by Peter Darley
“How are you feeling, babe?” she said.
“Not good. Very sleepy.”
“OK, let’s hit the road and find another hotel somewhere, but a long ways from here,” Tyler said.
The van backed up, meandered around the remaining four hijackers, and drove on into the horizon.
***
Wilmot, Kerwin, and Rhodes pulled up outside the car rental office at North Las Vegas airport.
Wilmot angrily slammed the car door shut behind him. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
“Take it easy,” Kerwin said. “Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves here.”
Wilmot inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. “So, Crane knows. That’s not good.”
“Crane and Drake together is a serious problem for all of us,” Rhodes said. “We have to stay calm and figure out how we’re going to neutralize them.”
“I think I have.”
“What?”
“Crane and Drake will split up. Drake will almost certainly resume his search for his sister. Chances are he was in that bar with Reese and Faraday asking questions.”
“That’s obvious enough,” Rhodes said.
“So, I need to get back to D.C. I have no choice. You two go back to that bar and see if you can find out where Drake might be headed, even a clue.”
“You got it,” Rhodes said. “What are you going to do about Crane?”
Wilmot turned to him darkly. “Garrett.”
“Garrett?”
“No offense, gentlemen. You are damn good at your jobs, nobody’s going to argue with that. But when it comes to hunting and tracking, Garrett’s the best.”
“Agreed,” Kerwin said.
“Find out what you can, and take the late flight back,” Wilmot said. “Call me as soon as you learn anything.”
The two men nodded, climbed into the car, and fired up the engine.
Wilmot turned away toward the airport check-in, eager to embrace his new position of power.
***
Bill looked up from behind the bar to see two men in dark suits entering. His attractive, brunette assistant gave him a worried glance. He knew immediately that the two new arrivals were with the authorities, and why they had come to his bar. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Agents Rhodes and Kerwin. Homeland Security,” Rhodes said. “Can we talk in private?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Bill caught the attention of his barmaid. “Can you mind the fort for me, Jenny?” He turned back to the two agents. “Follow me.”
Kerwin and Rhodes followed him into his office in the back.
Rhodes closed the door behind them and stood beside Kerwin in the disarranged room. They quickly took out their identifications.
Bill swallowed hard.
Rhodes began. “Three people were in your bar earlier today, and—”
“Brandon Drake,” Bill said.
“He escaped.”
Bill didn’t respond, at a loss as to what to say. I’m glad to hear it? Or, Oh, my God, they’re going ahead with their trip to L.A. Ultimately, he decided leading these guys to them was preferable to them dying a grisly death at the hands a ruthless human trafficking organization. “All right, guys. Please take a seat.” He gestured to two molded plastic seats scattered at non-specific positions in the room, and then perched himself on the edge of his paper-cluttered desk.
Kerwin pulled up a chair. “OK, what can you tell us about Brandon Drake and his two companions? Do you have any idea where they might be headed?”
“Only roughly,” Bill said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a long story. A young woman stopped by the bar yesterday. Turns out it was Drake’s sister. She was apparently a nun who’d run away from the convent over the ways there.”
“We know all about that.”
“She got picked up in the bar by a scumbag named Fabian Rodriguez.”
“Who’s that?”
“A Puerto Rican scout for a sex slavery outfit based in L.A.”
Rhodes took out a pen and a small notepad. “Is there anything you can tell us about these people?”
“Sapphire. That’s all I know. That’s what I told Drake and his brother.”
Rhodes scribbled down the name.
“You have no idea what this person’s real name is?” Kerwin said.
“No. I don’t think anybody does. But if those kids are heading out there to break the nun out, they’re gonna be comin’ home in body bags.”
Rhodes held up the notepad. “I’ll have this run through the system and see what turns up.”
“For what it’s worth,” Bill said, “I sure as hell hope you guys get to them before they get to Sapphire.”
Kerwin took out his card and placed it on the desk next to Bill. “If you see anything of this Rodriguez guy, I want you to call me.”
Rhodes and Kerwin stood and exited the office.
Bill remained seated on the desk staring at Kerwin’s card, his mind flooded with thoughts of the last two days’ events.
Twenty-Six
Director Wilmot
Wilmot entered his new office. Wolfe’s office. Surveying the room as a victor would relish the spoils of war, he smiled with gloating self-adoration, despite his fatigue. He’d spent the night performing his duties, including accepting his new appointment from the CIA director, and handling hordes of journalists over Wolfe’s death.
He turned to the desk and savored the moment from the seat of his new directorship. Now, finally, he was in a position of considerable authority, with access to information he had long been denied.
He recalled how, after being an officer of SDT since he was twenty-one, the sense of pride that had come over him at twenty-eight. Wolfe had assigned him to assist Senator Garrison Treadwell with an investigation into a well-concealed al-Qaeda cell, which had been plotting to initiate an attack against Langley itself. The perpetrators were soon apprehended, by which time, Wilmot and Treadwell had developed a close mentor/apprentice relationship.
Slowly, and with great caution, Treadwell had probed the young agent’s mindset, and manipulated his desire for power, his pride, and his hubris. As far as Wilmot knew, he’d been the first recruit in Treadwell’s plot to elevate the status of America and its economy, no matter the cost. Treason was a word he’d forced into the deepest recesses of his subconscious, in deference to ambition, and his own newfound sense of purpose.
That was five years ago.
Treadwell’s covert faction had grown considerably over the following three years. It had all been enabled by the senator’s ability to procure, manipulate, and offer extraordinary wealth to those who joined him. He never revealed his agenda to any of whom he wasn’t completely certain.
Wilmot’s involvement had always been kept secret from the others, forcing him to swallow his pride, and act as a mere agent who occasionally helped Treadwell. Operatives such as Payne, Ogilsby, Woodford, Kerwin, and Rhodes, had performed all of Treadwell’s dirty work, while Wilmot remained in the shadows.
However, there were secrets that Treadwell had, without doubt, kept from him. He was now in a position to finally uncover those secrets. Wolfe had access to high-level security clearance files that, hitherto, Wilmot had not—specifically, anything relating to Brandon Drake.
With his new clearance, Wilmot entered the codes and passwords into the desk keypad. The computer monitor displayed a small search bar in the top right hand corner, into which he typed in ‘Brandon Drake.’
Multiple links to files relating to Drake’s history appeared. He scanned through them, bypassing details of Drake’s past army exploits, and reinstated reports of his frequent convictions for military misconduct. It seemed Treadwell had erased them all from the official record.
He finally discovered a file bearing the title Project: Scorpion. Clicking on it, he found it led to a recovered Treadwell file that required further clearance. After entering a se
cond username and password he’d only been provided with the day before, the file opened:
Subject: Brandon Drake, Sergeant. 82nd Airborne Division
Condition: Stable (Head injury, with indeterminate amnesia)
Memory revision specialist: Dr. Frederick DeSouza, Neurobiologist, Keene, Cheshire County, New Hampshire.
Wilmot stared at the screen in bewilderment. What was the meaning of the term revision with regards to Drake’s memory? Why didn’t it say restoration? Surely calling in a neurobiologist to treat an amnesia patient would have been for the purpose of restoring his memory.
Why hadn’t Treadwell told him what his plans had been for Drake? He’d been his right hand man, and yet the senator had kept key information from him. He couldn’t deny his bitterness and the affront to his pride.
He was alerted to a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Deborah Beaumont stepped inside with a hostile expression. She was clearly perturbed by Wolfe’s death, and the subsequent reality that she was now subservient to a man she despised. “Dr. Steven McKay to see you, sir.”
Wilmot stood, eager to bring an end to an irritating investigation. “Please, send him in.”
Moments later, a man in his late thirties entered the office. Wilmot had been taken aback by the resemblance between his visitor and his late partner, Martyn McKay, when he’d first met him at Martyn’s funeral, two years earlier. Aside from the thinning hair, and the man being several inches shorter, the similarity between him and his deceased brother was notable. “Dr. McKay. It’s good to see you again.”
“Steven, please.”
“Very well. Take a seat, Steven.”
“This investigation has been going on for two years, and Wolfe was handling it. Now you’re telling me he was the one who murdered my brother?”
“He was found hanged in his home. He left a suicide note confessing to the murder.” Wilmot took a photocopy from the desk and slid it across the table. “This is why I called you over. The original is still with forensics, but we have verification that Wolfe’s fingerprints and DNA are all over it. I’ll forward a report to you as soon as it’s finalized.”
McKay looked at the photocopy, shaking his head. “It was him all along. That certainly explains why there had been no developments in the investigation all these months. Where the hell is this country going when we have corrupt bastards like that in positions of authority?”
“It’s disturbing, all right,” Wilmot said with convincing faux sincerity. “Your brother and I were up to our necks in it with the investigation into Treadwell. We thought it was all over, and now this. Wolfe and Treadwell were at the top of this conspiracy from day one, it seems.”
“You’ve certainly done well out of it,” McKay said sardonically.
Wilmot leaned forward. “Steven, not an hour has gone by since Wolfe’s death that I haven’t played that night over in my head. Martyn and I had been interviewing two of Treadwell’s assassins at SeaTac, and we were both highly-strung. We went back to Martyn’s place to get drunk, and when I’d had my fill, I left. If I’d had a stronger stomach, I wouldn’t be here today. Wolfe would have shot me as sure as he shot your brother.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Ten more minutes. That’s all it would have taken, from what I’ve worked out.”
McKay stood again. “Count your blessings then.”
Wilmot moved around the table and outstretched his hand. McKay took it, albeit with a strained expression. Wilmot could detect the man’s trust in intelligence personnel had been deeply scarred by the turn of events.
“I think that’s all I need for now,” Steven said. “But I’ll be expecting that full report.”
“You have my word. It’s good to see you again. I’m so sorry about what happened to Martyn. He was a fine operative and a good friend.”
“Thank you.”
The moment McKay closed the door behind him, Wilmot’s eyes assumed a sinister glare. It was unlikely McKay was going to leave it at that, and there was a possibility he may become a considerable inconvenience to SDT. There was also the immediate threat posed by Jed Crane.
With haste, Wilmot returned to his desk, took out his unlawfully-smuggled cell phone, and selected his contact. The reply came quickly. “Garrett, I need you to get out to Nevada and track down Crane. He’s already had a day’s head start . . . No, Kerwin and Rhodes called in last night. They’re on their way back. Drake’s heading to Los Angeles, apparently, so I’ve got some planning to do . . . Yeah, I need to meet up with you too, but it’ll have to wait. First, I have some business to attend to in New Hampshire. You just take care of Jed Crane. When you find him, you know what to do.”
Twenty-Seven
Fallen Hero
Brandon covered his face with his cap and low-hanging hair as he followed Belinda and Tyler into the Days Inn South Lenwood Hotel, in Barstow, California. Night had fallen, and they had no choice but to stop. Brandon was in need of rest, and they knew it was pointless continuing on to Los Angeles with no information on Sapphire’s whereabouts.
As Tyler checked them in under assumed names, Brandon subtly concealed himself under an alcove. His spaced-out gaze fell onto the restaurant, and shiver went through him. He didn’t know why, but presumed it was just another glitch in his withdrawal recovery.
Belinda approached him and stood across his path to provide additional shielding. “Are you OK?” she said.
“Just tired.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “As soon as Tyler’s checked us in, you can get some sleep.”
As if on cue, Tyler joined them and handed Brandon a key. “Room one-oh-six. Go get some sleep, bro.”
Brandon smiled wearily. “Thanks.” He took Belinda’s hand, and they made their way to the elevator.
Tyler squeezed between them and placed his arms around their shoulders. “Hey, listen up, guys. You have yourselves a restful night. I’ll work on finding a possible location for Sapphire, OK?”
“OK,” Brandon grunted.
“You got the Alka Seltzer?”
Brandon tapped his jacket pocket as they stepped into the elevator.
“Good. Keep taking them. We need you in full form, A.S.A.F.P.”
The elevator doors opened, and Tyler stepped out first. “I’m in one-oh-nine, so we’re gonna be pretty close.”
They walked along the corridor of rooms. Belinda found room 106 first. “This is ours, babe.”
“I’ll see you two in the morning,” Tyler said.
“You got it,” Brandon said.
Tyler entered his room and closed the door behind him. He braced his back up against the door, overcome with exhaustion. Nevertheless, he still had work to do.
Reaching into his inside pockets, he took out two cell phones: one, his own, and the other, Brandon’s sat-scrambler phone. After searching through the numbers in his own phone, he came to a number marked: Alex Home. Using the sat-scrambler, he typed out Alex’s number, and waited for the reply. “Alex? Hey, how’re you doing, bud?”
Alex Dalton stumbled out of bed to answer the phone, and took it with him into the living room. He made his way toward his sofa, taking in the neon splendor of the city of Dallas through the window. “Ty?” he said, slightly annoyed. “Jesus, man. It’s past midnight.”
“Actually, it’s only past ten here,” Tyler said, as though it made any difference.
“Where the hell are you? Your dad’s been real worried about you.”
“Yeah. I’ve been real worried about me too. Look man, I really need your help.”
“Sure, what’s going on? Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that. Don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna pinpoint me with the phone I’m using. How much do you know about the underground scene in L.A.?”
Alex looked at his phone, puzzled. “What do you mean? Gangs? Drugs?”
“Prostitutes.”
Alex thought about it for a moment and cringed. The
re was only one person he knew who was even remotely connected to that world, and they didn’t see eye to eye. The woman in question had particular personality traits he’d never been comfortable with. Those traits had led to a rather emotional end to their former relationship.
But Tyler was his best friend, and he sounded desperate. “Well, maybe one, but not exactly prostitution in the street sense.”
“OK, let me explain. Somewhere in L.A., there’s a prostitution and human trafficking outfit led by some clown named Sapphire. These guys are killers, bud. I just need word on where we can talk to someone who’d know anything about them.”
Alex swallowed hard. “Human trafficking? Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
Alex reached for a pen and paper on his glass living room table and scribbled down ‘Sapphire.’ “But Ty, why are you looking for these people?”
“They have my sister.”
The moments ticked by in painful silence.
“Alex? You still there?”
“Y-yeah, I’m here.”
“Look man, I need you to promise me not to say a word to my dad about this.”
“No, of course I won’t. I’ll get on this Sapphire business right away.”
“Thanks. There’s another name to check out too. A Fabian Rodriguez. He’s tied up with this shit, and they apparently have some involvement with what goes on around Avenue Nineteen.”
Alex wrote down the name and details. “OK. Leave it to me.”
“Thanks, Alex. I really appreciate this.”
“No problem, bud.”
The call ended.
Alex immediately dialed out again. Within moments, a familiar voice answered. “Hey, Miranda. It’s Alex. Long time no speak, babe. How are you doing?”
***
Belinda lay beside Brandon with deep concern. He had yet to fall asleep, and she felt an emotional need to talk to him. So much needed to be discussed. “Brandon?”
He merely grunted a response.
