BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (20 page)

The Sonoran Desert, Mexico

J
ake rose to his toes on the wooden chair. He pressed his ear to the wall-mounted vent, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation in the nearby room. The knife-wielding
jihadist
was on the phone. Francesca had identified the terrorist as brother to a man named Carlo. Jake chilled when he recalled the bastard, who had taken pleasure in torturing Jake. Francesca and Sarafina had been next on his list when Jake killed him. From the tension in his brother’s voice at the other end of the vent, it seemed he was talking to a superior, probably Battista.

“We had an unexpected encounter from some locals,” the man said in Dari. Jake understood him. His enhanced brain had given him a remarkable ability with languages. He’d learned Dari when he was Battista’s prisoner in Venice. Since then, he’d added a dozen new languages to his repertoire. The learning process had become a coping mechanism that soothed him and helped take his mind off the specter of the alien obelisk.

“They were
more
than farmers,” the man was saying, a bit defensively. “Part of a local drug cartel, I suspect. Well-armed and very angry. They attacked like crazed demons.”

Jake took some satisfaction at that last comment. He was damn glad
he
hadn’t had to face the drug lord and his pals after their little videoconference. At least that part of his ploy had worked, though it didn’t seem to be doing him much good at the moment.

He winced with discomfort when his gut cramped again. He’d woken fifteen minutes ago to violent waves of nausea that felt like food poisoning, but the hypodermic puncture on the inside of his elbow told him it was something else. His brain catalogued the myriad of possibilities and a shiver crept up the back of his neck. The nausea had eased up considerably, but every so often a sharp stomach cramp reminded him that all was not good.

He and Francesca were holed up in what looked like an abandoned office. She was asleep, curled up on a cot on the other side of the room. Her auburn hair spilled in a billow of curls onto the old mattress. The front flaps of her torn slacks were cinched together with Jake’s shoelaces.
Under which his child’s heart was beating…

A tarnished brass coatrack completed the office’s sparse appointments. It stood beside the room’s only door, which was locked from the outside. The midday sun pushed its way through a grime-coated window. Jake saw the silhouettes of two guards outside. They stood by a jeep and appeared to have rifles slung over their shoulders. A truck was parked behind the jeep. Jake figured the rest of the men were inside.

From what he’d gathered, Battista’s men were waiting for their cohorts to fly in and pick them up. He still had no clue what Battista wanted with him this time around. Was he planning to reconstitute his mind-enhanced army using Jake’s brain as the catalyst? Or was it something worse? The man had gone to a lot of trouble to capture him again. If it was merely revenge he wanted, Jake would have been dead by now.

He continued to listen at the vent. His brain sorted through the incoming streams of data while another part of his mind searched for an escape solution.

“We lost five men,” the faint voice reported. “We disabled all but one of their vehicles during the pursuit. The remaining truck backed off. I suspect they’ll be hard on our trail as soon as they gather reinforcements.”

No shit,
Jake thought. The cartel’s private army could swarm down on them at any moment.

After another pause, the man continued. “The American’s friends escaped down an underground river. They couldn’t have gone far. I sent a team to double back and track them. When they surface, we’ll be waiting.”

Jake’s heart swelled with hope at the news. Had his friends really survived the explosion? If anyone could have kept them safe, it was Tony. But his battle-hardened buddy wasn’t likely to suspect that the terrorists would continue to pursue them since Jake had been captured. No, Tony would assume that Battista’s men were long gone. Jake needed to warn them.

“The American and his woman are unconscious. Interestingly, she is pregnant.” The man hesitated a moment before adding, “Muhammad took it upon himself to use her as a test case for the chemical.”

What the—
  

Jake’s breath left him. He pressed his ear into the vent cover.

“But
sheikh
—” the voice rose in protest.

Seconds stretched as Jake waited desperately to hear more.

When the man finally spoke again, there was a defiant edge in his tone. “He is a scientist, not a strategist,” he said matter-of-factly. “Nevertheless, it is done. In less than ten hours, the chemical’s effects will be irreversible and the fetus will expire.”

Jake staggered backward. What the hell kind of chemical had they given her? His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Another violent cramp twisted his stomach into a knot, doubling him over. Jake welcomed the distracting pain; it fueled his rage.
Before this is over
, he swore to himself,
they’re going to pay.

But first things first. The man had implied the chemical could be reversed. Jake needed to get Francesca to a hospital within the next ten hours.

She stirred. Jake moved to her side. He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead as her eyelids fluttered open.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Jake said. He stroked her head with a calmness he didn’t feel.

The smile on her face vanished before it was half formed. Her body tensed. She seemed to look right through him and Jake knew her empathic gift had kicked into gear. He’d failed to bury his fear deeply enough to prevent her from feeling it, too.

“What’s the m—?”

Jake cut her off with a finger to her lips. There was movement outside. It appeared as if one of the guards was leaving. Ignoring another cramp, Jake leaned forward and whispered in Francesca’s ear. “Stay brave. We’re getting out of here.”

Chapter 36

Beneath the Sonoran Desert, Mexico

T
ony couldn’t believe their luck. Becker’s signal had worked like a charm. The smoke had cleared. He heard the distinct rumble of a truck engine approaching their position. 

There was a squeal of brakes and the motor shut down. Doors slammed shut. The five of them fidgeted beneath the opening. They stared up anxiously, even Max, whose tail tapped rapidly against Tony’s leg.

A shadow passed above.

“Anybody down there?” a voice called out in heavily accented English.

Warning bells went off in Tony’s head. He threw an index finger to his lips to silence his friends.

Everyone saw the gesture except Marshall, whose lips parted. “Y—”

Tony clamped his meaty palm across his friend’s mouth. Marshall’s eyes went wide with confusion.

“Dari accent,” Tony hissed under his breath, wondering if the man above had heard Marshall. “Get back,” he added. He nudged Marshall toward the far corner of the ledge. Bradley was already halfway there, Josh cradled in his arms, Max at his heels. He’d apparently sensed the danger at the same time as Tony.

“Bloody hell,” Becker mumbled softly. He pressed against the rock, his M9 pistol gripped in both hands. He still had one magazine left.

“Battista’s boys,” Tony whispered.

Becker nodded.

“I—know—you’re—down—there,” the man above said, stretching out his words.

Everyone remained silent.

More shadows passed across the opening.

“You will answer,” the man said after a moment. His voice was gruff. All pretense of friendliness had vanished. “Or you will die.”

Tony and Becker exchanged glances. Should they remain silent and keep them guessing? Or should they try to negotiate a way out?

The decision was made for them when Max let out a low growl that became a loud bark.

“Ahhh,” the voice above said with satisfaction. “Surely the dog did not create such a magnificent smoke signal all by himself. So, my stubborn American friends, are you ready to see daylight or shall we leave you to rot?”

Son of a bitch, Tony thought. They were out of options. If left underground, they would die. Up top, they might at least have a chance.

He edged closer to the vent. “Okay,” he shouted. “Get us the hell out of here!”

The sound of bullets being racked into multiple chambers was unmistakable. Tony leapt to the side just as a fusillade of supersonic lead tore through the rock where he’d been standing. The reverberating cracks of assault rifles filled the cavern. Chips of rock stung Tony’s legs. A ricocheting round buzzed so close to his face that he felt the heat from its vapor trail. He and Becker dove to the safety of the far side of the ledge beside the others.

Magazines emptied and the shooting stopped as quickly as it started. A cloud of dust and particulate matter drifted across the beam of sunlight that streamed from the vent.

“Go to hell!” Tony shouted.

“B-bad word,” Josh’s trembling voice mumbled into Bradley’s chest.

Someone above barked a series of commands in Dari. The voice wasn’t directed downward so Tony couldn’t make out what had been said. It didn’t make much difference; there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. At least the assholes’ bullets couldn’t reach them.

A few minutes later, a liquid splashed down the vent. The fumes hit Tony’s nose an instant later. His stomach twisted into a knot.

Gasoline.

“Jesus!” Marshall cried. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

The spill of gas from above stopped abruptly. There was another Dari command. This time Tony made out the shouted words.
Get the other cans!

The first volume of gas had pooled beneath the vent. A few ounces had spilled into a furrow that twisted toward Tony and his friends. When they emptied two more cans down the vent…

Tony glanced over the ledge to the dark waters below. They could either jump, risking the vortex that had sucked Lacey and Sarafina away, or they could burn.

A familiar fight-or-flight sensation swelled through him. His mind was groping for a solution when his eyes fixed on the napalm bomb he’d made earlier.

Tony swept the plastic bottle into his hand and ran toward the vent. Becker was half a beat behind him, matches in hand.

“I like the way you think, Sarge,” he said. “Let’s give the bloody bastards a little surprise from Down Under, eh?”

“Damn straight.” Tony cocked his arm over his shoulder, leaning backward as he pointed his free hand up the crevasse. The twelve-inch fuse dangled beneath the device. 

“Careful, Beck,” he said. Becker was about to strike the match against the rock wall. Tony motioned down at their feet. Both men stood in the shallow pool of gasoline.

 “Right-o, mate,” Becker said. He cupped his hand around the match to prevent any errant sparks from hitting the ground.

“Wait!” Bradley shouted behind them. He dumped Josh into Marshall’s lap and rose quickly to his feet. He pulled a knife from his pocket and moved toward the two men.

Tony froze. Becker’s eyes narrowed.

“The fuse is too long,” Bradley said. He stepped around the puddle of gas and grabbed the end of the shoelace. He sliced it with his blade so that only three inches remained. “This way it’ll explode just over their heads.” 

Tony hiked an eyebrow, appraising the man. This was a side to their quiet companion he hadn’t expected. “A teacher, huh?” he said.

“Yep,” Bradley said. He lowered his voice so that Josh’s sensitive ears couldn’t eavesdrop. “But when I was a kid, I loved blowin’ shit up.”

Tony coiled his arm and nodded to Beck. “Light the match. But don’t touch it to the fuse until my go.”

Bradley stepped back and rejoined Marshall and Josh.

Becker scraped the match against the rock. It flared to life, creating a jack-o’-lantern glow to the inside of his cupped hands. He positioned the flame a few inches from the end of the fuse, waiting for Tony’s signal.

Tony narrowed his focus on the opening above him.

Two shadows appeared.

“Now!”

The match hit the fuse with a hiss. Tony flung the bottle upward in a wobbling spiral. He and Becker sprinted from the opening.

The deafening blast aboveground sucked the air out of the cave for a fraction of a second. Just as fast, the overpressure from the bomb pushed down through the vent. The superheated air ignited the pool of gasoline with a powerful
whoop.

Tony’s ears popped as the eruption of intense heat bashed him from behind. It lifted him from his feet and slammed him chest-down into the floor of the ledge. His arms flew up to protect the back of his head and neck. A half-beat later the searing flash was sucked back up the chimney. The pungent smell of singed hair filled his nostrils.

He and Becker pushed themselves to their hands and knees. They beat out the spits of flame that stuck to their clothing and scrambled to the far side of the ledge. The hair on top of Tony’s hands and forearms had shrunk to hundreds of smoking curls. He winced when he rubbed the tender surface. The tiny bristles turned to ash, leaving a trail of reddened skin. Marshall watched wide-eyed from where he and Bradley had curled together to shield Josh and Max from the conflagration.