by Peter Darley
Out of the corner of her eye she saw men she thought must be CIA or federal agents appearing on street corners all around her. “Oh God, no!”
The memory of what Payne had done to her filled her mind again. It would most likely result in a repeat of the ordeal if they caught her. That was unthinkable.
She saw a crowded street ahead and sprinted into it, trying to steal herself among the pedestrians in order to slip back into one of the alleyways.
She quickly saw her chance and darted back into the alley where she’d almost been mugged. Her emotions flitted between fear and rage. It was all so terribly unjust. She only wanted to be with her man and live her life in peace. Neither she, nor Brandon, had any desire to harm anyone, and yet both of them were suffering such overwhelming persecution. She questioned what right they had to do this to them? Why couldn’t they just leave them alone?
Hopefully, Brandon would have the Turbo Swan sent back to the army, and that would be the end of it.
She continued running, but agents came up behind her within moments.
Seconds later, she lost her footing and found herself on the ground. A brawny agent twisted her arm behind her back and she swore loudly with the pain. She didn’t know what was going to be worse. The sticks under the fingernails? Or the suffocation of waterboarding? She hadn’t been able to decide on that before. They were both completely different types of horror. Consumed with panic, her tears flowed with unbearable dread.
“Take it easy lady and this’ll all go smooth,” the agent said. “We only want to talk to you.”
She could hear the footsteps of several more agents hurrying toward them.
“Good job, Rogers,” she heard one of them say.
And then, Rogers collapsed. The others followed, falling like dominoes beside her.
She rubbed her eyes and looked around her. It was such a familiar scene—being captured by the authorities and the authority figures just falling unconscious in front of her. It brought back a harrowing memory. Moore, Wyoming. She smiled with relief and excited exhilaration at the only thing it could mean. “Brandon.”
Beaming, even through her exhaustion, she turned around to a sight she hadn’t seen for two years. He stood before her in his black, bullet-resistant suit and the smooth black helmet with the visor. It was what he’d been wearing when he’d rescued her on that fateful first night. In his right hand was the sonic force emitter pistol. She realized the agents had been rendered unconscious by an intense concentration of ultrasound wave jolts.
Looking up she saw more agents turn down the alleyway behind him. The leader, a tall man in his mid-thirties, took out his cell phone, close enough for her to hear. “Sir, four men are down, but we have Reese in sight, and an unidentified individual. I think it’s Drake.”
There was a pause on the line.
And then the reply came through. “Take him out.”
Belinda heard and saw the official drawing his pistol. “Brandon, look out!”
The agent fired and the bullet struck him in the back, knocking him to the ground.
“No!” she screamed, and ran to him.
However, he rolled onto his back and fired at the agents with desperate speed, taking down four of them. But more were coming.
She knelt down beside him and held him tightly. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine. It’s Kevlar. Bullet proof.”
“Of course.”
Something wasn’t right. His voice was different. He seemed to have some kind of a Southern hint to his accent. Surely, he wouldn’t have picked that up in Leavenworth.
“Run to the end of the alley,” he said. “Help’s coming.”
“Help? What help?”
“You’ll see when you get there.”
She frowned, confused. In addition to the new voice, his manner wasn’t as it used to be.
He lifted his visor.
She looked up and saw it was Brandon’s face—his eyes, his mouth, even his nose. But something was wrong. “B-Brandon?”
He didn’t answer.
“Who are you?”
“Later. There’s no time now. You’ve got to go.” He pointed to the end of the alley.
Perplexed, she stood and picked up her suitcase.
Immediately, another three agents appeared at the opening of the alleyway, and they were closing in.
The man who looked like Brandon got to his feet and a bullet struck the armor of his left arm. Dropping the visor back into place, he fired at the agent who had shot him, but the sonic jolt missed its mark.
Belinda heard a familiar sound behind her. She turned to see a white van with blacked-out windows pull up at the far end of the alley. Her heart leaped. Was the real Brandon inside? It couldn’t drive any nearer because the alley was too narrow. Seeing the problem, she ran toward the van.
The man in the Kevlar suit fired and took down another agent, but two were still coming. He got to his feet and started to run backward while firing at the remaining two pursuers. But nothing happened. His sonic force gun had depleted its charge. “Piece o’ shit!” he spat.
Belinda glanced behind her. “Come on. Hurry.”
He turned and ran toward her, but the agents were gaining on him. “Go!”
“Come on!”
“GO!”
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About the Author
Peter Darley (P.D. to his friends) is a British novelist, whose professional history is in showbusiness. He is a graduate of the Birmingham School of Speech and Dramatic Art, and he studied television drama at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA). His television credits include guest-starring roles is UK productions such as BBC’s Crime Limited, Stanley’s Dragon for ITV, The Bill, Sky One’s Dream Team, and numerous TV commercials. He also worked as a model, presenter, and voice-over artiste for ten years, and has been an agent for several variety acts.
His lifelong admiration of heroes, and love of roller-coaster-style thrills have been a huge influence on his writings.
He is a keen athlete, and lives in rural England.
Web: www.peterdarley.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PDAuthor
Twitter: @Pete_Darley
