The sudden whine of the scooter sent a shock of tension through the men surrounding him. The bike raced toward them. The rider had flipped up his visor. His teeth were bared, his eyes narrowed, and he held a dark object in an outstretched hand. The Germans reached for their guns.
Renzo cried out, “Nooo!” The young rescuer didn’t stand a chance. Renzo stomped the instep of the man to his left. The German folded to one knee with a surprised grunt. Ducking to avoid the leader’s fist, Renzo countered with an uppercut that smashed his nose. Cartilage cracked. Blood flowed. He turned to face the third man, when out of the corner of his eye he saw his would-be rescuer fling the object. In the same instant, there were muffled gunshots from within the car and the helmeted scooter rider was thrown backward onto the gravel. But the object he’d hurled continued its arc toward Renzo in a wobbling spiral.
It looked like a small pyramid.
Renzo felt a tingling sensation in his forehead.
Chapter 2
Le Focette, Marina di Pietrasanta, Italy
SOUND MUTED. THE world around Renzo slowed as the miniature pyramid tumbled through its arc. The closer it got, the stronger the tingling in his head and limbs. Gulls hung as if suspended midflight. The driverless scooter skidded on its side in frame-by-frame motion, furrowing a bow wave of gravel before it. The silenced barrel of a pistol rose toward Renzo’s face. His gut tightened. Fear fueled his supercharged reflexes.
His hand chopped at the nerve bundle in the man’s forearm. The move must have appeared impossibly fast to his assailant. Fingers numbed, grip loosened, and the weapon dropped to the ground. Doors unlocked in Renzo’s brain, and he recognized the gun as the tactical version of a Sphinx AT380, with 9mm slugs, a sixteen-round magazine, and manufacturing tolerances that rivaled that of a Swiss watchmaker. Details of the weapon flashed through his mind like he was reading a Wikipedia page.
The pistol settled in the gravel. The black pyramid dropped beside it, and an explosion of memories expanded in his mind. The force of it nearly knocked him off his feet. But instinct held him steady. Arms grappled from behind. His body responded in a blur of action. He grabbed a wrist, spun, and flipped the leader onto his back. A heel to the temple and he was out cold. A stiff-fingered gouge to the throat of another. A vicious side kick to the chest of the third man. The BMW driver moved around the front of the car, a compact assault rifle pressed to one shoulder. Renzo somersaulted toward him. In a single fluid motion, he grabbed the Sphinx and double-tapped the trigger. Twin holes blossomed in the driver’s chest, lifting him from his feet. A shuffle at Renzo’s back set off alarms. He tumbled to one side as spits from a silenced weapon left a trail of slugs puckering the gravel beside his head. He rolled to his back, extended his pistol, and squeezed the trigger three times. The killer’s body jerked with the impact of each slug. He folded to the ground and lay still.
Time settled.
Renzo felt the throb of his heart at his temples. The high-speed effort had taken a toll. He staggered to his feet. The scene shocked him. He fought a sudden urge to vomit. The scooter driver was surely dead, as were two of the gunmen. A third gasped a final, rasping breath through a crushed larynx. The fourth—their leader—lay unconscious. There was a seesaw of sirens in the distance. The family must have called the authorities, Renzo thought. He needed to leave. He gathered the weapons, tossed them into the sedan’s trunk, and slammed the lid.
On his way around the car, he retrieved the miniature pyramid. It was the size of an apple. When his fingers closed around its smooth surface, his body seized. His mind reeled with a rush of images. Like flipping channels on a TV, each scene was replaced by another before his consciousness could cling to its details. Faces, bodies, and explosions swirled amid a tornado of emotions that brought forth an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Each image kindled a memory more painful than the last. Rather than embracing them, he pushed them away, corralling them into a closet deep in his brain. His body shook with the effort.
It was the groan of the man from the scooter that broke the spell. Renzo’s wits returned. He rushed forward and knelt beside the fallen man, setting the miniature pyramid on the gravel.
The man still wore his helmet. His eyes fluttered open. Renzo pushed aside a sense of familiarity as he dealt with locating any injuries. His movements were swift and sure, drawing on knowledge that he hadn’t known he possessed. The man bled from a shoulder wound. An exam confirmed that the bullet had been a deep graze. It bled freely, but it was noncritical.
“M-my fault,” he said. His words were slurred. Shock was setting in.
“Quiet,” Renzo said, ripping off the man’s rolled-up sleeve.
“They followed m—” He grimaced as Renzo wadded up the sleeve and pressed it against the wound.
“Keep pressure on this,” Renzo said. The kid gripped the bandage with his good hand. Bleeding slowed to a trickle. Renzo unhooked the chin strap and removed the man’s helmet. He was in his twenties, with scruffy dark hair, pale skin, and a number of tiny holes on his brow and ears—evidence of previous piercings. Renzo gasped when he recognized him. Memories dropped into place: an underground bunker, assassins, death, an alien pyramid…
“Timmy?” Renzo asked.
The kid’s eyes widened. “You recognize me!”
Renzo retrieved the mini. It felt warm in his grasp. Images clarified. “Yeah,” Renzo said, pushing through the cobwebs. “Area 52. There was you, and Doc, and—”
“Right on! Six years ago…” Timmy said. He hesitated a moment before continuing. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re speaking English!”
Renzo shook his head. Six years? It couldn’t be. He tried to superimpose a timeline onto the jumble of memories, searching for the code that would unlock the encryption in his brain. But before the last tumbler clicked into place, the kid’s gaze snapped to a point beyond Renzo’s shoulder. His eyes widened.
The leader tackled Renzo from behind. The air was blown from his lungs, and the mini flew from his grasp. It skittered into a drainage culvert.
So did his past.
They rolled past Timmy. The German assassin ended up on top. He straddled Renzo, fists pummeling. Blood from the man’s broken nose drooled onto Renzo’s face. He defended the first three blows, but the fourth hammered into his jaw. The fifth impacted his temple, stunning him. Thick hands wrapped around his throat. Fingers dug. Renzo arched his back and flailed at the bigger man. But the vise grip around his neck tightened. Renzo clawed and came away with a torn shirtsleeve, exposing rippling muscles and a stylized tattoo of the phrase Cæli Regere. Renzo’s throat burned and his vision blurred. He reached desperately for the man’s face, groping for eyes. But the experienced fighter twisted from his reach. He continued to squeeze.
A shadow passed behind the German. There was a hollow thunk as something cracked against his skull. The man groaned; his eyes lost focus, his grip released, and he toppled to one side. He lay still. Renzo sucked air through his tortured windpipe, wriggling from beneath the man’s bulk.
Timmy stood above him, wobbling back and forth like a drunk. The motorcycle helmet dangled from the chin strap he gripped in his good hand. He’d used it as a mace. Suddenly, the kid’s eyes rolled and the color drained from his face. He had a dull grin as he collapsed into Renzo’s arms.
“Bravo,” Renzo rasped, lowering him to the ground. The sirens were a few blocks away. The kid was woozy, but still conscious. Renzo would stay with him until help arrived. He owed his life to…
He’d forgotten the kid’s name. He’d known it just a moment ago. “Come ti chiami?” Renzo asked.
The kid’s eyes narrowed. “In English?”
Renzo shook his head. “Non parlo inglese,” he said. He’d never had a knack for languages.
“But you were just speaking Eng-wisssh!” the kid slurred.
There was a blare of horns. Renzo turned from the meaningless words. Cars were backed up at a traffic light. Another black BMW jerked and twisted as it attemp
ted to nose past the cars ahead of it. Angry fists and more horns, and Renzo realized that the rest of the hit squad had found him. The sirens coming from the other direction wouldn’t be here in time. He moved even before the decision had fully formed in his mind.
The kid yelped as Renzo dropped him to the ground and ran toward the parked sedan.
“Wait…Alto!” the kid shouted.
But Renzo couldn’t stop. Seconds counted if he was to draw the threat away. He jumped in the car and floored it. The vehicle fishtailed in the gravel, and Renzo had to slow to avoid hitting his new friend. As he drove past, the kid yelled, “Piazza San Marco, domani, mezzogiorno, Danielle!”
Renzo didn’t have time to wonder at the kid’s words. He skidded onto the road and sped toward the sirens. The other BMW broke through traffic and shot after him. A man leaned out the passenger window. There were muzzle flashes, and the rear window exploded. Renzo jerked the wheel from side to side to throw off the man’s aim. Hammer blows impacted the rear trunk. He jinked too hard, and the passenger side—starting with the fender—swiped a traffic pole. A gut-wrenching screech of metal against metal. Sparks flew and the side mirror went airborne. He centered the steering wheel, stomped on the accelerator, and let out a long growl through his burning throat.
A string of flashing emergency lights appeared ahead. Two police vehicles wound through the oncoming traffic. The car in the rearview mirror suddenly slowed. It turned east and disappeared toward the hills.
Chapter 3
Swiss Alps
JAKE BRONSON WAS alive after all, Victor Brun thought. He’d suspected as much. The American had been reported dead four months ago—his comatose body consumed in a fire. But Victor’s assassin who’d sparked the blaze at the secret US facility that housed the American had never seen the body. That wouldn’t be the case in this instance. The team in Italy should report soon with confirmation.
He propped his feet on the ottoman and allowed himself a rare opportunity to enjoy the comfort of the castle’s great room. A white Persian cat jumped up and curled on his lap. He stroked its fur. The pet was his constant companion.
The crackle of burning logs from the grand fireplace, the plush furnishings and ancient tapestries, the dim lighting, and even the dampness that spilled from the stone walls combined to embrace him in a cocoon of harsh memories that would chill the bones of most men. He drew strength from them.
Château Brun had been built in the tenth century. But it was relatively new compared to the ancient maze of tunnels and caverns that burrowed beneath the mountain that supported it. The mansion was hidden among the alpine peaks of Switzerland. Thanks to its obscure location and crenellated battlements, it had never been breached.
Feathers of snow drifted across the French panes of the picture window across the room. Another late-season storm grayed the sky, obscuring the view of Mont Blanc. Victor swirled cognac in a snifter. His other hand stroked the cat. The pet purred under the attention.
Victor’s gaze drifted to the tall man standing across from him. “Two more days, Hans,” Victor said in English. His Swiss-German accent was refined. He spoke seven languages. But of late he’d preferred to practice English. It would become the language of choice.
“Jawohl, Mein Herr,” his confidant said with a slight nod. Hans had a military bearing—solidly built with a protruding jaw, a blond flattop, and an ice-blue stare. The knots and calluses of his hands testified to his daily training regimen. “All is ready.”
A hammering from a nearby room quieted, and a pair of white-gloved workers entered the room. They offered a deferential bow to the lord of the château.
Victor acknowledged them with a smile. By all public accounts he was a gentle man. Like his father before him, he was renowned for his generosity and old-world charm, garnering standing invitations to the elite circles of European upper-crust society. His Swiss heritage shone through his broad forehead, high cheekbones, and slanted green eyes. Though he’d never married, his warm smile and attentive manner provided him with ample companionship. His sharp, analytical mind made him a trusted advisor to corporations and governments alike—where he exhibited a unique ability to guide opposing factions to a common view. While he preferred to avoid the direct spotlight, he would be center stage at the upcoming summit in Geneva. The public had been told that the unprecedented event was to be the first of a series of conferences to discuss the issue of world hunger. Leaders of every major nation would attend.
Carefully, the two workers removed a painting from the far wall. They exited the room. The priceless piece of art would be crated along with the others, Victor thought, bound for humanity’s new birthplace. Soon the castle walls would be bare, save for his favorite piece. He glanced up at the fresco that stretched above the mantel. It filled most of the thirty-foot-high plastered wall that had been the artist’s canvas. The ornate swirls and colors depicted a family tree that reached back a thousand years. He’d memorized every branch, leaf, and curl. The names, dates, and images would be forever ingrained in his mind. He regretted that he had to leave it behind.
He would also abandon the strategically placed mirrors throughout the mansion. Soon, they would no longer be necessary.
It was hard to believe that the end was finally here, he thought. Centuries of planning coming to a head during his reign as head of the Order: nurturing allies, positioning spies, preparing for the final conflagration—all while guarding the greatest secret the world had ever known. It was appropriate that it should happen during his reign. It had been predicted by his grandfather at his christening sixty years ago. His father’s eyes had glazed each time he recounted the event to young Victor. The age of technology is upon us, his grandfather had said as the priest anointed Victor. With this child our line will reign over a new world order, an order of peace, prosperity, and freedom from the risk of violence.
Victor tapped a computer tablet resting on the end table beside his chair. The blank screen lit up. He stared at the live images of the twin pyramids orbiting above the planet. “Cæli Regere,” he said softly, reciting the Order’s Latin credo.
Hans raised a hand to one ear. The team was reporting in. “Ja?” Hans said. His voice was transmitted through a miniature jawbone implant. A beat later, the former soldier stiffened. His face reddened. “Bronson escaped,” he reported to Victor. “Three of our men were killed. One was arrested.”
Victor removed his hand from the cat’s dense fur. The purring stopped. He studied his reflection in the decorative mirror on the coffee table, running his fingers through his wavy coiffure of silvered hair. His expression remained casual. There was no hint of the sudden anger that boiled within.
“He will not be easily found now that he’s been alerted,” Victor considered aloud. His voice was pleasant. “What of the young American scientist?”
After a quick interchange with the man in the field, Hans said, “Wounded, but alive. He’s in the hospital.”
Victor nodded. His mind cataloged options. “Put a man on the scientist,” he said. “But focus the teams on Mr. Bronson’s friends and family. Now that he’s broken cover, he’ll undoubtedly seek them out.”
“Jawohl, Mein Herr,” Hans said. He turned sharply and left the room.
Victor steadied himself. Jake Bronson was the lone obstacle to their mission’s success. He could not be allowed to live. The table mirror beckoned, and he noticed a brief microexpression around his eyes. It was a tell. It revealed anxiety. He felt a jolt of disgust at the weakness. It opened cold closets in his mind.
Letting out a slow breath, he lifted the cat to his chest, rose, and left the room.
He needed a moment alone.
His brain required another lesson.
Chapter 4
Venice, Italy
FRANCESCA FELLINI NEVER tired of riding in her father’s gondola. Standing behind her, the proud gondolier moved with a rhythm that had been anchored in his bones since childhood. She was lulled by the gentle sway of the boat a
s he swept the oar back and forth. He hummed a familiar tune.
Seated beside her on the red-velvet love seat, Francesca’s twelve-year-old daughter, Sarafina, hummed in harmony with her adopted grandfather. Music was her anchor. Her fingers tapped absently in the folds of the white dress that spread about her lap. She’d be a woman soon, Francesca thought. Too soon. Her sparkling brown eyes and pouty lips had already turned a few of the older boys’ heads. That is, until Nonno Mario’s glare set them running.
It was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sky was clear, the breeze gentle, and sunlight sparkled on the water. The small procession of gondolas was adorned with colorful regalia. The hulls shimmered and the brass ornamentals were polished to perfection. What had been intended as an intimate affair had grown to something more. Ahead, crowds lined the dock fronting the Palazzo Dandolo. Tourists spilled from the nearby Doge’s Palace and Piazza San Marco. Paparazzi jostled for position. Every one was anxious for a glimpse of the actress whose debut role as a modern-day Mata Hari had captured the box office.
In the boat ahead, the bride turned to Francesca. Her turquoise eyes sparkled. Her smile beamed with excitement.
Lacey and Marshall had been a couple for over six years. The actress had wanted to marry Jake’s best friend after the first few months. But one thing after another had stood in their way: Battista, their mourning after Jake’s death, her film career…
But all that was behind them now.
Lacey offered a subtle thumbs-up in their direction. Sarafina bounced in her seat and waved in return. Francesca’s daughter idolized the actress. They’d been famous friends ever since their shared brush with death on the underground river in Mexico. Lacey looked beautiful in her strapless wedding gown. Her hair was up, and she wore a pearl necklace that reminded Francesca of the night she and Jake had attended the masquerade ball. Her eyes moistened at the memory. She used a white-gloved finger to absorb a tear before it fell.
Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Page 2
