BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (27 page)

“It should be close to the target area,” Tony added. The soldier in him had resurfaced.

“Someplace no one would think to look,” Lacey said.

Marshall sighed. “With a solid computer system and high-speed Internet.”

“And access to more manpower,” Tony said.

Jake sensed Francesca’s presence an instant before her hands wrapped around his waist from behind. “It must be safe for the children,” she said. “And for God’s sake, make sure there’s plenty of bottled water.”

Jake turned to face her. A wave of relief washed over him as he caught her smile. “The baby’s okay,” she said, folding herself into his arms.

“You heard everything?” he asked her.

“I heard enough. The man is the devil incarnate.”

Jake felt her anger. He knew she was sickened by the ease with which Battista had drawn her into his web of lies at the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies in Venice. It had nearly cost her life. And Sarafina’s as well.

A knuckle rap on the open door interrupted them. The doctor walked in with Francesca’s chart. “You’re cleared to go. I suggest you take it easy the next few days.” He turned and appraised Jake. “I understand you’ve been suffering from some severe abdominal cramping.”

Jake tensed. After all the health issues he’d been through, being poked and prodded by a doctor was at the absolute bottom of his list of favorite things. The abdominal attacks had lessened in frequency. The last one had been a couple of hours ago on the Osprey. But he admitted to himself that it had hurt something fierce. A part of him worried that the next attack would be even worse. Maybe the doctor could give him something.

The man continued, “A quick scan will allow us to identify the root of the problem. We have an MRI in the basement—”

Jake spun the doctor around and ushered him toward the door so fast that the poor man nearly toppled over.

“B-but—”

“Out you go, Doc,” Jake said, shaking off a shudder at the mention of an MRI. The terror of what had happened the last time he’d been in one was branded in his memory. “Thanks for the offer, but we’re out of time.” 

The doctor shook his head and left the room.

Fighting back a grimace from an ironically timed spasm, Jake was confronted by the expressions of concern from his friends. Francesca appeared particularly worried and the crinkle on Sarafina’s brow told him she was close to tears. He reached over and picked her up. Her arms clung to his neck with a fierceness that matched her fear.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m okay.”

“But I can tell that it’s hurting you, Papa,” she said in Italian, reverting to her native tongue. Her spectral disorder had not only given her a masterful ability with music, it had also opened her up to a telepathic connection with Jake. The link was usually limited to those moments when Jake intentionally projected his thoughts. But occasionally, especially when he was in a highly emotional state, she was able to tap into him on her own. Coupled with Francesca’s empathic ability, the pair was often two steps ahead of him. In time he’d learned how to shield his inner feelings from them, but it required a conscious effort.

He steeled himself. “It’s just a little tummy ache, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” Sarafina sniffled. She buried her head in the crook of his neck.

“Of course I am,” Jake said, hating the lie even as it left his lips. He projected a calming aura around her as he addressed the others.

“Well, what are we waiting for? We’ve got work to do.”

Francesca captured his gaze. Her expression told him that the conversation about his health was anything but over as far as she was concerned. But she’d apparently decided this wasn’t the time because she said, “He’s right. We really must leave.”

Tony was the last one Jake ushered through the door. His friend pulled the sat-phone from his belt and pressed
redial.

Chapter 48

Big Bear, California

“W
hat the hell do you mean, I’m not
allowed
to come home?” Tony’s wife, Melissa, shouted into the phone.

“Mel, please—”

“Don’t you dare ‘Mel-please’ me,” she said. “The last I heard from you was a voice mail telling me to sit tight, and that we couldn’t make contact with any friends until you picked us up. No explanation. No reason. It freaked me out. So I waited. And waited. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep our kids from contacting their friends? I must have tried to call you back a hundred times, but your damn phone is shut off.”

“I know—”

“I’m not finished!” she yelled. “I’m sitting here at my mom’s house with the kids, making up excuses for why their dad’s not here, checking the front window every time I hear a car drive by, hoping it’s you.” 

She fought a swell of emotion. Melissa hated crying in front of her husband. It put him into gotta-fix-it mode and she didn’t need that right now.

Peering through the open kitchen window, she soaked in the peaceful view that surrounded her mom’s lakeside cabin. The property was cocooned within a forest of hundred-year-old pines that stretched out of view above her. Their branches swayed gently in the cool breeze, distributing their scent. In the distance, the late afternoon sun glimmered off the rippled surface of the lake.

Her mom, on a forced but happy sabbatical from her writing due to their visit, sat with the kids at the picnic table on the wooden deck, sipping lemonade. Andrea sat beside her, her soft blond curls bouncing to the music that presumably streamed into the earphones attached to her iPhone. She flipped a page in a dog-eared
Cosmopolitan
magazine, her constant companion.
Lord, she’s already a teenager. God help us.

Across from them, Tyler—the spitting image of his father, right down to the stocky build, crew cut, and Yankees cap—had his head buried in the
Call of Duty
game on the PSP—Playstation Portable. Nine years old, teaming up with his friends online to save the world one game at a time.

Imagining her children’s lives without their father had twisted Melissa inside out.

She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I-I was scared, damn it.” She stifled a sob. “I thought something terrible had happened to you.”

“I’m so sorry, honey,”
Tony said. The tenderness in his voice massaged her nerves. “If there had been any way on God’s earth for me to contact you, believe me, I would have.”

She did believe him. The big lug had always been good that way. Hidden beneath that hunky exterior and tough-guy persona was the most caring man she’d ever met. Being the wife of a soldier, and later a cop, was anything but easy. But if she had to do it all over again, she wouldn’t change a thing.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she said.

“Yeah. But listen to me, we’re in the middle of something. It’s…as heavy as it gets.”

She tensed. “What do you mean…‘we’?”

“All of us. Me, Jake, Marsh, and the girls. And others.” There was a slight pause before he added. “Our family, too.”

The words took the breath out of her. Short of giving her any gruesome details of his work, he’d always been honest with her, telling her all that he could without breaching security protocols. His suggesting that she and the kids might be in danger made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle.

He told her everything. By the time he finished describing the unbelievable events of the past couple days, she was shaken to the core.  

“I heard on the news about the car chase and shootings in Torrance,” she said breathlessly. “I figured it was just a gangbanger deal. I had no idea you were involved.”

“Oh, we’re involved all right,” Tony said. “That’s why it’s so important for you and the kids to stay where you are. I need to know you’re safe. Still no phone calls. No contact with friends. Got it?”

“Uh huh,” she said hesitantly, fearing what was coming next. “B—but…what about you?”

“We’re gonna stop them, Mel. We’re the only ones who can.”

She knew he was going to say that. And she also knew from experience there was nothing positive that would come from her objecting. That’s who he was, and as much as it hurt, she was damn proud of him for it.

Now she had to do her part. She steeled herself. “You said that a couple of Papa’s boys have been watching over us?”

“Yeah. And the fact that you haven’t noticed is a good sign that they know what they’re doing.”

“Well, give ’em a damn call and tell ’em to get their asses in the house. It’s almost supper time.”

“Will do,”
he said. There was a hint of relief in his voice.

“And Tony,” she said softly. “If anything happens to you, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, I figured. Love you, too.”

Chapter 49

Torrance, California

B
attista winced as he massaged the medicated gel into the raw and blistered skin of his neck, a ritual he now performed with the same regularity as his daily prayers. The infection from the shrapnel wound had been managed with strong antibiotics, but the grisly damage to his skin and underlying musculature would never heal on its own. His doctor had said it could be corrected with several complex surgeries.

Standing bare-chested in the small bathroom that adjoined the upstairs office in the warehouse, he considered his visage in the mirror. As usual, his eyes seemed unable to focus on anything but the damage. Everything else faded to a blur as his mind struggled with the severity of the wound. It was the same, he knew, for anyone who gazed upon him when he was not wearing his silk neck wrap. It looked as if a hungry shark had taken a chunk from his neck and lower jaw.

With a sigh, he turned his head to the opposite side, hiding the wound. The olive-skinned face that looked back at him was distinguished. The Van Dyke beard was neatly trimmed, his salon-styled dark hair combed back from his high brow. Touches of gray lent texture to his sideburns and accented the sharp planes of a bold face. He stood taller and expanded his muscled chest, admiring the textured rhinoceros handle of the
saifani jambia
slung at his side in its belt holster. He was proud of his heritage, his education, and his training. It had all led him to this glorious point.

There was a soft rap on the door.

“Kadir would like to speak with you,” Abbas said.

“V—,” Battista choked back a dry rasp from his damaged vocal cords. After clearing his throat, he said, “Very well. I’ll be out in a moment.”

Picking up a new bandage and the neck wrap, he turned his head and reexamined the wound. The numbing gel glistened, highlighting the pocks and tears of his skin. An ugly sight, he thought. But it was also an affirmation, a constant reminder that the blessings of Allah had been with him in that cave, defending him from the grenade deposited in his lap by the American. Allah’s grace had kept him alive for a greater purpose, one that had ballooned exponentially in importance in light of the revelation from the alien artifact. To fail meant nothing less than the total annihilation of the human species. Now, more than ever, all who lived in this world must embrace the one true religion. Whatever the cost. And
Sheikh
Abdul Modham Abdali, the last in a thousand-year line of revered chieftains to his Afghan tribe, would deliver the fatal strike that would end America’s reign and rally Muslims around the world to their cause.

He tucked the end of the paisley neck wrap into the collar of his white dress shirt and donned a tailored sports coat. Yes, he thought, I have every reason to want the American dead. He paused to imagine the satisfaction he would feel when he witnessed the insolent man’s anguish as his loved ones were tortured and killed before him, helpless to prevent it, knowing that his own slow and painful death would follow.

Soon, he thought. But not until every ounce of usefulness is squeezed from his miserable existence.

Battista and Abbas pushed through the swinging door to Kadir’s freestanding lab, situated within the large clean room on the ground floor of the warehouse. About the size of a three-car garage, the congested space had been designed as an LCD-assembly area by the former tenants. It held a small desk on one wall, flanked on either side by long open-front cabinets, all of which were empty except one. It held neatly organized blocks of plastic explosives and an assortment of colored wiring, timers, and detonators.

The center of the room was occupied by two counters. One supported a collection of beakers and mixing equipment. They surrounded an aquarium-sized glass enclosure with rubber-fitted gloves protruding from one side for safe handling of the toxic materials contained within. A dozen or more portable breathing devices rested beside it—plastic nose-shaped cups with elastic head straps, and attached tubing connected to cigar-sized pressurized canisters.