[Brainrush 01.0] Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  Jake bunched the muscles of his neck and gathered all the force of his being into a malignant bolt of mental energy, releasing it directly into the man’s eyes to boil his filthy brain.

  The doctor staggered back with an agonizing scream, his palms clamped to his temples. His eyes seemed to expand in size as they bulged outward from the pressure of his swelling brain, blood leaking from around their edges. With a sickening pop, one of them pushed through the socket and dangled to the man’s cheek. The doctor dropped to the floor, his body jerking in the final throes of death.

  The half-full syringe sagged from Jake’s shoulder; his arm burned as the needle levered against his muscle. He jerked his shoulder, trying to shake it free. But the guard on his left dug the point of his knife deeper into Jake’s ribs to immobilize him. Still gripping Jake’s other arm, Broken Nose used his free hand to reach for the syringe.

  Jake focused on this new threat and repeated his mental attack. But his mind was already clouded from the strong drug. He strained to focus his thoughts, his eyes boring into a small freckle on the bridge of the guard’s swollen nose.

  Nothing happened. The partial dose of the drug didn’t knock him out, but it was enough to block his enhanced abilities. As the drug coursed through his body, one by one each of his senses dulled. He could still think and move but no better than anyone else.

  Normal didn’t feel right anymore. Until now, he hadn’t appreciated the magnitude of the changes that his mind and body had gone through in the past week. His connection to the world around him had expanded in amazing ways, as though his brain had skipped forward a thousand generations on the evolutionary scale. Now that his power was gone, he felt hollow, incomplete. Even the siren call of the mountain’s incessant vibration faded to nothing.

  Jake sagged in submission. Broken Nose grasped the syringe and was about to send the rest of the drug into Jake’s shoulder when a dull black canister about the size of a soda can soared over his head from behind and bounced off the shin of one of the men standing next to Battista.

  Even before the stun grenade rolled to a stop, Jake heard the cough of a suppressed weapon from behind him. Broken Nose’s forehead exploded outward in a spray of bone and brain. Two more quick coughs followed the first. The guard pressing the knife into Jake’s ribs arched his back and was flung to the ground.

  The grenade exploded in an ear-splitting white flash. The corridor lights went out, throwing the tunnel into pitch-blackness.

  Jake fell to his knees, shaken and disoriented from the blast. The only sound he could hear was the rapid thumping of his heart. He blinked several times to clear his vision, but the darkness was complete.

  There was a movement beside him. He felt the syringe being plucked from his shoulder. Two strong arms yanked him up and lifted him off his feet. He was flung over a thick shoulder, and he went bouncing off down the tunnel.

  He heard a muffled voice through his ringing ears. “I got you, pal.”

  “Tony? How—”

  “Shut up and don’t fidget. The emergency lights will be on any second.”

  Tony’s breathing was labored under the load, but he still seemed to be running at full speed down the dark tunnel. After a couple of twists in the corridor, he stopped and lowered Jake to the floor. He heard the soft rip of Velcro. A shuffle of movement told him Tony was working on something next to him.

  Tony flicked on his flashlight. From its dim reflection, Jake saw a golf ball-sized lump on Tony’s forehead. Dried blood caked the entire side of his face. Jake was amazed that his friend had found a way to follow him after the accident on the cliff face.

  Tony’s night vision goggles dangled from his neck. He crouched over a softball-sized mound of C4 plastic explosive that he had molded into a cone-shaped charge pressed against the wall of the tunnel. The force of the blast would be directed straight into the wall.

  The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the tunnel in a dull glow. Jake heard Battista’s enraged shout over a confused tangle of voices from down the tunnel. “After them, you fools!”

  The clap of boots echoed from around the corner.

  Tony set the fuse. “Get moving—fast!”

  Jake scrambled to his feet. A sudden head rush forced him to brace himself against the wall. The drug was taking its toll. Tony looped his arm around him and yanked him forward.

  After the first bend in the passageway, they ducked into the natural cavern Jake had passed earlier. Tony pulled them both to the floor, their backs against the wall just inside the entrance. “Cover your ears and exhale!” Tony shouted.

  Jake’s hands flew to his ears. He emptied his lungs just as the walls of the cavern shook from the violent concussion. Dust puffed up from the ground. Pallet racks shook around them. Jake’s eardrums popped from the wave of overpressure. A slender stalactite broke free from the cavern ceiling and crashed to the floor. Another impaled a wooden crate on the rack behind them. The crate burst, and a dozen fragmentation grenades spilled to the floor. Jake snapped his foot away when one of them rolled against his boot.

  Tony grinned. He grabbed the grenade and shoved it into the pocket of Jake’s wool vest. “For good luck.”

  Jake looked at him like he was nuts.

  Tony peered into the dust-filled tunnel to check his handiwork. “It’s sealed tight. That should buy us a few minutes while they backtrack to an alternate route. Which way to the girls?”

  Jake hesitated, squeezing his eyes closed as he concentrated. He’d memorized the 3-D map on the display in the computer room, but he couldn’t recall it through his dulled senses. He opened his eyes. “Damn, I can’t remember.”

  “Oh, shit,” Tony said.

  Jake pulled the confiscated comm unit up to his lips and pressed the transmit button. “Marsh, are you up?”

  “Yeah, man. I’ve been watching you two through the surveillance cameras. You can thank me later for dousing the lights.”

  “Marsh, my memory’s toast. We need directions.”

  Marshall explained how to get to the prisoner’s cells and how to get back up to the main entrance using a service corridor. Tony wrote everything down on his combat pad.

  “Listen up, guys,” Marshall said. “All hell is breaking loose up top. The team is about to blow the pass. Ten minutes after that there will be more than a hundred men overrunning them from a half dozen different directions. They’ve got to retreat to their secondary positions before that.”

  Jake and Tony marked the time on their watches.

  Jake thought about what would happen if they couldn’t make it out in time. “Marsh, no matter what happens to me and Tony, you’ve got to take off and get word out about what’s going on here. Don’t let Cal risk the V-22. Battista has to be stopped.”

  “Just move your ass and get here,” Marsh said.

  As Jake and Tony passed the last row of pallets, Tony skidded to a stop. He stared at two tall stacks of crates containing high explosives. “If we don’t make it out of here, these assholes are going to kill a lot of innocent people.” Tony flipped a page on his pad and scribbled a quick duplicate of the directions. He tore the copy off and handed it Jake.

  “Tony, we don’t have time,” Jake said.

  Tony started working the tip of his KA-BAR under the lid of the first crate. “This has gotta get done. It won’t take long. I’ll catch up. Now go!”

  Jake knew he wouldn’t win this argument. Scanning the map, he sprinted into the exit on the right.

  Chapter 42

  Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan - 3:24 a.m.

  BECKER STUDIED THE NARROW PASS through his nightscope, waiting for the first head to appear around the corner. Sixty seconds to go. The detonator was cradled in his palm, his finger on the switch. He was hidden in the rocks on the west side of the clearing, less than seventy-five yards from the cavern entrance and the path leading from the village below.

  Papa was crouched at his side, his Grendel assault rifle propped over the boulder they were using
as cover. The rest of his fire team was spread out in the rocks around him. Maria remained tucked on the ridge above them with her Dragunov sniper rifle. She was hungry for targets.

  Becker and Papa concentrated on the overhead image being transmitted from the Raven to their HUDs.

  “They’re close,” Papa said. “I count about fifteen or twenty.”

  “Dammit to hell,” Becker said. “We had well over a hundred of them in that pass to start with. Now the bulk of them has turned back. They’ll be coming at us from every which way.”

  On their HUDs, they watched several small teams of red dots converging on their position.

  “It’s going to take a while for the rest of them to make it over the ridgelines,” Papa said. “But when they do, we better be long gone.”

  Becker risked a quick glance at Azim’s limp form sprawled on the ground behind them. His hands were bound with plastic flex cuffs, his mouth sealed with duct tape. One of his eyes was swelled shut from Papa’s violent interrogation. Three of the fingers on his left hand were cocked back at a sickening angle.

  “Do you think he sold us out?” Becker asked.

  “Damn right, he did. We let a local on the team, and we’re in deep shit because of it. I will say this for him. He’s a tough sucker. I worked him hard, but he wouldn’t sing.”

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Becker said.

  “Screw that, holmes,” Papa said. “He’s the only unknown on the team. The sucker dropped a dime on us, and Willie’s dead because of it. I still think we should finish him.”

  Becker ignored the comment. His attention was focused on the twenty red dots that were about to break into the clearing. He knew the rest of the team was watching the same image on their HUDs. He tightened the grip on his weapon and radioed the team. “Stay tight.”

  Switching to his night-vision binoculars, Becker waited with his finger on the detonator for the first of the tangos to race around the corner.

  His vision was suddenly blinded by the searing light from two flash-bang grenades.

  Becker jerked backward. The detonator switch slipped from his grasp, and he cursed himself for using night vision at such a critical moment. Unable to see, his hands worked frantically over the ground, feeling for the detonator.

  The deep rattle of AK-47s echoed off the canyon walls as the first of Battista’s men thundered into the clearing, their weapons on full auto as they sought cover. Papa responded with a series of measured three-round bursts from his Grendel. The rest of the fire team opened up as well, their return fire erupting from the rocks behind Becker. The hollow staccato of Ripper’s LWRC automatic rifle filled the night as it unleashed its deadly hail of 6.5mm Grendel rounds into the rocks around Battista’s soldiers.

  Becker’s vision started to clear. He found the detonator and flipped the switch.

  A deep explosion rumbled from within the narrow pass as the towering walls crumbled down on the last of Battista’s soldiers still on the trail. The ground shook. A massive burst of rocks and debris spewed into the clearing, filling the air with dust. On Becker’s HUD, several of the red dots vanished from the display.

  But it had been much too late. At least a dozen men had made it through and had taken positions at the far side of the clearing. More tangos charged out of the main entrance, joining their brothers behind the rocks. They unleashed a hail of fire into the rocks around Becker’s team.

  Scores of additional soldiers would soon be cresting the ridgeline.

  “These guys are going to flank us in about ten minutes!” Becker shouted into the radio. “We have got to be gone before then.”

  Becker aligned his first target with the CompM4 Red Dot sight of his HK416 and gave the man a third eye when his keffiyeh popped up over a boulder. A rain of return fire puckered the rocks in front of him and Papa. The two men ducked behind their boulder.

  A bright contrail shot up from behind the ridge and sliced across the night sky like a shooting star. There was a bright explosion overhead. The image on Becker’s HUD went black.

  A surface-to-air missile had just taken out their Raven.

  Chapter 43

  Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan - 3:25 a.m.

  EVEN THREE LEVELS DEEP, Jake felt the rumble of Becker’s explosion at the southern pass to the clearing. He quickened his pace.

  Though the facility’s lights were back on, the ancient tunnel was barely lit. The sour smell of human misery hung in the stale air. He padded softly past several empty cells, stopping when a man’s voice broke the silence from around the next corner. Jake flattened himself against the wall.

  The voice was low, guttural, the words too faint to decipher.

  He edged forward. A shiver prickled the back of his neck. As he peered around the bend, he saw a stocky figure duck into one of the cells twenty feet in front of him.

  A child’s scream pierced the tunnel.

  Sarafina!

  Jake’s heart caught in his throat. Adrenaline surged through his body, and for a brief instant his abilities returned to him. His mind shoved away the fuzzy effects of the drug. His limbs filled with energy.

  But even as he took his first lunging step forward, the drug once again took control. His movements slowed. He pushed on. The pounding of his feet reverberated through the narrow corridor. Before he reached the cell, a shadow jumped out to face him, his knife drawn.

  Carlo.

  Assessing the threat, Carlo glanced behind Jake, his head cocked to the side, listening for anyone following. The corners of his mouth lifted into a sly grin. “All alone?”

  Jake readied himself, rocking back and forth, feeling his balance. He raised his arms defensively in front of him, and his fingers danced in the air as if preparing to dart in and out of a flame. He said nothing. There was no room for a show of weakness here.

  “All business, is that it?” Carlo said. His eyes narrowed. “Very well. I have been waiting for this moment for some time.”

  Carlo leaped forward with a series of diagonal slashes with his knife. Jake’s attempts to parry the swipes were a fraction too slow. He barely avoided a wicked cut from the blade by staggering backward.

  Carlo seemed to read the hesitation in Jake’s movements. He redoubled his strikes, moving forward as the knife weaved a blurred pattern in the air. Jake danced backward, looking for the slightest opening, finding none.

  “You’re not so fast anymore, Mr. Bronson. Too bad, because I would have enjoyed the challenge.” Carlo lunged with another strike.

  Desperate to take the offensive, Jake snapped his hand up to grab the scarred wrist of Carlo’s knife hand. Grinning at the amateurish move, Carlo smacked Jake’s arm with his other hand. He twisted his wrist free and cut a cruel slice across the loose sleeve of Jake’s dishdashah. The blade burned into Jake’s forearm.

  Pain signals shot from Jake’s arm to his brain, making him wobble, with his right hand squeezing the wound. For half a breath his abilities once again emerged through the drug-induced haze. But even as the thought formed in his mind that he could now use his speed to strike back, the sluggishness returned.

  Jake continued to retreat, frantically considering what had happened. The pain-induced adrenaline rush from the cut had peeled back the numbing effects of the drug, just as Sarafina’s mournful scream had earlier. The connection was plain—adrenaline pushed aside the drug’s effects and momentarily gave him access to his heightened abilities.

  He needed adrenaline.

  And Carlo’s knife would provide it.

  Watching the blood seep between the pressed fingers of Jake’s hand, Carlo stopped for a moment to gloat. “A master knife fighter knows how to kill a man slowly with a hundred cuts. In your case, I will settle for nine or ten.” He passed the knife casually from hand to hand. “The trick is to avoid the six main arteries.” Carlo positioned the blade over his bicep, making a slice in the air. “Like the brachial artery, here, just half an inch below the skin. Severing it will cause a loss of consciousne
ss in fourteen seconds. Death follows a minute later.” Moving the tip to his neck, Carlo continued, “Or if one’s in a hurry, cut the carotid, one and a half inches deep, leading to unconsciousness in five seconds and death in twelve.”

  Oddly, the lecture made Jake feel better about his chances. His desperately conceived plan for survival relied on Carlo’s expertise and his desire to inflict maximum pain before delivering a mortal strike. He hoped like hell that the man was every bit as good as he boasted.

  Carlo flashed the knife in smooth, descriptive arcs over different parts of his own body as he spoke. “Wrist, stomach, heart, clavicle, neck, biceps—six major artery locations that we must avoid until the end, eh, Mr. Bronson? All of them in easy reach of my blade when the time comes.” He licked his lips. “And when it is finished, I shall return to the cell for a little fun with your girls.”

  Jake gritted his teeth and narrowed his concentration on Carlo’s eyes. He let go of his arm, ignoring the pain from the surface cut, seeking more. He heard the light splat of a drop of his blood as it hit the floor. Fueled with a grim determination, Jake lifted himself to his full height and said, “You’re not nearly as good as you think you are, asshole. If I’m going to die, it’s gonna be on my timetable, not yours.”

  Carlo’s cocky smile wavered under the intensity of Jake’s gaze. “We shall see.” His face flushed with anger as he rushed forward, flourishing the knife in a figure-eight pattern.

  With a tremendous strength of will, Jake held his ground, throwing his damaged forearm up as a shield. The blade cut into his skin—once, then twice. Hot pain attacked his senses. As his body flinched, he felt a third cut slice into his thigh, accompanied by Carlo’s wild-eyed sneer. “That’s four cuts alrea—”

  A tidal wave of adrenaline coursed through Jake’s limbs. In what would have seemed a blur of motion to Carlo, Jake rushed forward, grabbed Carlo’s knife wrist in both hands, and twisted his arm around in a violent corkscrew motion that drove the point of the blade into Carlo’s stomach all the way to the hilt.