BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (11 page)

Torrance, California

A
bbas flipped his cell phone closed, ending the call.

“The plane crashed in the Gulf of California,” he said. “They found no survivors.”

“Of course not,” Battista replied. “Mr. Bronson is smarter than that. He and his friends obviously left the plane long before it went into the water.”

The two men were seated on a small couch in the office above the warehouse. An ornate, ceramic teapot rested on a coffee table in front of them. Kadir sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table. He leaned forward and poured a short stream of Turkish tea into the
sheikh’s
demitasse cup.

“They could be anywhere,” Kadir said, shaking his head in disgust.

Battista shared a knowing smile with Abbas, the only other person who knew the entire scope of Battista’s plans.

“Do not worry, Kadir,” Battista said. “Allah shall provide.”

Kadir bowed his head. “Of course, my
sheikh
.”

Battista sipped the thick aromatic tea. The smell reminded him of times long ago, sitting before the fire with his father, listening to tales of the vast world outside his village. His father’s stories always highlighted the dangers of the Western crusaders and the need for all good Muslims to fight back in the name of the one true religion.

Battista’s real name was Abdul Modham Abdal. He was descended from a long line of chieftains who had led his prosperous mountain tribe for over a thousand years. At the age of ten, with his father’s teachings firmly implanted in his psyche, he had been sent to live with his mother’s wealthy family in Venice, Italy. It had been so different from the small village of his birth. He hated it at first. He longed for his friends, the fresh air, and the pride and furor that drove his father and the men of his tribe. But he adapted; his father demanded it. Allah demanded it.

He had excelled at the Italian schools and made new friends of a sort, friends who were never permitted to learn his true identity. In time he settled in and feigned to appreciate the comforts of the West, attending the best universities in Europe, earning his PhD in Applied Cultural Philosophy by the age of twenty-five. His life was cocooned in a web of lies that became second nature to him.

So much had happened since then. His mother lost her battle with Alzheimer’s, his father had been tortured and killed in the American prison in Guantanamo, and his wife lost her life to an errant American missile. Shortly thereafter, his six-year-old son—the last of his family—had suffered a seizure that left him with a severe spectrum disorder.

Battista met with top doctors in the field to see what could be done for Rajid. Though none of them could help, he’d learned of some promising research being conducted with transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) brain implants. He’d turned his efforts—and the considerable financial resources he’d garnered after a few “accidents” ensured that he was the sole heir to his mother’s ancestral estate—to development of the technology. Not only could it provide a cure for his son, but it would also facilitate the creation of a small army of mentally enhanced super soldiers who could infiltrate the West in preparation for the final glorious battle.

Everything had been on track—until Jake Bronson entered the scene. The
sheikh
’s blood boiled at the thought of the arrogant man who had ruined everything.

He sighed. The scales would tip in the opposite direction very soon, in spite of Bronson’s temporary disappearance. The insidious nature of Battista’s current plans appealed immensely to him. The residents of Los Angeles, and later all of America, would never suspect what was coming. There was but one loose end to tie up. He turned to Abbas.

“Take the jet,” he said. “Meet the shock team in Mexico.” He glanced at his watch. “They depart Venezuela in two hours. That will put them on the ground late tonight. By then we will know where Mr. Bronson and his friends are huddled.”

“Will Kadir be joining me?” Abbas’s nose wrinkled in disgust when he added, “For the procedure?”

“No, he must finish his work here. Take Muhammad.”

“The scientist?” Abbas said.

“Yes. He has the medical training necessary.”

“But I need him here,” Kadir protested. “He has been instrumental in developing the final formulation.”

“Are you telling me that at this late stage you cannot complete the task without him?”

“No…but his absence will be felt. There will be a delay.”

“So be it,” Battista said.

“He has no field training,” Kadir added.

“It is decided,” Battista said. There was an edge to his voice that ended the conversation.

Abbas stood to leave.

Battista studied the eagerness in the assassin’s face. He was well aware of the man’s enmity for the American. Battista didn’t question the man’s loyalty, but he did worry that his desire for revenge might cloud his judgment.

“No mistakes, Abbas,” Battista added.

“Of course,” Abbas said through tight lips. He offered a bow of his head. “I have never failed you, my
sheikh
. And with Allah’s blessing, I shall not fail you now.”

“
Allahu Akbar
,” Battista said.

Kadir and Abbas responded in unison. “
Allahu Akbar!”

Chapter 20

The Sonoran Desert, Mexico

J
ake knew something was wrong the moment he opened the heavy oak door of the desert ranch house.

He stepped into an expansive great room dominated by a massive stone hearth that stretched twenty feet across the far wall. The fireplace resembled a gaping maw, its interior and trim blackened from a century of soot. Arched doorways on either side of the hearth opened to a kitchen on one side and a long bedroom hallway on the other. The gathering room reeked of age, with rough-hewn oak beams overhead and cracked terra-cotta tiles underfoot. A dozen arched windows spilled sunlight into the space, highlighting swirls of dust motes in the dry air. A chandelier hovered in the center of the room over a scatter of old sofas, end tables, and overstuffed chairs. A pitted and nicked dining table stretched along one side of the room, surrounded by sixteen high-backed chairs.

But the room’s interior had changed dramatically since Jake’s last visit with Papa over a month ago. A thick aroma of booze and human sweat hung like a pall over the room. Empty tequila bottles and Tecate beer cans were strewn throughout the space. A pair of women’s panties hung from the yellowed shade of a table lamp.

“Pee-yoo!” Lacey said as she shouldered her way past Jake. “This is supposed to be our safe house?”

The rest of the group piled through the door behind her. Each sported a look of disgust and dismay. Even Max was subdued. His tail was still while he sniffed the air.

“Crap,” Tony mumbled, exchanging a worried look with Jake. His arms overflowed with the parachutes he’d gathered in order to stow them out of sight of search planes.

“Everyone stay put,” Tony ordered. He dropped the chutes on the floor and pulled his automatic from its holster. He quickly snaked his way through the room and into the dark hallway that led to the back rooms.

Becker moved toward the kitchen, his assault rifle pressed into his shoulder.

Jake pulled his own automatic and corralled the rest of the group into a corner of the room. He felt Francesca shiver beside him as they waited.

Becker returned quickly. “Kitchen’s clear,” he whispered. The sound of doors opening and closing echoed from the hallway. Becker followed the sounds to back up Tony.

After several long minutes, the two men returned with their weapons lowered. Tony had a long canvas bag draped over one shoulder. He dropped it onto the dining table.

“Whoever it was,” he said, “didn’t find our emergency stash.”

 Jake breathed a sigh of relief.

**

“It’s amazing how quickly children bounce back,” Jake said. He emptied the rest of the water bottle down his parched throat.

He and Francesca watched as Sarafina and Josh crouched on their haunches beside the tattered remains of a corral that fronted the ranch house. The two held hands as Sarafina acted as Josh’s eyes. She shone a flashlight over a coil of shedded rattlesnake skin and described its transparent texture in detail.

Bradley hovered near the children. His injured arm was in a sling. He used the other to wave a stick in the air. Max pranced at his feet, hoping for one last toss before night settled in over the Mexican desert.

 “A full day of carefree exploring does wonders,” Francesca replied. “They believe the danger has passed.”

She sat beside Jake on a small wooden bench in front of the house. The final sliver of sun winked out as it dropped below the line of foothills that bordered the western edge of the ranch. The temperature had cooled to eighty-five degrees, encouraging a buzz of insects to venture out for the night’s forage. The arid landscape stretched out before them, broken by shadowed copses of scrub oak and cactus. The diesel generator rumbled softly on the other side of the house.

Jake slid his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder.

“I envy them,” she added, knuckling away a tear.

Frustration gnawed at Jake. He’d hoped this ranch would be a safe haven for them. Instead, he’d dropped them all in the middle of another mess. It was apparent that the ranch had once again been claimed by one of the nearby drug lords and they’d be back. Jake had read of the growing number of kidnappings and murders. He didn’t want his group to be anywhere close when the drug lords returned, all hopped up for their next party.

Jake had used the satellite phone from the emergency stash early this morning to contact his Air Force pilot buddies, Cal and Kenny. The two men had provided air transport for their assault on Battista’s mountain fortress in Afghanistan. Jake needed their help again to get out of this spot, but neither had answered his call and he’d left a voice mail. If they didn’t call back by morning, Jake and his team would have to head out on foot. The closest village was ten miles away.

He didn’t want to worry Francesca with the news. He’d shrugged off her concerns about the ranch’s recent visitors as a one-time event.
A bunch of kids having a party,
he’d said. But he knew better, and he suspected she did as well. Fortunately, she hadn’t pressed him on it. Not yet.

They’d spent the night on the couches and floor of the great room, preferring to avoid the sweat-and-sex smell of the bedrooms. They slept in shifts through the night so that there were always two people on watch. They’d used today to recharge after the adrenaline-filled events of the previous twenty-four hours.

Jake caught a glimpse of Tony and Becker not far away. They had looped their rifles over their shoulders while they dragged a bundle of tumbleweeds toward a nearby copse of trees. Becker was tapping into his aboriginal roots as the two prepared a few special surprises for any unwelcome visitors.

Tony had calmed down somewhat after finally reaching his wife on the satellite phone the night before. His family was safely ensconced in his mom’s cabin. Two of Papa’s crew were keeping a sharp eye on them.

Nevertheless, with Battista on the loose, they were all in danger. If he turned himself over to the terrorist, Jake wondered, would his friends be safe? Jake’s mind raced through the options, running various scenarios to their logical end, weighing Battista’s apparent motivations against his friends’ lives. In each case, the answer was the same…  

 “
Non sono stupido
,” Francesca said in her native Italian, interrupting his thoughts. “I know you are hiding something from me.”

Jake tensed. Her ability to look right through him was uncanny. For the most part, he’d learned how to block her empathic gift when necessary, though he hated doing it. His impulse was to share his heart and soul with her. Under different circumstances he would have done so long ago, but there was no future in the cards for them now.

“Sorry,” he said, suspecting where this conversation was headed. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.” Over the past couple weeks, something had changed in her. He knew she wanted more out of their relationship. She’d been honest about that from the beginning, but lately it seemed she was on the verge of pressing the issue.

 “I’m trying to figure out our next move,” he added. “I’m hoping we don’t have to use the tunnel.”

 A flash of confusion crossed Francesca’s face.

“Tunnel?” she asked.

“There’s an underground river that flows just behind the main house. A trap door inside hides an entrance to a tunnel leading down to the caverns. According to Papa’s grandfather, the original owners used it as an escape route in the event of an attack by
banditos
.”