Run! - Hold On! Season 3

by Peter Darley

  Drake laughed. “Oh, you’re such a fuckin’ amateur. Or have you forgotten Leavenworth?”

  “According to you, you can’t even remember that, so don’t be a wise guy. You are not The Interceptor.”

  Drake lurched forward and Cullen recoiled, despite Drake being held fast by shackles. “You’re fucking right I’m not, and I’m gonna destroy him!”

  “Killing Belinda Reese won’t destroy that part of you.”

  “Like hell, it won’t. She’s who he cares about the most, and he’s in my head. If I kill her, I take him down.”

  They were both startled by the sound of gunfire coming from above.

  Cullen glanced at the door and then back at Drake. Satisfied the prisoner was secured, he picked up the MZ-507 from the desk and approached the door. Apprehensively, he slipped the key card into the reader and opened it ajar. He peered to the left and then to the right but saw nothing. The FBI agents were gone. Bracing the rifle, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. It locked automatically.

  Drake gazed at the attaché case Cullen had left on the desk and smiled at his good fortune. Having no idea what the gunfire was all about, he seized it as his opportunity for escape.

  Gripping the armrests to which his wrists were shackled, he shuffled forward, dragging the heavy iron chair with him. With so little leverage, it became an arduous task, despite having to move only a few inches.

  His abdomen pressed against the desk giving him the opportunity to reach as much of himself forward as possible. His chin was still out of reach of the open case. Raising himself as far out of the chair as the few chain links would allow, he lurched forward again. The strain caused blood to pound in his head, and he could feel his face becoming flushed.

  Holding his breath, he positioned his chin inside the rim of the open case and drew himself back.

  With the case finally positioned on the edge of the desk, he looked inside and quickly saw the laser torch. He perched himself up again, and moved the other items away with his nose. The torch tipped onto its side on top of one of the thermal neutron incendiaries.

  He lowered his head into the case and gripped the torch between his teeth, careful not to come into contact with the activation switch. Leaning back, he shuffled the chair back a few inches.

  He lowered his head again, and brought his mouth to his shackled right hand. His fingers grasped the torch giving him the ability to adjust its position, and aimed it at the floor. He felt around the device for the switch and quickly located it. With one touch, the beam shot out, boring a slender hole in the flooring.

  Intensely focused, he used his fingers to twist the torch upward, and the laser cut through a section of one of the desk legs.

  Slowly, and with desperate precision, he brought the beam up farther, cutting it through the armrest of the chair and up to the lock casing of the shackle.

  The beam reached the cuff, but the heat rapidly transferred to the surrounding metal. His wrist burned unbearably, causing him to suck in air through his teeth. Perspiration fell from his brow, but he persisted. There were only a couple of millimeters remaining.

  The laser finally severed the lock and the serrated clasp fell from the casing. Drake shook his hand, reeling from the burns on his wrist.

  With his left hand free, he repeated the procedure with the right shackle, occasionally stopping momentarily for the metal to cool. He resumed, and after a few moments, the shackle opened.

  He looked down and saw the ankle cuffs were connected to chain links welded into the legs of the heavy chair. Regardless, he knew he had to cut them off at the locks. Simply severing the chains would mean he’d have the cuffs attached to his ankles. He braced himself for the burning temperature transference, aimed the laser torch at the left ankle cuff, and touched the switch. The shackle was clasped around his jeans, which presented the additional danger of them catching fire.

  Slowly stopping and starting, he succeeded in freeing his left leg before repeating the procedure on the right shackle.

  Finally, he stood free and placed the torch on the desk. He then took out four thermo-neutron incendiaries from the attaché case and put them in the side pockets of the hoodie. He took the Samurai sword and hooked the holding strap across his back, followed by the backpack filled with cash.

  Picking up the attaché case with his left hand, he grasped the laser torch with his right and headed for the door.

  Smiling gloatingly, he pointed the torch in the direction of the door lock and activated it. After he’d cut the beam had cut around the lock, he stepped back and kicked it in. A gaping hole appeared and the door swung wide open.

  He looked at the laser torch for a moment and realized what a formidable weapon it would make. Cullen had taken the MZ-507, but what he had in his pockets would exceed any damage the rifle could cause, by far.

  ***

  Operatives in all departments of the CIA had been sitting at their terminals, or flitting from office to office attending to their various assignments. It had been a typical working day.

  In the blink of an eye, reality exploded. A strange chorus of beeping, encrypted cell phones preceded approximately every fourth agent producing firearms and opening fire on their colleagues. At computer terminals, Nemesis agents stood up from their screens and took pistols secretly fixed under their desks. Rapidly, CIA headquarters became a bloodbath.

  Jim Connor urgently took out his cell phone and opened a line. “This is Director Connor at CIA headquarters. We have a code red. Reinforcements required immediately. I repeat—code red!” He looked across at his men. “Get down there, now.”

  The entourage of FBI agents raced out of Wilmot’s office.

  Brenham gripped Wilmot by the lapels. “What have you done, you son of a bitch!”

  “You forced my hand. I fought back. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me. The CIA is . . . no longer.”

  Overcome with rage, Brenham swung at Wilmot, knocking him out with one blow.

  “Jack,” Connor said, “I have reinforcements on the way.”

  “I heard. Jim, we have to get to April’s office. Deborah and Carrie are in there.”

  “All right.” Connor gestured to Wilmot. “What about him?”

  “You’re right. We need to contain him.”

  “Let’s drag him out of here. I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  ***

  Drake stepped into a bare, sterile corridor. The sound of gunfire continued to echo through the building. To get out, he knew he’d have to get past some kind of war that was raging.

  A man in a suit came to the end of a stairwell ahead of him. The man was obviously an operative running from the carnage, as evidenced by his breathlessness. As he ran along the corridor, he froze at the sight of Drake coming toward him. Their eyes locked.

  “Who are you?” the man said.

  Drake aimed the laser torch toward him. “This just ain’t your day, is it?” He activated the beam at the man’s midsection and moved his hand across, effectively slicing the man in two. The laser seemed to have halved and cauterized him at the same time, leaving little blood. There was a momentary look of shock and bewilderment in the man’s eyes in the instant before he collapsed in two parts.

  Drake glanced at the laser torch again and grinned before making his way toward the stairwell.

  Forty-Three

  Battleground: Langley

  Brenham and Connor dragged Wilmot into an elevator with his arms gripped across their respective shoulders. Brenham selected the destination floor.

  “I think he’s coming round,” Connor said.

  Brenham’s glanced at the elevator floor panel. “Just one more floor and we’re there.”

  The doors opened, and the two directors pulled their captive into a corridor.

  Wilmot suddenly lurched forward bringing his fists back and hammering the stomachs of his captors. Brenham and Connor fell to the floor, gasping. Connor reached out in a vain attemp
t to grasp Wilmot, but he was out of reach. He could do no more than watch as their enemy ran back in the direction of the elevator. Brenham winced as he attempted to stand.

  “The rest of my boys should be here imminently,” Connor said. “With any luck, they’ll grab the bastard.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  ***

  Wentworth Cullen braced himself behind a wall, briefly catching a glimpse of what was ahead of him. Smoke filled the complex and was drifting closer. The roar of gunfire continued, but it was impossible for him to ascertain who was an ally and who the enemy was.

  A familiar operative appeared through the smoke, and he seemed to be running in his direction. Cullen knew him as Robert Catley, a twenty-nine year old analyst. He didn’t know him well, but he knew he was committed and conscientious. The terror in Catley’s eyes was clear. However, their horrified glare instantly vanished to the accompaniment of a gunshot. He fell headlong onto the floor to reveal his killer behind him. It was Rhodes.

  Rage swelled in Cullen’s heart. Catley was approximately the same age as him, and he’d just witnessed the scum of the earth gun him down without mercy. Fury overrode his own fear. He looked vengefully at the MZ-507 rifle in his hand. The basic mechanisms seemed to be the same as any standard rifle, although he suspected it had features that exceeded those of an M-16. But it didn’t matter. His only concern was the moment. Karl Rhodes had to die for what he’d done.

  Cullen emerged from behind the wall. “Rhodes!”

  Rhodes looked up and raised his pistol again at the moment Cullen discharged the MZ-507. A strange hum arose from the rifle and a titanium bullet shot through Rhodes’ body, causing his torso to explode. A pair of legs and his head and shoulders sank into a crimson lake on the gleaming floor.

  Cullen trembled with the shock of what he’d just seen. It was ghastly––and yet so just. He struggled momentarily with the ambivalence of rejoicing in something so terrible.

  He jolted back behind the wall and tried to focus on the sadistic, murderous evil he had just vanquished. But it wasn’t working. The horror of what he’d just done wouldn’t leave him. He knew he had to put it into perspective. He’d just slain a brutal monster and most likely saved others in the process. Yes, that’s my duty. To protect the innocent and the helpless from all threats, both foreign and domestic. This is what I signed up for. This is why I was born. This is who I am. I am a defender of my country. Pull it together, Wentworth. Pull it together.

  He stepped out into the carnage with the rifle poised. Squinting through the smoke, he tried to make out the good guys. FBI agents fired in the direction of the aggressors. It took Cullen a few seconds to assess who the enemy was. The legitimate agents were fearful and trying to find shelter. The Nemesis agents were firing at them. Cullen made the decision to follow the FBI’s line of fire. Fueled by adrenaline, he charged forward and opened fire. Nemesis operatives fell to a barrage of FBI bullets and the MZ-507.

  Cullen ran across to an FBI agent he believed was leading the retaliation and crouched behind a counter with him.

  “What the hell is that?” the agent shouted across the noise.

  “It’s an experimental rifle.”

  “Damn handy, if you ask me. We’re outnumbered right now, but reinforcements are on the way.”

  Cullen noticed the agent’s Kevlar attire and shuddered. “I have no protection.”

  “I can see that. Maybe you should get out of here and live to fight another day.”

  “I can’t do that. My colleagues are dying here.”

  “And you’re gonna be no use to them if you die too. Gimme the rifle.”

  “What?”

  “Gimme the rifle. I have Kevlar, you don’t. That weapon is more powerful than mine. I have far more of a chance of driving them back with it and staying alive. I’ll cover you so you can get the hell out. You’re right in the thick of it here.”

  Cullen felt defiant, but ultimately concurred and handed the MZ-507 to the agent. “You’re right. Good luck, my friend.”

  The officer rested a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. You’re not a coward. You’ve just proved that. Now, get ready.”

  Cullen stood with him.

  “OK, now run!” the agent said.

  Cullen turned and sprinted back down the corridor with the unmistakable, electronic hum of the MZ-507 firing behind him. He quickly came to the turn and ran to the right along the next corridor.

  Turning another corner, he froze as an agent came across his path with a pistol. He knew him as Bradley Foster, a longstanding data analyst. Was he with Nemesis? Or was he loyal to the CIA? It was an impossibly uncomfortable moment, and he could see in Foster’s eyes that he had the same questions.

  Then Foster smiled and raised his pistol. Cullen was unarmed. If Foster was on the level he’d have no cause to raise his firearm to him. Desperately, Cullen backed away, and was startled by the sound of a gunshot. He glanced down but there was no sign of a wound on him. He looked up again and saw Foster’s eyes had become vacant. The gun slipped from his grasp and blood dripped from his mouth. Finally, he collapsed to reveal Jed Crane holding a .45 behind him.

  “Come on,” Crane said. “We have to get out of here.”

  Cullen picked up Foster’s gun and ran to him. “Where did you get that?” he said, pointing to Jed’s pistol.

  “I managed to roll one of them and cold cock the bastard. Something real weird is going on.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “No, I mean really weird. When I came out the observation room, I found a guy who’d been cut in half. Both halves of him were cauterized.”

  “What the––”

  “We’ve got to get to the rear exits. It’s our only chance.”

  Cullen ran with Jed, his heart pounding with more than exertion.

  ***

  Drake came to the top of a stairwell and confidently headed toward the sound of the gunfire with the attaché case in his grip.

  He saw a man running toward him through the fog of gun smoke. He couldn’t make out his face immediately, but just like the last one, he looked harmless. One of many suits.

  As the man came closer, Drake finally recognized him and smiled with rancorous opportunism. The man noticed him and stopped in his tracks. It was Wilmot.

  “So, Christmas has come early this year,” Drake said.

  Wilmot staggered back. “No. It can’t be.”

  “Oh, but it is, you son of a bitch.”

  “Drake, look, we can work this out. We can escape together. I can help you.”

  “Familiar words. I seem to recall you saying something similar when I woke up in Mojave. You were my new best friend. You were gonna take care of everything and see to it that I had everything I needed. You lied to me about what fucking year it was, Wilmot. You set that bitch, Garrett, on me to seduce and kill me, and then you sent Slamer out to kill me. For your information, his neck snapped a lot easier than you’d think.” He put the attaché case down, reached over his shoulder, and drew the Samurai sword.

  “Don’t!”

  “This is the weapon that made me who I am. You brought me back, so I think it’s kinda ironic that it’ll be this sword that ends your lousy life, asshole.”

  “Drake, please.”

  He gazed gleefully at Wilmot’s perspiring brow and shaking hands before raising the sword. “You reap what you sow, motherfucker.” With blinding speed, he drew the sword back and cut it across, severing Wilmot’s head in the blink of an eye.

  Casually, he returned the sword to the sheath, picked up the attaché case, and continued toward the battleground.

  He quickly came to the main arena and grinned. The familiar rush of battle came over him, driving him forward.

  A young agent, whom Drake presumed was with the side attacking the CIA, saw him and fired. The bullet bounced off the armor beneath his tattered clothing. As Drake continued toward him, the look of terror o
n the agent’s face became apparent.

  Drake took a thermo-neutron detonator out of his pocket and activated it. He looked to his left and noticed an alcove. He then threw the incendiary approximately thirty yards into the battle, and ran into the alcove. Crouching down in the far corner, he heard a deafening blast. The gunfire stopped and the carnage was instantly silenced.

  He turned to see the area was thick with smoke. As he stood, he was startled by the deafening rumble of concrete and metal collapsing in the distance.

  Slowly, he stepped forward and beheld the devastation. There were no signs of life. He had no idea a thermo-neutron incendiary would cause so much damage. It had taken out at least a quarter of the front of the complex.

  Snapping out of his mesmerized state, he planned his strategy. At the end of the corridor was the main reception area with the CIA emblem on the floor. If he could get past the smoke and rubble, he could get out. But he had to look inconspicuous. The sword on his back would not serve him well stepping out into a Langley street in broad daylight.

  Reluctantly, he removed the sword from his back and cast it to the ground. He opened the attaché case and rummaged around for the smallest devices he might have been able to use. The laser torch would make a convenient replacement for the sword, and the sonic force emitter may prove useful. Both were pocket-sized items, and he still had three incendiaries in his pockets.

  Taking the sonic force emitter and laser torch, he secured the backpack of cash across his shoulder again, and headed for the exit. He glanced behind him briefly, somewhat saddened that he had to abandon such fantastic weaponry. However, he couldn’t take the chance. They would have slowed him down and exposed him.

  His eyes smarted under the effects of the smoke, and his coughing was debilitating en route to the exit. Fires were spreading and he knew he had very little time before the place was consumed. He heard the faint drone of fire engine sirens in the distance.