Hold On! - Season 1

by Peter Darley

  It was approaching 11 p.m. when Brandon pulled up at a motel in the remote town of Morgan, Wyoming. Located off a dirt road, which was off yet another dirt road, it seemed only the basics of life existed there.

  He settled up with the owner of the run-down motel, a gruff-and-wizened old man whose breath was virtually flammable. With no new fixtures in the office, it appeared as though the place hadn’t been decorated or attended to since the 70s. However, Brandon knew whatever was available would have to suffice for the night.

  “Room thirty-three,” the old man said, and handed him the key. “We call it the honeymoon suite.”

  “I’m sure it’s delightful,” Brandon said sardonically. “Do you mind if I park my van at the back of the motel. I’m a little paranoid about . . . thieves.” His true fear was that the van had been seen evading the police in a town in that state.

  “In these parts son, I don’t cotton-pickin’ blame ya.” The proprietor took another gulp out of a bottle of Red Eye he had concealed under the desk.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Brandon turned to leave, smirking at the man’s caricature nature. As he closed the door behind him, he silently marveled that it was still attached to the door frame.

  He drove around to the rear of the motel, safely out of sight. Belinda remained crouched behind the veil. “Come on,” he said. “I got us a double room. Let’s get some sleep.”

  “Is it a double bed? I really need you next to me tonight.”

  “Yeah. The old timer called it the honeymoon suite. It’ll change your life, I’m sure.”

  Belinda held Brandon tightly as she slept, the musty smell of damp constantly in the air. Her sleep was fitful throughout the night. In her dreams she ran through fog, unable to see anything ahead of her.

  Then she awoke to find herself in the motel room totally alone. Her hands searched the bed frantically, but Brandon wasn’t in it. “Brandon? Brandon?” she called out repeatedly, but there was no response.

  She became frantic, climbed out of bed, and ran to look in the bathroom. “Oh, my God. He’s gone. He’s abandoned me. NO!”

  The front door suddenly shattered with violent force. She came out of the bathroom and faced the silhouettes of a squad of armed police officers with their pistols trained on her. She threw her hands in the air, but it made no difference.

  They opened fire—

  She shot upright in bed with perspiration coating her body. It took a moment for her to regain her senses.

  Her sudden movement awoke Brandon. “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Just a dream.”

  He turned over and looked at her. “Are you sure?”

  She looked down into his sleepy eyes and became tearful. “Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me. Please.”

  He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sat up to hold her gently by the shoulders. “Of course I’m not going to leave you, baby. We’re in this together.”

  She threw her arms around him. “I so needed to hear that, because . . . I need you to be there in the morning.”

  They had difficulty sleeping following Belinda’s nightmare and decided to get out of bed before seven to attend to an essential task.

  After they’d taken a shower, Belinda guided Brandon through cutting lock after lock of her beautiful auburn hair. She winced as she watched in the motel room dresser’s mirror. Her hair was precious to her and seeing it butchered was a disconcerting experience. As it became increasingly shorter, she became aware that now she wouldn’t have anything to chew on.

  Ever one step ahead of the game, Brandon was careful to capture every strand of her severed locks in a towel. A pile of auburn hair on the carpet would have provided the authorities with valuable evidence, should the motel ever be searched.

  Within an hour, he’d applied peroxide and neutralizer to what was left of her hair, blow-dried mousse into it, and given her a forward fringe.

  As she studied her face in the mirror, her new look reminded her of the style of a catwalk model. “I can live with that,” she said with mock smugness.

  “Well, they say blondes have more fun.” He picked up the towel of hair and the peroxide and neutralizer bottles. “I’ve got to get rid of all this stuff.”

  “OK, I’ll be out in a moment.” With that, she set about gathering her belongings.

  Brandon headed out to the back of the rooms and quickly found a garbage can. He spent a few moments picking up refuse bags to bury his evidence under. The rats in the can filled him with revulsion, but he knew he didn’t have a choice.

  He recalled, after the incident in Moore, Belinda had pleaded with him to turn around and take them back to the cabin. Was she right? He couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that an irresistible force—a powerful urge for freedom—drove him onward.

  As he put the lid of the can back on, he felt compelled to walk a little farther around the back of the motel. He was overcome with a profound sense of uncertainty. Were they going to make it to Switzerland? Would he actually find freedom with Belinda in a picturesque land?

  He turned the corner behind the shabby rooms and felt the blood draining from his face. His footsteps slowed with the dreaded realization of what he saw. The van wasn’t there.

  Belinda came up behind him. “Hey, are you ready?”

  Already shaken by his discovery, he was startled by her.

  “Are you OK?” she said.

  “The van,” he replied, his voice weak and quivering.

  Belinda stepped around to where he stood. “Where is it?”

  “It’s gone. The Turbo Swan was in the back, along with the weapons, the equipment I took, the money, our ticket out. . . It’s all gone.”

  Sixteen

  The Brothers

  Miguel Gomez grinned as he drove the van along the highway into Morgan. The town was coming alive for the day, and his urgency to get out of the area caused his adrenaline to surge. As a member of a family of illegal immigrants, ‘living off the land,’ as they called helping themselves to whatever didn’t belong to them, was their only means of survival. At this stage of their travels across the United States, the van would provide a perfect mobile storage facility for them.

  At twenty-two, Miguel’s skills in theft hadn’t reached their full height. As such, his sense of urgency clouded his judgment, especially with regard to the speed limit.

  “I wanna check out the back.”

  Miguel’s impetuous, nineteen-year-old brother, Fausta, sat up, rested his knees on the passenger seat, and eased his head through the veil, his lean physicality enabling his ease of movement.

  “What’s it look like? Is it roomy?” Miguel said.

  “Fuck,” Fausta said.

  “What?”

  “You gotta see what’s back here, bro.”

  Miguel, being somewhat rotund, struggled as he tried to turn around to peak through the veil, but the effort was in vain. His attempt, while driving at such a high speed, caused the van to swerve across the dusty road. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, man. Looks like some kinda spaceship.”

  Miguel laughed. “What’ve you been smoking?”

  “Seriously, bro. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Miguel noticed a police motorcycle behind them in the rear view mirror and swallowed hard. Momentarily torn between whether to accelerate or slow down, he decided upon the latter, confident he could charm his way out of the situation.

  Fausta pulled his head from the veil. “Why are you slowing down, bro?”

  “We got trouble, man. Big trouble. Look.” Miguel pointed to the mirror.

  “Mierda,” Fausta said.

  The van gradually came to a halt on the side of the road and the officer pulled up behind it. Miguel and Fausta watched apprehensively as he came closer. His pistol was clearly visible on his belt holster.

  As the officer arrived at the driver’s side of the van, Miguel wound down the window.

  “Either of you own this vehicle?” the offi
cer said.

  “No, sir.” Miguel realized his anxiety was impairing his ability to sound convincing. “I-it belongs to my cousin. He let us borrow it.”

  “And your cousin’s name would be?”

  “C-Carlitos Gomez.”

  “I need your license and the vehicle’s registration.”

  Miguel shot Fausta a hopeless glance.

  “Turn the engine off,” the officer said.

  Miguel complied.

  The officer took out his radio receiver and put it to his mouth. The reply came quickly. “Sheriff, this is Ranger. I’ve just stopped a couple of Hispanic kids in a white Dodge Sprinter doin’ over seventy. They say it belongs to their cousin. My mobile computer’s down. Would you run a check on the license plate?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Miguel and Fausta watched, trembling, as Ranger read out the license number. It took all of a minute, which seemed like an hour to them. Both were tempted to make a run for it, but knew they couldn’t out-race a motorcycle.

  The sheriff’s reply came, but the Gomez brothers couldn’t hear what was being said. They only saw Ranger nodding intently and surreptitiously glancing back at them with a sinister, judgmental glare.

  Something was said when Ranger snapped his head toward them and drew his pistol. “Step out of the van with your hands raised over your heads!”

  Horrified, the two thieves did as they were ordered. Miguel felt perspiration dripping from his brow.

  Ranger put the radio back to his mouth. “Sheriff, I need back-up. There are two of them in the van.”

  “It’s the girl who’s wanted,” the sheriff said.

  “There is no girl, Sheriff, just a couple of young guys.”

  There was an awkward pause before the sheriff’s voice came through the receiver again. “I’m sending Wallace out to you. If the girl isn’t with them, I’m pretty sure they’ll know where she is . . . with a little persuading.”

  ***

  Sheriff Earl Gillespie, a stout man of fifty-four, scowled at Miguel and Fausta as he entered one of the Morgan police station’s meager holding cells. “Who are you dirtballs, anyway?” he said.

  “W-we’re nobody, sir, you have to believe us,” Miguel said in a whimpering tone. “We don’t know about no girl, honest.”

  “You just happened to be riding around in a van that was seen being used in the escape of a wanted terrorist outside of Cheyenne last night.” Convinced of their involvement, Gillespie wasn’t about to show them an ounce of mercy.

  “Honestly, sir,” Fausta said, “we don’t know nothing ‘bout no terrorist.”

  “Then what were you doing in that van? And don’t give me any of that cousin bullshit. Don’t you realize what’s going down here? Do you have any idea how serious it is to be caught up in terrorist activity?”

  “We stole the van,” Fausta said finally, clearly unable to withstand his own fear. “We’re nothing, sir, you’ve gotta believe us. We’re not terrorists.”

  Gillespie was inclined to embrace that as a possibility. Their badly-worn attire and unkempt appearance certainly suggested need. “Stole it? Where did you steal it from?”

  “Some motel, just before you get into town,” Miguel said.

  “Describe this motel.”

  “Sí, señor. It was it a really old, rundown shack of a place.”

  Ranger stepped out of the office and joined the sheriff. Gillespie turned to him. “You know old Ruben’s motel outside of town?”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  “Well, that’s where the girl is. If I were you, I’d get down there right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gillespie turned back to the Gomez brothers. There was total silence as he took their measure, ensnaring them in the grip of fear. They were no different from all the other illegals he’d dealt with. So much was at stake for them—their remaining in the USA, their future liberty, and the risk of them becoming separated from their family. Holding his cruel stare for long, agonizing moments, he relished their anguish. Finally, with a smirk, he walked away.

  ***

  Brandon had been pacing around the seedy motel room for forty minutes while Belinda looked on, deeply concerned.

  Abruptly, he stopped pacing. “I’m going to ask that old guy at the desk. See if he knows anything. Will you be OK for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Although she was a wanted fugitive with no means of transportation, there was something about Brandon that made her feel safe at all times. However, she felt the stress was beginning to wear her down.

  As Brandon turned the corner to the office, he noticed a police motorcycle parked outside. Stopping in his tracks, he waited a beat before making slow, calculated steps forward. He came closer and the conversation inside became more audible.

  “Good morning, Ruben,” the officer said in a stern-but-amenable tone.

  “What can I do for ya, young fella?” The old man’s voice sounded raspy, most likely from the bottle of Red Eye he’d consumed during the night.

  “I’m here on official business. A white Dodge Sprinter was stolen from here last night. I want to know who it belonged to.”

  “A wha—”

  “A van, Ruben. A white van with Colorado plates. I wanna know who it belongs to.”

  “Oh, yeah. The young guy in thirty . . . three, I think I put him?”

  “Young guy? Not a woman?”

  “Can’t seem to recall seeing no woman with him.”

  Brandon turned around urgently, careful not to make any alerting noises. When he was in the clear, he sprinted back to the room.

  He startled Belinda as he entered. “What happened?” she said.

  “We have to go. I know where the van is.”

  “Where?”

  “The police have it.” He looked around the room, his gaze falling upon the backpack on the bed. Grasping it, he snaked the strap across his shoulder and took Belinda’s hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of here.”

  They’d barely got themselves out of sight, concealed behind the adjacent row of rooms, when Ruben, staggering, led the officer into room thirty-three.

  Brandon and Belinda held themselves perfectly still. They waited for what seemed like an eternity until the two men finally exited the room.

  The officer took out his radio. “Sheriff, it looks like the van belonged to some young guy who was here at old Ruben’s motel, but he’s gone now. There was no sign of any girl, apparently. What do you want me to do?”

  Brandon strained to make out the sheriff’s response, but all he heard was the officer replying “Yes, sir.”

  After another minute, Ruben and the officer disappeared around the corner.

  Brandon turned to Belinda hastily. “I have to get to that impound yard. I’m getting the van back, but there’s a risk.”

  Belinda looked at him uncertainly. “Oh, Brandon. What are you going to do?”

  “Everything is in the van except . . .”

  “What?”

  With a shrewd glint in his eyes, he tapped the backpack and placed it on the ground. “There’s something else I took.” He unzipped the backpack and rummaged around inside until he found an electric hair clipper.

  She stared at the clipper, shaking her head as though bemused. “What do you need that for?”

  Seventeen

  Caught

  Brandon and Belinda wandered out of sight through the trees surrounding the highway. Within thirty minutes, they reached the outskirts of Morgan. Brandon knew it was safe for him, but even with Belinda’s new look, it was too risky for her to enter the town. She was still all over the news.

  “OK, baby,” he said, “I’m all set. I need you to wait for me, all right?”

  “OK.” Her tone indicated her confidence was waning.

  “There’s food and drink I bought from that store last night in the backpack.” He looked around at the forestry sensing her anxiety, but knew there wasn’t a moment to lose. “I know this isn’t ideal
, so I’ll be as quick as I can. Hang in there. I am so sorry, baby.”

  “Please be careful,” she said.

  Sorrowfully, he nodded.

  He ran through the trees, stopping sporadically along the three mile trek. He reached the town remarkably quickly. Slowing his pace accordingly, he casually assimilated himself among the pedestrians.

  The basic area reminded him of a town from the Old West. A few rusted parked cars and an electronics store were enough to convince him he was still in his own era.

  An elderly woman turned a corner and came toward him. He smiled warmly and she reciprocated. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to find the local sheriff’s office. Would you happen to know where that is?”

  “Of course.” She turned and pointed straight along the dusty road. “You don’t have far to walk. It’s about a half mile along that road. You’ll come to it on the left along the way there.”

  “Thank you.”

  After following the lady’s directions for a few minutes, he saw the station ahead of him. It was a pathetic-looking shack of an outpost, and without the car storage pound he’d anticipated. He could see his van protruding from the rear of the building sheltered by a flimsy wooden horning, and edged his way onto the pavement.

  His heart thundered in his chest with apprehension. He’d witnessed more than enough death on the battlefields of Afghanistan, and was no stranger to fear.

  However, scurrying alongside a hick town’s sheriff’s office filled him with anxiety the likes of which he’d never felt before. Perhaps it was because, in the desert, he’d accepted the possibility of personal doom. This time, he’d set his heart upon the real possibility of a happy and peaceful life with his new love. Perhaps his fear was simply a manifestation of that hope. If he failed, he wouldn’t only be failing himself, he would be failing Belinda, and the thought of that was unbearable.

  He reached into his right side pocket and took out the keys to the van, silently praying the Turbo Swan was still in the back. Even if it wasn’t, he knew he was the only one who could open it. It was constructed from an innovative bonded-titanium alloy that was resistant to firepower and intense heat. The door locks were programmed to accept his unique fingerprints—a precaution he’d taken before he escaped from Mach Industries. But none of that would have stopped them from towing it out of the van and taking it away.