The air sweetened around him, and he knew he was getting close. He slowed his pace, afraid that he might launch himself into thin air when he reached the opening. He strained his eyes in front of him and saw a sparkle of starlight.
Jake slid to a stop.
Ninety seconds to go.
He cocked his ear and the distinctive roar of the massive engines of the V-22 drifted toward him. They were in the air.
Jake pulled out the communicator and clicked it on.
The ready light didn’t come on. Even the low-battery light was out. He flipped the button several times and pounded the unit into the palm of his other hand.
No!
The battery was dead.
Jake collapsed to his knees, his face tilted up to the sky. He wailed at the top of his lungs, “God, don’t take this from me too!”
Jake’s thoughts filled with his friends, with Sarafina, with Francesca. He tried to throw his thoughts toward them, but the drug still held him firmly in its grip. He ripped at the wounds on his arm, demanding the pain, pleading for the sweep of adrenaline that might clear his head and focus his thoughts into a telepathic warning. There was a small surge, but it faded instantly. He needed more, much more.
Jake searched the floor around him, looking for a weapon, a rock, anything that could deliver the adrenaline he so desperately needed.
His breath caught in his throat as the answer dawned on him.
He turned his eyes to the void that spread out before him like an inviting lake.
He stood, the toes of his boots hanging over the edge. He felt the tension leave his face, and he allowed a smile to find his lips. He took one final deep breath of clean mountain air and stepped into the blackness.
Chapter 50
Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan
THE V-22 LIFTED VERTICALLY off the ground. Francesca twisted in her seat and stared out the small porthole window. A cloud of sand and dust swirled outward and disappeared into the desert night. The nose dipped, and the big bird began to move forward. The steady thrum of the twin engines changed pitch, and she saw the shadow of the immense port-side nacelle rotate downward as the Osprey shifted to airplane mode.
They were on their way home. Without Jake.
The mountain that was now his tomb was silhouetted on a backdrop of stars that moved past the wing as they picked up speed. She wiped her eyes with the tissue that Jake’s friend Lacey had given her.
Jake’s friends.
The amazing people around her were a testament to the man. They had traveled halfway around the world and risked their lives to rescue him in Venice and then followed him into this godforsaken place to save her and Sarafina. Their loyalty spoke volumes about Jake’s character.
She couldn’t bear to turn around and face them. It hurt too much. The warmth that they each had shown her couldn’t hide the creases of sadness in their eyes. And it was all her fault, wasn’t it? She had been so easily taken in by Battista’s silky words and fatherly demeanor. Her extraordinary empathic senses had failed to alert her to the deceit behind the man’s smooth façade. It should have been her who died in these mountains, not Jake. Her life was over anyway.
She risked a glance over her shoulder at Sarafina. The child was still huddled under Tony’s bulging arm, unmoving, staring at nothing. A few days earlier—when she’d opened herself to Jake—the girl had finally taken the first crucial steps toward putting her tragic past behind her. And for her efforts she was rewarded with more anguish and loss. Now she had once again burrowed deep within herself and blocked out the world, perhaps this time forever.
Francesca looked toward the front of the plane and saw Ahmed fiddling with the contents of his backpack. He was so different than Sarafina, so confident and extraverted. He had changed dramatically since receiving the implant. He now seemed well on his way to becoming an active participant in the world around him. Maybe, just maybe, some little good had come out of Battista’s horrible experiments.
Francesca turned back to the darkness outside. The V-22 made a slow, banking turn to the left. The crown of the mountain would soon slip out of sight. And Jake would become a memory.
Francesca, stop Ahmed. He has a bomb! Stop Ah—
Jake’s thoughts filled her head and drove everything else away. Francesca spun around. Sarafina’s eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that left no doubt that she heard it too.
Jake!
Francesca’s hands shot to the buckle on her seatbelt. She screamed with all of her soul, “Ahmed has a bomb!”
It was Becker who reacted first. He jumped out of his seat and rushed toward Ahmed.
Both of the boy’s hands were scrambling in his backpack. He let out a piercing wail, “Allahu Akbar!”
Becker shoved his hands into the backpack, grabbed the boy’s wrists, and lifted him straight into the air. Ahmed’s feet kicked wildly in space. The backpack fell to the floor, trailing a twisted string of electrical wire that stretched to a black detonator in Ahmed’s small fist.
His eyes went wild, and his little thumb pressed down on the red plunger.
The click of the switch nearly stopped Francesca’s heart.
But the explosion that was meant to accompany it never happened. Tony reached over Becker’s shoulder and pried the switch from Ahmed’s grip. Becker pulled Ahmed into his chest and moved out of Tony’s way. Tony crouched down and carefully opened the flap on the backpack. His fingers slid down the twisted wires into its folds, his eyes narrowed on the contents within. Everyone was on their feet watching. Francesca held her breath.
Tony sighed. The tension melted from his face. He pulled his hand out of the pack, and with it came the copper lead that had snapped free when Becker jerked the boy into the air.
“It’s okay,” Tony said. He stood up and looked at Francesca. “There’s gotta be two pounds of C4 in there. More than enough to turn us into a fireball. How did you know?”
Francesca’s face lit up. “It’s Jake.” She rushed to one of the windows and stared at the dark mountain. “He’s alive!”
The mountain exploded.
Like a huge volcanic eruption, the cap of the mountain literally burst up to the heavens in thousands of pieces, encased in a fireball of flames. Tongues of fire snapped out of the main cavern entrance as well as the hole in the cliff face. The glow cast an orange reflection on the faces of the team.
The V-22 yawed violently from the pressure wave, the port wing dipping as Cal and Kenny fought at the controls. They recovered by using the momentum to turn the V-22 and put the conflagration on their tail to get out from under the debris that would be dropping from the sky like hail in a thunderstorm.
Everyone in the back was banged up, with more than a few bruises from the jolt. But it was Francesca who took the deepest wound, cut to her core by the knowledge that no one could have possibly lived through that blast, not even Jake.
Epilogue
Venice, Italy
Three Days Later
THEY GATHERED IN THE LIVING AREA of Mario’s home in Venice. Marshall sat next to Lacey on the couch, one of his bandaged arms cradled in her lap. She held a wadded tissue in one hand. Several half-full coffee cups rested in saucers on the wooden table in front them. Tony stood nearby in front of the fireplace, his left shoulder bulky from the bandage that was hidden beneath the sling. His other arm rested on the mantle next to an eight-by-ten photograph of Francesca’s uncle, Vincenzo, a black ribbon stretched diagonally across its corner. The last inch of a flickering votive candle nestled beside it. Mario stood next to Tony, the two men sharing a silent moment.
Sarafina sat alone on a stool at an upright piano on the far wall, her back to the group, her little hands sliding across the black and white keys, tapping a melancholy tune that floated out of the open window and drifted across the water.
Francesca rested her hands on the sill, looking down at the canal that had been her lifelong companion. Her father’s gondola was tied to the wall bene
ath her, rocking gently in the cool morning breeze. Her face was hollow. The joy that normally filled her features had long since abandoned her.
***
From a small, bougainvillea-covered gazebo on a roof deck across the water, Jake lowered his binoculars.
Besides his mother and sister back home, everyone he cared about in the world was in that little room across the canal. They were his family, his lifeline. And it was for that very reason that he feared joining them, afraid of drawing them into the whirlwind of danger that would soon surround him. They thought it was all over. They couldn’t be more wrong.
Three days ago he’d jumped off that cliff expecting it all to come crashing to an end. The air had rushed past him as he fell, the darkness hiding the ground that he knew was speeding toward him. Adrenaline charged every nerve in his body, and his mind screamed his warning to Francesca. A second later, with a lurch that twisted his limbs into a violent tangle, all the air was knocked out of his lungs, and darkness invaded his mind.
He regained consciousness hours later to find himself cradled in the folds of Tark’s thirty-six-foot-wide canopy that still clung to an outcrop of rock partway down the cliff, the same one that had cocooned itself around Tony on the way up. It was a one-in-a-million shot, the kind of thing that only happened in movies. He hung precariously eight hundred feet above the ground in the middle of nowhere, with no possible means of escape.
But he was alive.
He lay there for thirty-six hours before the end of a long rope whistled by him, dropped from the cliff seven hundred feet above. Jake couldn’t believe his eyes when one of Azim’s cousins had snaked down the rope. With the help of several men from his tribe, Azim pulled Jake out of the hammock that had come so close to becoming his death shroud.
Azim explained that he’d been unable to follow the rest of the team using the BASE jumping gear because the chute pack he was supposed to wear was riddled with holes from the firefight. He survived the onslaught of Battista’s men by pretending to be one of them and escaping into the village below before the massive explosion. Only a small number of Battista’s followers had survived the cataclysm. They packed what they could and abandoned the mountain and the village. Azim returned the next day with men from his tribe to pick over the pieces. By Allah’s will, they had uncovered a small radio receiver that identified Jake’s blinking position by the tiny locator he had taken from Sarafina’s collar.
A day and a half later Jake was back in Venice, watching his friends from this roof deck, wondering what to do.
He’d gone over and over it in his mind while he hung helpless on the cold cliff face. Battista had bragged to him about the three successful implant subjects who had left the facility and were headed to America. What would they do when they learned what Jake and his friends had done to their tribe? They knew about Francesca and Sarafina, and likely Tony, Marshall, and Lacey too. Would they leave them alone and continue on their jihad against faceless infidels in the United States, or would they seek a more personal revenge? Were they on their way here to Venice even now? If so, who would protect Jake’s friends, if not him?
He fingered the small pyramid in his pocket. It warmed to his touch, now a familiar companion waiting to guide him. Its makers were a zillion miles away. Or so he hoped. How long until they returned? A year? A decade? And then what? It wouldn’t be good; that much was certain. To survive, the human race would have to pull together in a way that could not even be imagined in today’s world.
Impossible.
There was a flutter of feathers, and a small group of doves landed on the edge of the tiled roof beside him, their tiny heads making small, sharp movements as they sidled into comfortable positions on their perch. From the extensive dropping stains on the tile beneath them, this was a regular haven for the little family, maybe even a home. He envied the little birds, oblivious to the concerns of the world around them. And hadn’t he heard once that doves mated for life?
Jake pulled the binoculars back up to his eyes. Francesca stood there, hands on the sill, all alone.
He lowered the glasses and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he filled his mind with her image.
Francesca, I’m coming.
Author’s Note
IF YOU ENJOYED Brainrush, I’d love to hear from you! If so, send an email via the “Contact” link at RichardBard.com, or better yet leave a quick review on your favorite site. Reviews, no matter how short, are a huge help for newer authors like me, so I’d sincerely appreciate it!
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Are you ready to find out what happens next to Jake and his friends? The Enemy of My Enemy (Brainrush 2) is now available. You can read the first few chapters on the following pages. And guess what? It was on the Top-10 Amazon Mystery/Thriller Top Rated list for 53 straight weeks.
Happy reading,
Richard Bard
The adventure continues…
Keep reading for a sneak peek of the sequel.
The Enemy of My Enemy
Brainrush 2
Chapter 1
One thousand feet above Redondo Beach, California
JAKE SUSPECTED HE WAS ABOUT TO SIGN his own death warrant.
“You want to run that by me again?” he said, hoping to buy a few precious minutes. He edged back on the stick to put the open-cockpit, Pitts Special, acrobatic bi-plane into a shallow climb. Their altitude needed to be at least three thousand feet AGL—above ground level—if he was to have any chance of surviving the desperate maneuver. Using one of the rearview mirrors mounted on the side of the cowling, Jake watched the passenger seated behind him. The man’s image vibrated in harmony with the engine’s RPM.
“You heard me, Mr. Bronson.” The first-time student held up a cigarette pack-sized transmitter that had two protruding toggle switches and a short antenna. He peeled open his jacket to reveal a vest lined with panels of plastic explosives. “I throw the switch and”—he paused, his eyes vacant, and then said—“paradise.” His lips curved up in a smile. “I’m ready to meet Allah. Are you?”
The vintage leather helmet that was Jake’s trademark style statement blunted the sound of the wind rushing up and over the windscreen. But the menace in the guy’s tone came through loud and clear through his headset. He was all business. Jake inched the throttle forward, steepening the climb, passing through twelve hundred feet.
The hawk-faced man in the backseat was in his early twenties. He’d ambled into the flight training school like a young cowboy walking into a Texas bar, wearing boots, hat, and a drawl to match. When he insisted on “the wildest ride ever,” the head flight instructor had turned to Jake with a knowing smile and said, “He’s all yours.” The newbie had been filled with a confident swagger and wide-eyed enthusiasm that Jake found infectious. It reminded him of his own excitement over a decade ago when he’d gone on his first acro flight in a T-37 during his air force pilot training.
But the endearing Southern drawl was gone now, and the man allowed his natural Dari accent to accompany his words.
“I’m not a fool, Mr. Bronson,” he said, apparently looking at the altimeter in the rear cockpit. “Regardless of how high you take us, we shall both die. Your fate was sealed four months ago when you blew up my village. Ninety men from my tribe died in the blast. My friends, my brothers.”
Jake grimaced at the reminder. His actions had sparked the explosion that brought the mountain down on the terrorist village. He deeply regretted the loss of life, but given the choices he faced at the time, there’d been no alternative.
The man sat taller in the seat, and a rush of pride crept into his voice. “I am Mir Tariq Rahman, and it is profoundly fitting that the enhancements to the brain implant I received—largely as a result of what our scientists learned studying you—shall become your undoing. My newfound talents made it so very simple for me to get past airport security a
nd immigration. I’ve walked freely through your malls and amusement parks, attended baseball games, and eaten popcorn at the movies. I purchased a car and rented an apartment—all with the goal of affirming my ability to infiltrate your decadent society, to remain above suspicion while I watched you and those close to you. Planning…dreaming of this moment.”
The revelation jolted Jake. The last of the implant subjects was supposed to be dead. News reports had confirmed it. There had been a desperate shootout with US immigration officials as the three jihadists attempted to enter the country through Canada. The evidence had been compelling, right down to the implants found in their skulls. The news had come as a blessing since each of those men had deep-seated reasons for wanting to see Jake and his friends dead. At the time, Jake had discounted a gut feeling that it had all seemed too good to be true.
If he lived through the next few minutes, he swore he’d never make that mistake again.
As if reading Jake’s mind, the man said, “You believed we were all dead, yes?”
“I read the reports.”
“Of course.” He sounded amused. “The sheikh’s final three subjects, killed at the border. One careless mistake and they are gone. At least that’s what authorities were led to believe.” His tone turned contemplative. “The three martyrs chosen for the deception died with honor. They served a divine purpose under Allah’s plan. As do we all.”
Jake centered the man’s face in the small mirror. It was difficult to judge the expression behind the helmet and goggles, but there was no mistaking the determined clench of the jaw or the satisfied smile. This was a man not just ready to die; he was anxious to die. Thank God it’s happening up here, Jake thought, away from my friends. He banked the wings westward to angle the plane past the crowded beaches now eighteen hundred feet below.
“I wouldn’t turn just yet,” the man said with a calmness that was unnerving. “There’s something you’re going to want to see first.”
Anxious to keep the guy talking, Jake switched to Dari. “Why should I even listen to you?” He spoke in a dialect that matched that of his assailant’s tribe. He’d learned to speak the difficult language in less than a week following the freak accident that had transformed his brain into an information sponge. “If I’m going to die anyway, it’s going be on my terms.” He steepened the bank westward toward the ocean.