BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (13 page)

“What about Francesca?” Becker said as he shouldered his way past Jake to illuminate the staircase.

“It’s handled,” Jake shouted with more confidence than he felt. “No time for explanations. Let’s go!”

Becker started down the stairs. Tony motioned for Jake to go next. Jake hesitated. Feigning the best surprised look he could muster, he said, “Shit, I forgot the sat-phone.” Edging past his friend, he added, “I’ll be back before you’re halfway down the steps.” 

“But—”

Tapping the flow of adrenaline that surged through his system, Jake disappeared around the corner so fast that it must have seemed a blur to Tony. But instead of running back to the great room, he flattened himself against the wall in the corner, his ears tuned to the closet. He heard a brief grumble from Tony, followed by the sound of him padding down the staircase.

Jake moved back into the closet. He grabbed the staircase door and slammed it shut. He latched it so that it couldn’t be opened from below.

“Hey!” Tony yelled, his voice muffled by the door. Jake heard him clamber back up the steps.

 “Sorry, pal,” Jake said as he moved the panel back into place. “This is something I’ve got to do on my own.”

“Jake!” The panel vibrated as Tony’s ham-sized fist pounded on the door.

“Trust me,” Jake said. “I know what I’m doing. But for any of this to work, I need you and Beck to get everyone else to safety.”

Tony protested with his silence.

“I’m counting on you, Sarge,” Jake said, and turned his back on the bedroom.

He ran down the hallway and positioned himself in front of the small camera above the computer console. He clicked on the remote-link icon. A videoconference window opened on the center screen, filled by the stern face of a well-groomed Hispanic gentleman. This wasn’t what Jake expected.

“You will regret that you trespassed on my property,” the man said smoothly. A tough-looking hombre with a machete appeared at his shoulder. The man in back bared his yellow teeth beneath his straggly beard. That would be the muscle, Jake thought. These were the right guys.

 “Hey, shitface,” Jake said. “Me and my pals have decided to take over this little charnel house.”

Before the boss man could say anything, Jake added, “We’ll be throwing the parties around here from now on. Your momma’s invited. Your wife, too. But you and your ugly friend? You can pound sand. And you know what? There ain’t a goddamn thing your pussy ass is going do about it. Because if I catch you or any of your greaseball pals anywhere near this place, I’ll cut you into tiny pieces and feed them to any children that your shriveled excuse for a dick might have fathered.” Jake cringed at the foul sentiment, but didn’t let it show.

The drug lord’s eyes widened, the only sign of his anger. A stream of expletives came from the man behind him, who splattered spittle on the camera lens. “You are already dead,
gringo
!”

Jake flipped them the bird and disconnected the link.

That ought to bring ’em
.

Chapter 23

The Sonoran Desert, Mexico

J
ake needed to buy time.

He flinched when he heard muffled thuds outside two more windows on the opposite end of the great room. Satchel charges now surrounded the structure. One flip of a switch by the man holding Francesca and the hundred-year-old ranch house would be blasted to rubble.

Jake turned off the satellite phone and dropped it on the table. By the time Cal and Kenny retrieved his messages, it would be too late anyway. Jake was on his own.

Scanning the images from the surveillance cameras, he counted at least ten soldiers surrounding the house. They crouched well beyond the anticipated blast radius with assault rifles to their shoulders. Two men had positioned themselves behind one of the thickets of tumbleweeds that Becker and Tony had arranged earlier. The detonator was taped to Jake’s thigh beneath his cargo slacks.

Twin headlights appeared over the ridgeline that fronted the property. They bounced on the uneven desert floor as the vehicle threaded its way toward the ranch. Jake could make out four shadowy figures in the open-air jeep. One of them had long, flowing hair.

Francesca.

Jake released a long-held breath. She was alive. He’d counted on that, though a part of him had feared the worst. But Battista’s men wanted him, not her. He’d assumed correctly that they’d keep her alive, at least for the time being, to get Jake and his friends to surrender. He willed the approaching jeep to keep moving. He needed Francesca as close as possible to the hacienda if his plan was to have any chance of success.

**

Abbas held up his hand. The driver brought the jeep to a stop abreast of the line of soldiers that circled the target. The headlights illuminated the front of the ranch house fifty meters ahead. A soldier trotted over and handed one of two remote detonators to the officer sitting behind Abbas. Each was the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“All is ready,” the soldier reported. “A total of eight charges surround the structure.”

The woman whimpered. She sat beside the officer in the backseat, her hands restrained in front of her with flex-cuffs.

“Well done,” the officer said, flipping a switch to illuminate a green ready light on the device. The soldier saluted and returned to his station beside a tangle of brush.

Abbas approved the team’s efficiency. The Iranian shock troops were well disciplined and highly trained. There were several thousands of the elite soldiers stationed throughout Venezuela, all part of the pact between the Iranian and Venezuelan presidents, an alliance spurred by their shared hatred of America. That Battista had been able to tap into that alliance was further testament to his influence.

Abbas discerned no movement within the house, though he was certain that the American and his friends were peeking through the slats of the shutters. He smiled as he imagined their fear. He stepped out of the jeep, and the officer followed. He pulled Francesca behind him and shoved her forward. She stumbled in the sand at Abbas’s feet, just in front of the vehicle’s headlights.

“Up!” he ordered.

**

Jake checked his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d spoken with the drug lord. Assuming he and his men were located in the village ten miles distant—and assuming that Jake had pissed him off enough to get him off his ass right away—it would still be another twenty minutes or more before he’d show up.

Jake wondered if the complicated scenario he’d scripted had the slightest chance of working.

The occupants of the jeep exited the vehicle. His chest tightened when Francesca stumbled. He closed his eyes and projected a single desperate thought toward her.

Stall.

**

The woman stared up at Abbas. Defiance flared from her eyes.

“Get up!” he repeated.

She didn’t budge. Instead, her gaze shifted toward the ranch house. Her expression softened and the corners of her lips curled upward.

“He will make you pay,” she said.

Her sudden calm was unexpected. A part of Abbas admired her spirit. He would enjoy breaking it later. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “You are like lambs who have invited a wolf into your midst.”

“We shall see.”

She studied his face with a curious expression. “You remind me of another of Battista’s peons,” she said. “Carlo. Did you know him?”

Abbas stiffened at the mention of his brother.

“I thought as much,” she said. “He died badly, squealing like a child.”

Abbas backhanded her with such force that she rolled twice across the sand.

“Whore!” he shouted, ignoring the look of surprise from the officer beside him. “Do not speak of my brother.”

Francesca pushed herself to a sitting position. She wiped at a rivulet of blood that ran from a gash on her already swelling lip.

“I see you share his weakness,” she slurred. “Unable to control your emotions. Did you know that he wet himself before he died?”

He instinctively drew his switchblade and snapped it open. The urge to end her worthless life was intense. But he stayed his shaking hand, wondering why she was taunting him. Did she want to die? It was then that he noticed her hands hovering unconsciously over her belly. He loosened his grip on the knife.

“Interesting,” he said. “I’ll not kill you yet, woman. But rest assured, the time shall come for us to share a very long and intimate conversation about my brother.” Pointing the tip of the knife at her belly, he added, “We shall also discuss your unborn child.”

The stunned look on the woman’s face confirmed his suspicion.

“But first, why don’t we ask the child’s father to join us.”

Abbas hauled Francesca to her feet. 

Chapter 24

The Sonoran Desert, Mexico

A
bandoning the video monitor, Jake watched through a cracked window shutter as two men escorted Francesca to within earshot of the house. They’d left the jeep well behind them. The rising moon cast a pale glow on their faces. One of the men was dressed in full combat gear. The night vision goggles hinged to the front of his helmet were raised since the headlights from the distant vehicle illuminated the scene. The other man was dark-featured with a confident bearing that left little doubt he was in charge.

“Jake Bronson!” the man shouted.

Time was running out on Jake’s plan. It would be at least another fifteen minutes before the local cartel boys showed up, assuming they took the bait. Jake remained silent.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” the man said. “In that case…” With his free hand, he ripped open Francesca’s blouse, exposing her bra and midriff.

“Wait!” Jake shouted.

“Too late for that,” the man said, displaying the knife he held. “Listen carefully, Mr. Bronson. And don’t make any sudden movements within the house.” 

Jake felt a swell of panic when he saw the blade pressed against Francesca’s abdomen, its point sliding partially beneath her waistband. With a flick of his wrist, the man sliced through the soft material of her slacks, exposing her lower abdomen.

“Stop!” Jake yelled. “I’ll come out.”

“Not yet,” the man said. He pressed the tip of the blade at a point midway between her belly button and crotch. “You will come outside only when I tell you to. But first I want you to fully understand the price of noncompliance with any of my instructions.”

Ice rippled through the sheen of sweat on Jake’s skin.

“If I plunge the blade here to a depth of five inches, it will surely kill her. It will be a slow and agonizing death.” He paused to give Jake a moment to absorb the image. “However, if I limit the puncture to only two inches, then only your unborn child will die. Tell me, Mr. Bronson, do you know yet if it is a boy or a girl?”

The question stunned Jake. A part of him wanted to fling open the door and rush outside. But the man’s words had taken control of his movements like a puppeteer’s strings. His mind reeled. That’s what she wanted to tell me, he thought. I’m going to be a father. He saw from the strained expression on Francesca’s face that it was true. That he learned the news while she was in the grasp of terrorists accented the desolate state of affairs that had been his life since the accident in the MRI scanner. But the knowledge also strengthened his resolve, stripping away all his emotions except one—determination.

“I will assume from your silence that we understand each other,” the man said. “Why don’t you come outside and join us? Alone.”

Comforted that the others were out of harm’s way, Jake swung open the door and stepped over the satchel charge on the doorstep. He raised his hands over his head.

“Fifteen steps forward,” the man ordered, the knife still pressed against Francesca. The soldier beside her leveled a semiautomatic pistol at Jake.

Jake complied, his eyes scanning the field that stretched before him. He noted the location of each soldier in the distance, measuring angles and distance against his ability to move faster than they expected. A spate of adrenaline tightened his skin.

 “That’s close enough,” the man ordered. Jake was still ten yards from them. “Empty your pockets.”

Jake dropped his wallet, keys, and loose change on the ground. 

“Now remove your shirt and spin around.”

Jake did as he was told, thankful that he’d left the pistol in the house.