placed them on the counter top. “Here, your next delivery.”

“Already? I just got back here!”

“Don’t complain. You should count yourself lucky that the people in this country are too lazy and too fat to make their own food. That’s why you still have a job and I have a business.” He wrote an address on a notepad on the counter, ripped of the paper and put it on top of the stack of pizza boxes then pointed out the door. “Twenty-eight minutes left, boy. You better move.”

With a frustrated sigh, Max grabbed the stack. “Who ever heard of a Columbian guy running a pizza place anyway?”

Mr. Patrelli gave him a stern look and Max simply smirked in response then headed out of the restaurant with the stack of pizza in hand.

Outside, Max made a beeline for the scooter parking area. He walked over to his scooter, a Daelim painted in the restaurant’s colours, stuffed the stack of pizza boxes into the large, insulated box for pizzas stuck to the back, grabbed that little piece of paper with the address on it, hopped on, and started the vehicle, all in less than seven seconds. He read the address on the paper. The name of the place was “Jae’s Garage.”

It was then that he hesitated a bit as he read the name of the place again. He couldn’t help but smile. He was going to that place again.

He propped up the kick stand and turned the throttle hitting the road at a respectable 30 mph.