Run! - Hold On! Season 3

by Peter Darley

  The call was answered quickly. “Slamer? What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m in Dallas.”

  “Yeah, well they know Drake did Faraday Ranch over. It’s got a lot of people scratching their heads, obviously. This is not good, Slamer. How much closer are you to pinning him down?”

  “I told you it would go like this, Wilmot,” Slamer shot back defensively. “I’m getting a clearer picture of what he’s doing, but it’s been like trying to track a housefly. The son of a bitch is zigzagging all across the goddamn country.”

  “And what have you figured out?”

  “It seems, after he took off from Mojave, he traveled to his foster parent’s place. He killed his foster father, and it’s a certainty Drake rolled Mach Industries.”

  “So, what does all this add up to? I know Brenham still has Jacobson under detention, but they’re not allowing any of us access to the details.”

  “Now that Drake’s hit the ranch, it’s pretty clear he’s on some kind of vengeance trip against anybody from his past.”

  Wilmot shook his head. “No, that can’t be. He wouldn’t know the Faradays or Belinda Reese. The last four years of his life were wiped.”

  “Ever hear of the internet, Wilmot? Not to mention what Cassidy might have told him.”

  Wilmot gave a sigh of concession. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “He’s obviously learned a few things along the way, and he’s got them in his sights. None of them were home when he attacked the ranch, so my guess is he’s still after them.”

  “But where the hell are they?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m going to the Faraday Corporation today to see what I can come up with. If I know Drake, I’d put money on it that the girl is his prime target.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a predator. If there was ever a type he made a beeline for, it was a gorgeous woman. To him, she’d be the broad he never knew he had.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right, because it’s a lot more than money you’re putting on it.” Wilmot ended the call and stepped out of the car.

  ***

  Senatorial assistant Tom Bolton turned with a start to see his petite, blonde secretary standing in his office doorway. “Yes, Jill.”

  “There’s a call for Senator Adams, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but he said it was extremely important that he speak with the senator.”

  Bolton pursed his lips. As the personal assistant of Senator Robert Adams, he was wary of wasting his superior’s time with nonsense. On the other hand, he had to be certain what it was about before dismissing it. “I’ll take it. Patch him through, would you?”

  Jill returned to her desk, and Bolton picked up his phone. “This is Senator Adams’ office. Can I help?”

  A male voice came through the receiver. “It’s extremely important that I speak with the senator.”

  “I’m Tom Bolton, Senator Adams’ special assistant. I screen all of his calls. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

  “It concerns the late Senator Garrison Treadwell, and a crisis the CIA is unaware of. I have evidence of this, and I need to get it to the senator. I don’t trust anyone else.”

  “Can you give me your name?” Bolton said.

  “You’ll get that when I see the senator.”

  “That’s not going to be possible. I need more than what you’ve told me before I can take this further.” There was a silence on the line. “Hello?”

  “I’m still here. Would you be willing to meet with me? I’ll show you what I have, and I can assure you, it will be worth yours and the senator’s time.”

  “Where do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll let you choose. Preferably, somewhere public, out in the open.”

  “How about the public park in front of the Treasury Building?” Bolton said.

  “When?”

  “When can you be there? And how will I know you?”

  “Ten minutes. And I’ll know you.” The call ended.

  Bolton placed the phone back on the cradle and headed out the door.

  With his binoculars, Jed Crane spied Bolton exiting the Capitol Building a short distance from Capitol Hill. Bolton had come out remarkably quickly—too quickly for him to have prepared an ambush. That might have been reckless on Bolton’s part, but extremely helpful to Jed. He’d met both Senator Adams and Tom Bolton at CIA headquarters a couple of years earlier, and had been an admirer of Adams’ political position and legislative proposals for years. Adams had never been partial to Garrison Treadwell. With those factors in place, Jed knew he was the perfect man to listen to him.

  After a brief scan of the area to ensure there were no security personnel in waiting, he lowered the binoculars and made his way toward the park.

  So much was riding on this succeeding. He was already exhausted after a three day bus ride from Dallas.

  Within five minutes, he entered the busy park and came up behind Bolton. The senator’s aide looked around aimlessly. It was clear he was trying to gauge a clue as to who may have called him.

  “Mr. Bolton?” Jed said with his head lowered.

  Bolton turned with a start. “Yes. And who would you be?”

  Jed raised his head, revealing his face from underneath a baseball cap. He immediately noticed a glint of recognition in Bolton’s eyes.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Bolton said.

  “I think you do.”

  And then realization dawned on Bolton. “Oh, my God. You’re Jed Crane.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re currently listed as missing.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I’m not overly-familiar with the details, Mr. Crane.”

  “Well, I’m hoping I can change all that.” Jed gestured to one of the park benches. “Let’s take a seat.”

  “Suppose you take it from the start and tell me what you’ve got.”

  “OK,” Jed began. “Five months ago, I was assigned to Nevada to pick up Brandon Drake. I was working with Agents Wilmot, Kerwin, and Rhodes. I’d long suspected them of being involved with Garrison Treadwell. Then I received the news that SDT Director Elias Wolfe had committed suicide, leaving a note confessing to being a traitor. I didn’t buy it. There’s no way Wolfe was dirty. I took it upon myself to liberate Brandon Drake because I feared for his life.”

  “Go on.”

  “A couple of nights later, I stopped over in Utah. It was the most remote spot you could imagine, and yet I woke up to find a bomb under my bed.”

  “A bomb?”

  “They’d tracked me that quickly. From there, I went to L.A. and helped Drake in the rescue of his sister from a human trafficking ring.”

  “I read about that, but I had no idea you were involved.”

  “You wouldn’t have. I stowed away on a ship and found myself in Brazil. I lived there until nine days ago.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  Jed took his cell phone out and scanned through the photos. “I spent a lot of time trying to figure out a way to expose Wilmot, but it was impossible. He’d been appointed to take Wolfe’s place, and I’d most likely been pegged as a traitor too.”

  Bolton shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. You’re simply listed as missing.”

  Jed looked into the ether with the humiliating realization that he hadn’t considered the obvious all this time. “My God. Of course. Wilmot would have kept my name out of it. If they’d searched for me and brought me in, he’d have risked me telling them what I’m telling you now.”

  “But . . . you said you had evidence.”

  “I do.” He handed the phone to Bolton and pointed to the first image. “I took these just over two weeks ago in Brazil. That’s Brandon Drake in the flesh. He arrived with that other guy at the favela I was staying in. They came to kill me.”

  Bolton went through the images with a bemused expression. “But Brandon Drake is dead. H
e was killed months ago in Los Angeles.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t understand. And why would a man you’d helped be trying to kill you? ”

  “When I first met Drake, he told me his personality and memories were the result of a mind control experiment Treadwell had subjected him to. He’d learned he used to be a psychopath they called The Scorpion. Now, think about it. A faked death and an assassination attempt by a man who used to be my friend.” He gestured to the phone. “Those photographs were taken with that phone. They’re timed and dated.”

  “You’re saying they turned Drake back into a psychopath and sent him out to kill you?”

  “I’m convinced of it. What you’re seeing there are photographs of a dead man taken three months after he supposedly died. I’m also convinced Drake was responsible for the massacre at Faraday Ranch in Dallas. I need you to get that phone to Senator Adams.”

  Bolton stared at the phone in silence.

  “A homicidal maniac is on the loose right now, and Wilmot is responsible. He’s now running SDT and Treadwell’s faction, which is still active within the CIA. I don’t know how far it extends. I can’t trust anyone.”

  After a few moments, Bolton conceded. “I’ll get the phone to the senator and tell him what you’ve told me.”

  Jed sank back on the bench with relief. “Thank you.”

  “I appreciate you coming to the senator with this. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Mr. Crane. But I can assure you, I know of no warrant out for your arrest. You can take it easy.”

  “No, I can’t. If anyone in the CIA or SDT learns of my whereabouts, it’ll reach Wilmot’s goons. Once that happens, I’m a dead man.”

  “I understand. So, where can we reach you?”

  Jed stood and shook Bolton’s hand. “I’ll get hold of you.” He turned away, his mission accomplished, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Twenty-Eight

  Home, Sweet Home

  With Emily by her side, Belinda drove Tyler’s Porsche out of a hotel parking lot on the outskirts of Philadelphia. It was the third day of their eighteen-hundred-mile journey from Fort Worth to Boston, and they had another six hour drive ahead of them.

  They’d stayed in the hotel until after lunch and didn’t depart until 2:30 p.m. Belinda was subconsciously procrastinating. Her sense of dread made the laborious trip all the more harrowing. It had been over six years since she’d seen her mother, and another seven years the time before that. She’d come to believe she would never have to see her again. The pain and rage she felt toward her was deep, and she knew there would be no resolution of the issues. She was forced to acknowledge the fact that she hated her mother. Needing her at this time was emotionally excruciating.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Emily said.

  “I’m awfully upset, that’s why.”

  “About seeing your mother again?”

  “She was cold toward me all through my childhood, and all because she got pregnant out of wedlock by a guy she didn’t even know. Like that was my fault.”

  “Do you believe her church was responsible for making her feel that way?”

  “No doubt about it, but she was old enough to think for herself. When I told her a priest had molested me, she called me a liar and a whore. She didn’t think there was any way they could do any wrong. She allowed herself to be completely brainwashed by them, and I hate her for it.”

  Emily placed her hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. You didn’t deserve that.”

  Belinda threw her an appreciative-but-sad smile. She turned her gaze back to the road, her mind awash with what she would say when her mother opened the door to them. Or would it depend on what her mother said to her?

  At just past 8:00 p.m., Belinda pulled the Porsche up outside a residential home in the Boston suburb of Dorchester. She held her gaze upon a modest, two-story house amidst a row of similarly-designed homes. Her heart pounded with so many painful memories. Why must I do this?

  Slowly, she opened the car door and stepped out.

  Emily followed and came around the car to join her. “I’m here. You can do this.”

  Belinda shuddered and apprehensively stepped forward. Within a few seconds, they were standing in front of the door. There was another tense pause before Belinda rang the doorbell.

  They waited for over a minute before the door opened. Belinda’s body became rigid at the sight of the forty-six-year-old woman in the doorway. Her short, brunette hair and hardened features gave her face a pointed appearance. Her remarkably slender frame suggested a strict diet, which aroused Belinda’s curiosity. Her mother had never been particularly body conscious.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” the woman said with clear, sardonic iciness.

  “I had no choice, Mom,” Belinda said. “We need a place to stay.”

  The woman glanced at Emily. “And who would ‘we’ be?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Emily Drake. I’m Belinda’s friend.” Emily extended her hand, but the woman didn’t take it.

  “Drake? Any relation to that soldier she was playing around with?”

  Belinda’s lips screwed up with seething anger.

  “He was my brother,” Emily said.

  The woman looked at them both derisively for a moment. “Well, I suppose you’d better come in.”

  Emily quietly said, “Thank you, Mrs . . . ?”

  “Oh, it’s still Reese. Monica Reese. At least for the next three weeks.” She held up her right hand to show a generous, diamond engagement ring.

  “Congratulations,” Belinda said coldly, although, it explained her mother’s new appearance. She was obviously trying to impress her new man.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Emily said.

  Uncomfortably, they followed Monica inside.

  “So, who’s the lucky guy?” Belinda said.

  “A very good man I met at church a year ago. He’s a successful real estate developer, which means I’ll finally be able to get out of this dump.”

  Belinda grimaced. “How nice for you.”

  “Yes, Belinda. You’re lucky. A month later, and I wouldn’t have even been here.” She gestured to her daughter’s protruding abdomen. “I assume you’re married in that condition?”

  “Yes, I was. Just not in the way you think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Brandon and I married one another with our hearts. Legally, I’m Belinda Reese, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m Mrs. Brandon Drake.”

  “So, you’re pregnant out of wedlock. What a surprise.” Monica shot her a venomous smile.

  “I don’t consider I need the permission of a pedophile to be with the man I love.”

  “Don’t start with that again, Belinda. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Our . . . lives are in danger. We were advised to leave Dallas.”

  Monica scowled. “Your lives are in danger? Dallas? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Brandon.”

  “Brandon? I watch the news, Belinda. Your boyfriend is dead.”

  “So, we all thought. He’s alive, and they’ve turned him into a killer. He murdered all of the security men where we were living.”

  “You never stop, do you? You should become a writer with your imagination.”

  “Look, Mom, do you honestly think I would have come here out of choice?”

  “She’s telling you the truth, Ms. Reese,” Emily said. “Check the news. Look up Faraday Ranch. That’s where we’ve been living.”

  Monica was quiet for a moment. “That . . . does sound familiar. Something about a massacre, if I recall.”

  “Yes,” Belinda said. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you.”

  Monica’s gaze lingered over Belinda’s shoulder at Emily. “So, what’s your story, Miss Drake? Or is it Ms?”

  “Emily, please. Do you recall the story about the Hamlin factory on L.A. Harbor, where my brother
was supposedly killed?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d been kidnapped by a human trafficking organization. Belinda and Brandon came to rescue me.”

  Monica smirked. “How convenient. And how on earth did you find yourself in the clutches of human traffickers, my dear?”

  Emily took a deep breath. “If you must know, I used to be a nun. I was very unhappy and I left the convent. I was kidnapped when I was on the road.”

  “Oh, I see. You abandoned your calling. You’re an apostate. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

  Belinda stepped between them, incensed beyond her endurance. “Don’t speak to her like that! You have no idea what Emily has been through. What turned you into someone like this, Mom?”

  Emily placed her hand on Belinda’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Belinda.” She turned back to Monica. “It wasn’t my calling. I had no say in it. They took me in when I was a baby.”

  “So,” Monica said, “you abandoned those who gave you care and shelter. It doesn’t surprise me that Belinda would make a friend of someone so immoral.”

  “You might be right. I might be immoral.”

  “No, you’re not!” Belinda yelled.

  “Have you ever considered becoming a nun, Ms. Reese?” Emily said. “You seem particularly fond of the idea.”

  “What?”

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Matthew, seven-twelve.”

  Monica was suddenly silent. Emily came forward and stopped close to her, a rare hint of anger appearing in her eyes. “Your daughter personally delivered me out of the hands of my captive. She befriended me, loved me, and helped me to find my place in society. She is kind, warm, and has a generosity of spirit like no other.”

  Belinda’s lower lip quivered and tears came to her eyes. To have such a calm and loving person as Emily defend her to her mother was such a unique experience, and it overwhelmed her.

  “I feel for you, Ms. Reese,” Emily said. “You have denied yourself something extremely precious by rejecting Belinda. It’s so sad that you’ve never really known her.”