by Peter Darley
A number of men in suits emerged from the crowd like a swarm. Belinda barely missed being grasped by one of them as she dashed through the exit.
Out in the street, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. The suitcase was slowing her down, her breathing was labored, and she didn’t know how long she could keep up the pace.
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!”
Two
The Getaway
“You’re in trouble, I’m coming out,” a male voice said through the earpiece in the stranger’s helmet.
“No!” he said. “If they see your face, you’re screwed. Stay in the van.”
He took a grenade from his tool belt and tossed it over his shoulder. A cloud of smoke engulfed the agents. Within seconds, they were stalled by tear gas.
“Come on!” Belinda urged him as she reached the van.
“I’m trying.”
Belinda pulled the passenger’s side door open, threw her case into the footwell, and jumped inside to avoid the cloud of tear gas.
Despite needing to get to safety, she felt concerned for the man running behind her—and the man in the driver’s seat. She was taken aback by his gorgeous face, dark hair, and suntan. His chest protruded through his black t-shirt, visible through the open zip of a designer, black leather jacket. But it wasn’t Brandon. “Who are you?” she said.
“I’m Alex,” he replied, and handed her a blue blouse and a long blonde wig. “Put these on. Hurry.”
She put the wig on without thinking. Questions spilled out of her uncontrollably. “Where’s Brandon? What’s going on? Who’s that guy in the suit?”
Before he could answer, they heard the sliding side door being opened up at the back. It closed as quickly, followed by an urgent bellow of, “Go! Go! Go!”
Alex put the van in reverse. With tires screeching across the asphalt, they bolted forward.
“Put the blouse on. You’ve got to look different,” Alex said.
Shielded by the blacked-out windows, Belinda unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her lithe, gym-honed physique. Alex was clearly too transfixed on getting them all to the next stop to notice.
A sense of déjà vu came over her again. They were racing away in a van through Denver after being rescued from the authorities. It prompted another memory—the Turbo Swan.
She buttoned up the blouse, turned, and pulled back the veil to the back of the van. What she saw was certainly not a test aircraft.
“Do you mind?” the young man said, naked and covering his groin with his hands.
“Oh, my God! I am so sorry.” Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist taking a longer look before pulling the curtain back. Wow, he’s pretty hot.
But it was a thought that gave her c
ause for concern. She was in love with Brandon, and yet she’d just had a flutter of the heart over another man. Maybe it was because she was a perfectly normal, healthy woman of twenty-nine, who hadn’t seen a naked man for two years. Just hang in there. Hold on!
Alex accelerated through the back roads of Denver. He reached behind to pull open the curtain a fraction of an inch. “Ty, hurry up. We’re nearly there.”
“Hey, Alex?” Belinda said. “Who’s ‘Ty’?”
“It’s a long story.”
She rolled her eyes with frustrated impatience. “Isn’t it always?”
The van emerged onto the main highway and joined the traffic. Alex seemed extremely anxious, as was obvious from the dampness of his brow. Belinda empathized with him in a way very few others could. Being stranded in gridlock with the authorities in pursuit would have naturally given rise to profound stress.
“How did you find me?” she said. “And don’t you dare say ‘long story.’”
“When the news broke about Brandon’s escape, he knew you’d be heading straight for him, but he knew how dangerous that was. We went to your apartment, but you weren’t there.”
“So how did you find me?”
“You didn’t make it too difficult. We were heading back out when we saw agents chasing you through Denver. Ty suited up, jumped out of the van, and I went round to the other end of the alley to pick you up.”
The thought of how lucky she’d been caused her to shudder.
Ty peered through the curtain. “OK, I’m done. Do we have far to go?”
“Half a block,” Alex said.
Belinda looked at Ty properly for the first time. Somehow, he had Brandon’s face, if slightly more feminine, and his hair was a little darker. It didn’t make any sense. He was a man who looked like Brandon, who wasn’t Brandon, but who wore Brandon’s armor, and performed Brandon-style rescues. “Who are you?”
He smiled and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally. I’m T—”
“We’re coming up to it now,” Alex cut him off.
Ty lurched forward as the van turned down another side road. “All right, get set. Grab your stuff and be ready to get out the minute I tell you.”
Confused, she could only nod.
Alex pulled the van up alongside a gleaming red Porsche 911 Carrera, the only vehicle parked in a lane situated behind a towering, deserted textile factory.
“OK, Belinda. Get out now,” Ty said.
She smiled a half-smile, threw open the door with her shirt across her arm, and jumped out. Reaching across to the footwell she retrieved her suitcase.
Ty leaped out of the van attired in a t-shirt, jeans, a burgundy jacket, and gleaming black shoes. He threw the Kevlar jacket, pants, tool-belt, helmet, and boots into the trunk of the Porsche. He then turned to Belinda. “Gimme the suitcase.”
She handed it to him and he threw it into the trunk. “The door’s open. Get in.”
He sounded so much like Brandon, save for the accent. There was the same resonance in his tone when he spoke with urgency. Brandon’s words, on the night he’d rescued her two years before, rang out in her head: Get. In. The. Back. Of. The. Van! Ty had the same, stern, undeniable command when he said “Get in.”
“Where are we going?” she said.
“I’m taking you to the cabin.”
She froze. “How do you know about the cabin?”
“I’ll explain later. You have to trust me. I’ll get you to Brandon, but we’re wasting time.”
Uncertain, she climbed into the Porsche, quickly noting it was far more comfortable than the space-restricted confines of the Turbo Swan.
She watched Ty through the rear-view mirror. Taking a step back, he returned to the van and grasped the open passenger’s door. She heard him say to Alex, “Drive around town for thirty minutes. The jet’s being refueled. After thirty, get to the airfield, and they’ll take you back to Dallas. There’ll be a cab waiting for you when you get home, OK?”
“You got it.”
“OK, now go. Go!” Ty closed the door and slapped the van. He hurriedly returned to the Porsche and climbed in.
Belinda looked at him with more than a little exasperation. “That your favorite word?”
“What?”
“Go.”
“Chill out, already. We’re going for a cruise.”
The Porsche shot forward. Belinda glanced in the rear-view mirror and watched the van back up. As the Porsche turned a corner she saw the police pull up behind Alex. “Oh, my God. I think your friend’s just been busted.”
“He’s fine. It’s just a white van and one of many. Nobody in it but him. They’re not gonna be holding him for long on that. Trust me, Alex is fine. He’s been very well briefed, and he’s highly experienced.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” she said sarcastically.
The Porsche turned onto the main freeway and headed toward Highway 70.
“How are we going to get up a snowy mountain in this?” she said.
“We’re not. We’re going to an airfield. I’ve got a chopper waiting.”
“Listen, Ty, is it?”
“Yeah?”
“OK, Ty. It’s not that I don’t trust you.” She paused for a second, and then said, “I don’t trust you, Ty. Who are you?”
He grinned in a toying manner. “Wouldn’t you just love to know?”
“Look, stop playing games with me!”
His expression changed, indicating he knew he’d crossed the line. “All right. My name is . . . Tyler Drake-Faraday, OK?”
“Drake?”
“That’s right. Drake.”
She gazed at him as he joined the rush hour traffic. Something was connecting, but she still couldn’t put it together. He looked like Brandon and he had Brandon’s name, but what did it all add up to?
He glanced at her for the briefest moment before turning his attention back to the traffic. “I’m Brandon’s brother.”
“His brother? Brandon doesn’t even know who he is. His memories were changed for delusions. He doesn’t know where he came from. How can you be his brother?”
Tyler’s irritated expression indicated that she’d just insulted his very identity. “So . . . what? You think I just had this face stuck on overnight?”
There was silence in the Porsche as it cleared the gridlock and soared onto Highway 70.
Belinda’s mind became awash with emotions—shock, fear, anger, and love for the man she was going through hell to be with again. She glanced over at the man beside her with intrigue. It actually made sense. He looked so much like Brandon. “Brandon’s brother. OK, I think I get that. Two of you. Oh, boy, am I gonna have my hands full.”
He turned his head toward her and burst into laughter.
Belinda glanced at the road and saw he was about to collide with the median. “Look out!”
“Whoa!” He hurriedly twisted the wheel. “Thanks.”
“Keep your eyes on the road and tell me why Brandon isn’t here.”
“He’s not doing too well.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s been shot. He’s hanging in there, though. I think seeing you again will be the best medicine.”
Speechless and deeply concerned, she looked ahead trying to guess what she would find when, at long last, she stepped back into the cabin.
Three
The Storm
“Look, everything’s gonna be fine. Just keep your head down and get in.” Tyler handed Belinda a headset and made his way over to the helicopter. A case containing Brandon’s combat attire and sonic force gun were firmly in his grasp.
“Listen, are you sure you can fly this thing?” she said.
“Almost as well as I can drive.”
“That’s encouraging.”
She looked around the small airfield. The Porsche was a fast car, and she couldn’t be sure where they’d arrived. It was getting dark, but she estimated they were in a remote area, perhaps
fifty miles from Denver.
Tyler’s android phone rang and he answered it. “Alex? What happened? They let you go, right?”
Alex’s vexed tone was audible even through the earpiece: “Yeah, they let me go, but only after making me feel like Charlie-fuckin’-Manson.”
“All right, buddy. I got everything worked out. Now get to this airfield. I’ve got a plane waiting for you.”
“Yeah, but just remember you owe me one, Ty. This has got to be the craziest gig we’ve ever pulled off.”
“Hey, don’t worry, bud. I always come through, don’t I?” Tyler winked at Belinda with an inappropriately unconcerned attitude. She didn’t reciprocate.
“I guess so. I’ll see you later,” Alex said.
A tall pilot, approximately mid-forties with thinning brown hair, approached Tyler and Belinda.
“Hey, Dig,” Tyler said. “Belinda, this is my pilot, Captain David Digswell.”
Belinda forced a smile.
“Are the lap dancers on the jet?” Tyler asked.
“Yep,” Digswell said.
“Great. Now, make sure they keep Mr. Dalton well entertained. That guy’s just been through hell.”
“You got it.”
Belinda deduced Dalton was Alex’s last name.
Tyler nudged her arm. “Come on. We’ve got to get to that north plateau.”
She followed Tyler into the chopper. He climbed in, threw her case onto his own in the back, and fired up the rotors.
Belinda had never realized how frightening getting into a helicopter was. She remembered how flying them had been Brandon’s vocation in the Eighty-Second Airborne Division. She climbed into the cockpit, startled by the harrowing force of the blades whipping over her head. Eagerly, she put her headset on to nullify the noise.
Tyler closed the door, muting the sound. He put on his headset and moved the mike to his mouth. “This is Faraday preparing for take-off.”
She looked across at him suspiciously. “I thought you said your name was Drake.”