Hold On! - Season 1 (18 page)

Crushed

3:14 a.m.

Questions swirled around in Brandon’s mind chaotically. The worst of all was his mother. She symbolized peace and family to him, and he loved her so deeply. He couldn’t come to terms with feeling so strongly toward someone who didn’t exist. “
Annabelle Drake isn’t real
” echoed in his mind repeatedly. She’d been nothing more than a fictional suggestion that had been planted into his brain, but his memories of her were so real.

The rage he’d felt for his father was compelling. His grandfather had been so unpleasant that thoughts of the man continued to instill him with fear. But these men were complete fabrications also, leading to further questions—such as who was Brandon Drake? And where had he really come from?

It all affirmed his empathy with Belinda. They had both been victims of authority, and they had both been violated by it. They’d violated his mind as surely as the priest had violated her body. He could no longer see that authority existed for any reason other than to bully, control, and destroy.

The question why authority even existed pounded inside his head. Was it to maintain order? If so, how was he to define the nature of order now? Laws changed daily, and varied dramatically from nation to nation. There was no set, tried and tested method of assessing right and wrong, but this clearly erroneous system continued to be imposed upon all. Regardless of its arguable necessity, who could possibly impose it? Men like Treadwell? Fallible, corrupt charlatans who had no superiority or immortality to validate their positions?

Such was how Brandon viewed the lifeless husk he’d pulled uphill for two miles in deep snow. He glanced down at the body bag containing the remains of Garrison Treadwell as he arrived at the north plateau. Clad in heavy, cold weather gear, exhaustion from his effort brought him to his knees. His interlude in L.A. had resulted in the loss of his acclimatization to the mountainous altitude. Given the low oxygen level, he realized he should have used the Turbo Swan, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Shock had taken a powerful hold over him.

He saw the helicopter ahead of him and threw the straps from his shoulders.

It took a few minutes for him to deliver the heavy sack to the helicopter, pull the corpse from it, and strap it into the left pilot’s seat. With his leather-gloved hands, he placed the pistol carefully into the fingers of his deceased foe.

A packed parachute on the pilot’s seat caught his attention. His plan was to create the illusion that Treadwell had shot himself inside his own helicopter—anything to protect the cabin. He didn’t know why a parachute would have been on the seat, although Treadwell and his intentions had proven to be far from usual.

He considered the possibility that Treadwell faking his own death in a helicopter crash and bailing out prior to impact may have been his original intention. Perhaps he’d realized in his final moments that there would have been no life to which he could escape. Only minutes before his death, he’d been protective of the location of his other cabin. What difference would it have made if he knew he was going to die all along?

Whatever Treadwell’s twisted thoughts were, the parachute gave Brandon an idea. He reached over, grasped it, and gazed at it for several minutes. Still in shock, emotionally and physically exhausted, he shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind.

He carefully examined the parachute. It would have been in keeping with Treadwell’s persona to have sabotaged it in order to set him up. After an initial peripheral examination of the gear, all looked to be in order and he put it on.

Having secured Treadwell’s body into the left pilot’s seat, he then strode through the snow to the other side of the helicopter. Finally, he climbed in.

Dazed, he started up the rotors and waited as the blades came up to speed, creating a snow-storm in the darkness.

He looked upon the shattered, bloodied face of the corpse sitting next to him with vitriolic loathing. “You son of a bitch.”

Once the rotors had achieved the required speed, he pulled the collective lever and the helicopter began to rise. The light at the nose of the aircraft illuminated the crystalline snow of the mountains as it ascended. Once he’d attained the required height, he set his plan into motion.

After ten minutes, he was approximately thirty nautical miles away from the cabin. He glanced at Treadwell’s body one last time, then looked ahead to see another mountain ahead of him.

Releasing the controls, he threw the door open. The helicopter was already unsteady without his hand gripping the controls, and he was mindful of the tail rotor catching him when he bailed out. The powerful, chilling wind beat against his face reviving him from his weariness. It was almost impossible for him to open his eyes. He’d bailed out of helicopters before in the desert, but never in such extreme cold.

Gently allowing himself to slip from the edge of the cockpit, he fell out and arched his body into earth-fall position ready for deploying the parachute. Despite having checked it, the paranoia that Treadwell had set him up with a sabotaged ‘chute gripped him again.

The wind chill beat against his face as he plummeted toward the ground. He deployed the main parachute and sensed the familiar feelings of deceleration and being stood up.

As soon as he was able to open his eyes, a sound similar to a thunder crack in the distance alerted him. He looked to his left and saw a faint orange glow grazing the bottom of the mountain. The helicopter had spiraled out of control and exploded on impact. Treadwell was incinerated.

He continued to glide down, not entirely sure where he would land, but hoped he was flying in the direction of Aspen. Of one thing he was certain—he faced a considerable trek through the snow after he landed.

He watched his ground track as he descended to the south. At least that was a step in the right direction, although he wished he would fly just a little farther. The snow below him took on an ethereal shade of blue in the moonlight.

Using all of his remaining wits, he braced himself for impact and flared the canopy for landing. His feet brushed the snow causing him to run across it momentarily before his entire bodyweight sank down.

He waited for the parachute to float to the ground and collected it up in a tight bundle. Having removed the harness from his shoulders, he crudely stuffed the canopy back into the container. Ultimately, most of it hung out but it didn’t drag on the snow once he’d fed his arms back into the pack.

He took out his compass and switched on the light, adjusted his position until he found north, and then plotted his course back to the cabin.

With minimal energy, he began his torturous hike, crunching his way through deep snow.

Relentlessly he continued, often uncertain as to whether he was dreaming. He was desperately tired and found himself slipping in and out of consciousness. As he came around each time, his heart palpitated with the realization he may have dropped the compass. Nevertheless, it was always grasped tightly in his glove.

Two hours passed. He began to worry he’d landed farther out than he’d originally thought. Finally, he noticed the smoke from the cabin’s chimney in the distance and smiled weakly. The smoke meant he was nearly home and Belinda was still awake.

He looked to his left and noticed the impression in the snow where Treadwell had landed the helicopter.
Just another two miles
. Pushing himself forward, he prepared to descend the deep slope of the ridge. It was a harrowing ordeal, with his body exhausted, and his spirit crushed.

At just past seven in the morning, Belinda heard a knock on the cabin door. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

She made her way to the door and opened it to see Brandon standing before her, his appearance shocking to behold. His eyes appeared sunken, his lips were blue, and his skin seemed a frozen shade of gray-white. “Brandon. What happened to you? I’ve been worried out of my mind.”

He tried to reply but his lips were clearly frozen. “I-it’s over. Treadwell’s gone f-forever. N-need s-sleep. Walked eight miles in deep snow.” He staggered into the cabin, the warmth of the log-fire embracing him as it filled the room. Shivering, he cast the parachute onto the floor.

“Oh, my God, you jumped out of the chopper,” she said. “Let me help you.”

Between the two of them, they managed to get him out of his boots and arctic vestments swiftly, and then he made his way to the bedroom.

As soon as he was stripped down to his underwear, he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

Belinda knelt beside him and stroked his hair with deep concern dominating her thoughts.

After a few moments, she stood, pulled the duvet over him, and climbed in herself. Whatever had to be discussed would have to wait until the afternoon.

Road to a Collision

Gary Payne sat on the edge of the bed in a cheap motel room on the outskirts of Cedar City, Utah. Disheveled and on the run, he knew his only means escape from America was in the hands of another fugitive.

He looked around the
basic room. There was no television, a worn, lime-green carpet, and a bathroom in need of cleaning. However, it served his purpose for the moment. Before he could ascertain what his next move would be, he needed answers to vital questions. Who was Brandon Drake? Who were his contacts? Who were his friends? In order to find clues, he needed to delve into the man’s history.

He reached into his suitcase, took out a laptop, and searched through the files. Finding nothing, he decided to initiate a secure internal search for Brandon Drake, using an SDT access code.

Quickly, a statistics file appeared on the screen. Strangely, however, key areas of Drake’s life were blacked out, including the names of his birth parents and—his
foster
parents. All information pertaining to Brandon Drake prior to two years ago was deemed classified.

He screwed up his lips in annoyance and studied the only information the computer screen offered:

Sergeant Brandon Drake, 82
nd
Airborne Division.

Base: Fort Bragg, North Carolina, USA.

Commanding Officer: Colonel Darren Woodroffe.

Head injury incurred during rescue of colleague, Sergeant David Spicer.

Transferred to Mach Industries, Arlington, Virginia, 12/6/12.

Immediate superior: Senator Garrison Treadwell.

“You bastard, Treadwell,” he growled. “He was your fucking man all along.”

One particular line on the screen came to his attention. Drake had been injured during the rescue of one of his peers. His former commanding officer would be the last person on earth Drake would contact after going AWOL with a fortune in military tech. But someone whose life he’d saved was a strong possibility.

The more he contemplated the particulars, the more he became satisfied he’d found his man. “That’s the one. Spicer.”

***

Brandon awoke at seven o’clock in the evening. As his eyes opened he noticed through the drapes that it was dark outside. He hadn’t seen daylight in twenty-six hours. For a moment, he hoped he’d simply dreamed the events of the previous night, but then quickly realized the magnitude of his reality.

He sat upright and saw Belinda sitting on the bed beside him.

“Hi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Groggy.”

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours. What happened last night?”

Brandon yawned and gathered his thoughts. “I took him to the helicopter. I wanted to make it look like he shot himself in it. I didn’t want any trace of the son of a bitch near the cabin. I noticed a parachute and helmet in the chopper, so I took it up about thirty miles away from here, bailed out and let it crash in the mountains.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because when, I mean
if
, anyone finds it, it’s far enough away from here and the explosion will have hopefully obliterated any trace of him having been here. It’ll look like he just crashed.” He stood up out of bed and made his way toward the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?”

“Coffee.”

“Brandon, let me get the coffee. You go watch some TV.”

Almost zombie-like, he turned toward the living room while Belinda walked into the kitchen.

A desperate hope struck him. He was certain he had a photograph of his mother in his wallet.

Urgently, he returned to the bedroom, opened up the wardrobe, and took out his denim jacket. He reached into the inside pocket and seized the wallet. Frantically, he took the bills out, but there was nothing. He searched the credit card slots and the small, inside pockets, but there was nothing else in them. He could’ve sworn he remembered putting a photograph of his mother in there.

Devastated, he made his way back into the living room. He sat on the couch and barely noticed the log fire was ablaze. Belinda had neatly folded up his clothing and parachute and placed them on the recliner.

He looked around the room. Wouldn’t he have had family photographs mounted
on the walls? He questioned why he’d never realized there were no such photographs in the cabin. How could he have missed something like that, especially since it was supposed to have belonged to his father and grandfather? Wouldn’t there have been photos of his grandfather, or something relating to his life?

He looked at the back wall and his heart missed a beat. There was no blood on it. Could all that had transpired the night before have been a dream after all?

“I washed it off while you were asleep,” Belinda said, as though knowing his thoughts. “I spent much of the afternoon on it. It was revolting and I couldn’t stand the sight of it.”

He turned and looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”

“I can see that.”

“Thank you for what you’ve done. It must have been horrible for you. I wish I’d have been conscious so I could’ve done it myself.”

She smiled appreciatively. “I’ll get the coffee.”

She returned to him minutes later holding two large mugs. Having spent his time in the cabin catering to just himself, he only had his own preferred, macho-sized mugs in the cupboard. Even that raised a question. Were they really
his
mugs? Or had Treadwell put them there, along with his memories of buying them?

Belinda handed him his coffee and sat beside him. She placed a comforting arm around his shoulders, unable to recall seeing such a tortured look in the eyes of another. He was such a contrast to the man she’d met only nineteen days earlier on the Carringby rooftop. ‘
Hold on!
’ he’d said to her with such cool, cavalier confidence in the midst of such a hazardous situation. It had surely been his finest hour.

Her heart broke at the thought of what he must be suffering. Compassionately, she tried to imagine what she would have gone through if she’d been told that her mother wasn’t real and her past never really happened. What if, perhaps, she’d never been to college, she hadn’t really worked at Carringby Industries, and it had all been a series of fictional constructs? What if everything that made her who she was had been a fabrication, and she had no idea where she’d really come from? Could there be anything more terrifying?

And yet there she sat, holding the only man she had ever truly loved, who was suffering that horror. She had no words of comfort for him. She could tell him that she loved him, but she knew he would only ask, “Love who?”

“I have to find out . . .” he whispered.

“What, sweetheart?”

“I have to find out . . . who I am. There’s only one man who can help me. Only one man who knows the truth, and I need to see him.”

“Who’s that, baby?”

He gazed at the sat-scrambler phone on the liquor cabinet.

“Who, Brandon?” she repeated. “Who’s the only man who can help you?”

Finally, he said, “David Spicer.”