by Peter Darley
Hobson moved from behind his desk. “I’ve heard some wild reports about you, Mr. Drake. If you want me to run this, I want some answers.”
“Shoot.”
“The flying car?”
“What about it?”
“Gimme your version.”
“The Turbo Swan is what I escaped from Mach Industries with. It enabled—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Hobson interrupted. “The Turbo what?”
Brandon sighed impatiently. “In case you doubt, it is real. But it’s not a car. It’s a low-level-flight, stealth VTOL aircraft. It was only put together for us to test some experimental hardware on. There’s nothing magical about it.”
“The reports from Denver said that it flew out of an exploding van. Can you explain that to me?”
“The Turbo Swan is made from a molecular-bonded titanium alloy. It’s resistant to impacts as extreme as machine gun fire, and it can absorb the concussive force of up to two grenades detonating simultaneously . . . which is actually what I did.”
Hobson’s expression shifted from serious and attentive to mocking laughter. “What kind of an ass-hat do you take me for?”
Anger appeared in Brandon’s eyes. “Look, man, I know you might still be stuck in the Dark Ages. In the eighties. But I’m not.”
Hobson reined in his sardonic attitude and decided to give Brandon a chance. “OK, in that case, perhaps you’d care to explain it to me.”
Brandon paused to collect himself, and said in a calmer tone, “The Turbo Swan is real. As I said it’s a low-level VTOL aircraft.”
“OK, I got that, but how does it work at such a small size?”
“The Swan is relatively new technology combined with old technology. It isn’t entirely unique. It’s a Vertical Take-Off and Landing aircraft with twin high-bypass fanjets delivering thrust to four independent vectored nozzles. It uses a fly-by-wire multi-channel flight control system. High speed maneuverability is achieved with the use of forward canards in conjunction with vectored thrust nozzles. It’s Gyro stabilized and silenced by an active noise reduction system delivering an electronic signal, one hundred eighty degrees out of phase to the input—”
“All right, already,” Hobson cut him off again. “OK, you know your shit. So, it’s as you said in the first place, some kind of VTOL technology, right?”
“Right, but combined with unique miniature engines that give it kick-ass propulsion.”
Hobson noticed the surprised look in Belinda’s eyes as Drake’s astonishing technical explanations unfolded. He’d delivered all of that technical jargon as proficiently as a scientist would have. Clearly she didn’t know her boyfriend as well as she thought she did. “So where is it?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Brandon said.
“Oh? Why not?”
“There was no possibility of us bringing the Turbo Swan to Los Angeles. We would’ve risked exposure and theft, especially considering the reputation of some of L.A.’s suburbs. It would have found its way onto the back of some hoodlum’s tow truck the minute our backs were turned.”
Hobson assumed a faux-offended expression. “Nice to know you think so highly of our city.”
“It was stolen in Wyoming, which is what led to us almost being captured. It was quite a wake-up call. I couldn’t risk bringing it here.”
Suspicion crossed Hobson’s face. “I smell bullshit.”
Brandon threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Look, do you want this exclusive, or do we just get out of here this minute, and you can sit on your precious hope of a big story ‘til kingdom come?”
There was an excruciating pause as Brandon and Kevin stared at one another in a moment of masculine, primal contest.
“Wait a second,” Hobson said. “Putting you guys on the air, I’d be admitting to harboring fugitives, surely.”
“Putting us on the air live and saying to world, ‘Hey, here they are,’ is hardly harboring.”
“So, what are you going to do if they race over to arrest you?”
“Like I said. Keep it short, and we’ll just get the hell out of here.”
“But . . . why are you doing this? You sent the film, so why are you putting yourselves in the firing line like this?”
“Nothing has been done about the situation since the broadcast,” Brandon said angrily. “We didn’t want it to come to this, but maniacs are out there killing innocent people. Treadwell fled, but there have been no arrests, and no sign of an investigation. They need another kick in the ass.”
“But why you? What makes it all fall on your shoulders?”
“Because . . .” Brandon lowered his gaze to the floor. “Because there’s no one else.”
There was another awkward pause. Kevin was gripped with uncertainty, but he ultimately conceded. “OK, let’s run it.”
***
Hiding out in a rundown motel room on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Gary Payne listened intently to the conversation between Drake and Hobson. After receiving Treadwell’s letter, he’d initiated a plan to ensnare Brandon. He knew the CIA and SDT would deal with Drake’s original recording with as much discretion as possible, due to the sensitive and damning nature of his claims. The silence, in turn, was likely to draw Drake out of the woodwork.
Several days earlier, he’d infiltrated Channel 7 as a member of the cleaning staff in order to gain access to Hobson’s office. Once inside, he’d planted a bug underneath Hobson’s desk.
He took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and the response came almost instantly. “The bird has landed,” he said. “I want the two of you to meet me there in thirty. We’re only going to get one chance at this. We go in, grab the son of a bitch, and get out.”
Twenty-Seven
Prime Time
Hobson paced up and down behind Brandon and Belinda while the make-up girl powdered their faces.
Brandon’s masculine looks appeared bizarrely feminine. “Is this really necessary?”
Hobson stopped pacing. “Is what really necessary?”
“This sissy make-up crap.”
“You’re going before studio lights, which means you’re going to look washed out without it. Believe me, the more appealing you look to the people, the more they’ll be willing to listen to you.”
“More appealing? How can looking like a girl make me more appealing?”
“You won’t look like a girl. It interacts with the lighting. On screen you’ll look perfectly normal.”
Lightening the mood, Belinda said, “I think it looks great, especially now my hair is shorter. I’ve never had a makeover like this before.”
Brandon scowled in frustration. “Are you taking this seriously? Do you have any idea what we’re up against?”
“OK, you guys are done in here,” Hobson said. “Follow me.”
Brandon and Belinda stood, removed their makeup gowns, and she whispered into his ear, “Now, run it by me again, just to be on the safe side.”
“We have five minutes once the broadcast begins. The nearest police patrol should have four minutes to get the call from the police department and get to the building. They’ll then have another two to get into the studio. That’s our window. We stay on camera for five minutes, not a second more.”
Hobson glanced back at them inquisitively. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Who’s doing the dishes tonight,” Brandon said sardonically.
They followed Hobson through the corridors until they arrived at a door marked Studio 5.
Hobson looked at his watch. “You’re on in three minutes. I’ve got to set this up, so just gimme a moment.”
Brandon nodded impatiently.
The media mogul walked into the studio and approached an extremely attractive blonde. He handed her a piece of paper and she took it with a look of mild discomfort.
Belinda’s eyes lit up with excited glee. “Oh, my God. That’s Tara Willoughby.”
Brandon shrugged. “So?”
“She’s on T
V.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes.”
Belinda was becoming increasingly aware of the shift in Brandon’s persona. He was becoming objectionable and arrogant, and seemed all too ready to engage in arguments. Tentatively, she put it down to stress and anxiety.
As though sensing her thoughts, Brandon whispered, “I’m worried about you, is all. This is so damn dangerous.”
“I know, but I’m the only one who can validate what you’re saying.” She held him by the shoulders. “It’s my choice. I need this.”
“Yeah, but—”
Hobson waved them over to him. “Brandon and Belinda, this is—”
“Tara Willoughby,” Belinda finished.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Tara said, surprised. “Please remember, I’ve had no time to prepare for this, so we’re going to have to ad lib a little.”
Hobson pointed to the sheet in Tara’s hand. “The main questions are on the paper. Give it to me and I’ll tape it to the front of camera two.”
Tara handed it to him and glanced at her watch. “OK, let’s get to it.”
Belinda gazed, overawed by the spectacle of TV cameras, lights, and all of the technical apparatus hanging from the studio ceiling. They seemed to extend far higher than the cozy image of the news desk that would be caught in frame. Television, she realized, was a most deceptive illusion.
They sat behind the desk as Tara prepared herself. Her eyes darted between the paper fixed to the camera and her cue from a young, first assistant director. He showed the five digits of his opened right hand, and then there were four–three–two–one.
On cue, Tara fixed her gaze into the camera. “Good evening America. Tonight, Seven has an exclusive story. In an unprecedented move, we are joined by two special guests who have come to us at great personal risk.”
The camera moved around to Brandon and Belinda.
Tara continued. “You may recognize these people from a privately made tape we broadcast last week—Brandon Drake and Belinda Reese.”
Belinda noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Brandon secretly pressing a button on the side of his wristwatch, and felt a little more secure. She knew he was monitoring a timer so that they wouldn’t accidentally exceed five minutes in front of the camera. Subtly adjusting his position, he shielded her from the direction of the door.
“Belinda, could you tell us how this ordeal began for you?” Tara said.
Still a little shaken and star-struck, Belinda attempted to respond. “I was in the restroom at Carringby Industries when it happened. I’d never been so scared in my entire life.”
“What happened?”
She closed her eyes momentarily as she cast her mind back to that terrible night. “They burst into the building with machine guns, killing everyone in sight. I could see them through a crack in the restroom door, and one of them was coming closer, kicking in every door along the way. It was terrifying.”
The timer on Brandon’s watch continued: 0:46—0:47—0:48—
In a cleaning storage room on the floor below Studio 5, Agent Gary Payne discarded his cleaner’s overalls and put on black field attire. His two fellow SDT operatives, Timothy Ogilsby and John Woodford, finished putting on their own.
Payne opened the door and checked the corridor was clear. They then stepped out and made their way to the top of the stairwell.
Payne’s eagerness to get to Drake before official sources did was palpable. There was so much at stake—that which would facilitate his freedom. Drake had already cost him, Ogilsby, and Woodford their careers, and forced them into hiding. “We have to take him from the studio before they finish filming,” he said. “There’s no way of knowing which way he’s going to come out and we won’t have time to go looking. The police are going to be here any minute.”
They looked at one another in concurrence.
“OK, let’s go get him.”
Putting on black ski masks, they hurried up the stairwell and through the entrance to the third floor, following Payne’s lead.
Julie Beacham exited the conference room and instantly recoiled. Three masked gunmen appeared before her. The one who appeared to be the leader placed his hand against her chest. “W-what’s going on? Who are you?” she stammered.
A pistol appeared before her eyes, paralyzing her with fear.
“Make one sound and I will kill you,” the leader said with professionally calm coldness. The tone of his voice assured her he wouldn’t hesitate to blow her brains out without a second thought.
Trembling, she nodded, and he led her by the arm through the corridors. Within moments they arrived at the studio door.
Brandon looked at his watch again: 1:56—1:57—1:58—
Belinda continued to relate her harrowing tale to the camera. “When I fell out of the ventilation shaft into that store cupboard, I thought I was safe. But when I stepped out, all I could see was fire and smoke. I was sure I was going to die.”
The door burst open. Brandon’s head snapped to the left and back to Belinda. Adrenaline surged through him.
Belinda’s mouth fell open in stunned terror. “Oh, my God. They’re here.”
“Everybody down!” Brandon leaped up. In one swift move, he grappled Belinda and Tara off their seats and thrust them onto the floor.
Two henchmen drew their pistols, but Brandon uppercut-punched a small desk into their masked faces. They seemed distracted long enough for Brandon to get to his feet again.
Something was wrong. He was expecting either the police or the FBI to arrive to take him in. But sending armed mercenaries into a TV studio live on the air was utterly insane.
All personnel in the room panicked, creating a stampede in a desperate bid to escape the gunmen. Camera two was unmanned.
Executing a forward roll, Brandon dove across to the leader of the trio and swept his legs from under him with a single, graceful move of his right heel. The attacker fell to the floor and his mask came loose. Brandon seized the opportunity to pull it away from his head.
Belinda looked into the man’s eyes from across the floor. She struggled not to lose control of her bladder as she almost had done the last time she’d seen him through Carringby’s air-vent grill. His was a face that would haunt her nightmares, likely for the rest of her life.
From the wings, Hobson watched exhilarated, with an opportunistic, victoriously-clenched fist.
The blond gunman raised his pistol only to be met with a blow from the blade of Brandon’s right hand. The gun flew across the studio floor giving Brandon the time necessary to run across to camera two. Gripping the camera, he moved it around onto the man’s face. “Welcome to prime time, asshole.”
The gunmen trained their pistols on Belinda and Tara. “Give it up or the bitches get it!” Payne bellowed.
With startling speed, Brandon drew out the sonic force emitter from the rim of his pants and opened fire upon the three assailants. They instantly fell backward, temporarily paralyzed.
Hobson snapped his palm across his mouth, almost weeping with joy.
Brandon ran back over to Belinda and helped her to her feet. “Come on, baby. We have to get out of here.”
Shaking, she took his hand and followed him behind the cameras.
Hobson noticed the leader rising from the trio of bodies. After struggling to get to his feet, he staggered across the studio floor to retrieve his pistol, and headed toward the fire exit.
After waiting for the attacker to disappear through the door, Hobson emerged from behind the wings and over to camera two. Relieved, he noticed the small red digital recording light. “We got it. Goddamn, we got it.”
Brandon led Belinda down the fire escape, his hand clinging to hers fiercely. He felt her palms were clammy, and her breathing was coming in short, rapid bursts. He could almost feel her terror and anguish.
“I calculated it from the time it would take them to get inside the building,” he said breathlessly. “Two minutes means they were already inside. I don’t t
hink they were acting under anyone’s orders . . . No way real officials would’ve pulled a stunt like that on air.”
“S-so . . . who were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“I saw the guy’s face,” she said. “He’s the one . . . He was the one who was kicking the doors in at Carringby. I saw him take his mask off.”
Brandon quickened his pace, almost causing Belinda to lose her footing. “Brandon, please slow down . . . I can’t keep up.”
“You have to. If those assholes were working for Treadwell we can’t trust anyone. Almost anybody could be in on this.”
He heard footsteps above him and he looked up to see Payne coming toward them.
“Son of a bitch!” Payne spat.
“It’s him!” Belinda screamed.
Brandon aimed the sonic force emitter and fired in the assailant’s direction, but the shot missed.
Payne trained his pistol on them. “Drake, stop. I swear I’ll kill her.”
Belinda froze, but Brandon fired a second jolt, this time successfully. Payne crumpled in a heap down the steps. However, it caused a delay they could not afford.
Within a minute, they reached the bottom floor. Brandon picked up their backpack of essentials from where he’d concealed it under the stairwell earlier.
He threw open the fire exit door and stepped out into a side street, with the sound of sirens all around them.
“What are we going to do?” Belinda said desperately.
He looked at the LCD on the top of the sonic force emitter. It showed a reading of zero, indicating its power cell was depleted. “I don’t know. I had everything planned and timed to the micro-second, believe me. This is like they know what I’m thinking ahead of time.” Exhausted, he lowered his head despairingly. The now-familiar combination of guilt and a sense of failure clouded his mind. Belinda had insisted she come with him to the studio, but he knew he shouldn’t have permitted it. “I’m so sorry. I made a fatal mistake. I thought I could get us out of this, but I was wrong.”
