by Peter Darley
***
Colonel Darren Woodroffe sat with eight of his subordinates in a Black Hawk helicopter headed for Cherry Mountain Plain. His mind became awash with thoughts as he recalled the times he’d accepted Drake’s violent nature as a battlefield advantage. He’d defended him at his court-martial, constantly torn between what was best for the team, and the danger The Scorpion presented to society. There was no easy answer to the dilemma.
Now, it turned out that Drake was still alive. Some of Woodroffe’s own men had borne witness to the explosion that had supposedly killed him. Then he’d been buried, and Spicer had given a eulogy at Drake’s private funeral. Nobody knew what he’d said, and Spicer wouldn’t discuss it with anyone. Woodroffe questioned how Drake could still be alive. The descriptions he’d heard of the explosion were that it was catastrophic. Nobody could have survived it.
So what was Drake? Was he more than a man? The fact that he was still out there hunting and killing civilians was a terrifying concept. Woodroffe questioned if he’d been partly responsible for what was happening. He’d contributed to Drake’s training and advocated Drake as an asset in war. His sense of personal conflict wouldn’t leave him.
“We’re approaching Cherry Mountain Plain, Colonel,” the pilot said.
“Land a couple of miles from the south side, Sergeant. We’ll make our way over on foot. With any luck, he won’t see us coming.”
“Sir, I’ve got visual of the south side from here. It looks like something’s going on down there.”
Woodroffe hurried over to the controls where he could see ahead of him. It was clear enough to make out two men engaged in a violent altercation. “That’s Drake. We’ve got no time. Get us on top of them right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Woodroffe turned back to the men. “We’re going in. The objective is to take him alive. This won’t be easy, gentlemen. Drake is a formidable soldier, the best you’re ever likely to see, so don’t underestimate him.”
Having recovered, Drake and Slamer resumed their fight. They attempted to exchange blows to the head, but only Drake was successful in landing them. While Slamer was astonishingly powerful, his size made him the slower combatant. His punches were far easier to evade than Drake’s, although Drake was constantly aware of what could happen if Slamer caught him again. He was strong enough to punch out a brick wall.
Slamer lunged at Drake and grasped his throat. His fingers tightened and Drake was certain his windpipe was being crushed. He stepped back and ground his feet into the earth with a powerful grip stance, forcing Slamer to stretch out his arm. He began to black out. His vision faded and he couldn’t breathe. He gripped Slamer’s arm, but couldn’t budge it. Getting out of the titanic grip was impossible. He knew he had only one chance before he lost consciousness. Raising his right knee, he twisted his ankle slightly and snapped the blade of his foot down with all of his might into Slamer’s leg, just above the kneecap. The bone shattered, inverting Slamer’s knee joint. Slamer fell to the ground, screaming in agony.
Drake staggered backward and gripped his own thighs, barely conscious. He waited for his vision to return and after a few moments, he looked up again.
His face contorted with pain, Slamer looked at Drake—and then over his shoulder. He pointed at something, but Drake wasn’t interested.
“So, you were gonna kill me, eh, Slamer?” Drake managed a chuckle.
“T-they’re . . . comin’ for you . . . asshole.”
“Oh, are they? And I’m comin’ for you, you son of a bitch!” He knelt down and grasped Slamer’s head, burying his fingers deep into his left cheek. “Say goodnight, buddy.”
“B-Black . . . Hawk,” Slamer muttered.
Drake rapidly snapped his hands around in a clockwise motion, breaking his former colleague’s neck in one swift move. He let go, and the lifeless body of Kane Slamer fell onto the dust. Only then did Slamer’s last words register. Black Hawk?
He became vaguely aware of the sound of rotor blades behind him, turned, and looked up. A Black Hawk helicopter was closing in.
He got to his feet and tried to run across to where he’d dropped the saber, the hoodie, and the MZ-507, but he was still disoriented. Between blows to the head from Slamer, and coming within a hair’s breadth of having the life choked out him, he knew he wasn’t faring well.
He reached the hooded top, put it on as fast as he could, and touched the side pockets to ensure the detonators were still inside. Then he collected the saber, strapped it to his back, and picked up the MZ-507.
The helicopter was almost on top of him.
Woodroffe turned to a Sergeant First Class at his side. “It looks like there’s been a fatality, and Drake’s loaded. Take a few shots and drive him back.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young SFC aimed his rifle out of the helicopter and fired repeatedly at the ground.
Geysers of earth and dust sprang up in front of Drake as the bullets struck just ahead of him. He scrambled backward, unable to get his bearings. With one hand on the rifle, he scurried toward the shack. He could feel the shock of the bullets striking the ground at his heels. With his adrenaline surging, he couldn’t gain the leverage necessary to counter attack.
Finally, he got to his feet and reached the shack. He braced himself behind the far side and caught his breath.
The sound of the helicopter seemed to indicate it was landing. Drake eased himself around the side of the shack and saw the helicopter wasn’t on the ground of the inlet. He suspected they’d landed on the plain just above the verge, but couldn’t figure out how he was going to get out of there. If he made a run for the Chevy, they would simply track him from the air. Somehow, he had to disappear on foot.
Ahead were the trees. They would provide him with temporary cover, but they were at least a hundred yards away.
Gingerly, he made his way forward and around to the other side of the shack. He came to the shallow verge and braced himself against it, shielded by the Porsche and the Chevy.
His heart raced. For the first time since his escape from Mojave, he wasn’t in control. The US Army—his own former division—was upon him. His sense of invincibility was now compromised. They could open fire on him and strike the armored vest piece. However, it would only take a shot to his head, or even a leg, to take him down. He could return their fire, but at that moment, he couldn’t even see them.
He cleared the Porsche and kept his eyes fixed on the trees. With no sign of anyone, he ran.
As he sprinted forward, the trees grew closer with each fleeting instant. He was so close.
He came within ten feet of the trees, and five soldiers emerged from them, halting him in his tracks. They trained their firearms on him and he stepped back.
“It’s over, Drake,” a familiar voice came from behind him.
Drake turned to see Woodroffe and two more soldiers.
“Drop the rifle, Drake!”
The two groups of soldiers closed in on him. I can’t let them take me. He turned back to the first five and raised the MZ-507.
“Drake, no!” Woodroffe said.
At that moment, the Black Hawk ascended from over the verge and hovered over them. Drake looked up, trying the gauge their plan.
“Now!” Woodroffe bellowed to the helicopter.
The Black Hawk came in lower and the rotor blades created a dust storm. Drake couldn’t see anything from the ground, but he could barely make out something falling from the helicopter. By the time he realized what it was, it was too late. A thick rope net fell upon him, casting him to the ground.
The soldiers rushed in and hurled themselves upon him.
“Secure him, gentlemen,” Woodroffe said, keeping his gaze on the pile of men. He took out his cell phone, made a call, and pressed his thumb to his free ear to block the thunderous sound of the Black Hawk. “General? This is Woodroffe. The mission was a success, sir. We have Drake.”
“Good work, Colonel. Bring him in. I’ll have the FBI
collect him. We’ll hold him at the base until they arrive.”
“Yes, sir.” Woodroffe ended the call, silently praying this would bring an end to the nightmare of Brandon Drake.
Thirty-Eight
This Time
General Thaddeus Grant sat in his office pondering his strategy. Drake was being flown back to Bragg to be held until the authorities came to collect him. Woodroffe informed him that Drake had killed the individual Wilmot had sent to intercept him. Sending just one man was ridiculous. Wilmot either wasn’t taking the situation seriously, or he wasn’t aware of what he was dealing with. It was more likely he was dirty and didn’t want anyone in the intelligence community to know of his underhanded scheming. That would suggest the CIA and Congress were unaware of his involvement in Drake’s ‘resurrection’.
After much consideration, Grant made his decision. He had to go over Wilmot’s head. He picked up his desk phone and dialed out. After two rings it was answered. “This is General Grant at Fort Bragg. I’d like to speak to Director Jack Brenham.” He waited for a few moments while the call was transferred.
The response came through within moments. “Brenham here. How are you, General?”
“Not good, Director. I don’t know how much you know, but Brandon Drake is still alive, and he’s being flown back to Bragg as we speak. Now, what’s going on?”
“I need you to listen to me, General. We are currently investigating the greatest threat to national security this country has ever known. Everything is on the line, which is why I need you to keep this under wraps.”
“Does this have something to do with that weasel Wilmot?”
There was a brief pause on the line, and then Brenham said, “Yes, General, as a matter of fact it does. What do you know about him? Has he been in contact with you?”
“No, I called him when we learned of Drake’s whereabouts. It seems Wilmot’s idea of dealing with him was less than adequate.”
“All right, General. We’re working with the FBI on the case. I’ll arrange to have them pick Drake up and bring him back to D.C. He is absolutely vital to the investigation.”
Grant’s anger came to the fore in a heartbeat. “You knew about this, and you let that goddamn maniac run loose throughout the country?”
“No, General, I didn’t. This all came to light a couple of days ago. We have enough information now to put a stop to it.”
“Good. Because this is the purview of the FBI, not the military, as you well know. The Eighty-Second shouldn’t have been involved. I did what I had to before any more innocents died. By the way, you should know Drake’s girlfriend and sister are also near to the base.”
“What?”
“It seems Belinda Reese has a personal friendship with one of our Sergeant Majors. Drake was pursuing them and they sought sanctuary with him. I want them, and Drake, away from Fort Bragg as soon as possible. Are we clear?”
“Everything is in hand, General. I’ll have an FBI unit dispatched to you immediately.”
“I may be guilty of authorizing an unlawful operation with this, but it seems to me that both of our asses are on the line. I’ll trust you to keep the Eighty-Second out of it. If there’s any delay, I will personally go over your head, regardless of the consequences.”
“Understood.”
Grant hung up the phone, dialed out again, and waited for an answer. “Spicer? This is General Grant.”
“Yes, sir . . . I’ll let them know. Thank you, sir.” David Spicer hurried out of his kitchen and into his living room.
Belinda, Emily, and Rachel turned to him, eagerly.
“What happened?” Belinda said.
“That was General Grant,” David replied. “Drake’s been captured and they’re bringing him here to await collection by the FBI. They’ll be back any time now.”
Belinda stood, her expression riddled with concern. “Is he all right?”
“As far as I know. The general didn’t go into details.”
“Is it really over?”
David walked over to her and embraced her. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Belinda. If you’d like, I’ll take you to where you can see him being taken to the brig. That way you’ll know he’s contained.”
She looked away as Emily came up behind her and held her.
Thirty minutes later, Belinda, Emily, David, and Rachel stood at a two hundred yard distance watching as Brandon was guided, shackled, out of the Black Hawk. Eight soldiers, led by the colonel, almost obscured him from view, but it was clear he was incapacitated and totally outnumbered. They led him onto the landing pad and across the grounds toward the location of the brig.
Belinda’s eyes filled with tears. As dangerous as he was, she still loved him. Her feelings wouldn’t leave her heart, regardless of what he’d become. She couldn’t cope with the thought of harm coming to him. A part of her still believed he was the man who had held her in his arms two years earlier in the cabin. None of what was happening seemed real. It had to be a nightmare.
“Now you’ve seen it,” David said. “He can’t hurt you or Emily any longer. He’s not your problem anymore. The FBI will pick him up, and then he’ll be their problem.”
“They’ll kill him, won’t they?” Belinda said. “He’ll be executed.”
“He’ll get a fair trial. You have to understand, he’s killed many people. He’s extremely dangerous, Belinda. You have to get it out of your head that he’s the man you once knew. The Scorpion is evil. There is no similarity between the man you just saw and the one you once loved. That guy’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”
She shook her head in denial. “Don’t be so sure of that. I saw the pain in his eyes back in Boston. Brandon is still in there, struggling to get out. I just know it.”
“I’ll get you and Emily back to your car,” David said. “The authorities will contact you during the investigation. As of now, you can go home and get back to living your lives.”
Belinda looked at him and managed a smile. “Thank you, David. For everything.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder. Emily and Rachel followed them as they made their way back to David’s apartment.
***
Jack Brenham walked hurriedly through the corridors of the J. Edgar Hoover Building until he came to the door of FBI director, Jim Connor. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside.
A distinguished, middle-aged man attired in a blue suit and contrasting red tie, stood up abruptly from behind his desk. “Jack?”
“Jim, we need to talk,” Brenham said urgently.
“Take a seat. What’s happened?”
“Brandon Drake has been captured.”
“When?”
“Just a few hours ago. He’s being held at Fort Bragg. I need you to arrange for a unit to be dispatched there and bring him to Langley.”
“Langley? That’s not really procedure, Jack.”
“Dammit, I know that! This is the most serious national security problem we’ve probably ever had. How’s the interrogation going with our other detainee?”
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” Connor said. “You certainly know how to train them to resist, don’t you?”
Brenham stood again, despair consuming him. “You’ve got to help us, Jim. Let us take care of the interrogation. It’ll be off the record. The CIA is the most effective intelligence organization in the free world, and it’s been infected by traitors. These aren’t just regular scumbags. We have a national crisis on our hands that we can’t reveal to anyone.”
Connor looked downward in contemplation. Finally, he agreed. “All right, Jack. Off the record, I’ll have Drake picked up and both detainees sent over to you.” He stood and held out his hand for Brenham. “I’m with you on this.”
“Thank you, Jim. The one you’re holding right now has all the answers. We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“I’ll arrange for the transfer immediately.”
Brenham entered his office in Langley feeling sligh
tly easier. The net was closing in on Wilmot and his faction with each passing moment. They could be taken down within a mere forty-eight hours.
He was startled by his office phone and answered it. “Brenham.”
“Director, this is Jed Crane.”
“Jed? You couldn’t have called at a better time.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Brenham took a deep breath. “Drake has been captured, and they’re bringing him back to Langley. We’re also on top of the other three individuals you mentioned. We have one under interrogation, and the other two under constant observation. We’re so close, Jed.”
“Drake’s been captured?”
“Yes, they’re holding him at Fort Bragg. The FBI are on their way to pick him up.”
“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Jed. It’s safe for you to come in now. Besides, I have a job for you.”
“A job?”
“I’ll explain it to you when you get here. I also need your testimony about what happened in Rio. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll meet you personally at the security entrance.”
“All right, sir. You’ve convinced me. I’m about an hour away.”
“It’ll be good to see you again, Jed. Bye.”
Brenham placed the phone on the receiver and glanced out his window to see an FBI prisoner transport pulling up at the main gate. This time it ends, Treadwell. This time.
Thirty-Nine
The Prisoner
SDT Agent Pete Kerwin came toward the front entrance of CIA headquarters. Slowing his pace, he tilted his head slightly at the sight of an FBI prisoner transport heading toward the side of the building.
