by Peter Darley
He gripped her hand tightly. Being in the bar was every bit as tough as he thought it was going to be.
Tyler took out Emily’s photograph and showed it to the manager. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for someone. Have you seen this lady?”
The man’s eyes showed recognition as he gazed at the photograph.
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
Brandon’s face shot up as a fleeting surge of adrenaline coursed through him, temporarily anesthetizing his tremors and splitting headache.
“Jesus forgive us. She was a nun,” the man murmured. “Who are you guys?”
“We’re her family,” Tyler said. “Is there anything you can tell us? I mean, we’re real worried about her.”
The manager looked up at them with an agonized expression. “I’m Bill,” he said finally. “She was here yesterday afternoon.”
Tyler lurched forward. “Seriously? Do you have any idea where she went?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Where?”
Bill was silent.
“Come on, man. Tell me.”
“She left with a guy named Fabian Rodríguez. Puerto Rican clown.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s from Los Angeles. He’s a scout for a seriously dangerous outfit.”
“What kind of dangerous outfit?”
“Organized crime. Drugs, prostitution, kiddie porn, human trafficking, you name it.”
Brandon swallowed hard and came closer to the conversation. “Who are they?”
“They’re the most powerful underground organization in L.A. It’s controlled by a guy they call Sapphire, but nobody’s ever seen him. All I can tell you is you don’t mess with these guys. Anybody who does anything that gets in their way gets blown to hell.”
“You let him take her?” Tyler exclaimed.
All conversations in the bar ceased at the sound of his outburst.
“Don’t think for a minute any of us are happy about this,” Bill said. “There wasn’t a man in here who didn’t want to help her.”
“So why didn’t they?”
“You don’t get it, do you? If any one of us had done anything to stop him—anything at all—they would have killed every last damn one of us. We have families. Please try to understand.”
Brandon tried to process what he was hearing through his palpitations, incessant fever, and constant shaking. He’d never felt so helpless in his life, and he knew it was his own fault. He couldn’t forgive himself for letting Emily down with his indulgent stupidity in her most desperate hour.
“Can you give us any information on where this Sapphire operates from?” Tyler said.
Bill shook his head. “A lot of activity with them goes on around the Avenue Nineteen area. That’s all I know. But please don’t go there.” He put his hand on Tyler’s. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop this. But you’ve got to believe me. The lady’s gone, and she’s not coming back.”
Tyler took his hand away and stood back defiantly. “Oh, yes she is, goddamn it!”
“They’ll be in L.A. by now, and if she’s a nun he ain’t gonna put her out on a street crawl.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’ll sell her to the highest bidder, and she’ll be gone forever. I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Tyler shook his head and backed away toward the entrance. “No. We’ll get her back, no matter what.”
“Don’t be crazy,” Bill said.
“Oh, we’re gonna be the craziest these bastards have ever seen.” Tyler tapped Brandon’s shoulder. “You’d better shape up fast. Come on.”
Belinda followed them out.
Brandon glanced at Bill who looked back at him as though he was convinced they were walking toward their deaths.
Tyler threw open the doors at the moment three cars sped to a halt on the opposite side of the road.
Immediately, two car doors flew open. Two suited officials exited from one, and an attractive blond man from the other, their trained their pistols on Brandon, Tyler, and Belinda.
“Please, put your hands behind your heads and stand where you are,” the blond man said.
“Oh, my God, not now.” Brandon’s heart pounded fiercely, his panic increased one-hundredfold by his inability to help Emily. He stood as still as possible, shivering, regardless of the Nevada heat.
The third car door opened and a fourth man stepped out with a gloating smile. Brandon vaguely recognized him, but he couldn’t quite recall from where.
“Hi, Drake,” Wilmot said with victorious sarcasm. “It’s been a long time.”
Brandon didn’t answer, but continued to look at the man questioningly. Where do I know him from?
“I’ve waited two damn years to get your ass where I have it. And you want to know something else, soldier?”
“What?”
“You’re not looking too good.”
Twenty-Two
The Inside Man
Crane raised his palm toward Brandon in a gesture of peace, and lowered his firearm. “Sir, we are not here to arrest you. Our use of weapons is purely for our own protection.”
Wearily, Brandon glanced at Tyler and Belinda, and then back to Crane. “I don’t understand. I’m on America’s most wanted list.”
“I understand your confusion, but there’s the possibility of a presidential pardon in this for you if you cooperate with us.” Crane took out his identification. “We’re with SDT. Homeland Security.”
Brandon couldn’t help looking at Wilmot. It was driving him to distraction not knowing where he’d seen him before. “Why would you be offering me a presidential pardon?”
“It’s very complicated, sir,” Crane said, “and I will explain it all to you. But I’m going to seriously advise you come with us.”
Brandon held Crane’s gaze for a prolonged moment. Despite his reservations, there was something about this man that seemed sincere and trustworthy. “All right, I’ll go with you. But please, let my brother and Belinda go.”
“There are no warrants out for either of them, and we have no powers of arrest, so that’s not even an issue.” Crane turned his attention to Belinda and Tyler. “I don’t want either of you to worry about anything. Brandon is going to be fine.”
Reluctantly, Tyler nodded.
Crane slowly came toward Brandon with a look of assurance. “It’ll be fine, sir.”
All resistance had left Brandon, and Crane’s compassionate demeanor was compelling. Finally, he stepped forward.
Wilmot shook his head at how easy taking Drake in had been. Crane’s diplomacy and Drake’s apparent ill health had made for the perfect combination of advantages. It was clear that, despite his initial annoyance, bringing Crane along had paid off profoundly.
His cell phone beeped, and he took it out. “Wilmot.”
“Agent Wilmot, you need to return to D.C. immediately. There’s been a tragedy.” Deborah Beaumont said.
Wilmot turned away in order that nobody would see his shrewd smile.
“Director Wolfe was found hanged in his home. There was also a suicide note.”
Garrett, you’re such a goddamn genius. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. We’ll get back immediately.” Ending the call, he stepped over to Rhodes, and whispered, “There’s been an event at Langley. We’ve got to get back right away.”
“What’s happened?”
“The moment we’ve been waiting for. Drake should go with Crane. He seems to trust him, and we don’t want him blowing a gasket.”
“I agree.”
Wilmot called across the street to Crane. “Drake goes with you.”
Crane escorted Brandon into the back of his car.
Wilmot silently rejoiced knowing he was about to be appointed director of SDT, and he had his only remaining problem in his clutches.
Brandon climbed into the back of Crane’s Camaro. The door closed, locking him in.
Wilmot hurried over to Crane. �
�There’s been an incident at Langley. I’m gonna phone in an emergency flight from North Las Vegas Airport.”
“All right, you go on ahead,” Crane said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The four cars turned around, blocking traffic in the process. Crane’s was the last car in the convoy.
As they moved forward, Brandon looked out the car window at Belinda and Tyler on the roadside. They returned his gaze with the same grief-tainted stare.
Belinda turned to Tyler and asked him something, but he shook his head. She was obviously appealing to him for suggestions about what they were going to do, and Tyler clearly had no answers. None of them did.
Crane’s car moved past them and they disappeared from view within seconds.
Brandon continued to shiver in the back of Crane’s car, and the agent couldn’t fail to notice. “Sir, you have to tell me. Are you sick? Do you need medical attention?”
“Not exactly s-sick.”
“So, what is it?”
“It’s real embarrassing is what it is.”
Crane glanced in his rear-view mirror, somewhat astounded by what Drake was alluding to. “Sir, is it a narcotics issue?”
“C-close. I’ve got a real bad case of alcohol w-withdrawal.”
Crane was silent as he tried to process the shocking revelation. Brandon Drake—the one many thought of as a national hero, bordering on the superhuman—had a drinking problem. Conversely, it wasn’t so difficult to understand. He’d been incarcerated for two years, only to have escaped to a life on the run. Who wouldn’t have been drawn to the bottle under such circumstances?
“I don’t know what to suggest for that, sir. But you’re clearly unwell, so I’ll have to call it in.”
Brandon looked away despondently. “Whatever.”
Crane pressed auto-dial on his cell phone and awaited a response through his blu-tooth earpiece. Deborah Beaumont came on the line immediately. “Hi Deborah, this is Jed Crane. I need to know of any rapid solutions for alcohol withdrawal symptoms.” He waited for a few moments while Deborah looked it up. Finally, she came back with a response and Crane relayed her question to Brandon. “How long have you been drinking?”
“About four weeks.”
Crane repeated Brandon’s answer to Deborah and received a fairly banal response. “She said Alka Selzer to bring your salt levels back, and about four liters of water. That’s the best we can do for now.”
“Thank you.”
With the conversation continuing through Crane’s ear piece, the agent’s jaw dropped. “What . . . ? Deborah, are you absolutely sure . . . ? No, he didn’t say a word. He just said there’d been an incident back at Langley . . . OK . . . No, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” The call ended.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon said.
Deep in thought, Crane didn’t answer. He knew his career as he knew it had just come to an end. What was he going to do? How was he going to handle the situation now that Wolfe was dead? For long moments his mind was overwrought with multiple possibilities, each of which were riddled with peril. As was doing nothing at all. Finally, he realized he had to bring Brandon into the fold. “Sir, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. I’m sympathetic to you, OK? I may work for SDT, but something fishy is going on, I just know it.”
Brandon leaned forward. “Seriously?”
“The entire point of us coming out here for you is because our superior, Director Wolfe, needed your help with an investigation.”
“What investigation?”
Crane explained the story of how, after Treadwell’s death, Wilmot and Agent Martyn McKay were assigned to track down Agent Payne. Soon after Brandon killed Payne, McKay committed suicide, and Wilmot was quickly appointed Wolfe’s second-in-command. However, McKay’s brother had leveled a number of accusations against SDT, claiming his brother wasn’t the suicidal type. That led to a Congress investigation into whether there were remnants of Treadwell’s rogue cell still active within the intelligence community.
“And this guy Wolfe thinks I know something?” Brandon said.
“He did. I’ve just received word that now he has committed suicide too, and I don’t buy it. The guy was a patriot and as tough as steel. He was the most unlikely man on earth to do something like that.”
Brandon wrapped his arms around himself as another bout of shivering took hold. “I-I’m really s-sorry to hear that, but you should’ve saved yourselves the trouble. I don’t know anything. Anything at all.”
“You may not, but I think I do. They thought Wilmot was just an innocent who followed Treadwell’s orders, believing he had no knowledge of what he was doing.”
“And you don’t?”
“I think Wilmot was Treadwell’s back-up plan all along. I think he murdered McKay, and that he’s responsible for Director Wolfe’s death. I believe he’s the new leader of Treadwell’s cell, and the bastard’s about to take Wolfe’s place in SDT.”
Brandon exhaled and wiped his brow. “Look, man, I’m real sorry about what’s going on, but it’s none of my business. I can’t help you. Now, you’ve got to let me go. When you found us outside that bar we’d just found out—” He shuddered as another withdrawal shiver gripped him. “W-we just found out our sister has b-been k-kidnapped by some human trafficking gang in L.A. Now, please. You’ve got to help us.”
“But how? You’re shivering like crazy. You’re in no shape to run. I could pull over and let you cold-cock me, but that’d just add another assault charge to your resume.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Yeah, I do, and we’re also following three men I believe to be a part of this conspiracy. No matter which way we turn, Brandon, we’re screwed.”
Twenty-Three
Captives
Emily’s smile glowed as she stepped inside a stunning Wilshire Boulevard condominium. In spite of that, every time she caught sight of her reflection, her smile faded with a twinge of guilt. Wearing a layer of make-up and lipstick for the first time in her life, and a flowing, white, knee-length dress, her conscience at appearing so worldly tore at her.
Fabian removed his sunglasses and summoned the elevator. He turned to Emily again and smiled. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
Shaking her head, she smiled awkwardly. “Stop teasing me.”
“I’m not. I’m being truthful.”
The elevator arrived, and he gestured for her to step inside.
As the doors closed, her mind was awash with thoughts she couldn’t process. Two days ago she’d been an unhappy nun living under the stifling authority of the convent. Now, she was riding an elevator in Los Angeles, the city of dreams, looking more radiant than she’d ever imagined, and with a most dashing man by her side. Surely, it isn’t real. It has to be a dream.
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into a plush corridor.
“It’s just down here,” Fabian said, and led the way.
With each step, Emily’s heart quickened a little more. Her mind became an amalgam of emotions: excitement, confusion, guilt, and just a twinge of fear. She had no idea where her life was taking her.
They came to a door at the end of the corridor. Fabian took out a key, opened it, and led Emily inside.
At first glance, she was awestruck. The apartment was lavish and almost alien to her inexperienced eyes. It was the very antithesis of where her previous travels had taken her—to poverty, hunger, dereliction, and destruction. The highly-polished wooden flooring, a circular glass table, and cream leather chair set, offered a startling contrast.
Placed against the rear windows to the side was a leather sofa behind a spotless coffee table. On the opposite side of the room, she noticed a lavish kitchen unit. The view of the city through the windows was breathtaking.
Unfortunately, it was marred by the sudden appearance of two huge oriental males who stepped out from a side room.
“What the fuck took you so long?” the man on the right snarled at Fabian.
Fabian simply shrugged his shoulders. “We had a long lunch.” Pushing past the two men, he led Emily into the room from which they had emerged.
She entered with him to discover it was a luxurious office with the same spectacular view of the city.
Sitting behind the desk was a fierce-looking woman whom Emily estimated was in her early forties. Her short, jet black hair seemed to give her a slightly masculine appearance, further enhanced by a dark gray business suit with trousers. Her features suggested oriental origin.
The woman stood and smiled, breaking her otherwise stern visage. “You were right, as usual, Fabian. She is beautiful. Perfect, in fact.”
Emily noticed the woman’s authoritative tone was an octave lower than the average American female. Perturbed, she looked to Fabian for clarification. “I don’t understand. If I am to be helping poor people, why is my appearance relevant?”
The woman laughed. “I could say I was simply admiring your looks in passing, my dear. But, alas, such is not the case. Your appearance is very relevant.” Her smile faded and she gave Fabian a sinister nod.
Emily’s heart pounded as Fabian seized her shoulders and dug his fingers deeply into her flesh. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
“Let’s see what she’s got,” the woman said.
Fabian tore Emily’s dress open and pulled it down below her knees.
“What are you doing?” she screamed.
The woman stood before her and gazed upon her almost-naked body admiringly. “Remove her bra and panties.”
“No!”
Fabian tore away her remaining garments within the space of a heartbeat, and braced Emily’s hands behind her back.
The woman came closer to her. “I understand you were a nun. That’s very interesting. Unfortunately, you will have to be taught a few things before we can make use of you.”
