Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment

by Bard, Richard

  The wake of a passing vaporetto rocked the boats as they converged near the entrance to an offshoot canal. A water taxi idled nearby. Francesca’s father was at the helm. Marshall and two of Mario’s gondolier buddies were in the back. They nodded to Tony. It was time to get wet.

  Renzo’s hands and feet were still bound. He sat in the port corner of the rear bench seat. The blanket draped around his shoulders disguised his predicament, but it did nothing to dampen the burning rage that grew inside him. He was tired of being in the dark, of running for his life. It was time to take charge. He may not have a past, he thought. But he swore to himself that the future would include sweet vengeance against the men around him.

  And their leaders.

  They’d made a critical mistake—they’d let him live. For how long, he didn’t know.

  Long enough.

  He studied them. He saw hard edges and muscles. No strangers to violence. But there was something more. He sensed in them a calm strength of purpose. These men believed in a cause.

  They passed under an arch. Pedestrians strolled overhead, but no one paid them undue attention. Renzo didn’t have any options. If he shouted, innocents would die. If he jumped overboard, he’d drown. So he’d watch.

  And wait.

  The flat stares of his guards weren’t encouraging.

  The boat’s motor reverberated between the buildings. He saw the Grand Canal up ahead. From there, the open water of the lagoon was minutes away. The driver slowed the boat as it neared the intersection. Traffic congested the large waterway, where a couple dozen gondoliers had joined voices in an impromptu group serenade. Their tourist charges held up cell phone cameras to capture the moment.

  The guards pulled their jackets over their pistols, and the driver nudged the boat into the teeming mass. The perimeter boats gave way. The German leader edged closer to Renzo as the motorboat inched forward. Hulls bumped and tourists smiled. Gondolas bobbed all around them.

  The motorboat wedged between them, slow but steady. They were halfway through when an altercation broke out on their starboard side. Angry shouts. A gondolier dropped his oar and leaped onto another’s boat. Fists were thrown. A knife was pulled. A woman screamed. The singing stopped. All eyes followed the action.

  Renzo gasped when a huge arm grabbed him from behind and yanked him out of the boat. Sunlight turned to a murky green swirl. A swallow of water, and panic took over. Arms and feet flailed, but the man behind him held him fast, pulling him downward with powerful strokes.

  It was the initial signal of oxygen deprivation from Renzo’s lungs that pulled the memory from the darkness of his mind—of a boy underwater at the community pool, holding his breath while all the others in the class pushed to the surface. Though many had challenged him, no one had ever beaten him. He clamped his mouth closed and stopped struggling. The big man behind him reacted by spinning him around and giving him a thumbs-up sign, signaling that he was there to help. The blanket swirled between them. The man pulled it loose, and it drifted away like a black wraith. Then his savior unclipped a soda can–size cylinder from his belt and pushed it toward Renzo’s face. It had a mouthpiece. He clamped his lips around it and sucked in a deep breath. The man across from him did the same with a duplicate canister. He gave Renzo a questioning look, making an okay sign with the fingers of one hand. Renzo nodded. The man pulled a knife from a shin strap. Three or four quick saw strokes, and the plastic cuffs around his wrists and ankles were gone. Another okay sign, and the man motioned for him to follow.

  Shadows passed overhead. Renzo saw that the gondolas had created a barrier around the motorboat. But the dam would break soon. Already, he heard the motor revving up and down as the driver pushed his way through the gaggle. Renzo and his new best friend swam in the opposite direction. Another powerboat idled just ahead. They passed beneath its hull and surfaced on the opposite side. Anxious faces peered down at them. Hands reached out. Strong arms pulled them into the water taxi.

  The boat took off at full speed.

  The trailing powerboat throttled forward, crashing through the line of gondolas, pushing them aside like flotsam before an ocean liner. Lacquered wood split. Men dove for the water.

  The boat raced after the taxi.

  The taxi driver was a middle-aged man. He had a Bluetooth device in his ear. He dodged and weaved through traffic with a deftness that could only have come with years of experience. The older man beside him issued orders into his cell phone. It sounded to Renzo as if he was coordinating the efforts of others who were part of the escape plan. Their eyes met. The old man’s eyes glistened.

  The man who had pulled Renzo into the boat wore patent leather shoes, black slacks, and an open white shirt with cuff links. Renzo recognized him as the groom from the wedding party.

  “Su-weeet Jesus, Jake!” the man said, escorting Renzo into the taxi’s covered seating area. He handed him a towel and smacked him on the shoulder. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

  The big man beside him was dripping wet. He dried his balding pate with his own towel and pulled a Yankees baseball cap over his head. He wore tux slacks and a gondolier’s striped shirt. It appeared two sizes too small. “Damn, pal,” he said. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Renzo looked from one to the other. They spoke English. He didn’t. He saw the recognition in their expressions, and he was glad for it.

  But their faces—and their words—meant nothing to him.

  The boat swerved to port. All three men braced themselves in the cabin. There was a seesaw of sirens behind them. Renzo looked back and saw that the trailing speedboat was being pulled over. The taxi driver eased off on the throttle.

  Renzo breathed a sigh of relief. “Grazie per avermi salvato la vita,” he said.

  “Huh?” the groom said.

  They all stared at one another.

  The old man stuck his head into the cabin.

  “Welcome back, my son,” he said to Renzo in English. He’d been speaking in Italian on the phone earlier.

  “En italiano, per favore,” Renzo said.

  “You can’t speak English?” the old man asked in Italian.

  Renzo shook his head.

  The old man’s eyes widened. He translated for the other two. They gaped.

  “Do you know us?” the old man asked.

  “No.”

  “What is your name?” he asked in Italian.

  “Renzo.”

  Suddenly, the sirens started up again behind them. The taxi driver shoved the throttle to the stops, and Renzo nearly lost his balance as their boat lurched forward. The driver shouted something to the old man, who glanced quickly at his smartphone. A moment later he ducked into the cabin. He pointed sequentially at the big man, the groom, and himself. He spoke in Italian. “This is Tony, Marshall, and I’m Mario. I’m your son’s grandfather, and they’re your best friends.”

  Renzo’s mind reeled. “I have a son?”

  The boat swerved sharply. “There will be time for that later,” Mario said, pointing behind them. “We have a complication.”

  The powerboat was still on their tail. It was farther back, but it was no longer alone. Two blue-and-gray police boats accompanied it. The wail of their sirens bounced off the buildings on either side of the water. Mario tapped a link on his smartphone and showed them the screen. The recorded ten-second video showed the powerboat being pulled over by the police. A flash of badges, a phone exchanged, and suddenly the police snapped to attention. The leader of the assault group jumped aboard one of the police cruisers and all three boats charged forward.

  Mario leaned close so he could be heard over the roar of the taxi’s motor. “The men who grabbed you have powerful friends,” he said in Italian. “My people overheard Interpol being mentioned.” He repeated himself in English.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tony said.

  Renzo exchanged a worried look with the big man. The act felt familiar.

  “Holy crap,” Marshall said, grabbi
ng the rail as the boat dodged traffic.

  “Your people?” Renzo asked Mario. He was still trying to make sense of it all.

  “The guild,” the old man said. “There isn’t a tracking technology in the world that compares to the eyes, ears, and smartphones of the gondoliers of Venice.”

  The boat bounced as it jumped the wake of a vaporetto. Traffic was heavy on the canal. There were over five hundred gondolas in Venice, and it seemed as if every one of them was on the water. They opened a path as the taxi approached, only to quickly fill the space in their wake. Renzo looked toward the stern. It was like the closing of the Red Sea. He heard shouted commands over the police loudspeakers in the chase boats. But the watercourse became more congested. The pursuers were forced to slow down.

  The taxi pulled away.

  Chapter 12

  Swiss Alps

  VICTOR’S ANGER OVER the news that the American scientist had escaped the hospital unseen paled in comparison to the shock he’d felt when he learned that the young man had possessed the miniature pyramid. Victor had learned of the existence of the tiny replicas six years ago, following the unexpected launch of two of the parent objects. One of the miniatures had survived, and he’d wanted to get his hands on it ever since—that is, until he’d learned that it was useless without the help of the comatose American. In any case, he had given up hope of ever possessing it when his operatives within the US scientific agency had reported that it had been destroyed during the fire—the one ignited four months ago in an attempt to kill Jake Bronson.

  But they had been wrong.

  The failure stirred a cauldron in his gut. Had his agents been intentionally kept out of the loop? Or had the scientist named Timmy kept it to himself? If so, Victor wondered what other secrets the young man had withheld.

  “Search his apartment,” he said.

  “I have already alerted the Washington team,” Hans said. “They will be there shortly.”

  The device had untold potential, Victor thought.

  He was determined to control its power.

  That his men had uncovered it in the aftermath of the botched assassination at the beach had changed everything. The surviving team member had seen the object during the struggle. He had had the presence of mind to retrieve it. His foresight would be well rewarded.

  Hans lifted a finger to his ear to receive a communication. “They’ve secured the American,” he relayed. “The flight crew has been alerted. The boat is thirty minutes from the airport.”

  Victor permitted a flush of satisfaction to reach his features. Had news of the miniature’s existence been delayed, then Jake Bronson—the only man on the planet with the knowledge to unlock it—would have been killed. Some would’ve called it a stroke of luck, he thought. But he knew better. Good fortune was nothing more than the logical outcome of layer upon layer of preparation.

  “We may commence,” Victor said. He sat at his desk in the castle, surrounded by rich wood paneling and leather furnishings. Hans stood beside him, a computer tablet in hand. He tapped the screen, and the wall of bookcases opposite the desk flickered. What had appeared to be a wall-to-wall collection of leather-bound first editions was actually a digitally created holographic display. The books dissolved into a three-dimensional image of a conference room. A dozen people sat at the table. Though they appeared to be gathered together in the same room, all of them were physically located at their respective home offices across the globe.

  “Welcome,” Victor said. He waited a moment as the attendees settled in for the meeting. Aides were dismissed, phones turned off, and each of them focused his or her attention forward. There was an eagerness about them that Victor appreciated. An Arabic sheikh, an African scientist, a Chinese magnate, a French museum director, and more—though they were from different parts of the world, they were all cut from the same dream. These were men and women of science, power, and influence from around the world, descendents of an order that stretched back a millennium.

  “Our ancestors are smiling,” Victor began. “For it is by their foresight and resolve that we find ourselves gathered here today, heralds of a new age.”

  The group responded with nods and smiles. Though they attempted to appear calm, Victor knew that all of them had dozens of tasks on their mind. At this stage, their homes and offices were likely as stark as Castle Brun.

  “The end is upon us, my friends,” Victor said. He paused for effect. “But so is our new beginning assured. We know our duty and we shall perform it with steadfast certainty. For it is only from the ashes of humanity’s doom that we may mold a future of peace and prosperity.”

  Victor saw that his words fueled their fervor. He studied each of them in turn, hesitating only on the woman from Brazil. He tapped a keyboard set into the top of his desk, and her image zoomed to occupy the center of the wall screen. At forty-seven, she was the youngest of the group. Her family controlled a global shipping conglomerate. She was in charge of coordinating the South American exodus. Another tap and her face filled the screen—every freckle and wrinkle was revealed.

  “Carla,” he said. “Is everything ready on your end?”

  “On schedule,” she replied.

  An eye twitch. A narrowed pupil. A tightening of the muscles around the lips. Victor caught the lie immediately. His external reaction was nonexistent, though he had little doubt that those watching him searched for one. He wondered how many of them had software analyzing his image even now. No matter. Even a computer could not find what didn’t exist. He returned his focus to the group. He considered them one by one. Those who remained trustworthy would be rewarded. The others would not. He tapped a key, and the rest of the attendees were once again on the screen.

  “Are we ready?” he asked.

  A man in a Russian military uniform responded first. “All the teams are in place. Codes are secured. Awaiting your orders.”

  The Russian’s US counterpart was a navy admiral. “We had a slight hiccup on our end, sir,” he said. Heads turned his way. “The sub commander died of a heart attack this morning. However, we’ve ensured that his replacement is one of ours. He’s en route to the South China Sea as we speak. The executive officer and three of the crew are also with us.”

  Victor wasn’t surprised that the admiral’s resolution to the “hiccup” slid so easily into place. Each of the members of this council had been seasoned for his or her role since childhood. They were masters in the art of logistics.

  Every plan has a backup, he thought.

  All of the others gave their respective reports. Except for the inconvenience of Carla’s lie, Victor was satisfied.

  “Then we are ready,” he announced. “The next time we gather, it shall be to mourn”—he paused for a beat and added—“and celebrate.”

  His eyes panned the group a final time, lingering for a moment on the attractive Brazilian. Their families had been allies for generations. They’d vacationed together on her sprawling ranch. He’d always enjoyed her company, especially after their relationship had grown intimate. But their time together had allowed him to learn more about her than she ever intended to reveal, and he had long ago sensed her lack of total conviction to the cause. It was a shame.

  He returned his attention to the group.

  “Cæli Regere,” he said.

  “Cæli Regere!” they responded in unison.

  Victor nodded. Hans tapped the tablet, and the digital conference room morphed into an aerial video of a tropical island. Victor relaxed into his chair and took in the scene. The familiar panorama was breathtaking. The island was at once foreboding and lush. White-water arcs skipped over treacherous volcanic reefs offshore. Two immense mountains centered the landmass. Their peaks disappeared into an umbrella of clouds. Tropical fauna sprawled above barren cliffs. Waves crashed below. The few beaches that sprang from gaps in the ragged terrain had little sand—dense foliage ran to the water’s edge. Sunlight reflected off the mist that swirled in the upper reaches, and a rainbow fo
rmed.

  Victor appreciated the island’s beauty, but its hidden secrets were what he contemplated.

  Hans stiffened suddenly beside him. Victor sensed his tension. “What is it?” he asked.

  Hans lowered his finger from the comm implant. “The American has escaped.”

  Victor turned his gaze on Hans with slow precision. “How. Is. That. Possible?”

  “He had help. It was well executed.”

  Victor’s mind boiled and his stomach churned, but the muscles of his face remained relaxed. Every plan has a backup, he reminded himself.

  “Gather his friends,” he said calmly.

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “The children as well?”

  Victor didn’t reply. It was a stupid question.

  A click of the heels. “Immediately.”

  As Hans turned to go, Victor added, “And eliminate the Brazilian.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr!”

  Chapter 13

  Isola di San Michele

  HE WAS AMERICAN. His name was Jake Bronson. He rolled the name over and over in his mind, sliding it into imagined keyholes in the hope of unlocking…something.

  Anything.

  What he got was nothing.

  Renzo—Jake—struggled to deal with everything he’d learned during the past several hours. They’d told him he was smart, that he’d spoken a dozen languages. But he couldn’t even speak the language that was supposedly native to him.

  So Mario had translated as Tony and Marshall told him stories too wild to fathom—and too unimaginable to be anything but true. Especially the part about accidentally triggering the launch of a pyramid from an ancient cavern in Afghanistan. He thought back to the conversation: