by Peter Darley
David pronounced the movement of his lips slowly. Finally, Brandon understood. “Drake–Go–Now–Please.”
Brandon felt a stab of conscience. He had the answer he was looking for. David would do whatever it took not to kill him, and now it was up to him not to add to the man’s distress.
He moved the throttle and the jets tilted the Turbo Swan onto its side. With the craft in a vertical position, he thrust it forward.
“Fire, I said!” Treadwell barked.
“I’m just getting used to this new sighting system, sir,” Spicer said, stalling. “It’s got a new configuration that’s a real pain.”
However, he timed it perfectly, and jettisoned the missile. It shot along the vertical underside of the Turbo Swan and detonated harmlessly in the forest, obliterating several trees.
Treadwell turned to Spicer with a hint of contentment in his demeanor.
David shrugged insincerely. “You know, I had Drake in my sights, and at the last minute, that machine—”
The senator laughed and tapped the soldier on his back. “You did well, my boy. You’re no match for him anyway.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Spicer’s brow furrowed with bewilderment as he lowered the rocket-launcher. Looking out over the bridge at the stationary cars, he could see the looks of fear on the faces of the motorists and empathized with them. They’d found themselves in the middle of a military operation with missile explosions, but there was no way they could escape. They were stranded in gridlock with a war unfolding before them.
Treadwell’s cell phone rang. Being otherwise involved, he was sorely tempted to ignore it. But given the circumstances, he knew it might be a matter of some importance and decided to answer. “Treadwell.”
“Sir?” Wilmot’s voice came through the earpiece as a groaning, weary mumble.
Treadwell rolled his eyes. “What is it, Wilmot?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“What won’t I believe?”
“I-I need help. I’m in the woods and I’m injured. It was Drake. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s unbelievable. I’ve seen martial arts people in action before, but not like—”
Treadwell ended the call abruptly and approached McKay. “Do you have anything?”
“He was heading east, but we lost him before the satellite tracker could pinpoint him. My guess is he’s heading into North Dakota.”
Treadwell moved to the edge of the highway bridge and gazed in the direction the Turbo Swan had fled. He held the one-thousand-yard stare for a pensive moment before muttering, “No, he’s not.”
***
“Where are we going?” Belinda said.
Brandon fixed his gaze on the navigation coordinator. “Right now, were heading toward North Dakota. Once we get there we’re gonna take a detour back to Aspen.”
Her heart soared with relief. “The cabin?”
“Yes.”
“So, why don’t we go there directly?”
“We can’t afford for them to ever find the cabin. I’m using a little sleight-of-hand to trick them into thinking I'm going in the opposite direction. Once we reach North Dakota, we’ll make a U-turn. That’s the trouble with this thing. It’s so damn noticeable.”
A moment of despair came over Belinda. Her fear, tension, anxiety, prolonged cold, and the loneliness of being stranded behind the tree had all been in vain. They hadn’t gotten anywhere near Switzerland, or even Canada. But the thought of returning to that serene, idyllic cabin in the snow was ecstatically appealing.
Brandon aimed the Turbo Swan toward the unpopulated flatlands and came to a decision. The time had come for him to stop running. Treadwell planned to ensnare him by pursuing Belinda, independent of public knowledge.
But he was just one man going up against a corrupt government faction, who could call on the army, including his own division, at any time. He didn’t have a hope of succeeding if he tried to engage them hand-to-hand.
However, shrewdness was fundamental to battle strategy. The conspiracy’s greatest fear was in the people of America learning what he knew. He needed a media event that would crush Treadwell in one sweeping move.
He was also aware of the tremendous personal risk in going public. He was still liable for desertion and the theft of army equipment. Stepping into the open would provide the conspirators with more reason to assassinate him.
But now he had someone more important to worry about. If there was to be any hope for his happiness with Belinda, Treadwell had to be stopped.
One hour after their escape from the highway bridge, the Turbo Swan landed beside the cabin. Brandon climbed onto the porch and held out his hand for Belinda.
Once she was standing, she stopped to inhale the cool, crisp, dusk air, comforted by the contrast of the cabin to the experience from which she’d returned.
“Let’s get inside,” he said.
She smiled and followed him in with a vague sense of déjà vu.
The door closed behind them and she stood with her back against it, gazing at Brandon—his stature, his striking looks, and his build. She thought of how incredible he was, maneuvering the Turbo Swan, evading and thwarting the most powerful of authority’s forces, and those incredible fighting moves. He was extraordinary. He’d rescued her from so much, from the Carringby rooftop, to the Cheyenne police, and now the army.
Most intriguing of all was that he never boasted about his accomplishments. Every skill and attribute he’d revealed had been a surprise, and on each occasion, at exactly the right moment.
“Give me a minute,” he said, and made a brisk move toward the bedroom.
After a few minutes, he returned with a tripod in one hand and a digital camera in the other.
“What are they for?” she said.
“I need you to help me.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not running anymore. This time, we’re going after them.”
Brandon set up the tripod and camera, and aimed it toward the back wall of the living room.
She watched, intrigued, as he removed all of the paintings and ornaments from the wall and concealed them behind the camera. “Why are you clearing everything away?”
“To remove any clues of this location. Would you come over here please, babe?” He gestured to the bare wall in front of them. “I’m going to sit over there. I need you to check this viewfinder, make sure I’m in shot, and then push this button, OK?” He pointed to a red button next to the viewfinder.
“Sure, but why?”
He smiled a half-smile. “I’m going to do the one thing they never thought I’d dare.”
“What?”
“I’m going to pull the rug right out from under those bastards and expose them to the world.” He tapped the camera. “This is for Channel 7.”
“Channel 7? No way,” she said excitedly. “You mean you’re going to be on TV?”
Brandon chuckled. “You’re unbelievable. For everything we’ve been through, you still think being on TV is the most amazing thing life has to offer.”
“OK, you’ve got a point.”
He sat on a small chair in front of the camera. “Am I in shot?”
She looked at the viewfinder. “Yep, got you. But you look, somehow . . . fatter.”
“It’s because it’s widescreen,” he said slightly defensively. “Ready to go?”
“Uh, OK.” She touched the red button. “It’s rolling.”
He composed himself and gazed into the camera lens. “My name is Brandon Drake, and I have information vital to the people of the United States of America.”
Twenty-Three
Channel 7
Julie Beacham cringed as she approached Kevin Hobson’s office, knowing that no matter what was going well, Hobson would kill it. She held a yellow envelope, delivered by a courier, addressed to Mr. Kevin Hobson, the CEO of Channel 7.
Working as an investigative journalist in Los Angeles was a highly competitive voca
tion. At twenty-five, Julie was willing to tolerate a little awkwardness just to get ahead.
If only Mr. Hobson was a more pleasant individual. She often considered his attitude may have been the reason she’d managed to successfully gain her position with Channel 7 so easily. Few others wanted to have anything to do with him.
She came to the end of the sprawling corridor and knocked on Hobson’s door. Nobody could avoid the bronze-emblazoned placard fixed at eye level on the door:
Kevin Hobson
C.E.O.
A terse reply came from within. “What is it?”
Julie took a deep breath. “It’s me. I have a delivery for you.”
After an awkward pause, she could hear him fumbling around inside and whispering something to someone. She rolled her eyes. Another one.
Within moments, the door opened. A naked blonde hurried out of the office, covering herself with her crumpled clothing. Shooting Julie a sheepish smile, she rushed past her.
Julie edged her way into the luxurious office to find Hobson virtually naked. She felt he would have been an attractive man had it not been for his obnoxious attitude. His thick black hair, paired ideally with his dark eyes, and waxed, bare-chested athletic physique, was notably remarkable for a man of his forty-eight years. But Julie had seen it all, and this particular scenario, so many times before.
“Godammit, Julie,” he said as he pulled his pants back up. “I was just getting down to business with that broad. What is it?”
She moved closer to him awkwardly and handed him the envelope.
After feeding his arms into his shirt sleeves, he took the packet from her, and tore it open. A flash drive fell out onto the desk and he looked into the empty envelope. “That’s it?”
“Guess so.”
Angrily, he picked up the flash drive and inserted into the USB port on his desk computer. Having accessed the file, he performed an initial virus scan. Once all was clear, he opened it.
Instantly, the face of a stranger appeared on the screen through his media player: “My name is Brandon Drake, and I have information vital to the people of the United States of America.”
Hobson frowned. Julie’s curiosity got the better of her, prompting her to move around to his side of the desk.
Brandon continued. “Ten weeks ago, I was a soldier stationed at a military weapons development facility close to Washington DC. While I was testing a highly-sophisticated piece of equipment, I uncovered a plot within the government to initiate hoax terrorist attacks against a number of key installations—specifically installations with military involvements. Those, so far, have been the Everidge Corporation in Dallas, Carringby Industries in Denver, and the Colton Ranch Munitions Plant in Utah.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Julie,” Hobson said. “You interrupted my goddamn screw to bring me a film of some rambling crackpot?”
“Just hang in there and give it a chance. You never know.”
“I went absent without leave with a considerable quantity of military hardware. It was with the use of that hardware that I was able to enter the Carringby Industries building and facilitate the rescue of this woman . . .” Brandon motioned toward the camera. After a moment, a woman came into frame.
Julie noticed Hobson’s sudden interest. He moved closer to the screen as though the face of the young woman was familiar to him.
“This is Belinda Carolyn Reese,” Brandon said. “Her face is on wanted posters all across America, but she is an innocent victim being used by a corrupt politician in order to ensnare me. That politician’s name is Senator Garrison Treadwell. He’s responsible for the attacks. I believe his agenda is to create justifications for wars that will result in financial gain.”
Hobson turned to Julie with an urgent demeanor. “Get me every picture we have of Belinda Reese. I wanna make sure that’s her and not some look-alike.”
Julie studied the face of the woman on the screen. She’d seen Belinda’s graduation photograph countless times during the coverage of the Carringby attack and Belinda’s subsequent vilification. The hairstyle of the woman in the recording was radically different, but there was no doubt it was her.
“What he’s telling you is the truth,” Belinda said. “I am Belinda Reese and I’ve been a target of this corrupt governmental faction for the past four days. We only narrowly escaped capture in Wyoming today. We believe that if they capture Brandon, they will kill him.”
“When was this sent?” Hobson said.
Julie picked up the envelope and checked the postmark date. “Two days ago, but it doesn’t say from where.”
“Doesn’t matter. Run a search on all newsworthy incidents that occurred in Wyoming two days ago.”
“We can only hope that you’ll believe us, and take the necessary steps to have Garrison Treadwell investigated,” Brandon said. “I am confident his financial activities will lead to the identities of his mercenaries, and to Everidge, Carringby, and Colton Ranch.” He paused momentarily before concluding with, “We leave our testimony in your hands.”
The screen faded to black.
“Today Julie,” Hobson barked, slamming his palm on the desk.
Julie looked up from the screen, startled. “Belinda Reese’s photograph and . . . and . . . oh, yeah, Wyoming two days ago. I’ll get right on it.”
Two hours had passed by the time Julie Beacham returned to Hobson’s office.
“What have you got?” he said impatiently.
Julie grinned. “The woman on the screen is a perfect match for Belinda Reese, and I got a series of eyewitness reports of a—get this—flying blue Ferrari—evading a rocket-launcher on a highway bridge in, guess where, two days ago?”
“Where?”
“Northeast Wyoming. And the vehicle bore a striking resemblance to descriptions witnesses made of a sports car that flew out of an explosion immediately after the Carringby terrorist attack.”
Hobson’s face shone as though he’d just been appointed God.
Julie continued. “I’ve contacted Carrie at Fox, Laurie at CNN, and Jason at Channel Thirteen.”
“And?”
“None of them have received the Drake film, and I genuinely trust them, Kevin. I’ve been close and personal with these people since UCLA, and I only asked whether or not they’d received a package from Drake. I didn’t tell them what was on it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Hobson was silent for a moment, his chin resting upon his clenched knuckle. “Why? Why me?”
“Why not you? Fox and many of the other major networks have political connections, mostly Republican. You know that no government agency would want to be associated with you since you are so committed to . . . tabloid philosophy.” She cringed as she made the last remark, desperately trying to word it as diplomatically as possible.
However, far from a defensive outburst, she was surprised by Hobson’s spontaneous laughter.
“I’m a goddamn genius. Who says it doesn’t pay to be one of the bad guys?” He raised his middle finger to the ceiling. “Screw you, Fox.”
Julie shook her head, but couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of the world’s greatest jerk so ecstatically happy.
“Cancel every story tonight. We’re putting out a special. My new best friend, Mr. Drake, is, this night, going to become a star.”
“Are you crazy?” she said. “The White House itself will have you closed down.”
“On what grounds?”
“Libel? Treason?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How is it libel or treason if he’s stating an opinion? Hell, what if it’s the truth?”
From Julie’s perspective, her job was at stake and she couldn’t shake her feeling of discomfort.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he said. “We’re just reporting the news as it comes to us. If it isn’t true, we’re just presenting the viewpoint of another. Constitutionally, were in the clear. Freedom of the press. Now just run it.”
“As you wish,” she said, mildly exasperated.
“But why? Just tell me that at least. Why are you doing this?”
Kevin’s expression darkened, replacing the jovial, irresponsible corporate magnate he prided himself on being. “Because . . . I believe it.”
Twenty-Four
Exposé
Brandon’s recording appeared in homes all across America at 18:00 hours, in all time zones.
Brandon and Belinda sat on the leather recliner in the cabin watching the broadcast on the widescreen television.
Belinda grinned excitedly at seeing herself on television for the first time, although her sense of glee was hampered by one single factor. “Why do I look like I’ve put on about ten pounds?”
Brandon said, “It’s like I told you. It’s the widescreen aspect ratio. It does it to everybody, which is why those movie star people are always dieting like crazy.”
Quickly realizing her sense of personal insecurity was not appropriate in that moment, she focused on the seriousness of the matter at hand. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
“We wait for a few days to see what the reaction is, and what the CIA’s next move will be. You must understand, this isn’t the actual CIA doing these things. I believe it’s a splinter cell within their ranks.”
“Yes, but what are your plans?”
“Hopefully, I won’t have to do anything. I need to keep an eye on the TV to see what transpires. This should be the end of it, but if it isn’t . . .”
“And if it isn’t, then what?”
Fear filled his eyes as it had on the evening he was preparing to set off for Utah. “Then we go to the next phase.”
***
Garrison Treadwell stepped into his opulent home in Spring Valley, Washington, and switched on the lights. After placing his briefcase beside the bureau, he removed his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. Sullenness came over him every evening when he returned home after work. It was so empty and quiet.
