Hold On! - Season 1 (9 page)

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Authors: Peter Darley

BOOK: Hold On! - Season 1
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Sixteen

 

The Brothers

 

Miguel Gomez grinned as he drove the van along the highway into Morgan. The town was coming alive for the day, and his urgency to get out of the area caused his adrenaline to surge. As a member of a family of illegal immigrants, ‘living off the land,’ as they called helping themselves to whatever didn’t belong to them, was their only means of survival. At this stage of their travels across the United States, the van would provide a perfect mobile storage facility for them.

At twenty-two, Miguel’s skills in theft hadn’t reached their full height. As such, his sense of urgency clouded his judgment, especially with regard to the speed limit.

“I wanna check out the back.”

Miguel’s impetuous, nineteen-year-old brother, Fausta, sat up, rested his knees on the passenger seat, and eased his head through the veil, his lean physicality enabling his ease of movement.

“What’s it look like? Is it roomy?” Miguel said.

“Fuck,” Fausta said.

“What?”

“You gotta see what’s back here, bro.”

Miguel, being somewhat rotund, struggled as he tried to turn around to peak through the veil, but the effort was in vain. His attempt, while driving at such a high speed, caused the van to swerve across the dusty road. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, man. Looks like some kinda spaceship.”

Miguel laughed. “What’ve you been smoking?”

“Seriously, bro. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Miguel noticed a police motorcycle behind them in the rear view mirror and swallowed hard. Momentarily torn between whether to accelerate or slow down, he decided upon the latter, confident he could charm his way out of the situation.

Fausta pulled his head from the veil. “Why are you slowing down, bro?”

“We got trouble, man. Big trouble. Look.” Miguel pointed to the mirror.

“Mierda,” Fausta said.

The van gradually came to a halt on the side of the road and the officer pulled up behind it. Miguel and Fausta watched apprehensively as he came closer. His pistol was clearly visible on his belt holster.

As the officer arrived at the driver’s side of the van, Miguel wound down the window.

“Either of you own this vehicle?” the officer said.

“No, sir.” Miguel realized his anxiety was impairing his ability to sound convincing. “I-it belongs to my cousin. He let us borrow it.”

“And your cousin’s name would be?”

“C-Carlitos Gomez.”

“I need your license and the vehicle’s registration.”

Miguel shot Fausta a hopeless glance.

“Turn the engine off,” the officer said.

Miguel complied.

The officer took out his radio receiver and put it to his mouth. The reply came quickly. “Sheriff, this is Ranger. I’ve just stopped a couple of Hispanic kids in a white Dodge Sprinter doin’ over seventy. They say it belongs to their cousin. My mobile computer’s down. Would you run a check on the license plate?” 

“Go ahead.”

Miguel and Fausta watched, trembling, as Ranger read out the license number. It took all of a minute, which seemed like an hour to them. Both were tempted to make a run for it, but knew they couldn’t out-race a motorcycle.

The sheriff’s reply came, but the Gomez brothers couldn’t hear what was being said. They only saw Ranger nodding intently and surreptitiously glancing back at them with a sinister, judgmental glare.

Something was said when Ranger snapped his head toward them and drew his pistol. “Step out of the van with your hands raised over your heads!”

Horrified, the two thieves did as they were ordered. Miguel felt perspiration dripping from his brow.

Ranger put the radio back to his mouth. “Sheriff, I need back-up. There are two of them in the van.”

“It’s the girl who’s wanted,” the sheriff said.

“There is no girl, Sheriff, just a couple of young guys.”

There was an awkward pause before the sheriff’s voice came through the receiver again. “I’m sending Wallace out to you. If the girl isn’t with them, I’m pretty sure they’ll know where she is . . . with a little persuading.”

 

***

 

Sheriff Earl Gillespie, a stout man of fifty-four, scowled at Miguel and Fausta as he entered one of the Morgan police station’s meager holding cells. “Who are you dirtballs, anyway?” he said.

“W-we’re nobody, sir, you have to believe us,” Miguel said in a whimpering tone. “We don’t know about no girl, honest.”

“You just happened to be riding around in a van that was seen being used in the escape of a wanted terrorist outside of Cheyenne last night.” Convinced of their involvement, Gillespie wasn’t about to show them an ounce of mercy.

“Honestly, sir,” Fausta said, “we don’t know nothing ‘bout no terrorist.”

“Then what were you doing in that van? And don’t give me any of that cousin bullshit. Don’t you realize what’s going down here? Do you have any idea how serious it is to be caught up in terrorist activity?”

“We stole the van,” Fausta said finally, clearly unable to withstand his own fear. “We’re nothing, sir, you’ve gotta believe us. We’re not terrorists.”

Gillespie was inclined to embrace that as a possibility. Their badly-worn attire and unkempt appearance certainly suggested need. “Stole it? Where did you steal it from?”

“Some motel, just before you get into town,” Miguel said.

“Describe this motel.”

“Sí, señor. It was it a really old, rundown shack of a place.”

Ranger stepped out of the office and joined the sheriff. Gillespie turned to him. “You know old Ruben’s motel outside of town?”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

“Well, that’s where the girl is. If I were you, I’d get down there right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gillespie turned back to the Gomez brothers. There was total silence as he took their measure, ensnaring them in the grip of fear. They were no different from all the other illegals he’d dealt with. So much was at stake for them—their remaining in the USA, their future liberty, and the risk of them becoming separated from their family. Holding his cruel stare for long, agonizing moments, he relished their anguish. Finally, with a smirk, he walked away.

 

***

 

Brandon had been pacing around the seedy motel room for forty minutes while Belinda looked on, deeply concerned.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing. “I’m going to ask that old guy at the desk. See if he knows anything. Will you be OK for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Although she was a wanted fugitive with no means of transportation, there was something about Brandon that made her feel safe at all times. However, she felt the stress was beginning to wear her down.

 

As Brandon turned the corner to the office, he noticed a police motorcycle parked outside. Stopping in his tracks, he waited a beat before making slow, calculated steps forward. He came closer and the conversation inside became more audible.

“Good morning, Ruben,” the officer said in a stern-but-amenable tone.

“What can I do for ya, young fella?” The old man’s voice sounded raspy, most likely from the bottle of Red Eye he’d consumed during the night.

“I’m here on official business. A white Dodge Sprinter was stolen from here last night. I want to know who it belonged to.”

“A wha—”

“A van, Ruben. A white van with Colorado plates. I wanna know who it belongs to.”

“Oh, yeah. The young guy in thirty . . .  three, I think I put him?”

“Young guy? Not a woman?”

“Can’t seem to recall seeing no woman with him.”

Brandon turned around urgently, careful not to make any alerting noises. When he was in the clear, he sprinted back to the room.

He startled Belinda as he entered. “What happened?” she said.

“We have to go. I know where the van is.”

“Where?”

“The police have it.” He looked around the room, his gaze falling upon the backpack on the bed. Grasping it, he snaked the strap across his shoulder and took Belinda’s hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of here.”

They’d barely got themselves out of sight, concealed behind the adjacent row of rooms, when Ruben, staggering, led the officer into room thirty-three.

Brandon and Belinda held themselves perfectly still. They waited for what seemed like an eternity until the two men finally exited the room.

The officer took out his radio. “Sheriff, it looks like the van belonged to some young guy who was here at old Ruben’s motel, but he’s gone now. There was no sign of any girl, apparently. What do you want me to do?”

Brandon strained to make out the sheriff’s response, but all he heard was the officer replying “Yes, sir.”

After another minute, Ruben and the officer disappeared around the corner.

Brandon turned to Belinda hastily. “I have to get to that impound yard. I’m getting the van back, but there’s a risk.”

Belinda looked at him uncertainly. “Oh, Brandon. What are you going to do?”

“Everything is in the van except . . .”

“What?”

With a shrewd glint in his eyes, he tapped the backpack and placed it on the ground. “There’s something else I took.” He unzipped the backpack and rummaged around inside until he found an electric hair clipper.

She stared at the clipper, shaking her head as though bemused. “What do you need that for?”

Seventeen

 

Caught

 

Brandon and Belinda wandered out of sight through the trees surrounding the highway. Within thirty minutes, they reached the outskirts of Morgan. Brandon knew it was safe for him, but even with Belinda’s new look, it was too risky for her to enter the town. She was still all over the news.

“OK, baby,” he said, “I’m all set. I need you to wait for me, all right?”

“OK.” Her tone indicated her confidence was waning.

“There’s food and drink I bought from that store last night in the backpack.” He looked around at the forestry sensing her anxiety, but knew there wasn’t a moment to lose. “I know this isn’t ideal, so I’ll be as quick as I can. Hang in there. I am so sorry, baby.”

“Please be careful,” she said.

Sorrowfully, he nodded.

He ran through the trees, stopping sporadically along the three mile trek. He reached the town remarkably quickly. Slowing his pace accordingly, he casually assimilated himself among the pedestrians.

The basic area reminded him of a town from the Old West. A few rusted parked cars and an electronics store were enough to convince him he was still in his own era.

An elderly woman turned a corner and came toward him. He smiled warmly and she reciprocated. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said.

“Yes, dear.”

“I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to find the local sheriff’s office. Would you happen to know where that is?”

“Of course.” She turned and pointed straight along the dusty road. “You don’t have far to walk. It’s about a half mile along that road. You’ll come to it on the left along the way there.”

“Thank you.”

After following the lady’s directions for a few minutes, he saw the station ahead of him. It was a pathetic-looking shack of an outpost, and without the car storage pound he’d anticipated. He could see his van protruding from the rear of the building sheltered by a flimsy wooden horning, and edged his way onto the pavement.

His heart thundered in his chest with apprehension. He’d witnessed more than enough death on the battlefields of Afghanistan, and was no stranger to fear.

However, scurrying alongside a hick town’s sheriff’s office filled him with anxiety the likes of which he’d never felt before. Perhaps it was because, in the desert, he’d accepted the possibility of personal doom. This time, he’d set his heart upon the real possibility of a happy and peaceful life with his new love. Perhaps his fear was simply a manifestation of that hope. If he failed, he wouldn’t only be failing himself, he would be failing Belinda, and the thought of that was unbearable.

He reached into his right side pocket and took out the keys to the van, silently praying the Turbo Swan was still in the back. Even if it wasn’t, he knew he was the only one who could open it. It was constructed from an innovative bonded-titanium alloy that was resistant to firepower and intense heat. The door locks were programmed to accept his unique fingerprints—a precaution he’d taken before he escaped from Mach Industries. But none of that would have stopped them from towing it out of the van and taking it away.

When he reached the end of the brick wall, he ran across the station’s yard toward the van. “Please be in there,” he quietly muttered as he came closer to his quarry—and his freedom.

He reached the driver’s side door and inserted the key into the lock, cringing at the clicking sound it made. He climbed inside, and against every iota of common sense, he wasted a moment throwing open the veil. The Turbo Swan was still there, to which he gave another sigh of relief.

“Hold it right there!”

Brandon froze. He’d been so close. Perhaps he could make a run for it—close the door, insert the key, and step on the gas. But there wasn’t enough time to perform all of those tasks in less time than it would take a bullet to strike him. Out of options, he backed out of the van and kept his hands held high with his back to the officer.

“Put your hands behind your head. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

The officer’s arrogance seemed in keeping with his position, but Brandon refused to show fear as the cuffs were placed on him.

 

The sheriff led Brandon by the arm into a cell. He noticed two Mexicans in the cell opposite. A powerful anger rose in him as the sheriff manhandled him, although he managed to contain himself.

“I’m gonna run your ID, dirtball,” the sheriff said, “and then we’ll find out who you are, what you’ve got in common with those two Mexican scrotums and that van.”

The sheriff moved away from the cells leaving Brandon face to face with the two illegal immigrants who had stolen his van—the imbeciles who’d placed him in this predicament. Their actions had resulted in his beloved Belinda being stranded in the woods alone with meager rations. True hatred for the brothers began to fester in his heart. An overwhelming force surged through him.
They
had done this to the woman he loved.

After thirty minutes, his cell door opened and the sheriff stepped inside with the arresting officer. “Come out, kid. We’re gonna print you.”

Apprehensively, Brandon stood. “Look, Sheriff, you don’t have to worry about anything. I’m not a criminal.”

“Take his prints, Wallace. I ain’t takin’ his word for that.”

The officer grasped Brandon’s shoulder and forcibly guided him out of the cell toward the fingerprint room. Once completed, Brandon knew his fingerprints would be sent through a computerized identification system. His fear exacerbated as he was led along the corridor, uncertain of what the procedure would reveal about him.

 

Shortly afterward, the fingerprint results came back, and Gillespie returned to Brandon’s cell. “I don’t get it. There’s nothing on you other than a military distinction. Battlefield injury during the rescue of one of your comrades.”

Brandon was hesitant. On the one hand, he was relieved there was no record of his going AWOL. However, it raised the question of who would have hidden that information, and for what purpose? “So, you have no problem with me, right?”

“On the contrary. You’re stayin’ with me, soldier-boy. As soon as I send this down the line, I’m going to find out once and for all what you are all about.”

Brandon’s initial fears resurfaced. Gillespie wasn’t simply going to leave it at that. All of the possibilities occurred to him in a flood of horror. Not only might his going AWOL be discovered, but the investigation would alert those in government to the fact that he was in custody. That information, in turn, would find its way into the hands of the conspiracy’s personnel, who would undoubtedly have him killed. And Belinda was stranded alone in the forest.

In that moment, he knew, at all costs, he had to escape.

 

***

 

Senator Garrison Treadwell sat in his office sifting through a number of files when he was interrupted by a knock on his door. “Come in.”

Agent Martyn McKay entered, and Treadwell noticed the levity in his eyes.

“I have a report from the police in Morgan, Wyoming, sir,” McKay said eagerly.

“Where’n the hell is that?”

“It’s a small town in the northeast region of Wyoming, sir.”

“And?”

“It’s Drake, sir.”

“What about him?”

McKay caught his breath. “We’ve got him.”

The senator was suddenly gripped with urgency. “Get the jet ready, and arrange for a helicopter at Cheyenne airport. I want it ready for take-off when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Treadwell waited for McKay to leave and hastily took out his cell phone. After two rings it was answered. “Wilmot,” he said sternly, “I want you to contact Bragg and get a contingency out to a place called Morgan in Wyoming, immediately. I’m putting you in charge. If Spicer isn’t overseas, I want him included. Don’t screw this up.”

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