BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (28 page)

Battista picked one up and examined it. The devices would be needed soon. “They are charged?”

Kadir nodded. “They will allow you to move within the target premises without being affected by the gas.”

If Allah wills it, Battista thought. The success of their tertiary mission—one that could prove more important than the distribution of the infertility chemical in Los Angeles—was wholly dependent on the ability of these devices.

“You are certain they will work?”

A flash of annoyance creased Kadir’s brow, but it vanished as soon as it appeared, as if the doctor had suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “Yes, my
sheikh
. I’ve tested them several times. Once the gas is released into the facility, anyone in contact with it will lose consciousness immediately. However, the antidote delivered by the breather will neutralize the agent before it enters your lungs, so you and your men will be able to move freely through the premises.”

Battista nodded, satisfied. He stepped to the second counter where a small autoclave—used for laminating various substrates together under high temps and vacuum—occupied a third of the space. There was a sewing machine beside it, surrounded by loose remnants of thin neoprene rubber. A bare manikin stood nearby.

“The vests are ready?” Battista said.

Kadir smiled. “Oh, yes.”

“You appear satisfied.”

“Because they are perfect, if I do say so myself.”

A bold statement, thought Battista. Six months ago the man would have been chastised for such brashness. Not anymore. Not since the brain implant. If he said it was perfect, then it was.

“The kill radius?”

“Micro shrapnel from the blast will decimate anything within one hundred feet.”

“And the nerve agent?”

“Simultaneously with the detonation, the modified VX will be dispersed in such a fine mist as to be virtually undetectable. I would expect it to spread to an area at least double the blast radius before settling to the ground. The viscous oil will not dissipate on its own. It will adhere tenaciously to anything it touches. Anyone coming in primary contact with the odorless chemical—emergency personnel, cleanup crews, and the like—will be dead within hours.” His eyes seemed to get glassy as his brain pulled up a description of the effects of the compound. He spared them the details and said, “Paralysis of all the muscles in the body causes death by asphyxiation.”

Abbas shifted uneasily. He crossed his arms as if to ensure that he didn’t accidentally touch anything he wasn’t supposed to.

Even the toughest soldier knew his limitations, thought Battista.

“That should suit our purpose nicely,” he said, contemplating their deployment. Properly positioned at key points around Los Angeles, the three volunteers who ultimately donned and detonated the vests would provide the ideal distraction. They would strike terror into the heart of the decadent city, diverting police and emergency personnel while the rest of the team completed their primary mission.

“What about the bulk issue?”

“Resolved. The vests are virtually undetectable. In fact,” Kadir said with a smug expression, “I’m wearing one now. Can you tell?”

Battista cocked an eyebrow. He was indeed surprised. And pleased. Over a white T-shirt, the doctor appeared to be wearing nothing but a thin, button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm in the casual Western manner. He could easily pass as a thirty-year-old soccer dad ready to escort his children to an amusement park. The brain implant had allowed Kadir to tap into an entirely new level of creative genius. It gave Battista comfort. The team would succeed here under the doctor’s guidance. And that would free him and Abbas to complete their mission—with the American’s unwitting help.

Battista patted Kadir on the shoulder. “You’ve done well. Very well. We shall strike tomorrow.”

**

It didn’t take a brain implant to be a genius strategist, thought Battista. It was second nature to him. After all, he’d been at it his entire adult life. Like a master chess player, he was always a dozen moves ahead of his opponent. He knew how to shift plans quickly, use deception to distract and manipulate, and stay in charge of the ultimate outcome.

Mastering the art of the sacrificial pawn.

He paced back and forth behind the desk in the upstairs office. Abbas occupied the desk chair, his attention on the computer. Kadir was downstairs, directing the team in its final preparations.

Battista considered his next move. He was unnerved that the American had already crossed the border into California. He’d expected Bronson to rejoin his friends and remain in Mexico, especially with the authorities on his tail. His presence in the vicinity was troubling.

Pushing back his concern, he asked, “Where is he now?”

Abbas manipulated the keyboard, superimposing a GPS tracking signal onto the Google map.

“He just pulled into a rest stop off the 5 Freeway, midway between San Diego and Los Angeles.”

“They’ll be back in L.A. soon,” Battista said as he mentally debated his next move. “Perhaps it’s just as well. It will be easier to pick him up. As soon as they’ve reached their final destination, let the agency know.”

“Another anonymous tip from Afghanistan? There will be questions.”

“It matters not. Just tell them where he is and hang up. They’ll follow up in any case. They want him badly.”

As do I
.
But not yet
. First he needed an insurance policy against the American’s ultimate cooperation, not to mention leverage against the man’s irritating group of friends. It was important that they not give in to the temptation of involving the authorities.

“Progress at the lake?” Battista asked.

“Now that we have the make, model, and license of their vehicle, it’s only a matter of time.”

Chapter 50

South Central Los Angeles, California

“T
his is crazy!” Marshall said from the seat behind Jake and Francesca. “We—”

“Hey!” Jake said, cutting him off. He stared him down and pointed to the back of the ten-passenger minivan. Sarafina, Josh, and Max were there, oblivious to any danger, their faces pasted to the windows. Bradley seemed to share their wonder at the passing scenery.

Francesca snuggled up closer to Jake, propping her head against his shoulder and wrapping her hands around his arm. The past couple of days had taken a serious emotional toll on her. She needed a soft bed and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. But then, who didn’t?

Marshall leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sorry. But, hell, we won’t last five minutes in this neighborhood!”

Seated next to him, Lacey whispered, “My dad always told me that if I ever had car problems on the Harbor Freeway south of L.A., I should just pull over and call 911. Under no circumstances was I to ever exit into the residential areas.”

Jake understood their fears. South Central was home to some of the toughest gangs in the country. He’d flown over it hundreds of times, but he’d never seen it up close and personal. After the violent stories he’d seen on the local news, he’d half expected it to be reminiscent of a war zone, with homes in a sorry state of disrepair, and groups of serious-looking gangbangers lurking around every corner just waiting for someone to encroach on their territory.

Instead, the van drove through a neighborhood of compact, reasonably well-kept homes. Kids, mostly Hispanic, walked along the sidewalk on their way home from school while others played in their front yards. Some of the younger ones were under the watchful gaze of presumed mothers or grandmothers.

Sure, some of the homes had fenced-in front yards that protected little more than tattered lawn furniture, and security grates over windows were commonplace. But in spite of the tension Jake suspected was hidden behind closed doors, he also felt a sense of hope. The streets were unlittered, and well-tended flower gardens accented many of the homes. All in all, the area wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d imagined. People lived here, struggled here, got married, had children, celebrated holidays. The circumstances here may be a lot more difficult than the middle-class neighborhoods he’d grown up in as a military brat, but Jake suspected that underneath it all, the residents here all wanted the same things as families everywhere: safety for their loved ones, food on the table, and an opportunity to participate in the American Dream.

The van slowed as a group of boys paused their street soccer game to allow them to pass. Their small caravan included lead and tail vehicles. Becker and Snake rode in the car behind Jake, and three of Papa’s well-armed
compadres
led the way.
They’d met up with Jake south of the border bearing fake IDs for everyone.
The trail of vehicles captured more than a few wary looks from the neighborhood residents.

Max let out an eager yip. His nose was pressed against the rear window, and his tail whipped back and forth as one of the boys bounced the soccer ball from one knee to the other.

“Lighten up, Marsh,” Jake said. “We’re in good hands.”

“Got that right,
holmes
,” Papa said from the driver seat. “No one’s going to mess with you while you’re on my turf,” the former gang boss added.

In the passenger seat up front, Tony grunted, stone-faced. His trained eyes panned their surroundings with military precision. He cradled an MP5 assault rifle in his lap.

 “I sure as hell hope not,” Marshall replied. “I will admit that it’s a hell of a lot better than being trapped in an underground river with terrorists up above just dying to blow you to bits.”

“Roger that,” Jake said.

**

Jake hadn’t spent this much time in the bathroom since he’d suffered through the agony of chemotherapy ten years ago. At least back then, he’d known what was causing his stomach to churn. This time around, it was anybody’s guess. He’d drunk some of the local water while being held captive in Mexico, so hopefully it was simply a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge. But who the hell knows? Whatever it was, it was unnerving. The cramps had settled into a pattern, hitting him every couple of hours like clockwork.

He was in Papa’s family home, their temporary safe house. The reflection that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror looked haggard. His bloodshot eyes reminded him of the mornings after a
cucaracha
day in pilot training, when the west Texas winds threw up a sandstorm that grounded the planes and sent the squadron of young pilots into party mode at the officers’ club. But he’d developed a knack for bouncing back easily enough then, and he needed to do so again now. Quickly. After all, he and his team needed to do nothing less than prevent a maniac from destroying millions of lives.

But before he could wrap his mind around that problem, there was one last thing Jake needed to do. Otherwise, he’d never find the strength to face the enormity of the task that lay before him. Closing his eyes, he filled his mind with thoughts of Francesca, breathing her into his consciousness: the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him, the sprinkle of freckles across her petite nose, the natural pout of her soft lips, her fragrance… 

Ever since that first night in Venice long ago—that
amazing
night—he’d bottled up his feelings for her, not knowing what future, if any, lay in store for him. He’d convinced himself that keeping a distance between them would keep her safe.

Instead, here she was, right in the thick of it. 

Carrying our baby.

She deserved so much more.

Jake splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his unruly hair, and left the room to find her.

**

Francesca stirred at the sound of the door opening. She’d been napping on one of the beds in Papa’s children’s room. It was neatly split into a boy’s and girl’s side for the six-year-old fraternal twins. With the youngsters at daycare, it was the only space in the home not crowded with people. Thankfully, the two-car garage of the modest suburban home had been converted into what Papa referred to as his “man cave.” Most of their group had spilled onto the soft couches and overstuffed chairs normally reserved for Papa and his buddies.

Francesca’s eyes fluttered open to find Jake framed in the doorway. The sight of him made her heart smile. He looked a mess, but a wonderful mess. His cargo pants drooped over soiled white sneakers, and the long-sleeved, black T-shirt he’d borrowed from Papa fit snugly across his broad chest. The sleeves were rolled halfway up his tan forearms. As usual, his wavy hair needed a trim. For that matter, he could also use a shave, though she admitted to herself that she kind of liked the rugged edge it gave him.

If only they’d met under different circumstances, she thought. What a life that could have been! The image shattered when she thought of the mortal danger that had followed him to California. Would that end if he and his friends could find a way to stop her former mentor? Could she take that chance now that she was pregnant?