Run! - Hold On! Season 3

by Peter Darley

  No answer.

  Drake came closer. “I said . . . where are they?”

  Still no answer.

  Drake punched the man in the stomach, and the pain on the captive’s face was clear as he fought to catch his breath.

  “Now, you sure you don’t wanna change your mind?”

  Nabi shook his head defiantly.

  Drake turned around and scanned the hangar. He saw the troops keeping their distance before noticing a tool box at the far corner of the room. He moved across to it and tore it open. It took mere seconds for him to discover a welding torch, the perfect tool for his task. He took it out, turned back to the prisoner, and flicked the switch. A flame appeared and, with a twist of the gas outlet, it turned a terrifying shade of blue. He could sense the heat radiating from it as he came closer to the captive.

  “Drake, this isn’t the way,” he heard Spicer say. “Don’t do this. We’re not like them.”

  “We’ve got to stop him!” Stockton said.

  “How? You know what he can do.”

  “We can’t afford to be under a fuckin’ Abu Ghraib inquest, Spicer. We’ve got to do something.”

  “I’m gonna get Colonel Woodroffe.”

  His eyes fixed on the blow torch, Nabi screamed before Drake even touched him. As his torturer was upon him, he closed his eyes, as though bracing himself for the searing pain.

  Drake touched the tip of the blue flame to Nabi’s bare chest. The bellow that filled the hangar was barely human. “Where the fuck are they, asshole?”

  The chilling scent of burning flesh filled the air. Drake held the torch on Nabi for another two seconds before stopping. “We can keep this up all night, you son of a bitch. Now where are they?”

  Senseless, with tears streaming down his cheeks, Nabi’s body convulsed feverishly with the overwhelming trauma of the excruciating, burning sting in his chest. His torso was painted crimson, punctuated by a black, gaping hole in his breast, his ribcage exposed to the elements. “P-please. N-no more.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Finally, the answer came. “Dashti Margo.”

  Drake grinned gloatingly. “Specifics, Nabi.”

  The prisoner’s voice was faint as his consciousness faded. Drake pressed his ear close to his mouth as he muttered the location.

  Nabi slumped in his bonds. Drake turned to the troops with his arms outstretched victoriously. “Mission: accomplished. See how fast you can get answers when you don’t fuck around, boys?”

  Spicer and Stockton hurried past him to attend to Nabi.

  At that moment, Woodroffe re-entered the hangar. “What’s going on?”

  “I just got the location of al Fajr,” Drake said.

  “Where?”

  Before he could respond, Spicer called across from Nabi’s position. “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “I think he’s dead, sir.”

  Woodroffe shifted his gaze from the ghastly sight of Haamid Nabi and back to Drake, an ambivalence of satisfaction and disgust apparent in his expression.

  Drake shrugged his shoulders. “His ticker must have given out.” Without another word, he stepped out of the hangar.

  ***

  Drake sat, fully armored with a parachute strapped to his back, in a Black Hawk. Nine other division members were with him, including Colonel Woodroffe. The colonel gazed upon him persistently as they flew across the Dashti Margo desert, the translation of its name lending an ominous note to the mission: The Desert of Death.

  Drake could never make out Woodroffe’s viewpoint of him. He was far more permissive than his position should have demanded. He knew the colonel despised him, but his profound disapproval seemed to be tempered by recognition of Drake’s necessity on a battlefield. It was as though he saw him as a necessary evil.

  Drake turned to Spicer beside him. “When we bail out, I’ll go on ahead. You don’t die until you settle up with me. Clear?”

  Spicer looked back at him with a contempt that overshadowed his fear. “Go fuck yourself, Drake.”

  “We’re approaching drop zone, gentlemen,” pilot Steven Wassell said.

  Drake eyeballed Spicer. “We’ll settle this later. Nobody talks to me like that.”

  David swallowed hard. Drake was a martial arts champion, and he knew Spicer’s thoughts. He didn’t stand a chance against him. Spicer had seen him in action. Drake was certain that, right now, al Fajr must have seemed like the easy option. The sense of power gripped him again.

  The bay doors opened and the troops bailed out. Drake was the first.

  The canopies flared and nine warriors descended. They looked up in unison as the Black Hawk disappeared from their field of vision.

  Gliding onto the blistering, desert terrain, they covered almost twenty miles during their descent. When they landed, they hurriedly discarded their parachutes.

  Woodroffe approached Drake. “You sure this is the place?”

  Drake pointed to a hill approximately half a mile in the distance. “From what Nabi said, they’re holed up in a cave just on the opposite side of that hill.”

  Woodroffe turned back to the men. “All right, gentlemen. We’re heading over to that hill. When we reach the top, survey the location, split up, and surround it. Watch out for hostiles.”

  The men gripped their machine guns and made their way across the sand. The heat was oppressive. The sun beat down on them, literally baking them inside their combat uniforms. As many times as they’d experienced it, none of them ever got used to it.

  But Drake’s mind was elsewhere. Great wealth was in his grasp, but he had a concern in the immediacy. He was short on cash, having spent much of his earnings on alcohol, prostitutes, and an array of other indulgences. The $500 Spicer owed him wasn’t much, but it would help, and more importantly, it was his. At all costs, he knew he had to ensure David was kept out of the line of fire.

  The team reached the top of the hill. They saw the encampment outside the cave ahead of them, with only one bearded man wearing a traditional turban patrolling the exterior with a rifle. However, he quickly disappeared inside the cave.

  Woodroffe instructed seven of the men to take up positions around the encampment. Drake and Spicer remained with him at the top of the hill. Once their positions were set, they noted the encampment was still unmanned from the outside.

  Drake watched as four soldiers approached the base from each side—and they were closing in rapidly.

  Woodroffe turned to Spicer. “Take the entrance, but be subtle. We don’t want them getting wise to us prematurely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Drake darted ahead with unusual urgency, but Woodroffe held him back. “Not yet, Drake. On my mark.”

  “But—” Drake noticed something flying out of the cave in Spicer’s direction. Immediately, he knew it was an incendiary.

  Disregarding Woodroffe’s order, he sprinted across the sand toward David. “Spicer, look out. Incoming!”

  David stopped and turned around. “What?”

  “Get out of the way.” Within seconds, he was upon Spicer, grappling him to the ground. “Get down, asshole.”

  “Scorp, what the hell are you—”

  Drake turned and saw the grenade had landed no more than ten feet from them. With David shielded behind him, panic gripped him. His instinct was to turn around and shield his face, and then . . .

  A kaleidoscope of imagery flashed before his eyes, each vision so fleeting that his mind didn’t have time to register them. Strange, alien pictures shot past him—hundreds of them, including people he couldn’t identify. It all happened within the space of a millisecond. What he was seeing made no sense. Finally, there was only the darkness.

  Frederick DeSouza stood up from the bedside chair as he noticed his patient’s dawning consciousness. Fascinated, he watched as the awakening warrior groaned. His eyelids flickered, and then, after six weeks of induced coma, Brandon Drake’s eyes finally opened.

  Two

 
Scorpion Rising

  With labored breathing, Director Andrew Wilmot and Agent Cynthia Garrett hurried along a neon-lit corridor. The heat on the outside was stifling. Wilmot’s blue suit and Garrett’s matching administrative blue skirt and jacket contributed to their appreciation of the air conditioning.

  Wilmot gripped a black, leather briefcase in one hand, and brushed his dampened, light brown fringe with the other. He noticed a distinguished older man approaching him from the far end of the corridor. “Doctor DeSouza,” he said. “How is he?”

  “Charming, as expected.”

  “What did he say?”

  “His first words after he awoke and saw me were, ‘Who the fuck are you?’”

  “What does he remember?”

  DeSouza smiled with a hint of pride. “The grenade in the Dashti Margo desert is the last thing he recalls. He refused to say anything more until he knew where he was. I thought I’d leave that to you.”

  “You did the right thing. Does he have any idea what year this is?”

  “As far as he’s concerned,” DeSouza said, “it’s October, twenty-twelve, six weeks following the incident in Afghanistan. What are you going to tell him?”

  “Exactly that. All clocks and date references in the complex have been removed.”

  Garrett’s cell phone beeped.

  “What is it?” Wilmot said.

  She looked up from the phone, smiling. “Our friend has just landed.”

  “OK, you go meet him and brief him on the details. I’ll reintroduce myself to Drake and assess his condition.”

  Garrett nodded and turned back along the corridor.

  Wilmot followed DeSouza several more steps ahead until they reached the laboratory door.

  As they entered the room, Wilmot was seized with tension and doubt. Would he be able to pull this off? Would Drake suspect anything about the year? Everything depended on the truth being kept from him. What would happen if Drake discovered he’d been duped?

  They passed the consoles and the glass shelves filled with drugs and medical apparatus. Turning another corner, they came to a door and stepped inside.

  Drake turned his head toward them from his bed. Lethargy was apparent in his eyes, which enhanced Wilmot’s sense of safety. He was in no condition to pose a threat.

  “W-who are you?” Drake said in a barely-audible, hoarse whisper.

  Wilmot glanced at DeSouza momentarily, and then turned back to Drake with a manipulative smile. “I’m Director Andrew Wilmot with SDT.”

  “What’s SDT?”

  “It’s a special department of Homeland Security, which operates from Langley.”

  “What happened to me?”

  Wilmot came closer to Drake with a reassuring smile. “A few weeks ago, you were in Afghanistan. A grenade detonated in front of you. You’ve been in a coma ever since. Do you remember very much?”

  “Yeah . . . I remember seeing the grenade, but I don’t remember it going off.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t. You caught a shard of shrapnel in your forehead. There were some concussive injuries to your body, but you’ve healed up nicely.”

  Drake opened his mouth to speak again but no sound came out.

  “Your throat will be dry, Brandon,” DeSouza said. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Drake managed to force a few words out. “What happened to . . . the mission?”

  Wilmot set his briefcase down and perched himself on the edge of the bed. “Your unit went in and took down al Fajr. A few of its members escaped as we planned, and there was an urgency to get you airlifted out of there. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  DeSouza handed Drake a glass of water, which he drank in one, unbroken gulp and then turned back to Wilmot. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “I don’t want you to worry about anything. You’re safe. You’re out of the army, and your cover is ironclad.”

  Drake looked at him with suspicion. “What do you know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Like what?”

  The director grinned. “All right, I’m going to say one thing to you, and then you’ll know that we’re on the same team.”

  “What?”

  “Operation: Nemesis.”

  Drake’s eyes widened as he attempted to perch himself up. “How the hell do you know about Operation: Nemesis?”

  “Because I’m in charge of it now. In case you’re wondering, the al Fajr project was a failure. The escapees from the desert camp haven’t initiated any retaliation, so we’ve changed our approach.”

  “Where’s Treadwell.”

  Wilmot shook his head gravely. “The senator is dead. He was killed in a helicopter crash while you were under.”

  Drake sank back down with a look that suggested his golden opportunity had died along with Treadwell.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Wilmot said. “The nature of the operation has changed, but you’re still a part of it. You’ll need some time to get yourself back to full strength, and then I have a few projects I’d like you to work on for me.”

  “What projects?”

  “All in good time.” Wilmot picked up the briefcase, placed it on an adjacent desk, and clicked it open. “This is just for starters.” He opened it up to reveal neatly-arranged piles of crisp, new $100 bills. “How does fifty thousand sound?”

  Drake’s hungry gaze didn’t move from the money, as though the sight of it had miraculously revived him from his weariness.

  Wilmot closed the case again and locked it up. “You need your rest. Soon we’ll get to work on your therapy. You’ll have acquired some muscular atrophy due to your period of inactivity.”

  “Where am I, Wilmot?” Drake said, his abrasive manner rapidly returning. “What the hell is this place?”

  “You’re in a clandestine facility in the Mojave Desert. Trust me, you’re going to be fine. I’ve spared no expense to make sure you get the best possible care and everything you need to get back on your feet.”

  The door opened again and Garrett stepped inside. Wilmot noticed Drake’s predatory eyes upon her. She smiled at him, seductively.

  Everything is going according to plan. “This is my assistant, Agent Cynthia Garrett,” Wilmot said. “You’ll be working with her closely, and she will be in charge of your debriefing.”

  “Can’t wait.” Drake’s throaty voice seemed to enhance his shameless, philandering nature.

  “Director, our guest is here,” Garrett said.

  Drake eased himself up again. “What guest?”

  Wilmot walked across and opened the door. “An old colleague of yours. The one who’s going to help you get back into shape.”

  A man who literally filled the doorway entered. His hardened features were made all the more chilling by his shaven head and a deep scar trailing along his right cheek. His cold eyes and twenty-two inch biceps completed the terrifying sight of a destructive force of nature. He looked Drake in the eye but didn’t smile. “How’re you doin’, Scorp?”

  Wilmot and Garrett glanced at one another with calculating knowingness. The care and support, the promise of wealth, and the beautiful woman all combined to procure the patient’s confidence, enthusiasm, and cooperation.

  Now, a familiar face that would, in no way, be sympathetic to official authority, would seal the deal.

  Drake fed his elbows into the bed and forced himself to rise as he beheld his visitor. “Slamer?”

  Three

  New Beginnings

  Belinda Reese gazed out a window in her room at the Faraday Ranch’s guest house, across sprawling acres of land. The smaller property, one hundred yards behind the main mansion, offered a spectacular view of fields basking in the blistering summer sun for as far as the eye could see. She’d returned from her now-routine, two-hour afternoon stroll around the grounds. Her life was so different now.

  Following the death of her lover, Brandon Drake, her sadness and sense of isolation had led to depression and the need to find solace wit
h her new family. At approximately eight weeks pregnant, she needed a support structure more than anything.

  Relocating from Denver to Fort Worth, Texas, had required no persuading. She needed Tyler and his father. More than that, she needed her new best friend, Brandon and Tyler’s sister, Emily.

  Although she was a wealthy woman in her own right, Belinda’s money didn’t even come close to the billions to which the Faradays were privy. However, the $1.14 million she’d inherited by default from Brandon had grown to $1.63 million in a Swiss investment account since his death. She would not be finding herself wanting financially any time soon. This was truly her new beginning.

  But it was Emily who had helped her through her grief the most. Having an escaped nun and human trafficking survivor as a live-in sister, had given her a sense of purpose. Belinda’s own past history of abuse at the hands of the Catholic Church, and Emily’s disillusionment with her past vocation, had given them a degree of common ground. It also thrilled Belinda that she had the opportunity to introduce such a formerly-oppressed, warm, and gentle soul to a world of freedom. Emily could come and go as she pleased, and it had become Belinda’s mission to help her feel that freedom in her heart. Emily still had far to go. It wasn’t only the convent she had to put behind her, but the horrors she’d experienced under the captivity of the Sapphire organization. Even the most elementary of life’s freedoms seemed alien to Emily. She still felt the need to ask permission to make the slightest of moves.

  Belinda heard the turn of the key in the door. “I’m in here, Em.”

  The usual, virtually-silent footsteps came closer, marked only by the slightest shoe clicks across the kitchen’s marble flooring.

  Belinda smiled as Emily entered the room. Emily’s head was bowed in typical, submissive fashion. Her wavy hair tied back into a bun, and no makeup whatsoever, demonstrated a clear resistance to worldliness. However, Belinda had persuaded her to start wearing jeans as opposed to long, plain skirts.