Read Hold On! - Season 1 Online
Authors: Peter Darley
Hold On! - Season 1
Table of Contents
HOLD ON!
Season 1
PETER DARLEY
HOLD ON!—Season 1
Copyright©2015
PETER DARLEY
Cover Design by Peter Darley and Christy Caughie.
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.
Lyrics from ‘Highway of Love’ by Shining Line used with permission.
Author contact:
http://www.peterdarley.com/contact.html
https://www.facebook.com/PDAuthor
Other Titles in the Series:
Go! – Hold On! Season 2
http://www.amazon.com/Go-Hold-Season-Peter-Darley-ebook/dp/B00YD8497U
Run! – Hold On! Season 3
http://www.amazon.com/Run-Hold-Season-Peter-Darley-ebook/dp/B011YZ9KLO
Also recommended:
Star Wars: The Force Awakens by Alan Dean Foster
http://www.amazon.com/The-Force-Awakens-Star-Wars/dp/1101965495
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Train-Paula-Hawkins-ebook/dp/B00NOPQU2K
“To the victims of all forms
of tyranny and oppression,
past, present, and future,
and to all of the world’s lovers,
this work is respectfully dedicated.”
Four minutes left
. Brandon gazed at a digital clock on the mantelpiece: 14:26. His heart rate quickened as though he was a condemned man four minutes away from his own execution. The fluttering in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t stop.
He sat on the edge of his leather sofa with a blazing log fire before him. It was so comfortable he was sorely tempted to stay there where it was safe. His left hand trembled as it rested on a smooth, black helmet beside him.
14:27.
A series of papers lay strewn across the carpet—layout plans for a skyscraper he’d spent two weeks committing to memory. Despite knowing them, his urgency persisted in driving him toward an obsessive last-minute revision, not that there was any chance of him being able to concentrate.
He gathered the papers in his clammy hands to fold them—anything to delay the terrifying moment when he would have to leave.
Bundling the plans became a desperate procrastination, a traumatic dance through his own Gethsemane. If he were caught, there was no saying how long he would be sent down for. But he had no choice.
He’d already attempted the easy option by alerting the victims to a forthcoming attack one month earlier. No one had believed him, and hundreds of innocent lives had been lost. This time, there was no alternative. He couldn’t live with any more deaths on his conscience, no matter the cost to himself.
He placed the papers on the living room table and picked up the helmet from the sofa.
Draped across the armrest were a black Kevlar jacket, leg-wear, and a tool belt. With fearful reluctance, he picked them up and hooked them across his left forearm. With his free hand, he picked up a pair of black, rubber-soled boots from beside the sofa.
Through a window, gray-hued sky shrouded a snow-covered landscape. The bleak overcast perfectly mirrored his anxiety-ridden frame of mind.
Bracing himself, he accepted his fears and made his way toward the door, shivering.
Inferno
February 7
th
, 2014
Belinda gazed out a window across the Denver skyline. She glanced at her watch.
Only two hours to go
. It had been yet another five days of tedium, relentless painted smiles, and painstaking tolerance. But tonight was Friday night. Party night.
“Ms. Reese, where’s the report from Manning Enterprises?”
The sound of Barton Carringby’s humorless tone startled her, drawing her out of the fantasy of her predicted evening to come. “I’ll get it for you, sir.”
She moved away from the window in a hurry and back to her desk. As much as she disliked her employer, he wasn’t someone to disappoint. Carringby had authority wherever he went. A man of tremendous wealth and influence, he didn’t have to speak but merely to appear in a room and the world would seem to freeze.
Carringby Industries was involved in almost every media, from telecommunications and crop rotation, to oil refining. As Carringby’s secretary, Belinda performed her tasks with the utmost efficiency, but in her heart she wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Life as Carringby’s assistant was boring, and her only true interest in the company was her weekly salary. She couldn’t deny her resentment that this was all four years of college and a degree in marketing had managed to earn her. Her time studying had been even more harrowing because she didn’t have a passion for the subject. She’d worked with self-discipline and desperation in the hope it would lead her out of her financial rut.
Her relationships with men had led to one break-up after another. The problem arose from her longstanding trust issues, and only coming into contact with men who were corporate types when she wasn’t a corporate type. She did, however, make a convincing impersonation of one when necessary.
At twenty-seven, she was a woman upon whom life had inflicted great frustration. It wasn’t the first time Carringby had caught her daydreaming, always wishing to be taken away to a place of fulfillment.
As she handed him the file, she noticed the serial number, XD-47, on the first page. Of late, she’d processed hundreds of papers containing that particular number. She was slightly curious as to its meaning, but the instant Carringby took the file from her, she’d forgotten all about it.
He stood before her for a moment, flicking through the pages. At six feet tall, with strong gray eyes and sharp, chiseled features, Belinda had often considered he would have been handsome in his youth. Nevertheless, he was pushing sixty, and even if he hadn’t been, he was still a suit.
“Please make some coffee, Ms. Reese, and get the best china out.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting in the conference room in ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
Belinda worked with haste to prepare the coffee for Carringby’s guests. He habitually dropped tasks on her at the last minute, frequently forcing her to contain her anger.
She entered his vast, luxurious conference room pushing a refreshments trolley before her. Fifteen men in suits sitting at a circular table all turned to look at her in silence. It was a painfully unnerving moment, but she said nothing. She simply had to provide them with coffee as quickly as possible, and then get out of the room.
As she performed her menial task, she noticed, out of the sprawling, semi-circular window, the sky was turning a dark shade of blue. Her heart fluttered with excitement. It had been almost a year since she’d last ventured into town with her college friends, and this night might be her chance to meet the right man. Or, at the very least, some guy who wasn’t a suit.
As she served the coffee, her gaze anxiously latched onto the clock on the wall: 17:36.
Less than an hour
. The idea thrilled her enough to enable a genuine smile as she poured the last suit’s coffee.
“That’s fine, Ms. Reese, thank you,” Carringby said.
He clearly wanted her out of the room so they could discuss their business in private. Dutifully, she departed.
“Good night, Ms. Reese. Have a good weekend.”
Belinda looked up
from her desk to see Molly Rigsby, one of the cleaning personnel, smiling at her. Belinda had always found her to be warm and charming. “Thank you, Molly. You too.”
With only ten minutes remaining until she could leave for the weekend, Belinda
paid a quick visit to the ladies’ restroom. She immediately heard Carringby and his entourage exiting the conference room, filling the reception area with voices. Sighing with frustration, she hoped he wasn’t going to reprimand her for leaving her post at that moment. She couldn’t be sure if it mattered to him at all. The man was impossible to read or predict.
She hurriedly applied her lipstick then checked herself in the restroom mirror. She’d always been insecure about her appearance and was committed to making the best of herself. Despite her reservations, she knew men thought she
was
beautiful, at five-eight, with a lithe shape sculpted from two years of hard work in the gym.
As she made her way toward the restroom door, the bottom fell out of her world.
An explosion threw Belinda off her feet, taking her breath from her.
An earthquake?
The sound of muffled machine-gun fire came from the lower floor. Her heart pounded. The gunfire grew louder, echoing through a stairwell, until she heard a door burst open. They were on Carringby’s floor.
Belinda froze, trembling with the horror of what she could only hear.
Summoning every iota of courage she possessed, she stood and inched her way toward the door. Every step was a marathon. She didn’t know if it was even safe to peek through the slightest crack in the door.
With trembling fingers, she pulled it open a mere fraction of an inch and pressed her right eye into the gap. She could barely make out six men in ski masks opening fire upon members of Carringby’s entourage. Her hand came across her mouth to stifle a whimper of terror.
Carringby came out of the conference room with his arms raised in surrender, but his look of stoicism remained.
“Where are the blueprints?” one of the assailants demanded.
Another gunman kicked every door open along the corridor and aimed his machine gun into the rooms. Satisfied a room was empty, he would move on to the next, and he was coming closer.
Panic stricken, Belinda moved away from the door and looked around trying to locate another way out. If she set one foot through the door, she knew she would be met with a hail of bullets, but there was nothing. No escape.
Unless.
She looked at the ceiling and found an air vent grill.
After climbing onto the counter, she found her palms could touch the grill with ease. She prepared to push against it only to discover it was merely a cover and wasn’t bolted down. It flew from her fingers into the vent, giving her the opportunity to grasp the opening. The sound of doors being kicked in outside was growing closer.
Strength the likes of which she’d never known infused her muscles as she pulled herself up and crawled into the steel shaft.
Even as adrenaline pumped through her veins and terror clouded her mind, one last thought for survival occurred to her—the vent cover. She grasped it, slid it from under herself, and managed to turn around in order to cover up the hole again.
At that moment, the door burst open.
She pulled her head back and held her breath, watching the gunman through the grill. He kicked in each stall door, and then stood in the middle of the room looking around. To Belinda, he seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Unaware he was being observed, he removed his ski-mask and rubbed his face with his free hand. Ordinarily, she would’ve considered him handsome, with thick, blond hair falling in his eyes. But in that moment, she couldn’t see him in any positive light whatsoever.
Watching him with unbearable fear, she almost lost control of her bladder. If he knew she could see him, he would kill her.
Finally, he put the mask back on and exited the restroom.
Exhaling with overwhelming relief, she gathered her thoughts before moving along. She crawled through the vent aimlessly, not knowing where it would take her.
She closed her eyes and froze as another momentary barrage of gunfire rang out from below.
Mr. Carringby.
Another explosion rocked the building, knocking her from side to side into the walls of the vent. The belief that she was going to die grew stronger with each passing moment.
As she went farther through the ventilation shaft, turning corners endlessly, she was overcome by a need for her mother. It was an obscure feeling given she and her mother had been at each other’s throats ever since she was a child.
She’d never been a religious person. A strict and abusive Catholic upbringing had long since put her off the idea. But in that moment, she reached out in a state of jabbering hysteria for even a semblance of comfort. “Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethyname . . .”
She came to another grill and tried to push it, but it was bolted into place.
With barely enough space to maneuver her body, she desperately twisted onto her back and kicked at the grating, but to no avail.
Repeatedly, she pummeled
the grating with the soles of her feet, but it wouldn’t give way. Her heart raced with panic at the thought of being entombed inside the ventilation shaft. The possibility of her life ending like this was an unbearable thought. Her panic shifted to resentment, and then to rage.
Another explosion shook her as her feet collided with the grill one last time. The force of the detonation loosened the bolts, and the grill finally broke away.
Sobbing with relief, she pulled herself forward until she could make out a storage cupboard below her. The door appeared to be ajar from what she could see through the rising smoke.
She dropped to the floor and pushed the door open to be met with a wall of flame, causing her to instinctively recoil. She gave herself a moment to compose herself before seizing a break in the fire.
Darting to the left, she found herself in the maintenance stairwell. Below her was an inferno. It wasn’t possible for her to go back down.
In a desperate effort to escape the fire, she ran up the steps with the smoke engulfing her.
By the time she’d reached the next flight of stairs, only a few steps from where she’d started, she fell to her knees in a coughing fit. Her eyes stung, watering from the smoke, but she persisted.
Despite her initial determination, she became convinced she wasn’t going to make it. She couldn’t see anything ahead of her, and her consciousness was slipping away.
She thought she could see dark shape coming down the stairwell toward her, through the smoke. As it came closer, she could make out a man decked out in black.
It has to be one of
them.
Through her squinted eyes, she could see he wore a shiny black helmet, similar to the type worn on a motorcycle, although far less bulky. It seemed to cover his head with a slender, streamlined fit, and there was a reflective, black visor covering his face.
In her weakened condition, she resigned herself to the belief she was going to die. The fight was leaving her, and smoke inhalation was stealing her consciousness. She couldn’t be certain whether or not she was dreaming the man in the black helmet.
And then, she felt strong, gentle hands cradling her face for just a moment. “P-please don’t kill me,” she mumbled.
“I’m not going to kill—”
Belinda passed out.
She woke without a sense for how long she’d been out. Had she been unconscious for seconds? Or days? Why was everything upside down?
She felt a tight grip on her legs below the knees, and sensed herself moving quickly with a jerking motion. The smoke seemed to be clearing, and blood rushed into her head, bringing her back to consciousness. She saw the white surface of the steps from her inverted position, and she suddenly understood. He was running up the stairwell while carrying her over his shoulder.
Moments later, the ground turned black and she felt herself being turned upright in the freezing cold. Dazed, it took her a few moments to realize she was outside.
The stranger knelt down beside her and she trembled. “Who . . . are you?” she said.
“Your only way out of here.”
“Where are we?”
“We’re on the roof. We can’t go back down. The place is a torch.”
Belinda couldn’t place his tone, but there was a masculine depth to it that was genuine and sincere.
“Please, trust me,” he said. “Can you stand up?”
“Yes, I think so,” she replied, but her coughing resumed.
He waited for the attack to abate before speaking again. “I’m going to get you out of here. There’s only one way.”
As he helped her to her feet, she realized how high up they were with the skyscrapers all around them.
“I need you to listen to me,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“B-Belinda. Belinda Reese.” She quivered, and hugged herself tightly against the chilling effects of shock and the brutal February wind.