Midnight Driver: Five Stars or Die

Ch 09. Cockpit Silence

    Night in Los Angeles is never truly silent. Even in the most secluded spots, there is always the hum of high-voltage electricity, the hiss of distant tires, or sirens wailing like wounded ghosts. Yet inside the cabin of the Dodge Charger parked on the dark shoulder of Mulholland Drive, the outside world feels millions of light-years away.

    

    Ray shuts off the engine.

    

    The sudden silence feels heavy, pressing against his eardrums. He does not move right away. He sits still, letting his back settle into the contours of the Recaro racing seat, hard but gripping his body with military precision. This is not just a car. It is an extension of himself, a steel womb shielding him from a world eager to swallow him whole.

    

    Ray’s hand slowly traces the steering wheel. The Alcantara leather feels rough and cold beneath his fingertips, absorbing the sweat and residual tension from the confrontation with Hartman. He presses a small button on the dashboard.

    

    Click.

    

    The cabin lights glow dimly, casting a tactical red hue designed to preserve the driver’s night vision. The crimson light bathes the interior in an atmosphere that is unsettling yet calming.

    

    “Status report,” Ray murmurs. He taps the tablet integrated into the center console. The diagnostic system comes alive, displaying real-time data from the mechanical heart of the Phantom.

    

    Ray begins reading the analog gauges lining the A-pillar. Phosphorescent needles glow in the dark. “Oil pressure, sixty PSI. Stable.” His eyes shift to the next gauge. “Coolant temperature, one hundred eighty degrees. Slightly high from traffic, but still in the green.”

    

    He moves to the overhead switch panel, a row of metal toggle switches salvaged from the cockpit of an old fighter jet. “Automatic fire suppression system, armed,” Ray says, flicking the safety switch. “Backup electrical system, standby. Magnetic door locks, engaged.”

    

    Ray exhales slowly, his breath faintly visible in the red light. The heartbeat that had been racing with anger at Hartman begins to slow, syncing with the cooling engine. Tink… tink… the sound of contracting metal becomes a lullaby for his exhausted soul.

    

    Outside, the sprawl of Los Angeles lights flickers endlessly. Millions of people with millions of problems. But in here, there is only physics and mechanics. Input and output. Action and reaction. Everything makes sense. Everything can be controlled.

    

    The phone on the dashboard vibrates. Ray glances at the screen. OLD MAN JOE.

    

    Ray presses the accept button on the steering wheel. Joe’s gravelly voice fills the cabin through the crisp surround system.

    

    “You dumped the cargo in the middle of the road, Ray?” Joe sounds displeased. “I’m monitoring your telemetry. Passenger door opened while the car was still moving at five miles per hour. And the weight sensor on the right seat suddenly dropped to zero.”

    

    “He violated the contract, Joe,” Ray replies calmly. “Tried to hijack the ride. And he mentioned Krueger.”

    

    There is a brief silence on the other end. The sound of Joe’s wrench clinking stops.

    

    “Hartman knows about Al-Safir?” Joe asks, his voice lower now.

    

    “He funded it. He’s not just a whining politician, Joe. He’s part of the food chain we’ve been trying to avoid.”

    

    Joe exhales sharply. “Watch yourself, Ray. The Phantom may have level four glass, but it wasn’t built to withstand a political explosion. How’s the Lady feeling based on your read?”

    

    “She’s running hot,” Ray says. “Thermal sensors on the exhaust manifold show a spike.”

    

    “Don’t push her hard through sharp corners until I install a thicker sway bar,” Joe warns. “One more thing. There was an anomaly in the electrical system when you triggered the alarm earlier. Some strange feedback, like another signal trying to piggyback on the line.”

    

    Ray straightens. “What kind of signal? A tracker?”

    

    “No. More like a data ping. Very brief. The pattern matches that mysterious message you got yesterday. Someone isn’t just texting you, Ray. They’re probing the car’s systems.”

    

    Ray stares at the red starter button on the center console. The cabin’s quiet now feels more threatening. He feels like he’s sitting inside a bunker with walls beginning to crack.

    

    “Go home, Ray. Get some sleep. You sound like a walking corpse.”

    

    “I’ll try. Out.”

    

    Ray ends the call. He opens the glove compartment. Inside, beside a pistol and a stack of cash, lies an old, faded Polaroid. A younger Ray with his arm around Agatha, ten years ago. He looks at it for a moment, then closes the compartment. That emotional weapon is too sharp to wield tonight.

    

    Suddenly, a hard knock on the side window makes Ray jolt. Reflex takes over. In a fraction of a second, his right hand has drawn the pistol from beside the seat and leveled it at the glass.

    

    Outside stands a young patrol officer, eyes wide in shock, flashlight shining straight at Ray’s face. The officer steps back, his hand reaching for his own holster.

    

    “Hey! Drop the weapon!” the officer shouts.

    

    Ray blinks, registers the uniform. LAPD. Not a hitman. He lowers the gun slowly, sets it on the passenger seat, then raises both hands. He presses the button to lower the window two inches.

    

    “Sorry, Officer,” Ray says evenly. “I nodded off. Bad reflexes from security work.”

    

    The officer sweeps the flashlight across the cabin, eyes narrowing at the array of strange switches and red lighting. “You got a permit for that gun?”

    

    “Fully licensed,” Ray lies, flashing a fake ID from his wallet.

    

    The officer studies Ray, then the car. “No parking here after ten p.m. Move along. Don’t let me see you here again in ten minutes.”

    

    “Yes, Officer.”

    

    The cop backs away and returns to his patrol car. Ray rolls the window up and exhales deeply. A dry laugh slips from his throat.

    

    “See that, Lady? Kicked out again.”

    

    Ray presses the starter button. VROOM. The engine fires up with a roar that shatters the hill’s quiet. The familiar vibration returns, running up his spine and into his skull. The anxiety does not vanish, but now it has somewhere to go.

    

    Ray shifts into first gear. He grips the wheel at nine and three.

    

    “Let’s go home,” he whispers.

    

    The Phantom glides away from the overlook, descending the winding curves of Mulholland Drive with the grace of a predator. Inside the cockpit, Ray is no longer a loser chased by his past. As long as this engine runs, he is alive. And as long as he is alive, he will find out who is trying to breach his steel womb.