BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (14 page)

“Ankles next.”

Lifting the cuffs of his jeans over his sneakers, Jake felt the tug of the masking tape that he’d used to strap Becker’s small triggering device to his inner thigh. It felt as if one end of the tape had lifted. Taking care not to dislodge it, he stood back up slowly. But as soon as the tension in his trousers loosened, the transmitter slipped a fraction down his leg. Jake sensed that the last inch of tape would give way at any moment. 

“Please don’t hurt her,” he said, diverting the men’s attention.

The man shoved Francesca to the dirt. “Silence!” His underlying rage seemed barely contained.

Jake’s muscles tightened at Francesca’s whimper. She curled into a ball at the man’s feet and pulled the corners of her torn blouse around her, but the glint of determination in her eyes didn’t match the cowering visage she displayed.

Ten paces separated Jake from the trio. He felt the device under his pants sliding lower like a worm on his skin.

He assessed the two immediate threats in front of him. The soldier wore officer insignias on his collar. His pistol didn’t waver. Clipped to his belt was a small instrument with a green light.
A detonator.
It was likely linked to the string of satchel charges. His boss still held the wicked-looking knife and it was apparent he knew how to use it.

The soldier issued a quick order over his headset. From behind him, the jeep’s engine revved and the vehicle moved toward them. Jake shifted his gaze away from the headlights to preserve his night vision.

The last fraction of tape separated from Jake’s skin and he felt the device lodge above his calf. He stilled. The slightest movement would drop it to the sand.

The
jihadist
sneered at Jake. His fingers caressed the ivory handle of his knife. “I’ve waited a long—”

“Hold on!” the officer interrupted in Dari. His eyes narrowed as he pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Switch to night vision immediately,” he ordered into his mouthpiece. The jeep’s headlights were extinguished and the officer quickly lowered his goggles into place before returning his attention to his leader. “Several vehicles approaching from the west.”

Both men shifted their gaze to the horizon.

Jake shifted his ankle and the small triggering device slid to the ground. Disregarding the risk to his heart, he released an avalanche of pent-up energy into his muscles, willing his body to move at top speed—

Nothing happened.

The familiar sensation of the world around him moving in slow motion didn’t transpire.

Jake panicked. He’d crafted his plan around the use of his enhanced speed, but some part of his body had overruled him. He dropped to the ground, grabbed Becker’s device, and threw the switch.

Three ear-numbing explosions tore through the desert. Becker’s hidden C-4 charges blasted through the six-packs of plastic bottles they’d filled with gasoline siphoned from the generator. Even from fifty yards away, Jake felt the wave of heat from the fireballs.

The officer in front of Jake yelped in pain. The glare through his night vision lenses would have seared his irises. 

Pushing to his feet, Jake gauged the two men guarding Francesca ten yards ahead of him. They were backlit by a widening swath of flaming scrub brush. The officer buckled over at the waist, his pistol held awkwardly in one hand as he knuckled his eyes. His helmet and goggles lay on the ground beside him. The one with the knife had turned away from Jake, momentarily transfixed by the blasts. Francesca shifted behind the man’s feet.

Jake rushed him. Two steps later the
jihadist
turned. A smile flickered across his face. He lowered his stance and held the switchblade in an ice-pick grip. Though Jake’s enhanced speed had shut down, his brain was still on overdrive as he calculated his optimum line of approach. Francesca provided the solution—she lunged at the back of the man’s legs. Jake shifted his weight and launched himself feet-first at the fighter. The
jihadist
pitched forward just as Jake’s heels crushed into his chest. The knife flew from his grasp and his body somersaulted backward over her. He hit the ground with a grunt.

Praying that the soldiers circling the front of the property were still distracted, Jake turned his attention to the still-blinded officer. He ripped the pistol from the man’s grip and hammered it against his temple. The soldier folded to the sand.

“Back to the house!” Jake shouted to Francesca as he unclipped the satchel charge detonator from the officer’s belt.

Four sets of bouncing headlights appeared over the distant ridge. The narcos had arrived. A burst of gunfire from one of the
jihadist
soldiers was answered by a fusillade from the fast-approaching vehicles. A cacophony of sharp cracks blistered the night. The remaining
jihadists
returned fire. Tracers arced into the darkness.

Francesca sprinted toward the hacienda. Her still-cuffed hands held up the front of her torn slacks. Jake was right behind her.

A half-second later the world turned white in front of them. The simultaneous blasts from the eight satchel charges blew them onto their backs on the sand.

**

Jake was enveloped in a heavy blanket of pure silence pierced only by a loud ringing in his ears. His limbs were dead weights rooted to the ground. He stared unblinkingly as a dust-filled cloud billowed across the night sky above him, slowly obscuring the star-filled blackness. A scorched slat of wood tumbled in slow motion from the sky, growing ever larger in his vision as it descended toward his face. It impaled the ground twelve inches from his head, its upright end quivering. A thin trail of smoke drifted from its smoldering edge. With no accompanying sounds, the entire scene felt surreal to Jake.  He squeezed his eyes closed against a trailing shower of particulate matter that pelted his body like hundreds of hailstones. His hand went up to cover his face and he felt the tingle of sensation returning to his limbs.

Muffled sounds crept through the dazed membranes of his ears and the faint staccato cracks of gunfire flooded his awareness.

Francesca!

Urging his muscles to respond, he rolled over and pushed to his knees. Francesca lay curled beside him, eyes closed, a veil of dust covering her face. A dribble of blood snaked out of her ear. He crawled to her side, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through his wrenched shoulder. He blew the dust from her eyelids and brushed bits of debris from her cheeks.

“Please, Lord,” he muttered.

Her eyes fluttered open. Her body tensed.

“Wh—what? Where—”

“You’re okay,” Jake said, pulling her into his arms, relief washing over him. “Be still for a second. Give your body a chance to recover.”

“I—I can’t hear you,” she cried out. “What are you saying?”

Jake calmed her with his mind.
Relax a moment. Your hearing will return
.

Francesca pressed into his embrace. Her fingers dug deep into his back.

A rush of footsteps broke the silence behind him. He turned toward the sound in perfect timing with the rifle butt that smacked into his forehead. The world went dim. Strong arms yanked him from Francesca’s grasp. His confused vision centered on the troughs his heels left in the desert sand as he was dragged backward.

**

Jake drifted in and out of consciousness in the backseat of the jeep. His hands were flex-cuffed in his lap. His head lolled against Francesca’s shoulder as the driver slammed the gas pedal to escape the oncoming truck of narcos. The
jihadist
sat shotgun in front of him. His hands gripped the top of the windscreen as they bounced across the rough terrain. The officer beside Jake glared at him. He had a golf ball-size lump on the side of his head from where Jake had cold-cocked him. The man jabbed the muzzle of his pistol into Jake’s ribs, twisting its tip to accent his anger. But the flame of pain in Jake’s side was a welcome distraction as he stared at the fifty-foot-deep sinkhole that used to be the ranch house.

Part II

Chapter 26

The mountains of Northern Nevada

“T
he man’s name is Jake Bronson,” Colonel Brown said as he paced before Doc’s cluttered desk. They were in a small office one hundred feet below ground in the Area 52 complex. “He’s a former Air Force pilot. Lives in Redondo Beach, California.”

“One of yours, eh?” Doc said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the stem of his pipe against his bearded chin.

 “Not any more. He’s a civvy stunt instructor at a small municipal airport.”

“And you’re certain this is our boy?”

“The intelligence team confirmed it. The field operative received the tip less than an hour ago. He was one of the guys who surveyed the scene right after the Afghan mountain explosion. The local tribesmen he interviewed weren’t very helpful at the time, but he left them his business card in case they thought of anything else. One of them just called.”

“After so long?” Doc said.

“I know. Sounds suspicious. The guy is suddenly a fountain of intel. Something, or someone, decided it was in their best interest to fill us in.”

“So this Jake Bronson was there when the object was launched?”

“He wasn’t simply there. According to the source, he was the one who triggered it.”

“You’re kidding,” Doc said, rising to his feet.

Brown shook his head.

Doc slid the pipe into his pants pocket. “My God, we need him—”

“I know, I know. But there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Lt. Bronson’s been involved in an incident. It seems he was in a high-speed chase and gunfight in the L.A. area.”

“A gunfight? With the cops?”

“No. Someone else. We’re not sure who yet. According to witnesses, the guys chasing him had automatic weapons. AKs from the sound of it. In the end, Lt. Bronson and a group of his friends—including two young kids and a guide dog, if you can believe it—stole a plane and low-leveled it to Mexico.”

“He had children with him?”

“Plus two women. A real family affair. We haven’t isolated their position yet. But we will. We’re getting a satellite retasked and I’ve sent teams to contact known associates.” He glanced at the printout he’d brought with him. “There’s one connection in particular that has us intrigued. It seems that ever since Lt. Bronson did his short stint with us, he’s been buddies with one of our V-22 pilots, a Major Springman.”

“And?”

“According to the report from our new source, a USAF V-22 was used to transport Lt. Bronson’s team to and from the Afghan mountain stronghold.”

“Jeez…”

“Exactly,” Brown said. He checked his watch. “And Major Springman is just about to complete a training exercise at Miramar in San Diego. We’ll be on him within the hour.”

Doc swiveled the large desk monitor so Brown could see the live image of the black pyramidal object that filled the screen. “Finally,” he said. “A break.”

He recalled the remarkable chain of events that brought them to this point. The ancient object had been discovered in a sunken cavern in the Grand Canyon over forty years ago. But when military scientists had been unable to unlock its secrets, it had been left to gather dust in an obscure government vault—until recently, when a duplicate object was inexplicably launched into space from the mountains in Afghanistan. Tracking computers made the connection. The government had immediately moved the object to this secure facility under Doc’s charge.

 “Colonel,” he said, “I don’t have to tell you how critical this Bronson character is to what we’re trying to uncover here.”

“I understand. But we need to proceed with caution. Something doesn’t smell right about the timing on this sudden flow of intel. The source seemed to know a lot more than he let on to the field op. At one point he even let it slip that Lt. Bronson was out of the country.”

 “And how in the hell could a tribesman from the mountains of Afghanistan possibly know that?”

“Exactly.”

Chapter 27

Beneath the Sonoran Desert, Mexico

T
ony swept the assault rifle back and forth. The under-barrel flashlight illuminated the narrow path ahead. The downward-sloping tunnel stretched into the darkness. The floor was uneven, and the limestone walls were pitted with cracks and fissures. Sarafina clung to his chest like a monkey, her feet lodged on his belt. Becker and the rest of the group trailed behind them.