by Peter Darley
He turned his head toward the bottom of the hill. “This is the end.”
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw at least eight men decked out in Parka and Liner field attire with their pistols drawn. “Oh, God,” she cried, and instantly resumed running.
Brandon followed and they continued sprinting together for almost a mile. Belinda’s survival instinct infused her with adrenaline.
From the beginning of her adventure with Brandon, it had been as though she was the Princess in the Tower. He had been the dashing, handsome prince who’d rescued her from certain doom and taken her to his castle, far away. Now, she ran with him from the forces of oppression, never leaving his side.
It seemed hopeless, when suddenly they heard the unmistakable sound of a freight train just beyond the trees. They raced toward it and could see it was approaching at a relatively slow speed, perhaps twenty miles an hour.
Brandon turned to run parallel with the train. An open car approached behind them. “This is it, babe. Take my hand.” He slowed his pace as her fingers interlocked with his.
She glanced behind her to see three agents almost on top of them.
With perfect timing, Brandon leaped into an open car, but he lost Belinda’s hand. “Oh, shit.” He reached out to her. “Run, baby. Take my hand.”
With one last burst of energy, she sprinted toward him, their fingertips barely touching. Quickly they were joined again. She cried out as the pressure of his grip pulled on her skewered fingertips.
The hand of a task force operative brushed her shoulder, but Brandon had her in his grasp. With one powerful curl of his arm, her feet left the ground. Steadily, she found her footing on the edge of the car as the train traveled farther away from their pursuers.
“Easy baby. I’ve got you. You can do it,” he said. “Hold on!”
She braced the soles of her feet against the edge of the car, but the pain in her fingers prevented her from gripping tightly enough. As the stabbing sting ripped through her hand, her left foot slipped off the edge, and in an instant, she was gone.
Brandon watched as she fell to the ground, the train took him farther away with each passing second. No matter what, he couldn’t leave her. To the end, she had said to him.
He leaped from the train and rolled on the ground, picking himself up again in one graceful, fluid movement.
He reached her within moments, only to find her weeping with despondency. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. We’ve both done enough of that to last a lifetime.” He glanced up to see the agents were less than a minute away.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t hold on this time,” she said. “They’re going to separate us, Brandon. They’re gonna lock us away.”
“No. They haven’t got anything on you. Any fool can see that. But I’m going to have to go away for a while.”
“Why, Brandon? Why did you jump after me? You were free.”
“Are you kidding? I could never abandon you.”
“I love you with all my heart.”
“I’m going to worry about you, but I don’t want you to be alone.”
“W-when that guy was torturing me in that gas station . . . When he was about to rape me . . . I just knew,” she said tearfully.
“Knew what?”
“I knew I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone other than you touching me. If I can’t be with you, I honestly don’t want to be with anybody, baby.”
The agents were seconds away and Brandon didn’t waste a moment. Embracing her, he shut out the sound of the cruel, corrupt world. This was their moment—their last precious bonding opportunity, and he treasured every fleeting instant of it. They emotionally bonded with one another in a way that couldn’t be broken: a marriage of the purest kind, requiring no institution.
The operatives finally came upon them and harshly tore them apart. “You are under arrest,” was all he heard as they pulled up by his armpits. They cuffed his hands behind him, with three loaded pistols trained on his chest.
Five more agents emerged from the trees to join the cadre. One of them gently grasped Belinda by the shoulders. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
Brandon watched as she glared at the man and shook his hands off her. After a moment, she turned back to Brandon.
As they led him away, he turned his head, his eyes fixed on her at all times. It felt as though as long as he could see her, he hadn’t a care in the world.
Then, she disappeared from his sight.
***
In the DC Central Detention Facility interview room, Timothy Ogilsby turned a sheet of paper around on the desk. He aggressively pushed it toward Wilmot and McKay. Wilmot studied the list of names written in ballpoint pen that filled the page.
“Is that everybody?” McKay said.
Ogilsby glanced at Woodford on his left in a final moment of conference, and then said, “That’s everybody.”
“Now, we have something to tell you,” Wilmot said.
“What’s that?”
“Payne is dead.”
The two prisoners looked at one another again, their expressions indicating desperate concern.
“D-dead? Dead how?” Woodford said, stammering.
“He stopped breathing, that’s how, you prick,” Wilmot said sarcastically.
“They think Drake killed him,” McKay said. “Made quite a mess apparently. He’s in custody at the moment. They’re arranging for him to be sent back to Bragg for his court-martial.”
Ogilsby’s lower lip quivered as the impact of McKay’s words reverberated in his mind. “B-but that means—”
“That’s right,” Wilmot said. “The deal you were offered—information leading to capture—is no longer valid.” He coldly stood to leave.
Woodford stood up sharply. “Now, wait a minute. We gave you that list.”
“That wasn’t a condition of the agreement.”
With fear in his eyes, Ogilsby stood up beside Woodford.
“Please, Wilmot,” Woodford said. “You’ve got to help us. What can we do? Please!”
McKay opened the interview room door without saying a word.
Wilmot turned back to Ogilsby and Woodford for a final moment of gloating. “Wait for your execution date. That’s what you can do now.”
Incomprehensible bellows of panic were immediately silenced as the door slammed shut behind the two agents.
“Well, that’s the end of that,” McKay said. “I’ve got to admit, for a minute there I felt a mild sense of sympathy for those two. But I keep reminding myself of what murderous sadists they actually are. They deserve everything that’s coming to them.”
“You got that right.”
“I’m still a little concerned, though, about how much that goddamn task force knows.”
“Nothing,” Wilmot said. “Wolfe arranged it. They were sent in to investigate ‘a serious terrorist threat and a female hostage.’ No names. As luck would have it, all they found was Drake and Reese.”
McKay exhaled with relief. “Wanna come back to my place for a few drinks?”
“Under the circumstances, why not?” Wilmot tapped his partner lightly on the shoulder. “By the way are you still seeing that hot model? What’s her name?”
“Becky?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure am. I think she’s pretty keen.”
“Have you screwed her yet?”
“None of your business.”
Wilmot grinned devilishly. “You have, haven’t you?”
“Well, you know, I never kiss and tell.”
Wilmot laughed with juvenile glee. “You hound.”
Together, they jovially continued along the airless corridor.
McKay loosened his tie and stepped into his apartment. He made his way over to the liquor cabinet and poured out two shots of bourbon. “I can’t believe it’s finally over.”
They raised their glasses and clinked them together. “To a job well done,” Wilmot said.
As they took their seats, Wilmot lo
oked around the room admiringly. “I must say, you’ve fixed this place up nicely.”
“To think how close I came to losing it all. And all because of Treadwell.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it.”
McKay frowned. “How can you be so easy about this?”
“I guess I’ve just had it up to my neck with it all.” Wilmot dipped his hand into his pocket, took out the sheet of paper Ogilsby had given to him, and began to study it.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to Drake.”
Wilmot’s eyes didn’t move from the page. “Who knows?”
“How many names are there, approximately?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“That’s precise. When did you count them?”
No answer came.
McKay became uncomfortable. “Do you think they’re all there?”
“What?”
“Do you think they gave us the names of every operative in Treadwell’s conspiracy?”
“Not even close.”
McKay rested his bourbon on the table next to him, and turned to his partner uneasily. “What do you mean, ‘not even close’?”
It took McKay a few moments for the sight of Wilmot’s pistol to register. He heard the faint blip of the shot as the bullet was fired through the silencer—the last sound he would ever hear.
Wilmot swallowed the last of his bourbon and put the glass in his pocket. He calmly moved over to McKay’s corpse, holding up his right hand to the overhead light. His virtually-invisible fingerprint guard was still firmly attached to his hand. As he tilted it to the left and right, he could make out the slight sheen of transparent micro film.
He carefully placed the pistol into McKay’s hand, wrapping his dead colleague’s fingers around the cartridge holder and trigger.
After looking around the room, he spotted an ornate china plate ceremoniously adorning the wall. He took it and placed it on the desk next to McKay’s bourbon glass.
After setting the list of agents’ names alight, he watched the flame creep upward, spilling ash onto the plate. Within seconds, he was grasping a small shard of paper and released it before burning his fingers. He smiled as the last shred of evidence was incinerated on the china.
Finally, he turned away, exited the apartment, closed the door behind him, and didn’t look back.
Forty-Four
Court-martial
“And that’s everything? The whole story?”
Brandon nodded as Lieutenant Terrence Brock stared at him from across the table in a sterile Fort Bragg interview room. Brandon gazed into the ether, struggling to process his predicament. It had been two years since he’d worn his dress uniform, never imagining the next time would be for his court-martial.
Lieutenant Brock, a lawyer stationed at Fort Bragg, slipped his on reading glasses and perused his files. Although Brandon had the means to employ the finest counsel, accessing those funds would have involved revealing the location of the cabin. Consequently, he found himself in an extremely vulnerable position.
Five weeks had passed since his arrest in the North Carolina forest. After being taken into custody, he’d been transported back to Bragg to be detained, awaiting trial. Not wishing to delay the inevitable, he’d refused a pre-trial. As such, it was decided the most appropriate course of action was to take the matter directly to general court-martial.
His heart ached for Belinda. The most traumatic consequence of his capture was that he couldn’t be with her. Everywhere he looked, he was convinced he could see her face, his heart drawing him ever closer to the edge of sanity.
He looked up at Brock and finally spoke. “How much do they have on me?”
“This isn’t going to be easy. They’ve pulled in witnesses from across the country. They’re eager to take you down, you do know that?”
“I know.”
“I had a meeting in chambers with General Grant an hour ago and they’re going to begin with an article thirty-nine, subsection A.” Brock studied the list of witnesses the prosecution had for the day. “Colonel Darren Woodroffe, Professor Abraham Jacobson from Mach Industries, Captain Lewis Jordan of the Denver Police Department, Sheriff Earl Gillespie from Morgan, Wyoming, and Agent William Tremayne from the FBI.”
“Should be a fun day then.”
The lieutenant gathered up his papers. “Sergeant Drake, there’s something you’re not aware of, and I think now would be the time.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“The media is having a field day with this, as is a large section of the general populace.”
Brandon stood, bemused. “A field day, sir? I’m not sure I follow you.”
“You’ve become quite a celebrity. There’s a parade of them outside the gates. Whatever you do, do not engage them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Brandon said, eyes front. He relaxed momentarily as his curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask why, sir?”
“They are antagonizing to General Grant as well as the prosecution.”
“Yes, sir.” Brandon saluted as Brock opened the door.
“We are coming to you live from Fort Bragg, the base of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division, where today, Sergeant Brandon Drake is due to face a general court-martial for desertion, and a series of further crimes, including the murder of a Homeland Security agent,” Tara Willoughby said into a microphone before the cameras outside the front gates. “However, there are those who believe Drake is not the villain the army and the police want to make of him. Rather, he is a man of courage, who sacrificed himself for the sake of others in his fight against a corrupt and tyrannical conspiracy.”
As she said those words, screaming cheers filled the air behind her.
Brandon walked out onto the front of the base accompanied by Lieutenant Brock and ten members of the military police, and headed toward the courthouse. Despite Brock’s orders, he was unable to restrain himself from glancing across at the commotion. There were approximately two hundred people outside the gates. He saw at least four TV camera crews and scores of placards bearing slogans: ‘We Love You Brandon,’ ‘Down with Tyranny,’ ‘Set Brandon Free,’ and ‘Superheroes are 4 Real!’
Brock flicked his knuckles onto Brandon’s forearm. “Eyes front, Drake.”
“Yes, sir.”
An attack of apprehension took hold of Brandon as he was led up the steps to the new courthouse. A sense of doom came over him as he walked between the pillars into the building, but he held his head up high. Marching along the corridor and up a stairwell with Brock, he barely noticed the array of paintings on the walls or the ornate décor of the new building.
When they came to the end, one of the MPs opened the courtroom door and led Brandon inside.
Lieutenant Brock gestured to a long table just ahead of the judge’s bench. “Over here, Drake.”
Without a word, Brandon moved along the line of seated off-duty servicemen and, curiously, a couple of civilians who didn’t look like reporters. He wondered who they were and what they were doing in the courtroom. However, his curiosity couldn’t overcome his anxiety.
Brandon sat to Brock’s left noticing Wassell, Stockton, and the newly-promoted Master Sergeant David Spicer sitting behind him.
Brock acknowledged the opposing counsel sitting at an adjacent bench.
Brandon recognized his opponent as Captain Hugo Arrowsmith, a man with whom he’d only had fleeting acknowledgements in the past. The irony struck him. His adversary was a man who didn’t even know him.
Or was that only as Brandon remembered it? He could no longer be certain of anything relating to his past.
He noticed the jury of five, who were, appropriately, strangers to him, except for Captain Andrea Ward, whom he’d only known in passing. His unease was compounded by the fact that none of them made an effort to look at him.
The door behind the judge’s bench opened to the chilling sound of an officer’s call: “All rise.”
General Thaddeus Grant entere
d the court. A tall man of fifty-five, with graying hair and a thick moustache, his very presence conveyed authority, compounding Brandon’s sense of foreboding.
Brandon felt unsure of the general’s opinion of him after he’d learned about his past ‘Scorpion’ persona. It didn’t inspire his confidence.
Nevertheless, Grant was duty-bound to remain impartial. He sat and gave his notes a final glance-over. “You may be seated.” When he finally looked up again, he met Brandon’s gaze. “Sergeant Drake, for the purpose of this general court-martial, you are charged with desertion, theft of army property, the murder of an SDT agent, conduct unbecoming an officer, including evading arrest by the police, assaults against three police officers, an escape from police custody, and the reckless endangerment of civilians. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, sir,” Brock said.
Grant nodded and turned to the prosecution. “Captain Arrowsmith, call your first witness.”
With no apparent emotion, Arrowsmith stood. “Yes, sir. The prosecution calls Colonel Darren Woodroffe.”
From the back of the court, a tall, uniformed man in his late thirties approached the witness stand.
Once Woodroffe was in position, Arrowsmith asked him to state his name, and then began his line of questioning.
With tight knuckles gripping his seat, Brandon listened intently as Arrowsmith questioned his former commanding officer. He recalled David telling him he’d assaulted Woodroffe prior to being shipped out to the fateful mission in Helmand Province.
But to Brandon’s shock, Woodroffe sang his praises, conveying his viewpoint that Drake was a true born warrior, and an example of what kept America safe. However, the colonel admitted Brandon had difficulty leaving his killer instinct out on the battleground. He couldn’t deny that Drake did, in fact, present a public health hazard, even though Brandon may not have been entirely to blame. He argued that the army thrived on training combatants, but didn’t relish the consequences of doing so.
The fact that no record of Brandon assaulting Woodroffe could be found was raised, but Woodroffe couldn’t explain it.
