by Peter Darley
When he reached the end of the brick wall, he ran across the station’s yard toward the van. “Please be in there,” he quietly muttered as he came closer to his quarry—and his freedom.
He reached the driver’s side door and inserted the key into the lock, cringing at the clicking sound it made. He climbed inside, and against every iota of common sense, he wasted a moment throwing open the veil. The Turbo Swan was still there, to which he gave another sigh of relief.
“Hold it right there!”
Brandon froze. He’d been so close. Perhaps he could make a run for it—close the door, insert the key, and step on the gas. But there wasn’t enough time to perform all of those tasks in less time than it would take a bullet to strike him. Out of options, he backed out of the van and kept his hands held high with his back to the officer.
“Put your hands behind your head. You have the right to remain silent . . .”
The officer’s arrogance seemed in keeping with his position, but Brandon refused to show fear as the cuffs were placed on him.
The sheriff led Brandon by the arm into a cell. He noticed two Mexicans in the cell opposite. A powerful anger rose in him as the sheriff manhandled him, although he managed to contain himself.
“I’m gonna run your ID, dirtball,” the sheriff said, “and then we’ll find out who you are, what you’ve got in common with those two Mexican scrotums and that van.”
The sheriff moved away from the cells leaving Brandon face to face with the two illegal immigrants who had stolen his van—the imbeciles who’d placed him in this predicament. Their actions had resulted in his beloved Belinda being stranded in the woods alone with meager rations. True hatred for the brothers began to fester in his heart. An overwhelming force surged through him. They had done this to the woman he loved.
After thirty minutes, his cell door opened and the sheriff stepped inside with the arresting officer. “Come out, kid. We’re gonna print you.”
Apprehensively, Brandon stood. “Look, Sheriff, you don’t have to worry about anything. I’m not a criminal.”
“Take his prints, Wallace. I ain’t takin’ his word for that.”
The officer grasped Brandon’s shoulder and forcibly guided him out of the cell toward the fingerprint room. Once completed, Brandon knew his fingerprints would be sent through a computerized identification system. His fear exacerbated as he was led along the corridor, uncertain of what the procedure would reveal about him.
Shortly afterward, the fingerprint results came back, and Gillespie returned to Brandon’s cell. “I don’t get it. There’s nothing on you other than a military distinction. Battlefield injury during the rescue of one of your comrades.”
Brandon was hesitant. On the one hand, he was relieved there was no record of his going AWOL. However, it raised the question of who would have hidden that information, and for what purpose? “So, you have no problem with me, right?”
“On the contrary. You’re stayin’ with me, soldier-boy. As soon as I send this down the line, I’m going to find out once and for all what you are all about.”
Brandon’s initial fears resurfaced. Gillespie wasn’t simply going to leave it at that. All of the possibilities occurred to him in a flood of horror. Not only might his going AWOL be discovered, but the investigation would alert those in government to the fact that he was in custody. That information, in turn, would find its way into the hands of the conspiracy’s personnel, who would undoubtedly have him killed. And Belinda was stranded alone in the forest.
In that moment, he knew, at all costs, he had to escape.
***
Senator Garrison Treadwell sat in his office sifting through a number of files when he was interrupted by a knock on his door. “Come in.”
Agent Martyn McKay entered, and Treadwell noticed the levity in his eyes.
“I have a report from the police in Morgan, Wyoming, sir,” McKay said eagerly.
“Where’n the hell is that?”
“It’s a small town in the northeast region of Wyoming, sir.”
“And?”
“It’s Drake, sir.”
“What about him?”
McKay caught his breath. “We’ve got him.”
The senator was suddenly gripped with urgency. “Get the jet ready, and arrange for a helicopter at Cheyenne airport. I want it ready for take-off when we arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Treadwell waited for McKay to leave and hastily took out his cell phone. After two rings it was answered. “Wilmot,” he said sternly, “I want you to contact Bragg and get a contingency out to a place called Morgan in Wyoming, immediately. I’m putting you in charge. If Spicer isn’t overseas, I want him included. Don’t screw this up.”
Eighteen
The Rage
Belinda listened to the birds singing in the forest, her back braced up against the bark of the tall tree. Strangely, the sound of the birds seemed to compound her sense of loneliness. Brandon had been gone for three hours, and her angst was increasing by the minute.
Her nightmare came back to her with an ominous likening to a premonition. She was alone, and her protector was nowhere to be seen. She shuddered with the fear that the authorities would appear in the woods with their pistols trained upon her. The instinct to chew her hair was strong, but even that was no longer a possibility.
Restless, she stood and wandered around a little, never losing sight of the tree. Brandon could return at any moment. She couldn’t risk getting lost in the woods.
She questioned repeatedly why he couldn’t have just turned the van around after the incident in Moore. She could understand his reasons for leaving the cabin, and she’d been completely willing at the time. But not now. What had begun as an idyllic escape to a new life had become an unbearable ordeal.
She turned and saw the tree in the distance, quickly realizing she’d roamed too far. With a flutter of panic, she ran back, hoping against hope she’d see Brandon coming from behind the hill. . .
But there was still no sign of him.
Fearfully disappointed, she sat against the tree again, and resumed her endless waiting. Her mind continually wandered into thoughts of the cabin and how happy she had been there. Vulnerable and scared, her head fell into her hands, and she wept.
***
Brandon sat on his cell bunk, his concern for Belinda tormenting him. Her beauty, her supportive, gentle nature, and the way in which she filled his heart with excitement were profound. She had made him feel as though he could accomplish absolutely anything. She’d introduced him to new a side of himself and given him companionship, which had caused him to realize how loathsome his period of isolation had been. Now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d failed her.
He was constantly aware of the Gomez brothers’ eyes on him.
“That van out there, man,” Fausta said. “What is that . . . thing in the back?”
Voracious anger came over Brandon as the circumstances exploded in his mind again. He was sitting in that cell. Worst of all, his lover was alone in the woods, not knowing what had become of him, or what was to become of her. And it was all because of them. His eyes rose with hatred, causing the young immigrant to visibly shiver.
Without warning, he lurched forward with the speed of a cobra, driving the blade of his right hand into the cell bars. The Gomez brothers were startled by his sudden movement. His eyes ablaze with fury, he bellowed, “Don’t even talk to me, motherfucker. It’s all your fault. I wanna fuckin’ kill you, you bastards!” All of his control, his reasoning, and his composure, had given way to overpowering rage. He’d finally found someone who meant more to him than he meant to himself. If given the opportunity, he felt he would have willingly killed any man who placed Belinda’s life or well-being in jeopardy.
Gillespie ran along the corridor with urgency at the sound of Brandon’s outburst. “What the hell is going on down here?”
Fausta grasped the bars of his cell. “Sheriff, you gotta let us outta here.
That guy over there is crazy, señor. He’s one crazy mother. I saw the way his hand hit the bars. It was like karate, or kung fu, or something. He’s dangerous, señor.”
The sheriff turned to see Brandon’s cold demeanor. Drake’s face was flushed, and the scar on his forehead seemed to have become deeper. Never in his career had Gillespie stared into to such eyes of granite. Brandon’s look reminded him of the Legend of Medusa. For an instant, he felt he’d been turned to stone.
It was actually comforting for him to turn back to the Gomez brothers. “You two are released on the condition that you guide my deputy to your family and we escort your sorry asses out of the state. Clear?”
“Sí, sí, Señor Sheriff,” Miguel said with desperate submission.
Ranger appeared from around the corner of the corridor with a set of keys in his hand. After unlocking the cell, he escorted the brothers out.
“All right, dirtballs. Get out,” Gillespie said.
Gillespie knew it wasn’t the most appropriate moment to confront Brandon with an ultimatum. But for the sake of his own pride, he knew he had to exert some degree of authority. He turned back to his prisoner, but Brandon’s attention seemed to be focused on the Gomez brothers as they were led away. He then bowed his head as though attempting to compose himself.
“Don’t do anything to ruffle my feathers, psycho boy,” Gillespie said, “or you just might discover what kind of power the Department of Corrections actually does have around here.”
Brandon’s eyes rose once again, their chilling resonance penetrating. “You have no power over me. The only power you have is that which was given to you. Study your history. Real power is something you take. You were given your power, which means they can take it away just as quickly. You’re just a pawn.”
“Don’t push your luck, kid.”
“Tell me, Sheriff. Did you voluntarily choose to become a police officer out of an altruistic desire to serve the community? Or because you get off on the sense of power you think that badge gives to you?”
Gillespie swallowed hard. He had never encountered the likes of this prisoner before. He’d known thugs, illegal immigrants, and drug pushers, but not enraged, articulate, mystery men. There was something about Brandon Drake that didn’t fit any category, and most disturbing of all, he seemed to be fearless. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you are. But I’m going to find out, kid. Nobody gets past Earl Gillespie, understand?”
Brandon shot him a contemptuous glance. “You pathetic nobody. Do your sorry fuckin’ worst.”
Gillespie chuckled in an attempt to conceal his discomfort, but he was far from dismissive toward Brandon. He realized bravado was the most futile of all approaches. In response, he simply flicked a strand of his thinning, black, comb-over hair away from his eyes, and moved on.
Brandon turned to the back of his cell. A slightly rebellious smile crept from the corner of his mouth, despite the rage that filled his heart. The concept of authority figures had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d long since come to the conclusion that ‘authority’ was a bane: a falsity that man, whose ultimate destiny was the grave, could delude himself into a feeling of superiority over his fellow man. In the name of that delusion, he’d seen so much evil committed. Such was the nature of his vitriol toward Gillespie.
He studied the portal. There were three iron bars, behind which was a cracked window. Now that he was finally alone, there wasn’t a moment to lose.
Upon his entry to the station, the keys to the van had been confiscated. He’d been frisked for concealed weapons—his arms, legs, waist, chest, wrists, and ankles.
He carefully reached underneath the hair at the base of his neck and grasped a small package taped to his scalp. Belinda had been bewildered at first when she saw him shaving a section of hair away before he set off for the sheriff’s office. Most of his weaponry was in the attaché cases. However, given the nature of his circumstances, he’d pre-empted the possibility of being arrested, and kept an emergency contingency on him at all times.
After opening the small opaque sack, he took out a cellophane package. He broke the seal and cautiously removed two pieces of putty, one white and one blue, separated by another seal in the plastic packet. His hands trembled in his awareness of the extreme hazard.
With supreme care and control, he edged his way to back to the bunk bed and steadily stood upon it. From there he was at the height necessary to reach the top of the first iron bar.
He took small samples of the white and blue putty and gently pressed them together against the iron. If so much as a microbe of the substance was to touch his skin after it had catalyzed, it would bore through his flesh and bone within a second.
He knew that the ideal tool for this task would have been his pocket-sized laser torch. However, it was locked away in one of the attaché cases in the back of the Turbo Swan. He doubted he could’ve concealed it well enough to avoid detection during a frisk anyway.
As the chemicals merged, they began to eat through the bar. He then pressed the two putty solutions to the tops of the second and third bars.
Stepping off the bunk bed with the utmost care, he repeated the procedure at the base of the bars.
Nineteen
Breakout
Treadwell’s helicopter had been airborne for twenty minutes since its hurried departure from Cheyenne airport. Agent McKay sat beside the senator in the rear of the aircraft.
After receiving the information about Drake’s arrest, their emergency flight in Treadwell’s private, Mach One, Cessna Citation X jet began at 12:00. They were in a helicopter from Cheyenne to Morgan by 15:00.
McKay’s satellite phone rang. “McKay speaking . . . OK, I’ll put him on.” He turned to Treadwell. “It’s Wilmot, sir.”
Treadwell took the phone. “Where are you, Wilmot? . . . No, don’t go to the police station. Keep them all where you are. He’s in a cell right now. If we can deal with this peacefully, that’s how I want to play it. I don’t want those boys alarming him. I just need them if the worst happens.” He handed the phone back to McKay.
McKay noticed Treadwell’s distressed expression. For the first time since being assigned to the case, he saw a hint of vulnerability in, what was usually, a brutally cold individual.
McKay hadn’t been partial to the senator on a personal level. He’d been assigned to the Drake case, and eagerly embraced the career opportunity of working with a United States senator. He never questioned the virtue of the investigation.
Whenever doubt crossed his mind, a flashback to his eighteenth birthday always quashed his reservations. Having been the lead singer of a local band in Virginia, with dreams of stardom, his mother and father had subjected him to a loving rebuke and words of wisdom. His band’s drummer was killed in a car accident while intoxicated. His guitar and bass players were addicted to cocaine and still struggling to find work in bars.
The talk with his parents led him to the police academy and, through distinction, to the CIA, where he began his training in intelligence. Afterwards, he was assigned to the Homeland Security office, the Strategic Detection of Terrorism, based at Langley.
Another award for distinguished service led to his assignment to Senator Treadwell and the Drake case. But what the Drake case was truly about continued to elude him.
He’d become uncomfortable when Treadwell ordered an all-points-bulletin against the innocent woman Drake had rescued from a terrorist attack. He still didn’t know whether Drake was with the terrorists, a rival terrorist organization, or something else entirely.
His initial orders were to pursue Drake’s capture without involving the police or the media. It was an impossible task, especially without knowing why. But he hadn’t dared question the order.
McKay was thankful for each day he worked for Homeland Security. More than that, he thanked his parents. With gnawing disquiet, he accepted his orders.
Treadwell turned to the pilot. “How long to Morgan?”
�
��About another twenty-five minutes, sir. I hit a strong headwind just outside Cheyenne and it slowed us down a little. I’m sorry, sir.”
Treadwell sat back and sighed. “McKay, call that sheriff’s office and give me the phone.”
“Sir, I thought you didn’t want to alert them that we were coming.”
“That was then. Now call that goddamn number.”
McKay took out his cell phone again, found Gillespie’s number, and pressed send. “It’s ringing, sir.”
“Gimme that.”
Gillespie sat at his desk, his legs rested on the table. H was still shaken by the chilling look in Drake’s eyes.
The phone rang, startling him out of his trance, and he picked up the handset. “Gillespie.” He struggled to hear the voice on the other end over the sound of the helicopter, but could make out what was being said. “It’s all right, Senator, he’s safely secured in a cell here. Trust me, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Are you absolutely sure you have Drake in custody?” Treadwell said.
“He’s iron-clad. Why would you think he’s not?”
“These are orders from Washington, Sheriff. This is the most dangerous prisoner you will ever have in your cells. Do not let him escape. Is that clear?”
Gillespie chuckled. “Now, how’n the hell is he going to escape? Can he punch out a brick-and-cement wall with his bare hands?”
“Go and check on him.”
