[Brainrush 01.0] Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  “Hey, pal. How’s it hangin’?”

  Jake struggled to speak. The adrenaline still coursing through his body had him wound up for battle, not conversation. “Wha…what the hell are you doing here?”

  Tony stepped forward and grasped his shoulder. With a huge grin, he said, “You didn’t think we were gonna let you vacation in Italy without us, did ya?” He raised an eyebrow at Jake’s costume. “Nice duds, you pansy.”

  Jake was paralyzed by shock and struggled to keep up with the sudden turn of events.

  He flinched as an older man with a double-barreled shotgun rushed out from behind the pillar in front of him, running toward Francesca. Four other armed men in costume sped past toward sporadic gunfire at the other end of the ballroom.

  Tony said, “No worries. They’re with us. They’re all gondoliers. Can you believe it? That one there is Mario, Francesca’s pop.” The old gondolier had gathered Francesca up in a fierce embrace.

  Jake staggered with relief.

  Tony said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, pal.” He handed Jake a 9mm Beretta automatic from a holster hidden beneath his cape. “Come on. We gotta find Marsh and Lacey upstairs.”

  “Marsh and Lacey?”

  “Don’t ask. Let’s go.”

  Before heading out, Jake exchanged a quick glance with Francesca as her father helped her to her feet. She gave Jake a soft nod. He let out a relieved sigh.

  He turned toward the staircase beside Tony…and stopped cold. What he saw before him ripped a hole in his guts.

  Battista stood before him, smiling. He held Sarafina to his chest in one arm, and her little face winced when he poked the snub-nosed barrel of a pistol into her ribs. Mineo’s hulking bulk hovered beside him, his meaty fist gripped around Ahmed’s slim wrist. Mineo’s other hand pointed the business end of an UZI submachine gun at Jake.

  Shouts and intermittent gunfire reverberated from the other corner of the ballroom. The sound seemed miles away as Jake’s world was reduced to the tight circle of people around him.

  For a second, no one dared move a muscle.

  Francesca held her breath, her gaze transfixed on Sarafina as tears ran down the little girl’s rosy cheeks.

  Jake sensed Tony’s tension beside him. His friend’s MP5 was still pointed toward the floor and hadn’t moved a fraction. But Tony’s finger was curled around the trigger, ready.

  Jake considered whether his speed could somehow turn the odds in their favor in this standoff.

  As if reading Jake’s mind, Battista pressed the gun deeper into the girl’s side, causing Sarafina to cry out in pain. Jake felt that pain to the core of his being. He fought to control his anger. This was not going to end well.

  More people were going to die.

  Battista sneered. “So, Mr. Bronson, I see that a few of your friends are visiting. How nice for you. It’s too bad about the one upstairs. But then there’s always some risk to traveling abroad, yes?”

  Jake’s mind reeled. Lacey? Marshall? What had happened? He sensed Tony’s growing need to make a move, but he knew instinctively that his big friend was waiting for his lead.

  Battista swiveled his weapon toward Jake, the pistol inches from Sarafina’s face. Jake focused his thoughts on her. Be brave, little one. I need you to imagine that Signor Battista’s hand is a ripe apple. You need to take big—

  Battista yelped as Sarafina dug her teeth into his gun wrist. His fingers involuntarily released the weapon, and it fell to the floor.

  Battista jerked forward to catch the toppling pistol. Sarafina twisted free and ran over to Francesca’s waiting embrace. The two of them backed up to the small door under the staircase to get clear of the violence.

  Mario stepped forward and raised his shotgun to cover Battista before his hand touched the pistol, daring him to move.

  Mineo’s head jerked to his right at Battista’s first shout. That was all Tony needed. In one continuous movement, he raised the HK from his hip and squeezed the trigger.

  There was a click. The gun had jammed.

  Mineo saw his chance. He let go of Ahmed and adjusted the UZI with deliberate purpose toward Jake. Tony leaped between them as Mineo squeezed the trigger. Two rounds thunked into Tony’s broad chest at point-blank range. His 260 pounds of forward momentum slammed him into Mineo. The two giants tumbled to the floor.

  With a heave of one massive arm, Mineo shoved Tony’s limp body off his chest. He started to sit up, his other hand raising the UZI, when Jake’s foot crashed down and pinned it to the floor.

  Jake pointed the Beretta at Mineo’s forehead. “Drop it or die.”

  There was a moment when it looked like Mineo was going to take the trade—his life for a chance at Jake’s. But when Mineo saw Battista’s hands raised in front of Mario’s shotgun, he relaxed his grip. Jake kicked the weapon clear. He prodded the big man to his feet and to stand next to Battista with his hands clasped behind his head.

  Two gondoliers wielding vintage Schmeiser machine pistols rushed over from the other side of the ballroom to help Mario cover the two men.

  The sounds of fighting and gunfire across the room had died out, replaced by the moans of the injured. Sirens seesawed in the distance, announcing the welcome approach of the police. The sharp smell of cordite and gunpowder filled the air.

  It was over.

  Jake kneeled over Tony. His friend was unconscious but still breathing. Jake ripped open his tunic to check the wounds. He let out a deep breath of relief when he saw the thick padding of a flak vest under Tony’s shirt. Jake probed the impact holes and felt a spread of warm lead within each. There was no blood.

  Tony’s eyes opened. “Crap, that hurts!”

  “You’re okay!”

  Rubbing the thick vest, Tony said, “Never leave home without it. But it still hurts like a bitch.”

  Tony pushed himself to a sitting position. Jake helped him tug off his cape, tunic, and shirt so he could remove the vest. Through the white T-shirt he wore underneath, the softball-sized bruises on his chest were clearly evident.

  Tony winced with each breath. “Maybe a cracked rib or two, but a hell of a lot better than the alternative. I’ll be fine. Go find Lacey and Marsh.”

  Jake turned to Battista. Mario was holding the shotgun mere inches from the man’s chest. From the looks of it, nothing was going to stop him from pulling the trigger.

  To Battista, Jake said, “If these guys don’t kill you first, I’ll be back to do it myself.”

  Battista’s voice was surprisingly calm. “Mr. Bronson, you think you have won here, but nothing could be further from the truth. Thanks to you, hundreds of our new-generation soldiers will soon be released against the West—true believers who will slip easily into the fabric of your indulgent society.”

  Battista’s eyes glazed over as he appeared to imagine the vision. “They will be in your malls, at Little League games, and at amusement parks. And while they are seamlessly blending in and befriending you in your churches and synagogues, their creative brains will be working on new and ingenious ways to annihilate hundreds of thousands, if not millions of you in the coming months. The events of nine/eleven will appear as a picnic in comparison to the firestorm that is about to be released.”

  He glared at Jake in triumph. “No, my death will not change what has been set in motion. My life is but a single grain in a sandstorm that will soon swallow the West and return the world to the path of righteousness.”

  Battista turned to Mario. “My dear friend, you seem upset. And here I had such plans for your darling Francesca. I thought we might even become family.”

  Mario’s eyes blazed in fury. He spit in Battista’s face and jammed the barrel of the shotgun into his chest.

  “Not so fast, old man,” a menacing voice said from behind him.

  Jake jerked his weapon around.

  Carlo stood in the open doorway at the base of the staircase, seemingly raised from the dead, his chin swollen and bloody. He held Francesca before him,
the fingers of his left hand pressed deep into the bare skin of her arm, his right hand holding the blade of his tactical knife across the front of her neck. Sarafina was still pressed against her, her head buried in the folds of Francesca’s gown.

  None of Jake’s allies moved, each afraid of encouraging the blade in Carlo’s hand. Francesca’s eyes were filled with fear.

  Jake stared at Carlo, imagining the gray creases of his brain—

  “Don’t even think about it, Mr. Bronson,” Carlo said. He pressed the blade more firmly against Francesca’s silky skin, just below her pearl necklace. The edge broke the surface, and Carlo drew the blade fractionally across her throat, his hand no less sure than a surgeon’s. Francesca’s gasp was barely audible, but it was enough to make Jake’s heart stop. Several rivulets of blood raced down her neck, converging as they disappeared into the valley between her breasts. A scarlet patch blossomed from beneath the bodice of her white dress.

  In the stunned silence, Battista hastened through the door past Carlo, grabbing Sarafina on the way. Mineo grabbed Ahmed’s wrist and followed.

  No one lifted a finger to stop them.

  Carlo slipped through the doorway after them, Francesca in tow.

  Jake?

  Stay alive, Francesca. I’ll find you. I promise!

  The door slammed shut, followed by the solid click of a deadbolt.

  Part 3

  “We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive.”

  —Albert Einstein

  Chapter 29

  Venice, Italy - 5:00 a.m.

  JAKE SUPPOSED HE SHOULD FEEL LUCKY to be alive after last night’s events. Instead he was miserable. Battista and Carlo had escaped with Francesca and the children as hostages. According to the police, after fleeing the palace in their speedboat, they’d left the country in Battista’s private jet.

  Destination unknown.

  The dead and wounded from the masquerade ball had been taken to the hospital. The last of the guests had given their statements and staggered home, exhausted after the long night. The police remained downstairs, crawling over the crime scene in the ballroom.

  The chief inspector was an old friend of Mario’s. He had escorted him and his unlikely group of costumed American companions to Battista’s office upstairs, where they could avoid the crush of reporters and photographers parked at each of the exits. They were supposed to sit tight and await the arrival of the elite anti-terrorism division of the Italian National Police.

  Marshall and Lacey sat behind Battista’s desk. Marshall’s left arm was thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, held in a sling. His other hand was wrapped from the wrist down to his thumb. It could have been far worse, after his run-in with that bastard Carlo. At the chief inspector’s insistence, Marshall and Lacey had been brought back from the hospital after the emergency-room doctors had sewn up his wounds. Twenty-four stitches. There’d been no permanent damage, but Marshall wouldn’t be making keyboard entries anytime soon. Lacey sat beside him in front of Battista’s computer. She typed in a command using only the index fingers of each hand.

  Marshall’s glassy eyes told Jake he was high on pain meds. With a lopsided grin on his face, he nudged Lacey. “God gave you ten fingers. Why don’t you use them?”

  Lacey lifted one hand in the air, extending only her middle finger. “Sometimes we only need one to get our point across. Shut up and tell me what to do next.”

  Jake watched the exchange with relief. Marshall was going to be fine. And sweet little Lacey? From what he’d learned from Tony, she’d been the glue that held the team together—speaking fluent Italian to pave the way for the alliance with the gondoliers, taking charge of the costumes, and in the end saving Marshall by drop-kicking the shit out of Carlo. Tony was right; the girl has layers. He wasn’t surprised to see Marshall looking at her in a whole different way. The two of them had hacked the institute’s computer files, looking for a clue as to where Battista might have taken Francesca and the kids.

  Tony was in the adjacent room trying to make some sense of the unusual glyphs posted on the wall of Battista’s study. Jake sat on a small leather couch in the main office, next to a very distraught Mario.

  His voice choked, Jake said, “Sir, I can’t even begin to express my sorrow over what happened to your daughter. I would have given my life to save her.”

  Mario placed his hand on Jake’s knee, his eyes red and swollen. “Signor Bronson, you are not to blame. You are as much a victim of this monster as she. If only I had acted sooner…”

  Jake enveloped Mario’s hand in both of his. “Signor Fellini, on my life, I will bring her back. Whatever it takes.”

  Jake focused his thoughts and sent a mental wave of calmness toward the shaken old man, hoping to provide some temporary comfort for his grief.

  Mario’s lower lip quivered, but he held back his tears. “You are a remarkable man. My daughter told me about you when she returned from her trip to California. Her eyes sparkled with delight and wonder when she spoke of you.”

  Mario’s grip on Jake’s hand tightened as he continued. “She tried to be angry with you, but underneath she could not hide the truth of her feelings. Not from me. She was drawn to you; it was plain. And if my daughter Francesca felt that way about you, then I need know nothing more about your character. The future is in God’s hands, and I will pray to Him for guidance and help. And in you, I will place my trust that you will find her and the children and bring them home.”

  There was a short tap on the door, and the chief inspector walked into the office leading a teary-eyed Ahmed, a blanket wrapped around his damp pajamas.

  “Ahmed!” Jake ran to him.

  Sobbing, the boy accepted his embrace. His small frame was shaking. In Dari he said, “I’m scared, Jake.”

  The inspector said, “We found him hiding near the boat ramp, rambling in Dari and repeating your name. We can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

  Jake nodded and spoke softly in Dari, “Be strong. We’ll get through this—”

  The inspector broke in. “Ask him how he got away from them. What of the others? Is the little girl hiding too?”

  Ahmed’s hug around Jake tightened at the barrage of questions—this from a boy who just two days ago was touch-phobic. Jake motioned to the inspector to give him a moment.

  Ahmed’s command of Italian and English was every bit as good as his native Dari. But he chose to maintain the privacy of their conversation by continuing in his native tongue. He pointed at the chief inspector. “I don’t like him. He kept grabbing my hand!”

  “I understand. He won’t do that anymore. I promise.” Jake held him close for several moments. The boy’s body was tense. Jake whispered, “Are you hurt?”

  Ahmed shook his head. “No. Just…cold.”

  Jake glared at the cop. “Get the boy some clothes!”

  The chief inspector maintained his calm. “Patience, Mr. Bronson. They should be here any moment.”

  Jake double-wrapped the blanket around Ahmed, rubbing the shivering boy’s arms and back. “Let’s get you warmed up, pal. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Tony stepped back into the room. He listened intently to the Dari exchange.

  Ahmed said, “They took Sarafina in the boat with Francesca. I got away.”

  A uniformed police officer walked in and handed Jake a bundle of clothes and a small pair of tennis shoes. “These are from the boy’s room, sir.”

  Jake handed the dry clothes to Ahmed, removing the blanket from around his shoulders and holding it up as a privacy curtain while Ahmed changed into his jeans and sweatshirt.

  To the chief inspector, Jake said in English, “If you can give us a few minutes alone, I’m sure I can calm him down and get some answers.” Jake bent over and helped Ahmed with his shoes and socks.

  The inspector apparently saw the value of giving them some space. He nodded, and he and the policeman left the room.

  With Jake’s gentle urg
ing, Ahmed gave a detailed account of being tugged through the back halls of the palazzo to Battista’s private boat landing, of how he had jumped into the canal when they tried to pull him into the boat and held his breath underwater until they were gone. Later, he’d hidden in a closet until the police found him.

  “I didn’t want anybody to find me. But I was so cold.” He twirled a small metal ashtray on the end table while he spoke.

  Jake suspected there was more to the story, but he didn’t press him. The poor kid had been through hell in the past twelve hours. Jake squeezed the boy’s shoulders with his hands. He felt Ahmed’s muscles tighten under his touch, so he released his grip. Physical contact was still difficult for him. “You were very brave. I’m proud of you.”

  Leaving Ahmed on the couch next to Mario, Jake huddled with Tony in the doorway by the study. “What do you think?”

  “I think you speak Dari, that’s what I think. What the hell, man?”

  “I know. Another of my new talents.”

  Motioning to the small study behind him, Tony said, “Come here and check this out.”

  Tony lifted the framed photo of the Middle Eastern father and son in front of a small mountain village. “Sure reminds me of Afghanistan. Think there’s a connection?”

  Ahmed had followed them into the room. He tugged on Jake’s trouser leg. “That’s my village.”

  Tony lowered the photo so Ahmed could get a better look at it. “Your village?”

  Ahmed switched to English. He pointed to the boy standing next to Battista in the photo. “Yes. His son was my best friend. Until the accident.”

  Jake stared hard at Ahmed. The boy was telling the truth. “Ahmed, how long have you known Signor Battista?”

  “All my life. He is our chieftain, our sheikh.”

  Jake whirled at this tidbit. He sat down in the wide reading chair to get on eye level with the boy. “Ahmed, we need to talk.”

  Ahmed didn’t hesitate. Talking was one of his favorite things to do. He spoke nonstop, telling them of his village high in the mountains of Afghanistan, of his friends making fun of him because he was different, all except Rajid, Battista’s son. Rajid had protected Ahmed from the other boys, taking him under his wing almost, as if it were his sacred obligation as next in line to be the tribal leader. They’d become inseparable friends, until the day of Rajid’s seizure. Ahmed’s friend, his protector, left on a helicopter for Kandahar. He never returned. Battista later explained that Rajid would spend the rest of his days at a special hospital. It was Allah’s will.