by Peter Darley
“Sure I can check. But it’s stupid.” Gillespie ended the call.
The last iron bar eroded away from its base, and Brandon grasped it before it could fall to the ground with a clang.
As he placed it on the bunk with the other two bars, he noticed the remnants of the corrosive putty had already burned through the center of the bunk mattress.
From the opaque packet, he fished out a half-inch, diamond-tipped blade. A flattened finger press on the back enabled the application of pressure. The blade glowed for a fleeting second as the diamond caught the light through the window.
He stood on the edge of the bunk frame and waited a few seconds for the stumps to corrode and crystalize. Once contact with the bar’s remnants was safe, he pressed his thumb against the flattened back of the blade, and cut through the glass with ease.
His incision around the perimeter of the window came to an end as the final shard was severed. After easing the pane back onto his hands, he gently guided it onto the bunk.
He gripped the window ledge and leaned through the gap, aware of the razor-sharp glass remnants. Pulling himself up, he saw his van before him, desperately hoping the redneck cop who’d caught him had left it unlocked.
He was halfway through when the helicopter appeared above him, and his adrenaline surged once more. Lurching forward, he knew there wasn’t a second to waste.
As the helicopter approached the sheriff’s office, Treadwell looked out of the window at the run-down outpost. His heart sank as any shred of hope that this establishment had the ability to contain the likes of Brandon Drake disintegrated.
“Sir, please. W-what is it about Brandon Drake that you fear him so much?” McKay said.
Treadwell turned to his underling with a look of doom. “You have no idea.”
Gillespie arrived at Brandon’s cell, and it took him a moment to realize his prisoner wasn’t sitting on the bunk. And then he noticed the three bars and burn holes. “What the hell?” He glanced up to see two feet clad in sneakers disappearing through the open window of what had once been a secure holding cell. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed, and ran back out through the corridors.
As soon as Brandon’s feet touched the ground, he sprinted toward the van. He gripped the handle of the driver’s side door and pulled it open. Tearing away the upholstery of the underside to the cab, he found the spare key. Neither the Gomez brothers nor the police would have known he’d hidden a spare there.
Not being an accomplished car thief, he was mystified as to how the two illegal immigrants could have driven the van away. Hot-wiring wasn’t an option with that particular model. If given enough time, he was confident he could have figured it out.
He heard a noise and looked behind him.
Ranger came up from behind, having just secured the Gomez brothers in a squad car. He ran toward the van and reached out for Brandon. “Hey!”
Brandon shot his foot out, striking Ranger’s jaw, rendering the officer senseless.
He climbed onto the driver’s seat and turned the key at the moment the helicopter landed, the whirling blades producing a dust storm across the yard. He slammed the door shut and started the engine. Pressing his toes on the accelerator, the tires screeched and he sped away.
Twenty
Race
Gillespie burst through the front doors of the police station aiming his pistol toward the van. He fired, but the bullet lodged itself harmlessly in the metallic shell. “You son of a bitch!”
Treadwell climbed out of the helicopter with urgency. “Keep this thing running,” he said to the pilot. “That’s him. He got away. I was right.”
McKay followed behind him. “Right about what, sir?”
“I knew he’d break out.”
“Is that why you set up the contingency plan?”
Ignoring him, the senator hurried over to Gillespie. “Sheriff, get after Drake. We’ll track him from the air.”
“Who in the hell are you supposed to be?” Gillespie said.
“I’m the US senator you’ve been talking to, goddammit. Now, get moving!”
Treadwell and McKay climbed back into the helicopter.
Brandon pressed the accelerator to the floor, but he’d already gained considerable distance from the station.
He checked the rear view mirror and soon noticed Gillespie’s squad car in the distance. He could also hear the helicopter overhead as he raced through Morgan.
The trees appeared ahead of him. Desperately anxious to have Belinda by his side again, he could only imagine how terrified she must have been.
Agent Andrew Wilmot sat in a Chevy Camaro alongside a military entourage. Three high-mobility Humvees accompanied him in a secluded inlet on the roadside, two miles south of Morgan. At thirty-five, Wilmot’s conservative appearance and short, neatly-groomed, dark-brown hair conveyed the desired image for his position—keen operative with meticulous adherence to professionalism. Having been flown out from Washington to Wyoming in a supersonic jet at a moment’s notice, he’d never had to move this fast in his life.
His cell phone flashed and he seized it. “Yes, sir.”
Treadwell’s voice came through the handset. “Drake is driving a white Dodge Sprinter, and he’s headed your way. No, wait . . . He’s stopping. He’s pulled over beside the grass verge . . . He’s out of the van now and heading into the trees. The girl has to be in those woods. Move now and get to her before he does. But whatever you do, do not engage Drake. I repeat, do not engage Brandon Drake.”
Wilmot darted out of the Chevy and into the woods.
His phone rang again. “Yes, sir.”
“I have you all in sight. The girl is approximately two hundred yards northwest of you. You’re closer to her than Drake is, so don’t blow this one.”
“I’m on it.”
Belinda shivered as the late afternoon winter chill cut through her clothes. The helicopter hovered overhead as she involuntarily hugged the tree she’d spent hours perched against. “Oh Brandon, where are you?”
The sound of running footsteps alerted her attention. “Brandon?” She’d moved mere feet away from the tree when she saw a man in a suit running toward her. He was clearly a threat. She turned to run in the opposite direction, but he was on top of her in an instant.
“Hold it!” he said, and grappled her in a bear hug.
Belinda struggled, her heart pounding in her ears. Despite her effort, her strength was no match for his. “Somebody, help me!”
Brandon appeared as she fought her captor. “No!” he cried.
She saw the scar on Brandon’s forehead become a darker shade of purple. She knew it meant something sinister. But what?
The assailant’s grip weakened and she broke away just as Brandon reached her. He spun her around, ensuring she was shielded by his own body, and then—
Brandon’s right leg flew up with a speed that was almost impossible for Belinda to register. The flat of his sneaker struck her attacker across his left jaw. The man in the suit hadn’t fallen before two more blows from Brandon’s foot connected with his head. Dazed, he staggered back.
There was bloodlust in Brandon’s eyes, and it both comforted and chilled her. He was maniacal. Leaping into the air, he spun around, throwing his heel into her attacker’s head before landing in a balanced stance. The man fell, his face bloodied and his eyes senseless.
Never before had she seen such a display of aerial, acrobatic prowess outside of a martial arts movie. It was yet another mystery added to the enigma of Brandon Drake.
Brandon moved over to the attacker’s limp form. “You bastard!” he bellowed.
He’s going to kill him. Belinda grasped his shoulders as he crouched down ready to pummel the man into oblivion. “Brandon, stop. I’m OK. Please. You’re not a murderer.”
Her words seemed to draw him out of his trance. He looked up at her, his breathing coming in short, exhausted bursts.
“We have to go.”
He stood and grasped her hand. She
picked up their shoulder bag of essentials from behind the tree, they ran.
After climbing into the van, Brandon checked the wing mirror to see Gillespie almost on top of them.
Belinda followed his gaze and panicked. “Hurry.”
He started up the engine and thrust his foot onto the gas pedal. The squad car almost collided with him as Gillespie attempted to block his path, but the van evaded it by a fraction of an inch. Avoiding the near impact caused Gillespie to stall the car, enabling Brandon to speed away.
Treadwell took out his cell phone again and waited as it continued to ring out. “Where the hell is Wilmot?” As soon as the words rolled off his tongue, he knew the answer. “Fool.”
He punched in another number, putting his contingency plan into motion. “Spicer, this is Senator Treadwell. A white Dodge Sprinter is coming your way. I need you to create a roadblock.”
Sergeant First Class David Spicer sat in one of the three military Humvees positioned beside Wilmot’s Camaro.
Having been jetted out to a nearby airfield in a supersonic jet with five other troopers from Fort Bragg, he knew it was a national emergency. But this was one mission with which he was ill-at-ease, for personal reasons. Nevertheless, he was compelled to obey orders. He was soon to be promoted to the rank of Master Sergeant. Regardless of his own issues, he had to remain committed to duty.
He was about to affirm receipt of Treadwell’s order when the Dodge Sprinter sped past them. “He just passed us, sir.”
“Get after him, soldier. That’s an order.”
Spicer motioned to the other two Humvees to move forward. As they were about to pull out, they were forced to brake as Gillespie cut across their path.
Once the road was clear again, they fed their way onto the road and gave chase.
Brandon spotted the entourage in his rear view mirror—the sheriff, three Humvees, and the helicopter overhead, which he could hear constantly. “Goddammit. Hold on, baby. This is gonna be a close call.”
“I don’t want to ‘hold on’ anymore, Brandon,” she said, her resolve clearly weakening. “We had it all. We had freedom in the cabin, and we threw it away.”
“I know. I messed up real bad.”
“And how did you do that stuff back there?”
“What stuff”?
“That Tai Wan stuff.”
He shrugged, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The oriental stuff. The karate. You kicked that guy in the head faster than I can snap my fingers.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
Mystified by her words, he knew they were in a crisis situation that required his utmost focus. Keeping his foot firmly pressed to the floor, he raced through three towns. He barely noticed the townsfolk stopping in their tracks as the convoy sped through their streets.
As he came upon a bridge, he turned onto a main highway and swore. They’d hit the five o’clock traffic.
Twenty-One
Invincible
Brandon realized their predicament. They were already on the entrance ramp, caught in the gridlock, with no means of turning back. Noticing Belinda was breathing heavily, he said, “Well, here we go again. Get in the back.”
Without a second’s hesitation, she threw off her seat belt and climbed into the rear of the van. Brandon switched off the engine and followed her.
His fingerprints came into contact with the Turbo Swan’s door handle sensor and instantly, the door rose. After reclining into the pilot’s seat, he reached across to open the passenger side for Belinda.
“You’re not going to blow the van up again, are you?” she said.
“Not with this much traffic around, that’d be crazy.” He activated the Turbo Swan’s jets. “Ready?”
“You bet.”
The MP3 sound unit came on and the shallow craft was filled with the sound of arena rock.
“Let’s get out of here.” He pushed the throttle forward and the Turbo Swan burst through the back doors of the van.
Belinda’s hands curled around the safety harness.
Brandon noticed the stunned expressions on an elderly couple in a Buick Estate as the crystal-blue aircraft burst out of the van in front of them.
Ahead, soldiers arrived at the top of the entrance ramp, creating a barricade across the bridge. A soldier stepped out of his Humvee and grasped a stack of road cones from the back. He raised his free hand to halt all oncoming traffic, and ran approximately fifty feet across the bridge. From there, he laid the cones out and waved the helicopter down.
An older man and a younger man, both in suits, exited the helicopter, but Brandon couldn’t make out their faces from this distance. As he flew toward them, five soldiers trained their rifles on the Turbo Swan.
He came closer to them on the bridge where no civilians were in immediate danger, and held the Turbo Swan hovering before them. The older man in the suit seemed to be issuing an order to the soldiers: “Fire!”
A barrage of bullets struck the Turbo Swan and bounced harmlessly off the alloy. Brandon smiled, a sense of invulnerability coming over him.
He activated the zoom sensor on the view screen and studied the face of the man who’d just given the order. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Belinda said.
“I know who that is.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Garrison Treadwell. He’s a US senator. He’s the man who had me taken out of the field and put me in weapons testing.” A number of questions filled his mind. Why would this man, who had been somewhat of a benefactor to him, now be commanding a mission to take him out? “What if he’s the man responsible for the fake terrorist attacks?” Brandon realized there was no other explanation. Anger, resentment, and extreme rebellion coursed through him. He wanted to taunt this man who had caused so much misery—to play with him. He vengefully gloated, knowing that the US Army was confronting them, but could not touch them.
He glanced at Belinda and she returned his rebellious glee. Their exhilaration was beyond their ability to contain. He could see her terror had given way to the same feeling he had. They were invincible.
He held the Turbo Swan tauntingly before Treadwell and the soldiers while the track on the MP3 boomed through the sound-speakers:
I’m talkin’ ‘bout love . . . Talkin’ ‘bout things that we’re going to do . . .
The harmony hooked them. The situation was almost unreal, like an adventure from a dream. The danger of the moment had given way to the fantasy of many possibilities.
And then David came into sight.
Brandon’s jaw dropped as horror and distress replaced the elation in his heart. “No.”
David Spicer was the soldier he’d saved from the incendiary on the battlefield in Afghanistan. He felt a sudden stabbing pain striking him at the front of his skull as the memory came back. So much after the explosion was a haze to him.
He switched the zoom screen to the other soldiers. As their faces came into view, his eyes widened upon the realization that all personnel had been selected from his own division. “What the hell?”
“What?”
“They’re from the Eighty-Second.”
“The what?”
“The Eighty-Second Airborne Division. My unit.”
Overcome with confusion, Brandon questioned why Treadwell would’ve involved his own division in this? What did he think he was going to accomplish by pitting him against his friends?
With intense focus, he kept his eyes on the screen.
Treadwell turned to David. “Spicer, bring the rocket launcher.”
David looked at him with deep reluctance. “B-but, sir—”
“Bring it.”
The perturbed soldier moved to the back of the Humvee to collect the rocket launcher. He reasoned the Turbo Swan may have been invulnerable to bullets, and even grenades. But it was unlikely it could withstand a missile at close range—a fact, he was confident, would be well known to Drake. With a desperat
ely heavy heart, he returned to Treadwell’s side.
“Blow that son of a bitch away,” the senator ordered.
Spicer was close to begging Treadwell for a show of mercy—anything to be taken away from this moment. “Sir, there’s a civilian in there with him,” he said in an urgent appeal to be spared the order.
“An accomplice. Brandon Drake is a traitor, a deserter, a thief of government property, and a wanted fugitive. Now you blow that bastard away, or so help me, I’ll see you court-marshaled.”
The weight of the rocket launcher tripled in Spicer’s arms as he lifted it onto his shoulder.
Brandon and Belinda watched as David trained the lethal weapon upon them.
“Go, Brandon, please,” she said desperately.
But Brandon was oblivious. He studied Spicer’s face closely on the viewing screen and could see beads of perspiration forming on his friend’s brow. His and Belinda’s lives were in serious jeopardy. Yet, he was obsessed with knowing whether or not his friend, a man whose life he had risked his own for, would actually kill him. It was a moment of utter insanity, but he couldn’t pull himself away from it.
“Fire!” Treadwell roared.
Brandon yelled, “Oh Christ, don’t do it.”
“What are you waiting for?” Belinda screamed. “Go, Brandon, go!”
Twenty-Two
Retaliation
Brandon watched the pained expression on David Spicer’s face through the monitor. Was David trying to communicate with him? Treadwell stood marginally behind him. It seemed he was trying to issue a silent-mouth plea to him, away from the senator’s field of vision. That could only mean David was aware of the Turbo Swan and the zoom-camera. Brandon had no idea that details of it had already been made known to the Eighty-Second. It had only ever been a test unit.
He studied Spicer’s face intently, trying to lip read him. What are you saying, buddy?
