Hold On! - Season 1 (23 page)

“See what?”

She pointed to where she was looking. There appeared to be a flash of light. And then it happened again, illuminating the dull gray of the overcast sky. “There. What is that?”

Brandon stepped forward to afford himself a clearer view. It wasn’t an occasional flash, it was continuous and it was blue. And then another appeared behind it, and another, until there was a long line of them coming closer.

“Is that the police?” Belinda said almost rhetorically.

Brandon didn’t answer until the lights came closer. Panic seized him. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“That’s not the police. That’s a federal task force.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and moved her toward the car with frantic urgency. “Let’s get out of here, right now.”

To The End

Brandon and Belinda climbed into the Mustang. Dust filled the air as Brandon spun the car around, tires screeching across the earth.

              He noticed the fuel needle showing the tank was a quarter full. “Oh, Jesus.”

The reflection in the rear view mirror showed the task force convoy was alarmingly close. There was no way for him to speed away without them spotting him, but he had no choice. As far as he knew, Belinda was still wanted, and if they discovered him he’d be arrested and returned to Fort Bragg for his court-martial. That could mean life imprisonment, especially given the number of offenses he’d committed while absent without leave. With Payne dead, there was also the possibility of murder being added to his list of ‘transgressions.’ It all depended on what would be believed.

Brandon bolted forward and raced onto the dusty, badly-maintained road. With his eyes on the rear view mirror he could see a number of task force vehicles racing onto the driveway of the gas station. However, four of them continued along the road and they were speeding up. It was obvious they’d spotted them racing away from the scene.

“Oh God,” Belinda said. “They’re getting closer.”

Brandon slapped his forehead as he realized his stupidity. It would have been safer for him to have run with Belinda into the forest where David had parked his car. The feds wouldn’t have even known they were there, but in his distress, he hadn’t been thinking rationally.

Heart pounding, he pressed his foot to the floor. The car shuddered as it touched ninety miles an hour along a desperately ragged stretch of road. He and Belinda were thrown around mercilessly by the repeated bumps in the road.

They’d been racing away from the task force for ten miles when they finally came upon even road. Brandon accelerated to one-hundred-ten
miles an hour, but the flashing lights were still in pursuit. The fuel needle was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to come up with a contingency plan.

The task force was approximately two miles behind them, although on this straight, deserted, North Carolina back road, wherever they stopped would be noticed.

Up ahead, Brandon saw another wooded lot and knew it would likely be the last forest they would see before they ran out of gas. “All right sweetheart,” he said. “I’m gonna stop at those trees and we’re gonna make a run for it. We stand a chance of losing them under cover of the woods.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“We’re almost out of gas. We have no choice.”

He brought the car to an abrupt halt by the trees and threw his side door open. “OK. Now, run!”

Belinda leaped out and sprinted into the forest. Brandon caught up to her in seconds. The federal agents were coming closer with each fleeting moment.

He grasped Belinda’s hand and led her through the trees. The uphill climb quickly exhausted her.

“Brandon, I can’t,” she said, gasping for air.

“You have to. We can’t stop.”

Belinda felt faint and couldn’t continue. Her legs felt leaden and stopped moving. Her lungs burned from the exertion, and her breathing came in deep, desperate gasps. It had been over a month since she’d last seen a gym, but even if it had been a day, she wouldn’t have been prepared for such exertion. What she was doing required Olympic-level fitness. She knew Brandon was already used to it from scaling the ridge behind the cabin every morning.

“I am so sorry I got you into this,” he said.

“Don’t be. I’m with you . . . to the end.” She pulled her fingers up from her lap as her breathing gradually became easier. “Do you hear me, Brandon? To the end.”

She saw his sad smile. His eyes misted over as though he was filled with guilt and the belief he wasn’t worthy of her.

He turned his head toward the bottom of the hill. “This
is
the end.”

She followed the direction of his gaze and saw at least eight men decked out in Parka and Liner field attire with their pistols drawn. “Oh, God,” she cried, and instantly resumed running.

Brandon followed and they continued sprinting together for almost a mile. Belinda’s survival instinct infused her with adrenaline.

From the beginning of her adventure with Brandon, it had been as though she was the Princess in the Tower. He had been the dashing, handsome prince who’d rescued her from certain doom and taken her to his castle, far away. Now, she ran with him from the forces of oppression, never leaving his side.

It seemed hopeless, when suddenly they heard the unmistakable sound of a freight train just beyond the trees. They raced toward it and could see it was approaching at a relatively slow speed, perhaps twenty miles an hour.

Brandon turned to run parallel with the train. An open car approached behind them. “This is it, babe. Take my hand.” He slowed his pace as her fingers interlocked with his.

She glanced behind her to see three agents almost on top of them.

With perfect timing, Brandon leaped into an open car, but he lost Belinda’s hand. “Oh, shit.” He reached out to her. “Run, baby. Take my hand.”

With one last burst of energy, she sprinted toward him, their fingertips barely touching. Quickly they were joined again. She cried out as the pressure of his grip pulled on her skewered fingertips.

The hand of a task force operative brushed her shoulder, but Brandon had her in his grasp. With one powerful curl of his arm, her feet left the ground. Steadily, she found her footing on the edge of the car as the train traveled farther away from their pursuers.

“Easy baby. I’ve got you. You can do it,” he said. “Hold on!”

She braced the soles of her feet against the edge of the car, but the pain in her fingers prevented her from gripping tightly enough. As the stabbing sting ripped through her hand, her left foot slipped off the edge, and in an instant, she was gone.

Brandon watched as she fell to the ground, the train took him farther away with each passing second. No matter what, he couldn’t leave her.
To the end
, she had said to him.

He leaped from the train and rolled on the ground, picking himself up again in one graceful, fluid movement.

He reached her within moments, only to find her weeping with despondency. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. We’ve both done enough of that to last a lifetime.” He glanced up to see the agents were less than a minute away.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t hold on this time,” she said. “They’re going to separate us, Brandon. They’re gonna lock us away.”

“No. They haven’t got anything on you. Any fool can see that. But I’m going to have to go away for a while.”

“Why, Brandon? Why did you jump after me? You were free.”

“Are you kidding? I could never abandon you.”

“I love you with all my heart.”

“I’m going to worry about you, but I don’t want you to be alone.”

“W-when that guy was torturing me in that gas station . . . When he was about to rape me . . . I just knew,” she said tearfully.

“Knew what?”

“I knew I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone other than you touching me. If I can’t be with you, I honestly don’t want to be with anybody, baby.”

The agents were seconds away and Brandon didn’t waste a moment. Embracing her, he shut out the sound of the cruel, corrupt world. This was
their
moment—their last precious bonding opportunity, and he treasured every fleeting instant of it. They emotionally bonded with one another in a way that couldn’t be broken: a marriage of the purest kind, requiring no institution.

The operatives finally came upon them and harshly tore them apart. “You are under arrest,” was all he heard as they pulled up by his armpits. They cuffed his hands behind him, with three loaded pistols trained on his chest.

Five more agents emerged from the trees to join the cadre. One of them gently grasped Belinda by the shoulders. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Brandon watched as she glared at the man and shook his hands off her. After a moment, she turned back to Brandon.

As they led him away, he turned his head, his eyes fixed on her at all times. It felt as though as long as he could see her, he hadn’t a care in the world.

Then, she disappeared from his sight.

***

In the DC Central Detention Facility interview room, Timothy Ogilsby turned a sheet of paper around on the desk. He aggressively pushed it toward Wilmot and McKay. Wilmot studied the list of names written in ballpoint pen that filled the page.

“Is that everybody?” McKay said.

Ogilsby glanced at Woodford on his left in a final moment of conference, and then said, “That’s everybody.”

“Now, we have something to tell you,” Wilmot said.

“What’s that?”

“Payne is dead.”

The two prisoners looked at one another again, their expressions indicating desperate concern.

“D-dead? Dead how?” Woodford said, stammering.

“He stopped breathing, that’s how, you prick,” Wilmot said sarcastically.

“They think Drake killed him,” McKay said. “Made quite a mess apparently. He’s in custody at the moment. They’re arranging for him to be sent back to Bragg for his court-martial.”

Ogilsby’s lower lip quivered as the impact of McKay’s words reverberated in his mind. “B-but that means—”

“That’s right,” Wilmot said. “The deal you were offered—information leading to capture—is no longer valid.” He coldly stood to leave.

Woodford stood up sharply. “Now, wait a minute. We gave you that list.”

“That wasn’t a condition of the agreement.”

With fear in his eyes, Ogilsby stood up beside Woodford.

“Please, Wilmot,” Woodford said. “You’ve got to help us. What can we do? Please!”

McKay opened the interview room door without saying a word.

Wilmot turned back to Ogilsby and Woodford for a final moment of gloating. “Wait for your execution date. That’s what you can do now.”

Incomprehensible bellows of panic were immediately silenced as the door slammed shut behind the two agents.

“Well, that’s the end of that,” McKay said. “I’ve got to admit, for a minute there I felt a mild sense of sympathy for those two. But I keep reminding myself of what murderous sadists they actually are. They deserve everything that’s coming to them.”

“You got that right.”

“I’m still a little concerned, though, about how much that goddamn task force knows.”

“Nothing,” Wilmot said. “Wolfe arranged it. They were sent in to investigate ‘a serious terrorist threat and a female hostage.’ No names. As luck would have it, all they found was Drake and Reese.”

McKay exhaled with relief. “Wanna come back to my place for a few drinks?”

“Under the circumstances, why not?” Wilmot tapped his partner lightly on the shoulder. “By the way are you still seeing that hot model? What’s her name?”

“Becky?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure am. I think she’s pretty keen.”

“Have you screwed her yet?”

“None of your business.”

Wilmot grinned devilishly. “You have, haven’t you?”

“Well, you know, I never kiss and tell.”

Wilmot laughed with juvenile glee. “You hound.”

Together, they jovially continued along the airless corridor.

McKay loosened his tie and stepped into his apartment. He made his way over to the liquor cabinet and poured out two shots of bourbon. “I can’t believe it’s finally over.”

They raised their glasses and clinked them together. “To a job well done,” Wilmot said.

As they took their seats, Wilmot looked around the room admiringly. “I must say, you’ve fixed this place up nicely.”

“To think how close I came to losing it all. And all because of Treadwell.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it.”

McKay frowned. “How can you be so easy about this?”

“I guess I’ve just had it up to my neck with it all.” Wilmot dipped his hand into his pocket, took out the sheet of paper Ogilsby had given to him, and began to study it.

“I wonder what’s going to happen to Drake.”

Wilmot’s eyes didn’t move from the page. “Who knows?”

“How many names are there, approximately?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“That’s precise. When did you count them?”

No answer came.

McKay became uncomfortable. “Do you think they’re all there?”

“What?”

“Do you think they gave us the names of every operative in Treadwell’s conspiracy?”

“Not even close.”

McKay rested his bourbon on the table next to him, and turned to his partner uneasily. “What do you mean, ‘not even close’?”

It took McKay a few moments for the sight of Wilmot’s pistol to register. He heard the faint blip of the shot as the bullet was fired through the silencer—the last sound he would ever hear.