Hold On! - Season 1 (13 page)

Exposé

Brandon’s recording appeared in homes all across America at 18:00 hours, in all time zones.

Brandon and Belinda sat on the leather recliner in the cabin watching the broadcast on the widescreen television.

Belinda grinned excitedly at seeing herself on television for the first time, although her sense of glee was hampered by one single factor. “Why do I look like I’ve put on about ten pounds?”

Brandon said, “It’s like I told you. It’s the widescreen aspect ratio. It does it to everybody, which is why those movie star people are always dieting like crazy.”

Quickly realizing her sense of personal insecurity was not appropriate in that moment, she focused on the seriousness of the matter at hand. “What do you think is going to happen now?”

“We wait for a few days to see what the reaction is, and what the CIA’s next move will be. You must understand, this isn’t the actual CIA doing these things. I believe it’s a splinter cell within their ranks.”

“Yes, but what are
your
plans?”

“Hopefully, I won’t have to do anything. I need to keep an eye on the TV to see what transpires. This should be the end of it, but if it isn’t . . .”

“And if it isn’t, then what?”

Fear filled his eyes as it had on the evening he was preparing to set off for Utah. “Then we go to the next phase.”

***

Garrison Treadwell stepped into his opulent home in Spring Valley, Washington, and switched on the lights. After placing his briefcase beside the bureau, he removed his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. Sullenness came over him every evening when he returned home after work. It was so empty and quiet.

Routinely, he entered his living room, placed his jacket over the arm of the couch, and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Sitting on top of it was a framed photograph of his wife, son and daughter. All of them were long gone from his life.

His wife, Janice, had
passed away almost ten years earlier at the age of forty-nine. A history of high blood pressure eventually led to a massive heart attack.

His son, a successful antitrust lawyer, lived in California. His estranged daughter lived in England with her husband and two children. Treadwell knew they held him responsible for their mother’s death. In his heart, he was aware his domineering, uncompromising, and abrasive attitude had made her life a living hell. The photograph served as a constant reminder of what he’d lost, but could never forget.

His career and his country had become an obsession for him since the loss of his family. They were all he had left to live for, and neither were living up to his expectations. He never committed any action he believed to be unjustified. In his own mind, he was always right, but that same trait had ultimately cost him his family.

He poured himself a brandy and switched on his fifty-inch widescreen television with the remote control. After a brief search through the channels, he stopped at the Channel 7 news broadcast. Settling on the couch, he sipped his brandy.

Brandon’s recording began, and Treadwell felt as though his heart had come into his throat. The glass of brandy fell from his hand as Drake spoke his name.

***

Agent Martyn McKay opened the door to his apartment in Washington DC with his cell phone held against his ear. “Yeah, I’d love to see you again, Becky. I apologize for not calling you. I’ve been working on a really important case . . . No, I can’t really talk about it. It’s classified . . . It’s nothing personal, it’s just extremely complicated . . . Yes, tomorrow would be great. What time would you like me to pick you up? All right, I’ll be there.”

He ended the call and smiled, somewhat exhilarated. Deeply attracted to Becky, a stunning fashion model, he was determined not to lose her favor.

He entered his living room and turned on the television set. Brandon and Belinda’s speeches had already begun. His head snapped toward the screen. Potential answers about what the Drake case entailed were finally coming to light.

As horrifying as the revelation was, everything he was hearing fit exactly with his personal experience of Garrison Treadwell—the secrecy, the riddles, the nonsensical orders, and the senator’s defensive aggression.

              But now, the soldier he’d been ordered to hunt down was answering the questions that had plagued his mind for weeks. If a word of it was true, where did he stand? Would he be implicated as an accessory? How many others were involved?

Uneasily, he sat down in cold contemplation.

***

In his quarters at Fort Bragg, David Spicer prepared for a period of rest and recreation, having just been given an unexpected and indefinite leave. His portable television set provided mild background noise.

At loose ends, he’d recently split with his girlfriend after only three weeks. He found it virtually impossible to find a woman to commit to him given the hazardous nature of his occupation. Curiously, several of his fellow troopers had somehow managed to balance a life of combat with healthy relationships. He wished endlessly he could learn the secret of their success.

He turned to the screen sharply as he heard Brandon’s voice. Held transfixed for a moment, he finally sat on the edge of his bed. The recent wave of attacks had been a subject of considerable interest to him. It was all the more frustrating that nobody knew who was responsible.

Was Drake telling the truth? Treadwell was a particularly despicable man, and David hadn’t fully recovered from what the senator had almost forced him to do in Wyoming. But would Treadwell have gone as far as to commit the crimes of which Drake was accusing him?

Aside from the gnawing questions, something else was wrong. To David’s mind, the man on the television
wasn’t
Brandon Drake. The physical appearance was that of Drake, but it was his words and the way in which he was speaking that simply didn’t make any sense. It sounded as though he’d become some kind of born-again Christian, or a reincarnation of John-Boy Walton. Even the inflections in his words weren’t those of the Brandon Drake he knew.

To the best of Spicer’s knowledge, Drake never had any experience as an actor. In fact, Drake would have shunned such a trade on the grounds of it being a practice of males who weren’t
real
men.

“What the hell are you playing at, Drake?” he muttered in suspicious bewilderment.

The Letter

Agent Andrew Wilmot knocked on Director Elias Wolfe’s office door in Langley with apprehension. His face was still badly bruised from Brandon Drake’s attack. Now he was being summoned to the director’s office with a list of serious implications against him. With what Drake had revealed on national television, and his own involvement with Treadwell, he feared this was going to be his day of reckoning.

“Come in.”

He entered the spotless office and saw Agent Martyn McKay sitting opposite Wolfe at the desk.

Wolfe’s position as director of Strategic Detection of Terrorism, or
SDT
, a separate intelligence-gathering department, operating from CIA headquarters, called for a leader of the utmost commitment and experience. He stood up from behind his desk. At six-feet-four, with a powerful, masculine jaw-line, and commando-style short, gray hair, his authoritative demeanor was undeniable. “Take a seat, Wilmot.”

“Thank you, sir.” He stepped forward and sat nervously beside McKay.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Wolfe said. “I called you two in here because I need your help.”

Wilmot felt a little easier. ‘I need your help’ was a long way from an accusation.

“You were both involved with Senator Treadwell on some investigation into this Brandon Drake character, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” the two agents said in unison.

“I’m sure you’re both aware of last night’s broadcast?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wolfe moved over to his drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of diet soda. “What can either of you tell me about Brandon Drake?”

McKay coughed, as though embarrassed. “Not much, sir. Senator Treadwell always seemed to talk in riddles when it came to Drake. Until last night, I had no idea what this was all about. I merely followed my orders.”

“Same goes for me, sir,” Wilmot said.

“So, you have no knowledge of these supposed mercenaries Drake alluded to?”

Both agents shrugged as Wolfe’s eyes moved from one to the other.

Wilmot knew it didn’t add up and hoped Wolfe understood he was innocent. The fact that McKay was also in the dark must have seemed strange to Wolfe.

Wolfe turned to McKay. “You mentioned orders. What were those orders?”

“I knew Drake had stolen some military hardware and the Turbo Swan test unit. That was all Senator Treadwell told me. After the Carringby incident, he ordered me to contact what he called the Delta Unit to give them the order to neutralize Drake.”

“
Neutralize
Drake? What do you suppose he meant by that?”

McKay shook his head. “Senator Treadwell wouldn’t tell me anything, so I presumed Drake was with a rival terrorist group. Might I ask why you’re not talking to the senator about this?”

Wolfe poured his soda and turned back to the two agents. “We can’t ask Treadwell anything. He’s disappeared.”

Wilmot and McKay looked at one another with mutual concern.

Wolfe contemplated his dilemma. The man he was asking about had been his close friend and confidante for twenty-five years. Treadwell had been well-respected in the senate, recognized for his charitable contributions to the 9/11 commission. He was also the founder of a benevolent fund for the families of active servicemen. From his early days as an honor student of law at Stanford University, to an illustrious career as a prosecuting attorney, and his rise to congress, Treadwell had led a life committed to justice. There had never been any question about Wolfe assigning agents to the senator for his anti-terrorism investigations. Treadwell had proven to be a far greater boon to the intelligence community than his position demanded.

However, the moment a disgruntled AWOL soldier began hurling accusations against him, he simply vanished without a trace.

“Had it not been for Senator Treadwell’s suspicious disappearance, we would be laughing at that film Drake made.” Wolfe leaned forward, closing in on McKay’s face. “This ‘Delta Unit’ you mentioned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is it?”

McKay took out his cell phone and scanned through his contacts. He quickly came to a number identified only by the letter D. “This is all I had, sir.”

Wolfe took the phone and looked at the screen. “What happened when you called this number?”

“A man answered and I relayed whatever message Senator Treadwell wanted me to. I never understood the messages, but he always told me that
they
would.”

“And?”

“They hung up and that was it.”

“Couldn’t he have done that himself?” Wolfe continued to study the number in his hand. There was something familiar about it. Without looking up, he gestured to Wilmot. “What about you?”

“I was assigned by Senator Treadwell to lead an operation to apprehend, who I was told, was a dangerous, wanted fugitive and his accomplice in Wyoming. I came off a little worse for wear and Drake escaped.”

“So I see.”

Wolfe’s eyes widened as something about the number on McKay’s cell phone finally made sense to him. It was certainly not a contact number for any band of mercenaries. The number was preceded by a high-level security SDT prefix code. He knew, in that moment, that the enemy was truly inside the gate.

***

Agent Gary Payne stepped into his apartment in Central Washington DC immaculately attired in a dark suit with a leather briefcase firmly in his grasp. He switched on the light.

Having been out of the state for the past week investigating a potential terrorist threat, he’d only heard rumors of Brandon Drake’s broadcast. Without having actually seen it, his concern was tempered only by the high probability that it would be received as a disgruntled AWOL soldier spinning a crackpot conspiracy theory. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake his gnawing sense of angst.

At forty-two, he’d risen through the ranks of SDT admirably, collecting a number of distinctions along the way. Obsessively ambitious, he’d never married, his career superseding any desire for intimacy other than a string of one night stands.

Senator Garrison Treadwell had scrutinized him and probed his mindset for months until he was finally certain of inviting him into his clandestine movement. On that day, Payne’s dreams finally came true. Treadwell’s vision for the future of America was identical to his own—a nation of prosperity, and a formidable force that no other nation could make war with.

Although there had always been friction between Treadwell and himself, the sense of power he felt from being appointed commander of the senator’s secret operation, had been euphoric. It was tainted only by his suspicion that Treadwell had another operative waiting to take his place. If that suspicion was true, the identity of the other had been concealed beyond detection.

He closed the door behind him and knelt down to pick up his mail. After discarding the junk mail onto the living room’s coffee table, he came to a letter sent two days earlier. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable.

He hurriedly tore it open and drew out a handwritten letter. Within moments, distress took hold of him as he read:

Payne

I have had no choice but to disappear. Drake’s broadcast has hampered the operation considerably. I have the situation well in hand, but I suggest that you and every operative involved disappear also. I don’t believe your cover will withstand a thorough, official investigation. Our greatest ally was always ignorance. We no longer have that.

You have performed admirably, but Drake has become a serious problem for us all. I don’t have time to go into the details now, but what you are looking for is in Drake’s hands. I suggest you track him and take what’s yours. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how to do your job. Just do what you have to do.

Consumed with rage, Payne crumpled the letter in a furious grip. What Treadwell had said about Drake made no sense whatsoever, but that did nothing to change the facts. If the situation was as serious as the senator made out, he would have to disappear.

But not before taking what was his.