Run! - Hold On! Season 3 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Other Titles in this Series:

  Hold On! – Season 1

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VXTI2FM

  Go! – Hold On! Season 2

  http://www.amazon.com/Go-Hold-Season-Peter-Darley-ebook/dp/B00YD8497U

  Run!

  ________________________________________

  Hold On! Season 3

  PETER DARLEY

  RUN!—HOLD ON! SEASON 3

  Copyright©2015

  PETER DARLEY

  www.peterdarley.com

  Cover Design by Peter Darley and Harris Channing.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents, and works are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, works, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any other duplicative means) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Exception applies to reasonably brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. The participation in or encouraging of electronic piracy of copyrighted materials is strictly prohibited.

  Author contact:

  http://www.peterdarley.com/contact.html

  https://www.facebook.com/PDAuthor

  For Patricia

  Your love, kindness, and unwavering support, against overwhelming odds, trials and tribulations, enabled me to bring the completed trilogy to my readers, while all the time teaching me the true meaning of the words—

  Hold On!

  Prologue

  Dr. Frederick DeSouza gingerly entered a neon-lit laboratory, nervously passing the monitor screens. He stepped through a door at the far end in anticipation of what would be revealed within the next hour.

  It was a unique moment in his career as a neuro-biological scientist, a career that, hitherto, had come to an end. He’d amassed his fortune and settled comfortably into a life of retirement. That was, until the day he received a visit from Andrew Wilmot, the director of an anti-terrorist, Homeland Security division known as SDT, asking him to come out of retirement.

  But what had been expected of him had been an astonishing demand. His specialist skill as a memory revisionist had never been called upon before to undo a revision.

  The irony struck him as he considered the circumstances. Almost four years earlier, he’d been asked by his late associate, Senator Garrison Treadwell, to revise the memories and personality of a particularly volatile warrior named Brandon Drake. It had been an operation to make the young soldier more manageable, while maintaining his inherent skills, intellect, and extraordinary talents.

  However, the experiment led to the creation of a persona who had divided the American people. Drake became a hero; a selfless rescuer of the innocent—women and children alike—as he committed himself to thwarting corruption in government, and tyrants wherever he found them. He’d also leveled a media attack against Treadwell.

  Accompanied by his lover, Belinda Reese, a woman whose life he’d saved during a terrorist attack instigated at Treadwell’s behest, Drake became a fugitive. He’d abandoned his post with the Eighty-Second Airborne Division and chosen the path of a loner.

  Now, the world believed he was dead, blown to smithereens in a cataclysmic explosion. But it wasn’t so. He’d survived by virtue of incredibly sophisticated armor and hardware.

  Six weeks had passed since the explosion. DeSouza had been instructed to suppress all of Drake’s memories since his last revision and restore him to his original persona—a malevolent combatant known as The Scorpion. Persistently, he questioned why Wilmot would have wanted him to do such a thing, but he didn’t voice it. Faith in the system, a touch of hubris and, in a moment of honesty, his payment for services rendered, had silenced him.

  Nevertheless, a touch of guilt gnawed at him. He had no idea what he was about to awaken, and the thought of the possibilities chilled him.

  He turned the corner and entered a room with a hospital-style bed in the corner. Brandon Drake lay comatose upon it. His wounds from the crash had required the six weeks of induced oblivion to heal. DeSouza was aware that when Drake came around again, he wouldn’t be aware of the crash, or of the four years preceding it. It struck him that he’d been instrumental in the destiny of a man to whom he had never even spoken. An amnesia-stricken, unconscious soul is all he’d ever known.

  He watched as Drake’s eyeballs moved rapidly beneath his eyelids, indicating the dream state. “Where are you, my boy?” he murmured. “What do you remember?”

  One

  Yesterday

  FOB Thorne, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  September 4th, 2012

  Sergeant Brandon Drake dragged a senseless, blindfolded Afghan prisoner into a hangar through a crowd of twelve soldiers. The captive’s wrists bound behind him made any possibility of effective resistance impossible.

  The hangar conveyed the aura of dereliction, permeated by the aroma of desert musk. Six years had passed since US forces had occupied Thorne, an obscure, military, forward operating base. Its original usage had endured for twelve months, between 2005 and 2006, having been set up as a temporary back-up to accommodate a high number of troops. They’d returned to it only for this one, clandestine operation.

  The corners of Drake’s mouth widened slightly as he gloated with the knowledge that only he knew the true nature of the mission.

  Without warning, he struck his prisoner in the stomach. The captive instantly crumpled to the floor in agony, gasping for air. Drake unbound the man’s wrists and spun him around. He grasped a length of rope from the floor and hurled it across an overhanging rafter. With the loose end, he bound the prisoner’s wrists in front of him and pulled the rope taut, causing the Afghan’s arms to reach up toward the beam. He continued to stretch the rope until his prey’s feet almost left the ground. The prisoner cried out with the pain of his arms becoming dislocated from their shoulder sockets.

  “All right, Drake. That’s enough!”

  Drake turned to see his commanding officer, Colonel Darren Woodroffe, standing
at the front of the gathering. Amidst the small parade of tan, gray, and green camouflage combat uniforms was a palpable air of unease.

  Drake focused his cold, predatory gaze onto the colonel’s. Confidence filled his heart. He knew Woodroffe feared him. The colonel’s twin black eyes were Drake’s handiwork, an offense for which he’d already spent two days in the hole. However, the fact that he’d been summoned away from his confinement so quickly demonstrated the power he now had, unbeknownst to any other.

  “We followed the trail to where they were holed up in Lashkar Gar, but they’d moved on,” Drake said. “This asshole was the only one left, so he’s the only one who can tell us where the hell they are, sir.” The last word came out with sarcastic, condescending contempt.

  Woodroffe came closer to him with a look that showed his determination to maintain his authority. “You’re going back to the hole as soon we return to Bragg, Drake. So unless you want your confinement period doubled, I suggest you show respect for a commanding officer. Are we clear?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” The reply came with the same carefree disregard.

  Woodroffe was about to respond when he was cut off by a shrill female voice coming from the rear of the hangar. He turned abruptly as Private Rachel Martoni entered. Of slight build, and a mere five feet, five inches tall, her golden blonde hair was barely visible from beneath her helmet.

  “Colonel,” she said, and saluted.

  “Yes, Private. What is it?”

  “A message came through from Bragg. General Grant wants an update on the operation.”

  Woodroffe brushed his moustache with his fingers and looked down pensively for a moment. Finally, he turned back to Drake and gestured to the captive. “Get what you can out of that clown.” With that, he turned and exited the hangar.

  Drake’s eyes became maniacal, and he could see the men in the room shuddering. Seven of the soldiers, including Private Martoni, followed Woodroffe outside.

  Sergeant David Spicer stepped forward from among the remaining troops. A striking, dark-haired soldier of twenty-six, his clean, wholesome features epitomized the motto of the Eighty-Second Airborne Division—All American. Undoubtedly fearful, he dared to walk through his reservations. “Hey, come on, Scorp,” he said, invoking Drake’s nickname—The Scorpion. “Let’s not do something hasty. Wait until Woodroffe gets back.”

  Drake laughed cruelly. “You heard the man. I’m supposed to get out of him what he knows. That’s why we’re here, Spicer.” Prowling around his colleague as a cat would stalk a mouse, he savored Spicer’s fears. “Or, would you like us to continue our poker game?”

  “S-Scorp, I’m already in over my head. I still owe you five hundred, bro.”

  Drake positioned his nose a millimeter away from Spicer’s. “I’m not your ‘bro’, Spicer. We had a deal. You were gonna pay me as soon as I got out of the hole.” He paused, intimidating David, relishing every moment. “Well, I’m out of the hole.”

  “Y-yeah, but Scorp, you were released prematurely. I didn’t have time to get the money together.”

  “That’s not my problem.” Drake removed his helmet to reveal his short-cropped hair. His chiseled features seemed granite-like as he ground his teeth causing his jaw muscles to become more prominent.

  David trembled. Drake held his gaze for a moment, and then simply walked out onto the grounds of the small base.

  Drake’s attention fell upon the unit’s two Black Hawk helicopters. Soon, I’ll be out.

  The one-hundred-ten degree heat was oppressive, and the dusk wasn’t doing anything to cool it down. His combat uniform and armor added to the intensity of the desert temperature.

  He looked around to ensure he was alone, lit a cigarette, and made his way along the side of the hangar. He quickly found a secluded gap between the adjacent living quarters and the sergeant’s mess, and concealed himself in the shadows.

  He reached into his pocket and took out a sophisticated-looking cell phone. After flicking it open, he selected his contact. It was answered after one ring. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Where are you, Drake?” a stern voice said through the receiver. “I was expecting your call two hours ago.”

  “We ran into a problem. The hideout in Lashkar Gar was abandoned. We captured one remaining member of al Fajr. Are you sure Slamer wasn’t sellin’ you a line of shit?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “In that case, they cleared out between the time he planted the evidence and the time we arrived. They were on to us.”

  “Find out what you can from this captured operative, Drake. The president is pulling you boys out of Afghanistan. I need to give him a reason not to.”

  Drake contemplated the particulars between drags of his cigarette. Al Fajr—The Dawn—was nothing. They were a virtually-inactive, fragmented, al Qaeda-Taliban hybrid. However, manufactured evidence that they were planning a strike against the US, and the likelihood of a retaliation following the current operation, was certain to extend the war. It would profit his benefactor’s covert arms dealings considerably, and subsequently, himself. “I’ll get you what you want,” he said darkly.

  “Getting you out of the hole was just a sample of what I can do for you, Drake. There’s billions of dollars on the line here, and you’ll get your cut. Just do this job for me, and I’ll take you out of the army. You’ll be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams working for me.”

  Drake screwed up his lips with a combination of ambition and extreme irritation. “All right. But don’t think for a minute that you own me, Treadwell. Nobody does.”

  “Right now, I’m your only lifeline, Drake. Don’t screw it up. Now destroy the phone.”

  “What?”

  “It’s an experimental sat-scrambler. You can’t afford to be discovered with it. Now, destroy the damn thing!” The call ended.

  Drake stared at the phone and stubbed out his cigarette in the sand.

  Stepping out of the shadows, he froze in his tracks. Private Rachel Martoni was standing with her attention focused squarely in his direction. Subtly, he palmed the sat-scrambler phone away from her field of vision.

  “Who . . . who were you talking to, sir?” she said.

  “You don’t ask me questions. I’m your superior, and you answer to me.” He made his way toward her and towered over her in order to enhance her sense of discomfort. He stroked the tip of his forefinger under her chin, causing her to shudder visibly. “You’ve got nothing I can’t take if I want to, Private.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you again, sir.”

  “Oh, no? You already know all it would take is for me to spread it around that you like girls, and your life would be a living hell around here.” He could see the fear in her eyes, enhanced by her labored breathing.

  “That’s not true, and you know it. I’m as straight as you are.”

  He chuckled. “You know that. I know that. But they don’t know that.”

  “What difference does it make? ‘Don’t ask don’t tell’ is history.”

  He laughed mockingly. “Are you really that naïve? You honestly think you can change the mindset of an entire battalion overnight?”

  She eased herself back, clearly desperate to get away from him. “You really are the most despicable person I’ve ever known, Sergeant Drake. Sir.”

  For an instant, he was impressed by her courage. Knowing she’d slept with him only because she was afraid of him thrilled him enormously. “It’s all part of my charm.” Slowly, he moved past her, and she hurried out of his way toward the barracks.

  Once she was out of sight, he dropped the sat-scrambler phone onto the rocky ground and crushed it with his right heel.

  Drake returned to the hangar, instantly silencing the conversations within. He noticed twenty-eight-year-old Sergeant Barry Stockton interrogating the prisoner. The captive’s blindfold had been removed, and his shirt was torn open.

  “What’ve you found out?” Drake said.

  “We’ve got his name,�
� Stockton replied.

  “You’ve got his name? You’ve got his name? What is it? Please tell me. The fuckin’ suspense is killin’ me, Stockton.”

  “Haamid Nabi.”

  Drake forcefully pushed his way through the remaining soldiers. Each man moved to the side to make way for him, heightening his sense of power. Each soldier held Drake’s rank or lower, but it made no difference. He had fear on his side and was the only one among them who knew the truth about the mission. The unorthodox nature of the operation, the obscure base, and their separation from all other defense units, created an aura of confusion among them. They acted on obedience to orders, never questioning.

  For seven years, the army had been his prison. A string of criminal offenses had led a district court judge to offer him a choice at the age of nineteen: the state penitentiary—or the army. Since that time, his hatred of authority had never wavered.

  Regardless, he’d found solace on the battlefield. He was aware his fellow soldiers viewed the matter very differently. He knew they’d been comfortable back in Bragg, only to be summoned to action again. Their lives were a constant cycle of battle, anxiety, drill, and a return to normalcy, which was always rudely interrupted by another call to battle.

  But to Drake, war was his playground—an opportunity to vent the one emotion that drove him: rage.

  Now, he was more powerful than ever. No matter what sanctions the army applied to him, they would be overridden by his new benefactor. He was no longer a soldier. He was an undercover operative for an office of congress. He was untouchable.

  However, the continuation of his newfound power was dependent on this mission succeeding, and he wasn’t about to permit anything to impair his success.

  Approaching the prisoner, he stared him in the eye, feeding off his terror. Perspiration fell from the man’s brow as he hyperventilated. “Where are they, Nabi?”