BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (4 page)

“I imagine, however, that you can relate to his motivations,” Kadir said. He spoke like an American with no trace of the guttural accent that had previously clouded his voice, a fact that Abbas resented. The
sheikh
had selected Kadir over him to receive one of the final brain implants, hoping to fuel the doctor’s creative genius. The device had lived up to its promise, increasing Kadir’s mental capacity by a factor of ten. In retrospect, Abbas could see that Kadir had been the logical choice for the implant, especially in light of the imaginative weapon the man had concocted since then. That he had also been able to perfect the colloquial language and mannerisms of an American was astounding. Abbas couldn’t help but wonder what such a tool would have done for him.

 “Damn Tariq’s motivations,” Abbas said, pounding his fists on the rail. “Had he killed the American, he could have jeopardized everything.” Abbas narrowed his eyes at the older man.  “And I would advise you to steer clear of further comments regarding my own motivations.”

Kadir shrugged.

No one wanted to see Jake Bronson dead more than he did, Abbas thought. His hatred had intensified to a barely restrained fury following the death of his younger brother at the hands of the accursed infidel. That Carlo had died in a knife fight with the man had shocked Abbas. He’d mentored his brother in the way of the knife for years, passing on his own expertise as a man unequaled with the blade. Only a trick of fate could have enabled Carlo to be defeated. The American would not be so lucky once his role in the
sheikh
’s current plans was complete.

“The time will come,” Kadir said. “Soon.”

Kadir had a singular knack for cutting to the quick. The man seemed utterly devoid of emotion, whether he was eating his favorite food, or devising another in a long string of bio-weapons, the training for which he received as a young scientist under Saddam Hussein’s former regime. Abbas imagined that Kadir would have appreciated the opportunity to set up a personal laboratory in one of the Nazi death camps seventy years ago. Bodies for testing his concoctions would have been so much easier to come by back then.

It came as no surprise to Abbas that their leader had placed them together on this latest project—Kadir to perfect the weapon and delivery system, and Abbas to provide leadership and security.

Abbas’s English was good as well, though it came after years of training rather than a brain implant. He’d learned Spanish, too, as had most of the men who had trained for insertion into the infidel’s nest. For all its claims as being one of the most secure nations in the world, the United States had yet to learn how to protect its borders from the masses of illegal immigrants slipping in from its southern border with Mexico. It had been easy to slip in among them.

Abbas disliked being here, surrounded by non-believers. He abhorred the decadence. He missed the easy rhythm of his homeland and the
muezzin
calling the faithful to prayer. But he would endure, as was his duty. From their second-floor perch, they watched as another batch of chemicals was wheeled into the freestanding clean room in the center of the warehouse. The men wore full protective garb, including white jumpsuits, hairnets, shoe covers, and masks.

The windows of the clean room were obscured, though Abbas could see the silhouettes of the men as they moved inside. A sign on the door read
authorized personnel only
. A visitor would never suspect that the policy was enforced by two men with AK-47s just inside the second set of doors. Others were stationed elsewhere in and around the building.

Abbas’s encrypted cell phone chimed. He checked the caller ID and exchanged a glance with Kadir. The two men stepped into the privacy of Abbas’s sparse office and closed the door. He pressed the speaker button and set the phone on the desk between them. In Dari he said, “We are both here.”

The voice on the line was stern, with a rasp that hinted at damaged vocal cords. “How did you let this happen?”

“It was Tariq,” Abbas said. “I knew noth—”

“Excuses are beneath you. It was your duty to know.”

There was a long pause. Abbas paced the room. He had absently pulled his switchblade from his pocket and was caressing its pearl handle in his palm. Kadir was steady, his face devoid of expression. Both men remained quiet.

“And Tariq?” the voice asked. “He is dead?”

“Yes,” Abbas said. He flicked open the blade and flipped it in the air, catching it first in one hand and then the other. His eyes remained fixed on the phone. He waited as the man on the other end considered his options.

After a long moment, the raspy voice said, “Move up the timetable. Make immediate preparations. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

The line went dead.

Abbas’s smile was feral. In a blur of movement, he hurled the knife at a scarred target on the wall of his office. The blade impacted with the force of a hammer. The loud crack caused Kadir to flinch. It sank deep into the underlying plywood backing, directly through the eyeball in the pitted photograph of Jake Bronson. 

“At long last,” Abbas said.

Chapter 7

Hathaway Middle School

Malaga Cove, California

F
rancesca cradled Jake’s limp head in her lap. He lay sprawled on the pavement beside the Pitts. “Please God,” she prayed as she rocked him back and forth. “Don’t take him.”

The stunned crowd of students and teachers stood in a semicircle around her. Children sobbed in fear and confusion, clinging to the adults. Some of them nursed cuts and bruises. Sarafina knelt next to Francesca, her arms around Max’s neck, her face buried in his golden coat.         The school burned in the distance behind them. Nearly two-thirds of it had been destroyed by the blast; flames licked at the remaining structure. Thick columns of smoke rose from the tangled mass, pushed away from the crowd by the offshore breeze. Debris littered the playground.

Emergency sirens echoed in the distance, still several minutes away from the remote location.

There was a commotion among the children. Bradley staggered through the crowd, holding Josh in his arms. Both of them were coated with a blotchy layer of dust and soot but appeared uninjured. Josh’s hands were pressed to his ears. A shock of relief swept over Francesca.

“We went out the rear exit and slid down the ravine,” Bradley said. “Josh handled it like a champ.”

When Max saw his master, he swiveled from Sarafina’s grasp and scurried to greet Josh. His tail beat rapidly against Bradley’s pant leg, and the teaching assistant slid Josh down to the grass beside Max. He then rushed over to Francesca and placed his fingers against Jake’s neck. With an authority that Francesca had never seen in him before, Bradley said, “Out of the way.” 

Francesca scooted clear, setting Jake’s head on a rolled-up jacket.

Ripping open Jake’s flight vest, Bradley immediately commenced CPR chest compressions. He looked over his shoulder and located the school principal. “Sandra,” he shouted, “the portable defib—is it still in your car?”

The woman’s eyes widened in understanding. “On my way!” She turned and ran for the parking lot.

“How long has he been out?” he asked Francesca.

“Two, maybe three minutes.”

Continuing the compressions, Bradley muttered, “Brain damage begins at three or four minutes.”

**

The sensation was pleasant, thought Jake, like floating on a cloud. There was activity around him, but for some reason his body refused to respond to any signals from his brain. His eyes wouldn’t open and his limbs were nothing but a distant numbness. He realized he wasn’t breathing. How odd. There was a repetitive irritation at his chest, but that was fading, too. There was no pain. External sounds were dissolving…

I’m dying.

A flush of sadness as images of those he cared about danced across his final thoughts.  Francesca—I should have married her. Sarafina—so young, so innocent. His best friends Marshall, Tony, and L—

A jolt sent a burst of pins and needles through his consciousness.

“Clear!”

Jake’s brain was still trying to compute what he’d just heard when a second jolt shot through his body. Pain enveloped his senses. His chest convulsed into a cough.

His eyes twitched open.

Bradley hovered above him, a defibrillator paddle in each hand. “We couldn’t let you die just yet, Jake, now could we?”

Francesca leaned into view, her relief palpable. “
Dio mio,
I thought I lost you.” She caressed his face.

Jake’s mind cleared, and his body ached all over. Sarafina lunged and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Daddy!” she cried. Her real father was dead, and she’d started calling Jake her dad after the events in Venice and Afghanistan. He embraced it.

“My girls,” Jake said, looking at them, knowing they’d been targeted because of him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Chapter 8

The mountains of Northern Nevada

T
he top-secret underground facility was situated in a remote location in the mountains of northern Nevada. It had been carved out of the remains of an abandoned gold mine nearly sixty years ago when fear of nuclear attack prompted the government to build blast shelters across the country. Several of the sites had been maintained and updated over the years, including this one. In a flurry of recent activity, the normally quiet site had been converted to a research facility. The few drab structures above ground belied the fifty-five-thousand-square-foot space that existed one hundred feet below the surface.

  Sole access to its depths was through a secured forty-foot-wide blast door, carved into the side of a rocky escarpment at the end of a natural canyon. The facility was home to two dozen scientists and technicians, each of whom had undergone extensive background checks. An elite United States Air Force security team guarded the site.

 “You’re missing the point, Fester,” the chief scientist, known as Doc, quipped to the USAF lieutenant colonel. “Area 51 is two hundred fifty miles south of here. It’s received so much publicity over the past half-century that no agency in its right mind would ever conduct serious research there. Conspiracy quacks have even established tent cities in the hills around the place, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the next alien encounter.” 

The sixty-year-old scientist scratched the salt-and-pepper beard that covered his face. His wavy silver hair spilled to just above the collar of his shirt. Beneath frameless spectacles, his light blue eyes twinkled as he ribbed his military counterpart.

“So, when the government set us up here, we decided to call it Area 52. Get it?”

“I don’t like it,” the new arrival announced. Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Brown stood ramrod straight on his five-foot-six frame, as if by doing so he might appear taller. For a man in his late forties, his muscles bulged impressively under his USAF dress uniform. He had a bald pate that shimmered under the banks of fluorescent lights. A pronounced brow shaded a pair of deep-set brown eyes that were permanently ringed by dark circles.  

With tight lips, the colonel added, “And if you ever call me Fester again, I’m gonna take that silly-lookin’ pipe right outta your mouth and shove it—” He caught himself when he heard a muffled chuckle from one of the civilians seated at a high-tech computer console beside the two men. The colonel threw the man a shriveling glare.

The offending young scientist snapped his attention back to his console. There were a dozen such stations in the cavernous space, six in each of two semicircular rows. They surrounded a ten-foot-wide, bell-jar-shaped steel enclosure that had been lowered from ceiling cables and electronically locked to thick fittings embedded in the concrete floor. The shroud encased the object of the research.

An intricate array of remote-controlled sensors and equipment within the housing allowed the scientists to study the object with what they hoped was a reduced risk of exposure. Blast-hardened windows embedded within the enclosure permitted direct viewing. An electronic polarizing shield sandwiched within the glass rendered it opaque for the moment. When necessary, the security “jar” could be raised by a select few authorized personnel using the proper authentication code. Without the code, the enclosure was impregnable.

“Sorry, Colonel,” Doc said. “Just joshing you. Sort of a welcome to the family, that’s all.”

The colonel mumbled something under his breath. He turned on his heel and made for the exit.

Men and women looked up from their stations as the lieutenant colonel departed. With a gleam in his eye, Doc pointed the stem of his pipe at the man’s back, holding his other palm up in a mock attempt at hiding the gesture. To his audience of scientists and technicians, he silently mouthed, “Uncle Fester.” There was a chorus of muffled laughter, as everyone present acknowledged Brown’s uncanny resemblance to the character from
The
Addams Family
.